“Marshal of France, if successful!”
I felt myself grow hot with joy. Marshal of France! How much greater was that than a huge pile of stone like Chambord!
The Duc de Noailles was then giving out the news, and, turning to my master, the white-haired marshal embraced him as a brother in arms. But I had been the first one told by my master.
The ladies and gentlemen all showed great joy and complaisance. They knew that Count Saxe was not the man to do things by halves, and that at Chambord the gay days of Francis the First and the escadrons volants would be gloriously renewed. I watched Monsieur Voltaire, as with his wonderful and unforgettable eyes he gazed upon Count Saxe and probably reflected on the difference of the reward given a successful general and a great wit—for I am not denying that Monsieur Voltaire possessed a very considerable share of wit. He was among the last to congratulate my master, but he did it finally, winding up a fine compliment with this:
“And now, Monsieur, I presume you will be elected to the seat in the Academy. You shall have my vote. You can always spell victory—and what matters the rest?”
This was the meanest allusion possible to my master’s never having time or inclination to devote to such common things as spelling. But Count Saxe came back at him thus:
“Oh, no, Monsieur Voltaire. I am not a candidate for a seat in the Academy. I am pledged to support a friend of mine for the vacancy.”
All the people pricked up their ears and Monsieur Voltaire was the most eager of them all.
“My candidate,” said Count Saxe very impressively, “is Captain Babache”—here he whacked me on the 339 shoulder—“a prince of the royal blood of Tatary, who can spell like any clerk, and write a better hand than any academician, living or dead, ever did.”