The life of Voltaire

by Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Naturally, the La Harpes had to go away. And since they must go, would it not be better for their accomplice, Denis, to go too? It was not her first offence. She had helped Ximenès to steal manuscripts in 1754. Then, too, she was bored to death with Ferney; and her “natural aversion to a country life,” wrote poor Voltaire “in confidence” to her sister, had had very ill effects upon her temper. Not all the fêtes and the visitors could make up to her for Paris. Voltaire said that he had been the innkeeper of Europe for fourteen years and was tired of the profession. “This tumult does not suit my seventy-four years or my feebleness.” “Madame Denis has need of Paris.” Here was one excuse for getting rid of her. And if more were wanted, there was her health which required the air of the capital and fashionable doctors; there were business affairs there which she might see to for her uncle; and a necessity of economising at Ferney brought about by her extravagance, and “muddle, which,” said Grimm, “is carried by Mama Denis to a degree of perfection difficult to imagine.”

To his friends Voltaire gave her health and the business to be looked after in Paris as reasons for her visit. They were that lesser part of the truth which is useful to conceal the greater. If he was loyal to La Harpe, so he was to Madame Denis. Of her share in the theft of the manuscripts he uttered not a word.

He gave her twenty thousand francs to spend in Paris, over and above the yearly income which he had settled on her.

Before March 1, 1768, the two La Harpes, Madame Denis, Marie Dupuits, and her husband, who had fallen under the ban of suspicion too, and declined to utter a word or give an iota of evidence on either side, had all started for the capital.

Voltaire dismissed the servants—except a couple of lacqueys and a valet. He sold his horses. “An old invalid recluse” had no need of them. Seven visitors who were staying in the house at the time, seeing their host’s evident need of solitude, tactfully departed. There only remained Father Adam, faithful Wagnière, a colleague of Wagnière’s called Bigex—a Savoyard, who had formerly been trusted servant and copyist in the service of Grimm—and two of the usual ne’er-do-weels, de Morsan and an ex-American officer called Rieu. Both these persons seem to have suppressed themselves with great success when they were not wanted, and to have been regarded by their benefactor as part of the household effects. He always spoke of himself as being entirely alone. Ferney was cleaned and put in order, and the stream of visitors ceased to flow.

It was certainly not because Voltaire was idle, but because his seventy-four years did not prevent him still being what the French call malin, that this Easter he decided to do what he had done at Colmar: play once more that ‘deplorable comedy,’ faire ses Pâques.

A priest was dining with him one night at Ferney. “Father D——,” says Voltaire, “I wish, for example’s sake, faire mes Pâques on Easter Day. I suppose you will give me absolution?”

“Willingly,” says the priest. “I give it you.” No more was said.

On Easter Day, 1768, Voltaire, accompanied by Wagnière and two gamekeepers, went solemnly to church, preceded by a servant carrying “a superb Blessed Loaf” which the Lord of Ferney was in the habit of presenting every Easter Sunday. After the distribution of this bread Voltaire mounted the pulpit and turned round and preached a little sermon. Protestant Wagnière had warned him against doing this. He felt sure it was illegal. But his master’s mood was a wicked one; and, moreover, several thefts had been committed of late in his parish while all the people were at church, which gave him a text. His remonstrances were “vigorous, pathetic, and eloquent,” and he warmly exhorted the people to the practice of virtue. The unhappy curé, not knowing what to do, hurried to the altar and proceeded with the mass. Voltaire spoke a few words in his praise, and then got down from the pulpit and resumed his own seat.

The story got noised abroad. Good Marie Leczinska mistook it for a conversion. The philosophers for once were at one with the orthodox, and condemned the deed. And so of course did Biort, Bishop of Annecy, who was also Prince and Bishop of Geneva, and of whose diocese Ferney was part.