It was twenty years since Voltaire had stayed at the French Court. Did he remember how it had wearied and sickened him? He forgot nothing. The Court was but a means to an end then, and was but a means to an end now. He wrote to Theriot that he felt there like an atheist in a church. “Don’t you pity a poor devil who is a king’s fool at fifty?” he asked Cideville; “...worried to death with musicians and scene-painters, actors and actresses, singers and dancers.” He complained how he had to rush from Paris to Versailles, and write verses in the post-chaise; how he must take care to praise the King loudly, the Dauphine delicately, the royal family softly, and to conciliate the Court without displeasing the town. Since it must be done, Voltaire was the man to do it as it had never been done before.
On February 18, 1745, died Armand Arouet, aged nearly sixty. Voltaire received the news only seven days before the fête was to take place, and hastened from the Court to the funeral of his “Jansenist of a brother.” The two had met little of late. But they had always been separated by a gulf wider than that of any physical distance—a diversity of character and ideas. Voltaire could no more understand an Armand than an Armand a Voltaire. Long after, at Ferney, Voltaire told Madame Suard how his brother had had so great a zeal for martyrdom that he had once said to a friend, who did not seem to care about it, “Well, if you do not want to be hanged, at least do not put off other people!”
The fanatic left the sceptic as little of his fortune as he dared, having due regard to public opinion. Voltaire was enriched by his brother’s death only by six thousand francs per annum. He feigned no overwhelming sorrow at his loss. He was back at Versailles before the contents of the will were known to him, putting the last touches to his “Princess.”
The fêtes began on February 23d. They were as gorgeous as that old régime knew how to make them—with a prodigal gorgeousness which perished with that régime itself and will be no more for ever.
A special theatre had been built in the horse-training ground near the palace. Time, labour, money—the lavish expenditure of each was incalculable. At six o’clock on the evening of February 25th there assembled one of the most brilliant and splendid audiences that ever gratified the heart of a playwright. The King, who was certainly nothing in the world if he was not an imposingly decked figurehead, was there with his royal family. The great ladies glittered in diamonds. The nobles were in the splendid robes of their order. It was a night to remember.
“The Princess of Navarre” was acted to an audience who talked gaily all through it and went into raptures of delight and applause when it was finished. M. de Voltaire compared the chatter to the hum of bees round their queen. But the King—that dullest of all gross mortals—condescended to express himself amused. He commanded a second performance. If that fashionable audience did make more noise than the parterre of the Comédie, Voltaire could afford to shrug his shoulders. “The King is grateful. The Mirepoix cannot harm me. What more do I want?” he wrote to d’Argental. His Majesty told Marshal Saxe that that “Princess” was above criticism, and Voltaire thereupon told Madame du Châtelet that he looked on Louis XV. as the very best critic in the kingdom. The moment was one of laughter and triumph. To be sure, it had not been gained without hard work. In addition to the “Princess,” Voltaire had written a poem on the “Events of the Year” (1744) in which he may be said to have fooled Louis to the top of his bent, and paid that monarch the most outrageous compliments upon his personal courage and his popularity.
But it was the means to an end—an end which, to Voltaire, justified any means. This brilliant M. de Voltaire was so very entertaining and fair-spoken that he must on the spot be made Historiographer of France at an annual income of two thousand francs, and on the very next vacancy Gentleman-in-Ordinary to Ourself! What nobler reward could wit and merit hope for? On April 1, 1745, the brevet of Historiographer was signed by Louis XV. On April 16th Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet hastened to the bedside of her son, sick of the smallpox at Châlons, to save him, if that might be, from the “ignorant tyranny of the physicians.” Voltaire, as has been said, did so save him, with much lemonade and a little common-sense. He became ambassador in England under the Ministry of Choiseul; and, at last, victim of the Revolution.
After forty days of quarantine the Historiographer of France rejoined the Court.
CHAPTER XV
THE POPE, THE POMPADOUR, AND “THE TEMPLE OF GLORY”
The new favour Voltaire had obtained had to be paid for like any other advantage of fortune. Then, as now, the finer the post, the more ennui and exaction in filling it. The nearer he climbs to the sun, the more scorched and weary the climber. Voltaire found out that simple fact of nature very soon.