Sometimes even the pistole disappeared before the end of the game," continues Formey, green with spite;--and reports that sad story of the candle-ends; bits of wax-candle, which should have remained as perquisite to the valets, but which were confiscated by Voltaire and sent across to the wax-chandler's.

So, doubtless, the spiteful rumor ran; probably little but spite and fable, Berlin being bitter in its gossip.

Stupid Thiebault repeats that of the candle-ends, like a thing he had seen (twelve years BEFORE his arrival in those parts); and adds that Voltaire "put them in his pocket,"-- like one both stupid and sordid.

Alas, the brighter your shine, the blacker is the shadow you cast.
Friedrich, with the knowledge he already had of his yoke-fellow,--one of the most skittish, explosive, unruly creatures in harness,--cannot be counted wise to have plunged so heartily into such an adventure with him.

"An undoubted Courser of the Sun!" thought Friedrich;--and forgot too much the signs of bad going he had sometimes noticed in him on the common highways.