The rehearsals of Sémiramis, with the actors still reading their parts, went very well. Voltaire was longing to stay in Paris in order to produce the play himself, and for other reasons, but of course Émilie’s one idea was to get back to her lover. As usual she had her own way. Voltaire was borne off— like a parcel (empaqueté), he said – ill, possibly dying, to Lorraine, where the Court was at Commercy.
At Châlons-sur-Marne they had a disagreeable experience. Mme du Châtelet always took her own food on journeys, she said to save time, but really to save money. When they arrived at Châlons, however, she felt she would like a cup of soup, so they stopped at the inn. The innkeeper’s wife, seeing the beautiful coach, and hearing that it belonged to the Marquise du Châtelet, brought the soup out herself in a china cup with a silver lid. When Émilie had finished, Longchamp was told to carry back the cup and settle the bill. To his horror the woman demanded a louis. Longchamp thought he should tell Émilie and when he did she flatly refused to pay. Voltaire then took on the hostess, saying that such an extortion would get her inn a bad name. She replied that she had one tariff, whether for a whole dinner or a single dish. The argument waxed very hot and a crowd collected. It was entirely on the hostess’s side and began to jeer and boo at the travellers. In the end, most unwillingly, they had to pay the louis in order to get away, which they did to a crescendo of insults.
They arrived at Commercy on 27 June and here a cruel disappointment awaited Émilie. After nearly two months parted from her beloved she naturally thought of nothing but their passionate reunion. There was no sign of him, nor had he left a note or a message of any kind to reassure her. She was greeted with affection by everybody else, but from Saint-Lambert there was a dreary, disquieting silence. Instead of spending the night, as she had expected, in his arms, she spent it composing a letter of furious reproach. If he could not have contrived to see her at least he might have written. Variations on this theme covered several pages. However, the next day he appeared. As usual he was not of the house-party at Commercy, but was staying with M. le Curé; he could only join the others when Stanislas had gone to bed. Then he came, as of old, through the orangery and could easily make his way to Émilie’s flat on the ground floor.
Life at the little Court was as cheerful and inane as usual. Voltaire’s time was eaten up with the daily round of a country-house visit and with theatrical productions. Émilie counted on him to keep the King in a good mood until M. du Châtelet’s appointment was settled. She was now soliciting the Comte d’Argenson, War Minister at Versailles, to promote her husband to Lieutenant-General, which would make it easier for Stanislas to do as she wished.
Voltaire still either was, or pretended to be, ignorant of the state of Émilie’s heart and doubtless would have preferred to remain so. However, one evening at Commercy, he went to have a word with her before supper. There was no footman in her anteroom and he went straight into her boudoir, as he always did, without waiting to be announced. He found Émilie and Saint-Lambert at a moment when it is preferable not to be interrupted. Voltaire flew into a violent temper and upbraided them in no measured terms. Saint-Lambert, cold and elegant, remarked that if Voltaire were displeased he could leave the room, leave Commercy, and meet him anywhere, with any weapons that he chose. Voltaire had no intention of fighting. He stumped off furiously, went back to his own rooms and told Longchamp to buy or hire him a carriage as he was leaving that night for Paris. Having travelled to Lorraine in Mme du Châtelet’s coach, he had not one of his own with him. Longchamp thought he had better know what all this was about. He pretended to go to the village but really went straight to Mme du Châtelet who told him exactly what had happened. She said that at all costs Voltaire must be prevented from leaving Commercy. Longchamp must make delays and as soon as Voltaire had simmered down a little she would go and have a word with him. So Longchamp waited till two in the morning and then told Voltaire that he could not beg, borrow, or steal a carriage since such a thing did not exist in the whole of Commercy. Voltaire gave him a wallet of money and said that, as soon as it was daylight, he must go to Nancy and buy a vehicle of some sort. Longchamp went back to Mme du Châtelet, who was still at her writing-table. She asked what Voltaire was doing and when Longchamp told her that he had gone to bed but certainly not to sleep, she decided to go up and see him. Longchamp went back to his own room in Voltaire’s flat and undressed. Presently there was a knocking at the door; he got up in his night-shirt to open it, and announced Mme du Châtelet. Voltaire saw that the man had been got out of his bed so he had no suspicion of a plot. Longchamp went back to his room which was next to Voltaire’s and listened through the wall like anything.
The conversation began in English, with Mme du Châtelet repeating a pet name she had for Voltaire in that language. Presently they relapsed into French. ‘So,’ cried Voltaire, ‘you expect me to believe all this after seeing what I saw with my two eyes. I have sacrificed my whole life to you – health, fortune, all laid at your feet and this is my reward! Betrayal!’ ‘No,’ she answered, ‘I still love you. But you must admit it’s a long time now since you have been able to – I have no wish to kill you, nobody is more concerned with your health than I. On the other hand, I have my own to consider. As you can do nothing for it any longer it is not very reasonable of you to be so angry when I find one of your friends who can.’
Voltaire could not help laughing. ‘Ah! Madame!’ he said, ‘of course you are in the right as usual. But you really should manage so that these things do not take place before my very eyes.’ After this he calmed down. Mme du Châtelet kissed him and went back to her own room. The next day she had to deal with Saint-Lambert who still considered that he had been insulted and was determined to fight. Mme du Châtelet pointed out that Voltaire was too old and too famous for such an adventure, and after a long argument she talked Saint-Lambert into apologizing to the venerable bard. Of course Voltaire was mollified at once. ‘No no, my child, I was in the wrong. You are still at the happy age when one can love and be loved. Make the most of it. An old, ill man like myself can no longer hope for these pleasures.’ They made it up, and thereafter were very friendly.
Voltaire wrote to the Comte d’Argenson: ‘I am here in a beautiful palace, a free man though my host is a king, with all my historical books and my references and with Mme du Châtelet; even so I am one of the most unhappy thinking creatures upon earth.’
And to Mme Denis: ‘I spend my life in cogitating how I can spend the rest of my life with you.’
21. ‘Sémiramis’
There is nothing so much calculated to soothe the heart and mend the troubles of a writer as the launching of a new work. Fortunately for Voltaire the rehearsals of Sémiramis were now well advanced and the play was to open in August. He had decided not to go to Paris for it, but Stanislas, who was off there himself, to see his daughter before the Court migrated to Fontainebleau, insisted on taking him. The King missed very little of the goings-on around him and no doubt he thought a change of scene would be good for Voltaire. So it was arranged that they should go together, leaving their mistresses behind. Mme de Boufflers announced that her doctor had ordered her to take the cure at Plombières, a watering-place in the Vosges mountains; Stanislas begged Mme du Châtelet, as a favour to himself, to go with her. It was the last thing Émilie wanted; she was, of course, dying to remain in an empty Lunéville with Saint-Lambert. But she could not very well say ‘no’ to the King.
Plombières had an enormous reputation from a medical point of view but nobody liked going there. A grim and gloomy place, always overcrowded with dyspeptic invalids, it was fearfully uncomfortable. Even the climate was bad. Eighteenth-century correspondence is punctuated with moans and groans from Plombières, or commiseration with friends obliged by their doctors to endure its hardships. Voltaire often told Frederick that he had only established himself at Lunéville because his health demanded constant visits to Plombières. In fact he never went there at this time, though he had done so
when he was younger.
Mme de Boufflers, who had never felt better in her life, had planned this excursion as a little honeymoon with d’Adhémar; Stanislas sent him to look after her. Relieved that her liaison with Saint-Lambert was over, he positively encouraged ‘the insipid Viscount’, as Émilie called him. Saint-Lambert was furious at being left behind and Mme du Châtelet’s letters were not calculated to soothe his ruffled feelings. They began with the usual picture of the horrors of Plombières. She is vilely lodged in a house with fifty other people, making it almost impossible to work. Her bed is only separated from that of a dreadful old fermier-général by a curtain. But there is one compensation. Mlle de la Roche-sur-Yonne is also taking the waters. Mme du Châtelet has her coffee, her baths, and all her meals with this royal princess (a Bourbon-Conti). So, even had Saint-Lambert been there he would have seen nothing of his beloved by day, since she believes that he is not in Mlle de la Roche-sur-Yonne’s set? By night, the presence of the fermier-général would have been a distinct drawback to their enjoyment – indeed gallantry would be impossible in that over-crowded establishment. Finally, life at Plombières is so expensive that Saint-Lambert could never have afforded it. Without a pause, almost without a full stop, Mme du Châtelet proceeds from these reflections on Saint-Lambert’s social position and the state of his purse to the wildest flights of passion: ‘I have found that treasure for which, according to the Gospel, we must abandon everything.’
Saint-Lambert, not to be outdone in what he regarded as a literary exercise, replied that she would have to teach him to love her less. But he took his revenge. One day when the post arrived, Émilie noticed with some annoyance that he had written to Mme de Boufflers who read the letter, laughed, and ostentatiously tore it into a thousand pieces. With the next post he enclosed a note for Mme de Boufflers in his letter to Émilie. Needless to say, she steamed it open, and did not care for what she found. ‘I love you madly.’ What did it mean? she asked him in a torrent of reproaches. It meant that Saint-Lambert still rather preferred Mme de Boufflers to his other mistress.
The Plombières visit had only been meant to last a week or so. Unfortunately, Mme de Boufflers was enjoying it as much as Mme du Châtelet was not. Snobbishness did not impel her to spend her time with Mlle de la Roche-sur-Yonne; she found a delightful circle of friends with whom to laugh, gossip, and play comète. She was not trying to translate Newton in a house where there were fifty other people, packed like sardines. Stanislas had arranged for her to have a charming room to herself, with no fermier-général snoring away the other side of a curtain and to this room the Vicomte d’Adhémar came and went as he liked. Mme de Boufflers made up a cock-and-bull story about her health, an aspect of it not usually mentioned by women to men but discoursed upon at length in Émilie’s letters to Saint-Lambert. The journey was put off, on account of ‘ses prétendues pertes’, from day to day. This was clearly done to annoy Émilie, against whom Mme de Boufflers now turned. Émilie, whose very existence at Lunéville depended on the favour of Mme de Boufflers, did everything she could think of to oblige her friend. But the harder she tried to please, the harder she seemed to be on the other woman’s nerves. The reason for this change of heart is not clear. Perhaps Mme de Boufflers minded more than she seemed to about Saint-Lambert, or possibly she thought that Émilie had been paying too much attention to Mlle de la Roche-sur-Yonne. It was no secret that the Queen of France would have liked her father to marry this elderly, ugly, dull, but vastly rich Princess, and that Mlle de la Roche-sur-Yonne was willing. This would not have suited Mme de Boufflers at all. She had enjoyed herself much more since the Queen of Poland’s death, and had no wish to share the honours at Lunéville with a new Queen. The danger was not great; Stanislas was happy as he was. He came back to Lunéville with a present for his mistress; he had persuaded Louis XV to appoint her lady-in-waiting to his daughters, Mesdames de France. Mesdames, who liked Boufflers no better than they liked Pompadour, and for the same pious reason, were displeased by this arrangement, the more so that Louis XV did not tell them about it himself. They learnt of it through the gushing letters of thanks which they received from their new lady.
Sémiramis was only moderately successful. A bad play, considering it was by Voltaire, was the general view. There was a ghost in it whose appearance never made the right impression and crowd scenes which were almost impossible to manage. Spectators were allowed on the stage at the Comédie Française; it was not until 1759 that this silly habit was forbidden by the police. At Sémiramis the stage was thronged with young men, some for and some against Voltaire; they got so much in the way of the actors that the play almost came to a standstill. The ushers had to cry out: ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please make way for the ghost,’ which was thought exceedingly funny by all except Voltaire. His enemies were now led by the veteran poet, Crébillon (not to be confused with ‘young Crébillon’ his son). He sometimes acted as literary censor for the government and had been one of the people who had caused the withdrawal of Mahomet. Ever since then Voltaire had goaded and tormented him and a mutual hatred flourished.
In order to counter-attack what he called ‘les soldats de Corbullon (Crébillon), Voltaire engaged the services of the Chevalier de La Morlière. This curious person played a powerful role in the theatre-world: he could almost make or mar the success of a play. He was a large, impressive, dignified man with a worldly air and a literary way of talking. There was a certain aura of mystery about him, and he wore a foreign order which nobody had ever been able to place. He practically lived at the Comédie Française, could clap louder than anybody in Paris and was the inventor of the yawn as a way of showing disapproval. The Chevalier directed a claque of 150 men, some volunteers and some in his pay. Before the curtain went up on a first night they would assemble at the Café Procope and discuss their plan of action. As well as La Morlière, Voltaire rounded up all his own cronies and told Longchamp to bring anybody capable of effective applause. Voltaire himself knew how to make his presence felt in a theatre and the actors dreaded the nights when he was in front. He was a terrible fidget, jumping up and down throughout the performance. At any adverse demonstration, even little whispers or giggles, he would be on his feet screaming: ‘Arrêtez, barbares!’ The first night of Sémiramis, which was more like a battlefield than an entertainment, was financially profitable. There was a house of 1,117 and the takings were 4,033 livres. Voltaire, as usual, gave his share to the actors. The play ran for fifteen nights.
The nervous strain of the battle of Sémiramis had made Voltaire very ill again. We know from Longchamp that he now quarrelled with Mme Denis. Longchamp had no idea that they were lovers and this shows how careful they were to keep their secret: never in the world has there been such a nosy-parker as he was. He speaks of a coldness between them without throwing any light on its reason. Mme Denis was always very promiscuous; at this time she was having affairs with at least two of her uncle’s young literary protégés, Baculard d’Arnaud and Marmontel. Voltaire may have made some disagreeable discovery or possibly she issued an ultimatum to try and get him away from Émilie. Whatever the cause of the quarrel its effect was to make him long for Mme du Châtelet. He ordered his carriage and prepared to go back to Lunéville. His friends all besought him not to travel, ill as he was; but he had made up his mind and he left.
He arrived at Châlons-sur-Marne in an apparently dying condition, having touched no food on the journey. He refused to go to the inn which had charged a louis for a cup of soup, and stopped at the much more primitive Hôtel de la Poste. Longchamp had to carry him up the stairs to bed. The Bishop and the Intendant of Châlons, hearing that he was there, both hurried to him and begged him to stay with them, but he would not move. Having tried in vain to swallow some broth, he told Longchamp, who was by now thoroughly alarmed, not to leave him on any account but to stay and throw a little earth on his body. Death seemed imminent. The Bishop and the Intendant came back with a doctor but Voltaire could not speak to them. He only
had the strength to push away the medicines they wished to administer. Longchamp wrote to Mme du Chatelet and to Mme Denis (with whom he was in correspondence) and acquainted them with his master’s condition. After six days at Chalons, during which time Voltaire had eaten nothing, he decided that he did not wish to die there. He made Longchamp carry him down to his coach and they resumed the journey. Longchamp had to tie him on to the seat, where he lay like a corpse. At Saint-Dizier, while they were changing horses, he spoke, asking where they were. Just after the stop, they met one of Mme du Chatelet’s men on the road; he had come for news of Voltaire. This seemed to cheer him up and when at last he was comfortably in bed at the good inn at Nancy, he drank a little soup. Longchamp, who had never left him for a moment all this time, ordered his own supper to be sent up to his master’s room. When Voltaire had seen him put down an entrée, half a shoulder of mutton, two roast thrushes and a dozen robins, he suddenly felt hungry himself. He ate some robins and drank a little wine in his water. He then went into a sound sleep, only waking up at three the next afternoon. They arrived at Lunéville later in the evening and his cure was completed by the sight of Mme du Châtelet.
Now that all the Lunéville friends were joyfully reunited, Stanislas decreed a little holiday at Commercy. As usual, Saint-Lambert was not invited. The King had been so pleased to see Mme du Châtelet again, so particularly kind and welcoming, that she made a bold decision. She asked for a private audience at which, greatly to the King’s embarrassment, she announced her love-affair. Explaining that she could not enjoy herself at Commercy without Saint-Lambert she begged an invitation for him. Stanislas was pleased with neither her news nor her request. He hummed and hawed very crossly, but finally said that Saint-Lambert could come. ‘But which room will Your Majesty give him?’ pursued the shameless Émilie. This was too much for Stanislas who said that he could stay with the Curé and use the orangery as he always did. He then indicated that the audience was over.