On October 8th, dismal Luc confided to Wilhelmina that he had “laughed” at the exhortations of Patriarch Voltaire; and the very next day wrote to the Patriarch a letter owning that those admonitions had had effect, and ending:
Though the storm beats high
I must fight, not fly,
And a King live and die.
Meanwhile, at Délices, busy Voltaire was trying his hand a second time at peace negotiations. This time his medium was de Tencin—that crafty and haughty Cardinal, who, three years before, at Lyons, had found it impolitic to invite Voltaire to dinner. But the Cardinal loved intrigue, and hated Austria and the Austrian alliance with France, from his soul. When, on November 5, 1757, Frederick beat French and Austrians at Rossbach with “the most unheard-of and the most complete defeat in history” (the vigorous words are Voltaire’s), all angry France shared the Cardinal’s hatred of the rosy-cheeked Bernis’s treaty with the Court of Vienna. De Tencin allied himself with the man he had despised—Voltaire—“to engage the Margravine to confide to him the interests of her brother the King,” and so to procure peace between France and Prussia. Prussia was willing enough. Voltaire was the intermediary through whom all the letters passed. He said malignly that he enjoyed the post because he foresaw the disappointment the Cardinal was preparing for himself. In reality, he was something less Machiavellian, and really thought the peace he hoped for might be brought about. De Tencin communicated directly with Louis XV.; and sent him a letter of the Margravine, written to be so sent. But Maria Theresa had bowed her pride to flatter Madame de Pompadour; while Frederick had said “I do not know her.” The Pompadour’s kingly slave answered de Tencin icily that the Secretary for Foreign Affairs would instruct his Eminence of the royal intentions. So Babet, the “flower-girl,” the verse-maker, the bon-vivant, dictated to the astute Cardinal the unfavourable reply he was to make to the Margravine. De Tencin had to sign it. He died only a fortnight later—of mortification, said Voltaire.
Thus ended Voltaire’s second interference in the Seven Years’ War. Both were useless. His interest in the affair was very far from being ended, or even weakened. But in the meantime there were disturbances nearer home.
It was sixteen months since d’Alembert had stayed at Délices, and been charmed by the liberal-mindedness of Calvinism. The result of that visit was, as has been noted, the famous article entitled “Geneva” in the storm-breeding “Encyclopædia.” In this December of 1757 the pious pastors of that town heard that they were therein complimented as no longer believing in the divinity of Christ or in hell; as having in many cases no other religion than “a perfect Socinianism,” rejecting all mystery; as, among the learned at least, having a faith which had reduced itself to believe in one God, and which was alone distinguished from pure Deism by a cold respect for the Scriptures and for Christ.
It is not difficult to fancy what an effect such statements, uttered by a d’Alembert, and in what was then the most famous book in the world, would have on that strict, simple, pure-living sect. Was it true? Could any of it be true? The dreadful fear that it might be—that that stern, narrow creed, with its brief assertions and its wide negations, might lead, or tend, unknown to its followers, to something very like a barren Deism—appears to have taken possession of their souls.
On December 12th, Voltaire, who had been waiting sixteen months for this dénouement, began to enjoy himself. “These droll people,” he wrote to d’Alembert “actually dare to complain of the praise you have given them—to believe in a God and to have more reason than faith. Some of them accuse me of having a profane alliance with you. They say they will protest against your article. Let them, and laugh at them.”
On December 23d, at a meeting of Calvinistic pastors, they made, with deep heart-searchings, a formal inquiry to assure themselves that none of them had given ground for d’Alembert’s—compliments. They then drew up a commission, which appointed Dr. Tronchin, not less a sincere Christian than he was a sincere friend of the Deist Voltaire, to reply to the article in the “Encyclopædia” and “to wipe away the stain” that d’Alembert had affixed to their character. It was Tronchin’s charm as a writer that he touched the heart as well as appealed to the head. He refuted the imputations of d’Alembert in terms not a little touching. From Paris, on January 6, 1758, d’Alembert replied, as he could but reply, that he was convinced of the truth of his words: and what he had written, he had written. When Geneva further asked him to name the pastors who had given rise to such opinions, he very honourably declined. On February 8th, the commission produced its Confession of Faith. As it did not insist on the doctrine of Everlasting Punishment, or declare that Christ was equal to His Father, or lay stress on the worship of Him, Voltaire said with some truth, when he wrote to d’Alembert, that they had declared themselves Christian Deists after all, and justified the article in the “Encyclopædia.”
“Geneva,” in fact, brought home to the thoughtful Calvinist the logical outcome of his religion. The shock was great. To stand face to face with the ultimate consequences of their belief would indeed startle the votaries of many other creeds besides Calvinism.
Their difference on the most vital of all subjects did not affect the friendship of the great Voltaire and the great Tronchin.