At the end of April it was decided that Wagnière should leave for Ferney, to get there papers and books of which Voltaire had need. It was a bitter parting. The servant had done his best to make his master go with him. But Tronchin was not always at his side, and Denis and Villette were. Then there were his plays still needing correction. And now that Dictionary scheme, so hotly resolved upon—how to abandon that? Then, too, the Abbé Beauregard had preached in glowing vituperation at Versailles against all the philosophers, and one philosopher in particular. The kingly party, as well as the ecclesiastical, was mad to hound this Voltaire out of Paris.
There had been many times in his life when he had perforce to turn his back on the enemy and fly. But those had gone by for ever.
On April 27th, he signed the contract of purchase for the new house in the Rue Richelieu.
On the 29th, Wagnière left. Both knew the parting was their last. But neither could face the fact.
Life went on with a madder rush when the secretary had gone. Visits succeeded to visits. One ovation brought another. All the mots the Patriarch uttered (and numbers he did not) were recorded in the newspapers. His every action was noted—his very motives guessed. Through all he was working feverishly—without the invaluable help of Wagnière and with his strength kept up by drugs—on that scheme for the Dictionary.
It was ready by May 7th. He went to the Academy. Upon some of the brethren at least—they were almost all young enough to be his grandsons—had fallen that fatal mental inertia, that deadly sleep which paralysed the brains of half aristocratic France just before the Revolution. Nothing matters! Nothing is worth while! With eyes and heart aglow, this old Voltaire read aloud his brief and masterly plan. It remains that upon which all great dictionaries in Europe and America have been modelled to this day.
He recommended it with a zeal of which he alone was capable. Tronchin speaks of it as his “last dominant idea, his last passion.” If he had been a boy of twenty, with name and fortune to make by this Dictionary alone, he could not have been more eager. In the end he obtained a unanimous consent to his scheme. But it was cool—cool! He insisted on the immediate division of the letters among the members. He himself took A. It meant the most work. That he also wrote a part of T is certain.
One old member reminded him of his age, and he turned upon him in reply with “something more than vivacity.” The séance ended.
“Gentlemen,” says old Voltaire, “I thank you in the name of the alphabet.”
“And we,” replied Chastellux, “thank you in the name of letters.”