politicians, or men of letters, who talked of it with warmth. To assure myself still further, I walked thence towards the Quai des Théatins, where he had alighted the night before, and, as was said, taken up his lodging in a mansion near the church. Coming out from the Rue de la Seine, I saw afar off, a great number of people gathered on the Quai, not far from the Pont-Royal. Approaching nearer, I observed that this crowd was collected in front of the Marquis de Villette's Hotel, at the corner of the Rue de Beaune. I inquired what the matter was. The people answered me that M. de Voltaire was in that house; and they were waiting to see him when he came out. They were not sure, however, whether he would come out that day; for it was natural to think that an old man of eighty-four might need a day or two of rest. From that moment, I no longer doubted the arrival of M. de Voltaire in Paris.' Vol. ii. p. 353. By dint of address, Longchamp, in process of time, contrived to see his old master; had an interview of ten minutes; was for falling at his feet; and wept, with sad presentiments, at parting. Ten such minutes were a great matter; for Voltaire had his levees, and couchees, more crowded than those of any Emperor; princes and peers thronged his antechamber; and when he went abroad, his carriage was as the nucleus of a comet, whose train extended over whole districts of the city. He himself, says Wagnière, expressed dissatisfaction at much of this. Nevertheless, there were some plaudits, which, as he confessed, went to his heart. Condorcet mentions that once a person in the crowd, inquiring who this great man was, a poor woman answered, 'C'est le sauveur des Calas.' Of a quite different sort was the tribute paid him by a quack, in the Place Louis XV., haranguing a mixed multitude on the art of juggling with cards: Here, gentlemen,' said he, 'is a trick I learned at Ferney, from that great man who makes so much noise among you, that famous M. de Voltaire, the master of us all!' In fact, mere gaping curiosity, and even ridicule was abroad, as well as real enthusiasm. The clergy too were recoiling into ominous groups; already some Jesuitic drums ecclesiastic had beat to arms. Figuring the lean, tottering, lonely old man in the midst of all this, how he looks into it, clear and alert, though no longer strong and calm, we feel drawn towards him by some tie of affection, of kindly sympathy. Longchamp says, he appeared 'extremely worn, though still in the possession of all his senses, and with a very firm voice.' The following little sketch, by a hostile journalist of the day, has fixed itself deeply with us: 'M. de Voltaire appeared in full dress, on Tuesday, for the first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat lined with ermine; a large peruke, in the fashion of Louis XIV., black, unpowdered; and in which his withered figure was so buried that you saw only his two eyes shining like carbuncles. His head was surmounted by a square red cap in the form of a crown, which seemed only laid on. He had, in his hand, a small nibbed cane; and the public of Paris, not accustomed to see him in this accoutrement, laughed a good deal. This personage, singular in all, wishes doubtless to have nothing in common with ordinary men.' -Vol. ii. p. 466. This head - this wondrous microcosm in the grande perruque à la Louis XIV. was so soon to be distenanted of all its cunning gifts; these eyes, shining like carbuncles, were so soon to be closed in long night! We must now give the coronation ceremony, of which the reader may have heard so much: borrowing from this same skeptical hand, which, however, is vouched for by Wagnière; as, indeed, La Harpe's more heroical narrative of that occurrence is well known, and hardly differs from the following, except in style : 'On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the triumph which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage, that azure-colored vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a wag called the chariot of the empyrean; and so repaired to the Académie Française, which that day had a special meeting. Twentytwo members were present. None of the prelates, abbés, or other ecclesiastics, who belong to it, would attend, or take part in these singular deliberations. The sole exceptions were the Abbés de Boismont and Millot; the one a court rake-hell (roué), with nothing but the guise of his profession; the other a varlet (cuistre), having no favor to look for, either from the Court or the Church. 'The Académie went out to meet M. de Voltaire: he was led to the Director's seat, which that office-bearer and the meeting invited him to accept. His portrait had been hung up above it. The company, without drawing lots, as is the custom, proceeded to work, and named him, by acclamation, Director for the April quarter. The old man, once set a going, was about to talk a great deal; but they told him, that they valued his health too much to hear him, that they would reduce him to silence. M. d'Alembert accordingly occupied the session, by reading his Eloge de Despréaux, which had already been communicated on a public occasion, and where he had inserted various flattering things for the present visiter. 'M. de Voltaire then signified a wish to visit the Secretary of the Académie, whose apartments are above. With this gentleman he stayed some time; and at last set out for the Comédie Française. The court of the Louvre, vast as it is, was full of people waiting for him. So soon as his notable vehicle came in sight, the cry arose, Le Voilà! The Savoyards, the apple-women, all the rabble of the quarter, had assembled there; and the acclamations, Vive Voltaire! resounded as if they would never end. The Marquis de Villette, who had arrived before, came to hand him out of his carriage, where the Procureur Clos was seated beside him: both these gave him their arms, and could scarcely extricate him from the press. On his entering the playhouse, a crowd of more elegance, and seized with true enthusiasm for genius, surrounded him: the ladies, above all, threw themselves in his way, and stopped it, the better to look at him; some were seen squeezing forward to touch his clothes; some plucking hair from his fur. M. le Duc de Chartres, not caring to advance too near, showed, though at a distance, no less curiosity than others. 'The saint, or rather the god, of the evening, was to occupy the box belonging to the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber,* opposite that of the Comte d'Artois. Madame Denis and Madame de Villette were already there; and the pit was in convulsions of joy, awaiting the moment when the poet should appear. There was no end till he placed himself on the front seat, beside the ladies. Then rose a cry: La Couronne! and Brizard, the actor, came and put the garland on his head. "Ah, Heaven! will you kill me then?" (Ah, Dieu! vous voulez donc me faire mourir !) cried M. de Voltaire, weeping with joy, and resisting this honor. He took the crown in his hand, and presented it to Belle-et-bonne : † she withstood; and the Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, replaced it on the head of our Sophocles, who could refuse no longer. 'The piece (Irène) was played, and with more applause than usual, though scarcely with enough to correspond to this triumph of its author. Meanwhile the players were in straits as to what they should do; and during their deliberations the tragedy ended; the curtain fell, and the tumult of the people was extreme, till it rose again, disclosing a show like that of the Centénaire. M. de Voltaire's bust, which had been placed shortly before in the foyer (green-room) of the Comédie Française, had been brought upon the stage, and elevated on a pedestal; the whole body of comedians stood round it in a semicircle, with palms and garlands in their hands: there was a crown already on the bust. The pealing of musical flourishes, of drums, of trumpets, had announced the ceremony; and Madame Vestris held in her hand a paper, which was soon understood to contain verses, lately composed by the Marquis de Saint-Marc. She recited them with an emphasis proportioned to the extravagance of the scene. They ran as follows:Aux yeux de Paris enchanté, Reçois en ce jour un hommage, Que confirmera d'âge en âge La sévère postérité ! Non tu n'as pas besoin d'atteindre au noir rivage *He himself, as is perhaps too well known, was one. The Marquise de Villette, a foster-child of his. VOLTAIRE, reçois la couronne Que l'on vient de te présenter ; Il est beau de la mériter, Quand c'est la France qui la donne ! * 'This was encored: the actress recited it again. Next, each of them went forward and laid his garland round the bust. Mademoiselle Fanier, in a fanatical ecstasy, kissed it, and all the others imitated her. 'This long ceremony, accompanied with infinite vivats, being over, the curtain again dropped; and when it rose for Nanine, one of M. de Voltaire's comedies, his bust was seen on the right-hand side of the stage, where it remained during the whole play. 'M. le Comte d'Artois did not choose to show himself too openly; but being informed, according to his orders, as soon as M. de Voltaire appeared in the theatre, he had gone thither incognito; and it is thought that the old man, once when he went out for a moment, had the honor of a short interview with his Royal High ness. Nanine finished, comes a new hurly-burly, a new trial for the modesty of our philosopher! He had got into his carriage, but the people would not let him go; they threw themselves on the horses, they kissed them: some young poets even cried to unyoke these animals, and draw the modern Apollo home with their own arms; unhappily, there were not enthusiasts enough to volunteer this service, and he at last got leave to depart, not without vivats, which he may have heard on the Pont-Royal, and even in his own house.... 'M. de Voltaire, on reaching home, wept anew; and modestly protested that if he had known the people were to play so many follies, he would not have gone.' — Vol. ii. On all these wonderful proceedings we shall leave our readers to their own reflections; remarking only, that this happened on the 30th of March, (1778,) and on the 30th of May, about the same hour, the object of such extraordinary As Dryden said of Swift, so may we say: Our cousin SaintMarc has no turn for poetry. |