On the evening of February 3, 1778, Madame Denis and the ménage Villette left Ferney to prepare the Hôtel Villette in Paris against the arrival of M. de Voltaire.
On February 5th, Voltaire himself, accompanied only by Wagnière and a cook, set out in their travelling carriage. There was a painful farewell from the colonists. The poor people felt that their protector was leaving them for ever. It was in vain he promised them that he would be back in six weeks at the latest. That he really intended thus to return is partially proved by the fact that he did not even arrange his manuscripts and papers before leaving.
The first night was spent at Nantua.
At Bourg, where the horses were changed, Voltaire was recognised and had to escape from the crowd who surrounded him by locking himself up in a room in the post-house. Of course the innkeeper produced his best horses, and called out in his enthusiasm, “Drive fast! Kill the horses—I don’t care about them! You are carrying M. de Voltaire!”
The incognito Voltaire had resolved to maintain was already a thing of the past. He had begun to taste what are called the delights or the drawbacks of fame, according to the temperament of the speaker.
The second night was passed at Sanecey. On the third, at Dijon some of his adorers insisted on dressing up as waiters and waiting upon him at supper in order to get a good view of him. Others serenaded the poor man outside his bedroom window. In Dijon he made an appointment with a lawyer, and transacted some business.
The next stop was at Joigny. A spring of the carriage broke when they were near Moret, but Villette arrived to rescue them from that very common dilemma, and met them with his carriage, in which they pursued the journey.
The nearer they approached to the capital, the higher rose Voltaire’s spirits. He told stories with inimitable gaiety. “He seemed twenty.”
At half-past three on the afternoon of February 10th they reached Paris. When the custom-house officer inquired if they had anything against regulations, Voltaire replied that there was nothing contraband except himself. He grew more and more lively every moment. They had no sooner arrived at the Hôtel Villette than this gay young traveller must step round to the Quai d’Orsay to see the Comte d’Argental. Friends for sixty years, their friendship had been strong enough to bridge a gulf of separation which had lasted more than half their long lives. Madame d’Argental had died in the December of 1774. There was but one Angel now. He had taken wing too, for the moment, Voltaire found when he reached the house. But the old man was no sooner back in the Hôtel Villette than d’Argental arrived, and the two fell on each other’s necks. “I have left off dying to come and see you,” says Voltaire. But there was a shadow on their happiness. D’Argental brought bad news. Two days earlier, on February 8th, Lekain, whose first part had been Titus in Voltaire’s “Brutus,” played his last part in “Adélaïde du Guesclin.” He died, in spite of all the skill of Tronchin. Voltaire “uttered a great cry.” Lekain had been his friend. Lekain was to have played in “Irène.”
Belle-et-Bonne tells how the two old men sat up late into the night discussing the additions Voltaire had made in that play.