Monsieur Voltaire was in Paris then for a few weeks and in a lodging of his own, instead of being at Madame du Châtelet’s house in the Isle of St. Louis. Madame du Châtelet was at Cirey. It was understood that one of the periodic storms had taken place at Cirey, which meant that Monsieur Voltaire would sojourn a while en garçon at Paris, until the divine Emilie grew penitent or bored, and should send an express for her divine François. The immediate cause of the present quarrel was that Madame Riano had in Monsieur Voltaire’s presence called Madame du Châtelet a hussy, and Monsieur Voltaire had not resented it. His excuse was that Madame Riano, having vanquished the Kings of France, Spain and England, and the Holy Father at Rome, he, Voltaire, had very little chance with her, and so declined to take up the gage of battle. Madame du Châtelet had flown at him like an angry hen. There had been words between them, and even a few dishes and a plate or two. Hence, madame was at Cirey, monsieur at Paris.
It was much the fashion when Monsieur Voltaire was at Paris in his own lodgings for venturesome ladies of quality, who were acknowledged, or aspired, to be wits, to descend upon him by twos or threes, with masks and dominos, and thereby divert both themselves and him extremely. He was the only man in Paris to whom the ladies accorded this honor openly. They did it not to my master, because everybody knew that Count Saxe was too, too charming. But Monsieur Voltaire was already losing his teeth, and looked sixty, though not yet fifty, and had begun to give himself grandfatherly airs, whether in obedience to Madame du Châtelet, or because 435 he was no longer young enough to play the gallant, I know not.
One day, about three weeks after the scene in the garden of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, I got a note from Francezka saying that she and Madame Villars, the one who had kissed Monsieur Voltaire publicly the year before, wished me to escort them to his lodgings that evening for a visit, and asking me to be at the Hôtel Kirkpatrick at nine o’clock.
It was a bright moonlit May evening when I arrived. Two sedan chairs were in waiting for the ladies and a red domino and mask for me, in which I looked exactly like the devil. Madame Villars came tripping down into the courtyard, wearing a white domino and mask, followed by Francezka in a black and silver domino and mask.
I could not see Francezka’s face, and so did not know whether she looked well or ill, happy or unhappy. And she was naturally so accomplished an actress that she might defy any one to find out her real feelings, if she wished to disguise them. On this evening she chose to appear very gay and merry, laughed with Madame Villars, joked with me, and sprang into the sedan chair with the airiest grace imaginable.
We set off, the ladies in their chairs, I walking by their side, and the object of many jeers and gibes from the irreverent, whom we passed, as I made my way encumbered with the skirt of the infernal red domino, which I held knee-high.
We reached Monsieur Voltaire’s lodging, a fine one in the Rue St. Jacques, with a garden at the back. The porter, who was used to such descents, grinned enormously, 436 and let us pass into Monsieur Voltaire’s apartment. The saloon was on the ground floor at the back and opened into the garden, now all sweetness and freshness. The saloon was a fine, airy room, lighted with wax candles, and in the middle, around a table on which were wine and books and verses scribbled on scraps of paper, sat Monsieur Voltaire, Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret!
The sight nearly knocked me down. Monsieur Voltaire had always despised Jacques Haret, and I had never known him to amuse himself with Jacques Haret’s wit, or to countenance the fellow at all. But here the two sat, as jovial as you please, and Gaston Cheverny between them! I glanced toward Francezka. She was standing with her hand on the back of a gilded chair, and she had pulled the sleeve of her domino down so that her hand, a delicate and beautiful one, once seen, not to be forgotten, was hid. But there was not a tremor about her. I judged that she had summoned all her courage and all her matchless powers of acting to carry her through this scene where she had so unexpectedly found herself. I knew it was impossible that she should not be in a tempest of rage with Gaston for his continued association with Jacques Haret, which was so great an affront to her, and Francezka was not the woman to take an affront coolly. She gave no sign, however. Of us, it was easily seen that two of the masks were ladies, and my large shoes, showing under my domino, revealed that I was a man.
Monsieur Voltaire rose, his glorious eyes flashing with mirth and pleasure, for he loved the great, he loved the flattery of women, and he knew that only ladies of the 437 highest quality would dare to visit him in that manner. Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret rose, too, and all bowed profoundly to the newcomers.