To a taste for Newton and the stars, and geometry and algebra, Madame du Châtelet added some other tastes, not quite so sublime;—a great taste for bijoux—and pretty gimcracks—and old china—and watches—and rings—and diamonds—and snuff-boxes—and—puppet-shows![139] and, now and then, une petite affaire du cœur, by way of variety.
Tout lui plait, tout convient à son vaste genie:
Les livres, les bijoux, les compas, les pompons,
Les vers, les diamants, le biribi,[140] l'optique,
L'algêbre, les soupers, le latin, les jupons,
L'opéra, les procès, le bal, et la physique!
This "Minerve de la France, la respectable Emilie," did not resemble Minerva in all her attributes; nor was she satisfied with a succession of lovers. The whole history of her liaison with Voltaire, is enough to put en déroute all poetry, and all sentiment. With her imperious temper and bitter tongue, and his extreme irritability, no wonder they should have des scênes terribles.[141] Marmontel says they were often à couteaux tirés; and this, not metaphorically but literally. On one occasion, Voltaire happened to criticise some couplets she had written for Madame de Luxembourg. "L'Amante de Newton"[142] could calculate eclipses, but she could not make verses; and, probably, for that reason, she was most particularly jealous of all censure, while she criticised Voltaire without manners or mercy; and he endured it, sometimes with marvellous patience.
A dispute was now the consequence; both became furious; and at length Voltaire snatched up a knife, and brandishing it exclaimed, "ne me regarde donc pas avec tes yeux hagards et louches!" After such a scene as this one would imagine that Love must have spread his light wings and fled for ever. Could Emilie ever have forgiven those words, or Voltaire have forgotten the look that provoked them?
But the mobilité of his mind was one of the most extraordinary parts of his character, and he was not more irascible than he was easily appeased. Madame du Châtelet maintained her power over him for twenty years; during five of which they resided in her château at Cirey, under the countenance of her husband; he was a good sort of man, but seems to have been considered by these two geniuses and their guests as a complete nonentity. He was "Le bon-homme, le vilain petit Trichateau" whom it was a task to speak to, and a penance to amuse. Every day, after coffee, Monsieur rose from the table with all the docility imaginable, leaving Voltaire and Madame to recite verses, translate Newton, philosophise, dispute, and do the honours of Cirey to the brilliant society who had assembled under his roof.
While the boudoir, the laboratory, and the sleeping-room of the lady, and the study and gallery appropriated to Voltaire, were furnished with Oriental luxury and splendour, and shone with gilding, drapery, pictures, and baubles, the lord of the mansion and the guests were destined to starve in half-furnished apartments, from which the wind and the rain were scarcely excluded.[143]
In 1748, Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet paid a visit to the Court of Stanislas, the ex-king of Poland, at Luneville, and took M. du Châtelet in their train. There Madame du Châtelet was seized with a passion for Saint-Lambert, the author of the "Saisons," who was at least ten or twelve years younger than herself, and then a jeune militaire, only admired for his fine figure and pretty vers de société. Voltaire, it is said, was extremely jealous; but his jealousy did not prevent him from addressing some very elegant verses to his handsome rival, in which he compliments him gaily on the good graces of the lady.
Saint-Lambert, ce n'est que pour toi
Que ces belles fleurs sont écloses,
C'est ta main qui cueille les roses,
Et les épines sont pour moi![144]
Some months afterwards, Madame du Châtelet died in child-birth, in her forty-fourth year.
Voltaire was so overwhelmed by this loss, that he set off for Paris immediately pour se dissiper. Marmontel has given us a most ludicrous account of a visit of condolence he paid him on this occasion. He found Voltaire absolutely drowned in tears, and at every fresh burst of sorrow, he called on Marmontel to sympathise with him. "Helas! j'ai perdu mon illustre amie! Ah! ah! je suis au desespoir!"—Then exclaiming against Saint-Lambert, whom he accused as the cause of the catastrophe—"Ah! mon ami! il me l'a tuée, le brutal!" while Marmontel, who had often heard him abuse his "sublime Emilie" in no measured terms, as "une furie, attachée à ses pas," hid his face with his handkerchief in pretended sympathy, but in reality to conceal his irrepressible smiles. In the midst of this scene of despair, some ridiculous idea or story striking Voltaire's vivid fancy, threw him into fits of laughter, and some time elapsed before he recollected that he was inconsolable.