The house was crowded. Marie Antoinette was there—Marie Antoinette, who had been brilliantly imprudent enough to inquire why if Madame Geoffrin, “the nurse of the philosophers,” had been received at Court, Voltaire should not be? She had a notebook in her hand, and put down therein all the pious and edifying passages to prove to her absent lord that M. de Voltaire’s conversion was real! Her brother-in-law, d’Artois, was there; the Duke and Duchess of Bourbon: all Versailles, but the King.
The play, or more correctly the playwright, was received with tumultuous applause. “Irène” was feeble and tired, like the old hand that had written it. But here and there, where the bright flame of a dying genius flickered up for a moment, the house applauded madly, and to parts wholly meritless listened in respectful silence. After each act, messengers were despatched to tell Voltaire all was well. At the end of the last, Dupuits rushed to announce a general success, and the sick-room quickly filled with congratulating friends. “What you say consoles but does not cure me,” said the poor old invalid. But he roused himself enough to inquire which verses were the most applauded, and to chuckle joyfully when he heard of the delighted reception of those which smote the clergy hip and thigh.
On March 19th, the “Journal de Paris” published a very sanguine account of Voltaire’s health. “His recent indisposition has left no after-effects.” It was certainly true that he was better again. He received a deputation from the Academy congratulating him on “Irène,” and by March 21st was well enough to go out in a carriage. He was recognised and surrounded by the people in the streets, and when he regained the Hôtel Villette there was a deputation of Freemasons waiting to see him. There was no peace for him, in fact, at home or abroad. His whole visit to Paris was like the progress of a popular sovereign who has no officials to ensure his comfort and privacy.
Being better, the most natural thing to do was to go over “Irène.” He sent for an acting copy. Directly he saw how it had been tampered with, he fell into the greatest rage in which Wagnière, after twenty-four years’ service and a much richer experience of his master’s vifness than Collini, had ever seen him. He forced Madame Denis to confess. He pushed her away so that she fell into an armchair, or rather, says Wagnière spitefully, into the arms of Duvivier, that dull young man she afterwards married. Then the indignant uncle sent the niece out (it was raining too) to d’Argental’s house to fetch the manuscripts and plays with which he had intrusted that old friend. His rage lasted for twelve hours. He roundly abused both d’Argental and La Harpe. And then, for he was the same Voltaire, he apologised to both with a most generous humility.
On March 28th, he went to see Turgot—“Sully-Turgot”—the man who had “saved the century from decadence,” and whose disgrace in 1776 Voltaire had felt as a keen personal grief and an irreparable public disaster. The meeting was very French and effusive. But it was not, for that, insincere. “Let me kiss the hands of him,” cries old Voltaire, “who has signed the salvation of the people.”
The day of this King’s coronation had been fixed for March 30th. The nominal King sat aloof and sulky at Versailles. But what did that matter? The Queen, keener-eyed, saw in Voltaire a rival force not to be disregarded. And when d’Artois heard of Voltaire’s death—“There has died a great rogue and a great man,” said he. From a d’Artois it was no bad testimony.
At four o’clock in the afternoon of this March 30th a gorgeous blue, star-spangled coach waited at the door of the Hôtel Villette.
And presently there gets into it, amid the shouts and acclamations of his subjects, a very, very lean old figure, in that grey peruke whose fashion he had not altered for forty years, a square cap on the top of it, a red coat lined with ermine, Ferney white silk stockings on the shrunken legs, large silver buckles on the shoes, a little cane in the hand with a crow’s beak for a head, and over all this extraordinary fancy dress (it was only rather less remarkable in Paris in 1778 than it would be in Paris to-day) Catherine’s sable pelisse.
Thus dressed, he was driven through tumultuous crowds to the Louvre, where two thousand persons received him with shouts of “Long live Voltaire!”
The Academy met him in their outer hall—an honour never accorded to anyone, even to princes. Twenty Academicians were present. The absentees were all churchmen. The King was conducted to the Presidential Chamber, and there unanimously elected to the next three months’ Presidency. Then the Perpetual Secretary, friend d’Alembert, rose and read a so-called Eulogy of Boileau, which was really a Eulogy of Voltaire. The serene dignity of the Secretary contrasted not a little with old Voltaire’s painful efforts after self-command. It was twenty-eight years since he had been among them. It was thirty-five since, as a body, they had refused him admission. And now——!