“Good,” said he, “it is about a lady, is it? It is from a personage fully as important, a giant in power, whose words resound from one extremity of Europe to another, and whom the Choiseuls believe their own entirely.”
“It is M. de Voltaire,” I said.
“Exactly so: your perspicacity has made you guess it.”
“But what does he want with me?”
“To be at peace with you; to range himself under your banner, secretly at first, but afterwards openly.”
“Is he then afraid openly to evince himself my friend?” I replied, in a tone of some pique.
“Rather so, and yet you must not feel offended at that. The situation of this sarcastic and talented old man is very peculiar; his unquiet petulance incessantly gives birth to fresh perils. He, of necessity, must make friends in every quarter, left and right, in France and foreign countries. The necessary consequence is, that he cannot follow a straight path. The Choiseuls have served him with perfect zeal: do not be astonished if he abandon them when they can no longer serve him. If they fall, he will bid them good evening, and will sport your cockade openly.”
“But,” I replied, “this is a villainous character.”
“Ah, I do not pretend to introduce to you an Aristides or an Epaminondas, or any other soul of similar stamp. He is a man of letters, full of wit, a deep thinker, a superior genius, and our reputations are in his hands. If he flatters us, posterity will know it; if he laugh at us, it will know it also. I counsel you therefore to use him well, if you would have him behave so towards you.”
“I will act conformably to your advice,” said I to the maréchal; “at the same time I own to you that I fear him like a firebrand.”