Émilie sent this letter to d’Argental with her own annotations.
(1) Too good of Thieriot to have been edified by her zeal and to say that he interests himself in M. de Voltaire in order to emulate her.
(2) He was edified a moment ago. Now, all of a sudden he is scandalized, implying that he suspects M. de Voltaire of having written Le Préservatif. This suspicion certainly scandalizes Mme du Châtelet.
(3) It has suddenly become convenient for M. Thieriot to forget circumstances which are important for M. de Voltaire.
(4) He seems to be the only person in the world who does not know the identity of the ‘young lawyer’.
She also remarks that they have twenty letters from Thieriot written in 1725 in which he speaks of this affair. If his memory continues to play him false, these letters will be printed. On 3 January she tells d’Argental that Voltaire and she have at last had it out together. Greatly to her relief, he minded much less than she had feared, and was more concerned about her feelings than his own. Also she was relieved to find that he did not intend to continue the slanging match in print but merely to bring a lawsuit against the Abbé. He had written to Moussinot telling him to buy the pamphlet in the presence of two witnesses and take it to a magistrate.
Voltaire wrote to Thieriot describing himself as a public figure. He must defend himself against libel and his friend must help him to do so. He has only ever known of Desfontaines’s original pamphlet from Thieriot; Desfontaines now alleges that Thieriot denies all knowledge of this pamphlet. Of course the Abbé lies; why only the other day, when Thieriot was at Cirey, they had been talking about it together. Thieriot cannot now say that this is none of his business, he cannot let his old friend down after so many long years. Why, what would the Crown Prince of Prussia think of such behaviour? Friendship and truth must triumph over hatred and perfidy; Voltaire knows that they will – and embraces his friend more lovingly than ever.
Voltaire was evidently not at all sure that his friend would spring to his defence, and he was right. Thieriot was now living, in parasitical luxury, with La Popelinière, one of the richest and most civilized of the Parisian financiers. He enjoyed the easy existence of a man-about-town. Effort, and especially disagreeable effort, was foreign to his nature; live and let live his motto. He was, no doubt, very fond of Voltaire; he knew his works by heart and was the greatest expert on the various editions; he willingly did odd jobs for the inhabitants of Cirey. But all Voltaire’s friends were getting tired of his endless, rather ridiculous quarrels. Richelieu once told him so outright, saying ‘even Thieriot doesn’t stand up for you any more’. It was not the fashion in their light-hearted society to nourish these excessive hatreds. Thieriot had no wish to be involved in a lawsuit which his friend was not at all sure to win and which would certainly give rise to mirth all over Paris. Furthermore the Abbé’s paper, Observations, was read every week by Thieriot’s circle of acquaintances; the Abbé had a nice talent for holding people up to mockery and Thieriot preferred to keep on the right side of him. Voltaire had lied to him about Le Préservatif, and if he thought that many another lie was probably being cooked up at Cirey he was not far wrong. The whole of this business was conducted, on both sides, with the maximum of bad faith. It is possible to sympathize with Thieriot’s point of view, given his light, unstable character, but nobody can approve of his sending La Voltairomanie to Frederick, as he now hastened to do. It was the one thing that Voltaire dreaded, though he felt quite sure that it would happen. This piece of ill-nature was Thieriot’s only contribution to the affair: thereafter he sat back and did nothing.
A new irritant was added to Voltaire’s miseries. The other great enemy, Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, was allowed back in France after an exile of thirty-two years. Voltaire pretended not to care – ‘He is to all intents and purposes a dead man, the late Rousseau’ – but he felt it as a slap in the face and knew that Rousseau would make as much trouble for him in Paris as he could. The sensible d’Argental wrote and said the best thing that Voltaire could do now was to forget all these worries and write some interesting work. He had overlooked the terrifying energy of his friend; Voltaire wrote Zulime, it took him exactly a week and left him free to go on with his war against Desfontaines. He wanted total revenge, that is to say the withdrawal of permission to publish Observations. Even that would not be enough unless it were made quite clear that the paper was suppressed on account of attacks against Voltaire.
A petition was drawn up. It went over the whole ground, from the chimney-sweeps onward, letting it be supposed that Desfontaines’s life had been devoted to one-way persecution of Voltaire. Naturally there was no mention of his many attacks on the Abbé, nor of Le Préservatif. Abbé Moussinot was to present this document to a magistrate. Voltaire instructed him to hire several carriages. He was then to go and pick up all Voltaire’s relations, also three people who were mentioned in La Voltairomanie, Pitanal, the lawyer, Andy, a fashionable doctor, Procope, another doctor (son of the Procope who owned the café frequented by the theatrical world), as well as Voltaire’s various little hangers-on, some of whom were to receive money for their pains. Money, indeed, was not to be spared. They were all, including Moussinot himself, to pretend to be members of Voltaire’s outraged family. It was thought that this display of clannish solidarity would have a good effect on the magistrate. No wriggling out was to be allowed: ‘No ifs and ans, no buts, friendship must surmount all obstacles.’
Unfortunately, Thieriot was not guided by this sentiment. In vain did Voltaire write urging him not to listen to those who would advise him to drink a jolly glass of champagne and forget the rest. He should drink but he should also fulfil the sacred and interesting duties of friendship. The tears are pouring down Voltaire’s cheeks as he writes: can Thieriot remain deaf to such an appeal? Thieriot remained not only deaf but dumb; after his one letter to Mme du Châtelet he took refuge in silence. Voltaire wrote to him on 2 January, 7, 9, 10 (undated), 15, 17. Mme du Châtelet wrote again. The Marquis wrote. ‘M. du Châtelet’, said his wife, ‘has behaved like an angel.’ Mme de Champbonin (who had suddenly become Voltaire’s cousin) wrote a letter soaked in tears. At last, on 18 January a letter was received from ‘this soul of mud’ but it did not give much satisfaction at Cirey. Thieriot said he was very sorry for Voltaire, he pitied him from the bottom of his heart. He then went back, irrelevantly, to the old story of the lost, or stolen, copies of the Henriade. He answered none of Voltaire’s questions, nor did he speak of the petition. He evidently did not intend to appear as a witness. Worst of all, they now learnt from another source that he was going to publish his own letter to Mme du Châtelet in Abbé Prévost’s paper Le Pour et Contre. More rivers of mingled ink and tears flowed to Paris from Cirey. The good d’Argental managed to stop this publication which would, of course, have been compromising to Émilie. They were all far more furious now with Thieriot than with Desfontaines. His letter replying to M. du Châtelet was opened by Émilie who said that it was neither decent, nor intelligible, nor even in good French. They sent it back to Thieriot, telling him to correct it.
Meanwhile Voltaire was writing to everybody he knew to canvass support for his lawsuit. On the whole, his friends responded quite well. Frederick refused, it is true, to break with Thieriot who, he said, had done no more than his duty in sending La Voltairomanie. He particularly wished to see all attacks on Voltaire, otherwise how should he understand what was going on? But he instructed his father’s Minister in Paris to do what he could for Voltaire. Mme de Champbonin and the Marquis du Châtelet went to Paris to pull strings. The powerful d’Argenson brothers weighed in on Voltaire’s side, and so did various old legal friends of his father. Richelieu was at Toulouse, governing Languedoc, and therefore out of action, but he wrote denying a statement, in La Voltairomanie, to do with his first wife. Even poor Linant wrote, a pathetic little letter saying that Voltaire had always been like a father to him. Thieriot after many a talking-to from Mme de Champbonin and a letter fro
m Frederick, and seeing, probably, that the wind was now blowing in Voltaire’s direction, consented half-heartedly to give the required evidence. He said that he would have acted before if he had understood exactly what was expected of him. In spite of the way he had been treated, however, he would always be fond of his old friend, though he did not think much of his talent as a writer.
The end of this long and increasingly tedious affair might be described as a draw, rather in Voltaire’s favour (April 1739). The Abbé was obliged to sign a document stating that he regarded La Voltairomanie as a gross libel and that he would have considered himself dishonoured if he had had anything to do with it. Voltaire then disavowed Le Préservatif. His friends begged him to stop tormenting Desfontaines, and while of course he gave no such engagement, he did manage to ignore the Abbé thereafter. As for the Abbé himself, he went out of his way to write an eulogistic account, in Observations, of Mme du Châtelet’s essay on fire. Both the opponents were exhausted by the great battle; a lasting peace ensued. As traitors so often are at the end of hostilities, Thieriot was forgiven. Voltaire said that everybody has a good angel and a bad; in his case one was d’Argental and the other Thieriot. But it is degrading to quarrel with old friends.
11. Mme de Grafigny’s Story
‘Perhaps we may look in upon the Cirey household at some future time; and – this editor hopes not,’ says Thomas Carlyle. The present editor, however, cannot resist sending the reader on Mme de Grafigny’s conducted tour; the reader bearing in mind that she alone is the guide and that there is no corroboration of the scenes which she is about to expose.
While the events described in the last chapter were tormenting the philosophers of Cirey, their guest remained in ignorance of what was going on. She had troubles of her own, including the worst troubles that can assail a middle-aged woman: no home and no money. She was forced to be a country-house parasite, living on a circle of good-natured friends. The type is well known, it has always existed and will, no doubt, continue to do so as long as there are country houses to harbour it. The parasite sits by the fire in winter, under the cedar tree in summer, ready to perform little jobs for her hosts; she knows every detail of the household, all about the servants, the dogs, the children, the neighbours. It is her special function to be agreeable to whichever member of the family is providing a problem: neglected wife, betrayed husband, cross old uncle, slightly idiotic son. She thus relieves the guilt-feelings of the others and makes everything go more swimmingly. She never has to be entertained; she writes innumerable letters. Her technique has improved since Mme de Grafigny’s day and it would be interesting to see one of our modern experts coping with the situation that faced her at Cirey.
Madame de Grafigny was now about forty-four, the same age as Voltaire, whom she had met at Lunéville when the last Duke of Lorraine was ruling there. Since then the Duke had gone to Vienna, to marry Maria-Theresa, the Austrian heiress. Under the Treaty of Vienna, 1738, Lorraine had been given to Stanislas Leczinski, ex-king of Poland and father-in-law of Louis XV, to compensate him for the loss of his own country. Lunéville was about a day’s journey from Cirey; du Châtelet often went there, as he had interests in Lorraine. Voltaire and Émilie had not yet paid their court to Stanislas, though both of them had known Lunéville under the former reign and had many friends there. Mme de Grafigny’s husband had been Chamberlain at that Court; he was a beastly madman, had nearly killed his wife more than once, and was now shut up. She had obtained a legal separation from him on grounds of cruelty, very unusual in those days. Mme de Richelieu asked Émilie to harbour her for a while, until the Richelieus came back from Toulouse and could have her to live with them. Émilie did not want her in the least but she would have done anything to please this Duchess.
Voltaire and Émilie were divided on the subject of guests. He longed to have his friends to stay and, according to him, Cirey was on the way, wherever they were going. (He told Sir Edward Fawkener that it was on the way from Calais to Paris and once when d’Argenson was supposed to be going to Lisbon, Cirey was said to be on the way there.) But Mme du Châtelet, when she invited somebody, which was unusual, used to say quite firmly, ‘You must come for the sake of coming.’ Indeed, situated in a remote corner of Champagne, Cirey is on the way nowhere. Émilie very much preferred, for the present, not to have anybody, unless of course it could be Maupertuis. The work on which she was engaged, an intensive study of the philosophy of Leibnitz, required concentration. Her thought was beginning to run counter to that of her lover, so unusual in a woman. He never accepted the ideas of Leibnitz and the two philosophers of Cirey agreed to differ on this subject. ‘One must love one’s friends whatever side they take,’ he said. Voltaire too was working hard at several different things, but he could do so in the midst of a pandemonium (Frederick used to say he had a hundred arms). Mme du Châtelet needed quiet and calm. She had no desire to look after visitors; emotional upsets, which seemed, if anything, to stimulate Voltaire, were bad for her. Soon after Mme de Grafigny’s arrival at Cirey the atmosphere became heavy with the emotion caused by La Voltairomanie. She could hardly have chosen a more unfortunate time to be there.
Mme de Grafigny had many friends at Lunéville, and they were agog to hear every detail of the goings-on at legendary Cirey. It was arranged that she should write her news to M. Devaux and that he would communicate it to the others. Devaux, who was never called anything but Pan-pan, or Panpichon, was the spoilt darling of all the Lunéville women. He was twenty-seven, had been destined by his family for the law, but when he grew up was observed to have a notable aversion to work, although fond of a little light reading. So his various friends at the Court asked King Stanislas to take him on as reader. The good King, who was by no means bookish, said very well, but that his functions would be those of Louis XV’s confessor, in other words nil. Everybody liked Pan-pan, and Mme de Grafigny wrote to him as tu, then almost unheard of in France between an unrelated man and woman. On 4 December 1738 she went to Cirey from the house of another friend, Mme de Stainville, which she disloyally called le château de l ‘ennui. From now on every moment of every day was described in her famous letters to Pan-pan.
Cirey, Thursday, 4 December 1738. Pan-pan will jump for joy when he sees where this letter is dated. ‘Ah! Mon Dieu, she is at Cirey! But how ever did she get there?’ Well, she borrowed horses from a fellow guest and left le château de l’ennui before daylight. The day which dawned was perfect, more like June than December except that there was no dust on the roads; she was in a state of euphoria. At Joinville her friend’s coachman refused to go on, and she got into a public conveyance which set her down, on a deserted road, two hours after dark. She and Dubois, her maid, trembling with terror, had to feel their way up a mountain; they arrived at Cirey more dead than alive. Mme du Châtelet received her guest kindly and took her to her room, where presently Voltaire appeared, holding a little candle, like a monk. He gave Mme de Grafigny a tremendous welcome and thousands of caresses, he kissed her hand ten times. He asked her news, and took an interest in her replies which touched her to the heart. He spoke of Pan-pan for at least a quarter of an hour before asking about his other friends at Lunéville. Then he left her so that she could dress for supper, which she did, and now here she is, waiting for the bell to ring. She takes up her pen once more. She had said that Mme du Châtelet received her kindly. Yes. But that was all. She wears a printed cotton dress and a huge black taffeta apron, her long black hair is tied to the top of her head, falling in ringlets like a little girl’s; this suits her perfectly. She talks like an angel. As for Voltaire, he is dressed and powdered exactly as he would be in Paris. M. du Châtelet is there, but leaving the next day for Brussels so then there will be the three of them. They had already confided in each other that this will not make them cry. Still no bell. Pan-pan’s letters are a great joy, he must be sure to go on writing. She misses them all at Lunéville dreadfully. ‘So, good night, dearest friend.’
Next day. Heavens, where t
o begin! The best plan will be to tell everything that happens, not day by day but hour by hour. So she wrote until supper-time last night, when they came to fetch her and took her to Voltaire’s part of the house. No time to look round, they sat down to supper at once. What an enchantment! Delicious food, not too much of it, and so well served – beautiful silver on the table. As Voltaire’s study is not ready yet there were globes and various scientific instruments lying about. Impossible to do justice to the conversation which was sparkling in the extreme; it ranged over poetry, science, and art and was full of jokes. Voltaire was on her right, so learned, so polite, and so sweet; the host on her left, rather dull, but he hardly spoke and went away long before the end of the meal. They were talking of books when somebody mentioned Jean-Baptiste Rousseau upon which Voltaire became less of a hero and more of a human being. It is forbidden to praise Rousseau here. The dame [Mme du Châtelet] says she can’t bear odes and the idol [Voltaire] can’t understand how any civilized person can read such sad stuff. Then they talked about Abbé Desfontaines’s paper, Observations. Mme de Grafigny asked if they took it in? Indeed they did, and all of a sudden there was a perfect stream of invective against it. Voltaire pressed into her hands a pamphlet called Le Préservatif contre les Observations, written, so he said, by a friend of his. She will send a copy to Pan-pan.