stracted, as
well when he gave audience as when he sat in judgment. He did not know
to what to attribute this absence of mind; and that was his only
sorrow.

He had a dream in which he imagined that he laid himself down upon a
heap of dry herbs, among which there were many prickly ones that gave
him great uneasiness, and that he afterwards reposed himself on a soft
bed of roses from which there sprung a serpent that wounded him to the
heart with its sharp and venomed tongue. "Alas," said he, "I have long
lain on these dry and prickly herbs, I am now on the bed of roses; but
what shall be the serpent?"

JEALOUSY

Zadig's calamities sprung even from his happiness and especially from
his merit. He every day conversed with the king and Astarte, his august
comfort. The charms of his conversation were greatly heightened by that
desire of pleasing, which is to the mind what dress is to beauty. His
youth and graceful appearance insensibly made an impression on Astarte,
which she did not at first perceive. Her passion grew and flourished in
the bosom of innocence. Without fear or scruple, she indulged the
pleasing satisfaction of seeing and hearing a man who was so dear to
her husband and to the empire in general. She was continually praising
him to the king. She talked of him to her women, who were always sure
to improve on her praises. And thus everything contributed to pierce
her heart with a dart, of which she did not seem to be sensible. She
made several presents to Zadig, which discovered a greater spirit of
gallantry than she imagined. She intended to speak to him only as a
queen satisfied with his services and her expressions were sometimes
those of a woman in love.

Astarte was much more beautiful than that Semira who had such a strong
aversion to one-eyed men, or that other woman who had resolved to cut
off her husband's nose. Her unreserved familiarity, her tender
expressions, at which she began to blush; and her eyes, which, though
she endeavored to divert them to other objects, were always fixed upon
his, inspired Zadig with a passion that filled him with astonishment.
He struggled hard to get the better of it. He called to his aid the
precepts of philosophy, which had always stood him in stead; but from
thence, though he could derive the light of knowledge, he could procure
no remedy to cure the disorders of his lovesick heart. Duty, gratitude,
and violated majesty presented themselves to his mind as so