Voltaire slept during the night, but not well, and was awakened on the following morning by the sound of salutes fired at Potsdam; from which he concluded that the King was holding manoeuvres. Neither did he see any sign of the King, but about noonday he received a letter bearing the royal arms which ran as follows:—
“MONSIEUR,—Doctor La Mettrie has told me of your determination to
travel to a watering-place. Although I shall miss your pleasant
and instructive conversation, I will not resist your wish, since I
am sure that a thorough course of treatment will benefit your
nerves and the wretched state of your heart. Wishing you a good
recovery, or at any rate hoping that you will not be worse than
you are,
“I am
“F. R.”
That was his passport for the journey. The same evening Voltaire travelled to Leipzig, where he read extracts from Frederick’s collection of satires which he also thought of having printed. But in Frankfurt he was arrested and deprived of the precious manuscripts, which might have made more enemies for Frederick than he actually did make later on. Rebuked, and again liberated, Voltaire fled at first to France, where he published in the Dictionnaire Historique the most abominable assertions regarding Frederick’s private life.
Two years later he was settled at Ferney, on the Lake of Geneva, as a multi-millionaire, patriarch, and king.
Many years passed, and still the old Voltaire reigned at his Sans-Souci called Ferney—just as energetic as ever, just as restless and vain.
His little château was a modest two-storied building in a circular enclosure, surrounded by a courtyard planted with trees. On the left of the entrance stood a small stone chapel. A tablet over the door bore the inscription, “Deo erexit Voltaire,” which roused the mirth of his literary friends and the hatred of the ecclesiastical party.
Below in the garden he had an arbour-walk of hornbeam covered in, and resembling a long hall with windows cut in the side, looking towards the lake. From thence he could see Mont Blanc, which especially at sunset showed all its splendour, and the blue levels of the lake stretching towards Clarens and the Rhone Valley, where the unfortunate Rousseau had wandered, loved, and suffered. Just now in the twilight, the old man sat in his arbour walk and played bezique with the local pastor, when the post arrived. There were many letters with shining seals.
“Excuse me, Abbé, I must read my letters!”
“Pray do so,” answered the priest, and stood up in order to promenade up and down the arbour walk.