Voltaire in Love (16 page)

The dame wanted her to go for a drive, but the horses looked a bit frisky so she went for a walk with fat Mme de Champbonin who then took her to see the bathroom. That is an enchantment! It is entirely lined with tiles, with a marble floor and porcelain baths. The little
cabinet de toilette
has carved and gilded panels of celadon green – so gay, so divine – with a tiny sofa and chairs of
the same wood, also carved and gilded. There are prints and pictures, china, a dressing-table, and the ceiling is painted. The other place is to match and here there are looking-glasses and books lying about on lacquer tables. The whole thing is Lilliputian, so pretty, delicious, and enchanting that, if it belonged to Mme de Grafigny, she would have herself woken up in the night to go and look at it. All this made a little change because usually she is in her bedroom from midday to supper-time (9 p.m.) without seeing a soul, though not bored for a minute because she has so much to read. Last night Voltaire gave a magic-lantern show, with stories about M. de Richelieu, the Abbé Desfontaines, and so on which killed them all with laughing. She is reading some of Voltaire's
Épîtres
at the moment and she likes his notion that pleasure proves the existence of a Creator whom we must love while enjoying ourselves.

Élisabeth de Breteuil has arrived; he is an Abbé and the brother of Mme du Châtelet.
†
He seems most agreeable and has brought a lot of gossip from Paris. So they will give a performance of Voltaire's comedy,
Boursoufle,
in his honour, they are all busily learning their parts. Mme de Grafigny is coaching the little girl in hers. Pan-pan really might write more often. No post now till Saturday, it does seem far off. And by the way he must look carefully at his letters to see if anybody has been at them – if he suspects anything he must let her know. Her hosts seem so frightened that she will be indiscreet, she can't quite think why as she never stops saying how perfect everything is. It seems the presence of the brother is a secret however.

She's waiting for the post, it really should have come by now. When it does come, the letters have been written such a long time ago, and then why is Pan-pan not receiving hers? These delays are very odd. The dame always makes up the parcels of letters for the post herself – at night.

Pan-pan says he hasn't quite understood how the day at Cirey is arranged. From eleven until noon there is coffee in Voltaire's gallery, and at noon a meal, which they call the coachmen's dinner, for M. de Châtelet, Mme de Champbonin, and the little boy.
Voltaire, the dame, and Mme de Grafigny look in at it for about half an hour, after which they all go back to their rooms. At four o'clock they sometimes assemble again for a
goûter,
but not every day. Supper at nine o'clock, and they are together until midnight. Oh how she pities her poor friends for not being here to share in this delightful existence! The dame would like to invite Desmarets,
‡
if he cared to come and if he could learn two or three parts beforehand, but Mme de Grafigny thinks he is with his regiment. She suggests Saint-Lambert, but the dame says she can only have him if he knows how to stay in his own room and accommodate himself to their ways. The dame doesn't really care for visitors, it seems, in fact she dreads them. Solitude is what she desires. In future Mme de Grafigny will refer to Voltaire as Nicodème and the dame as Dorothée, it will be safer. Then she can say what she thinks, quite comfortably.

Mme de Grafigny now hears that her furniture is going to be sold, to pay her debts. Pan-pan must try and stop that, or at any rate send her one of her dresses. One more or less won't make any difference, it can't be dishonourable, but if it is, so much the worse. She wants it. She has been very low, terrible vapours, she has taken opium but it did no good at all. Finally the vapours were cured by Voltaire reading out his
Jeanne [La Pucelle]
which he did in the bathroom. The servant who went to Lunéville has come back without the mouth-wash. It is really too bad. Of course Mme de Grafigny has the satisfaction of thinking how much nicer she is to her friends than they are to her, but that doesn't cure her mouth.

To tell the truth she feels sorry for Nicodème because he and Dorothée don't really get on. Alas! once again we see that there is no such thing as happiness under the sky. We think people are quite happy if we only see them from time to time, but if we insert ourselves into their lives it is like the Empire of the Moon. Happiness is not the lot of mankind, Hell is everywhere, since we carry it inside us.

Now there have been two more readings
of Jeanne.
Mme de
Grafigny gives an account of the latest stanza which is about a certain Agnès. Agnès has an affair with a page on whose bottom Jeanne had painted a
fleur-de-lys.
The English appear, there is a battle and Agnès's horse runs away with her to a convent. Since she is in a penitent mood she rings the bell and Sister Besogne opens the door. She takes Agnès to her cell and goes to bed with her – Sister Besogne, as it happens, is a young esquire whom the Abbess keeps there to minister to her. The Abbess, luckily, is away, so Agnès has an exceedingly diverting time. Mme de Grafigny reminds Pan-pan that he must be very careful whom he tells this to, as it is a terrific secret. Also he must be careful how he writes about Dorothée. If he were at Cirey he would realize that she is not often as Mme de Grafigny first described her, but generally cold and hard, it is not very easy to get on with her. As for Nicodème, he is really a little bit mad on the subject of Jean-Baptiste Rousseau and Desfontaines. Mme de Grafigny tries to persuade him that he ought to despise them but he cannot see reason where they are concerned. He has caricatures made of them and writes the captions, in verse, himself; he really longs for everybody to know this but doesn't quite dare admit it. Pan-pan must be careful how he answers this letter.

After supper the dame asked Mme de Grafigny if she had ever had any children. Her hosts knew nothing about her life so she told them the whole story. The recital had a tremendous effect. The dame was seized with a fit of giggles which she explained away by saying she must laugh in order not to cry. [Indeed, the vision of Mme de Grafigny being flung about in an excess of sadistic passion by her mad husband might well have been irresistibly funny.] But Voltaire, the human Voltaire, was quite overcome and he wept. He is never ashamed to show his feelings. ‘What, none of your friends came to the rescue?' In the end they all cried and went on talking until two in the morning. Good Mme de Champbonin, who generally goes to bed at eleven, was in Mme de Grafigny's bedroom when she went upstairs and stayed there consoling her until three. Pan-pan sees what charming people she is with.

They are going to give
Bour soufle
and Mme de Grafigny has
the part of a wife who loves without return. Oh how well she will act that! Voltaire suggests, ‘Let's make Pan-pan come here'; she replies, ‘But you know Pan-pan, he is dreadfully shy, he would never open his mouth in front of this beautiful lady.' Says Voltaire: ‘The first day he can look at her through a keyhole, the second he can stay in the little room next door, and the third day he can sit behind a screen. We shall love him so much that he'll become quite tame.' ‘What nonsense,' says the dame, ‘I shall be charmed to see him and I hope he won't be frightened of me.' Mme de Grafigny says if he comes they can give
La Mort de César;
Voltaire is enchanted at the idea as it is his favourite play.

On Christmas Day, it will be remembered, Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet both read
La Voltairomanie.
Mme de Grafigny, not knowing that they had had this terrible shock, rattled on to Pan-pan, saying that Voltaire seemed very unwell, in bed, with a temperature. They heard Midnight Mass from his room. He said he had been having a long talk with the Virgin – he would rather deal with her than with the others. Next day he was ill again and very low, though very polite. Mme du Châtelet began to read aloud a new novel by Moncrif, but it was too badly written and she had to give it up. Mme de Grafigny is still struggling with Newton but she would love to give that up too. Oh! it is dull! Pan-pan's letters all about the jollities at Lunéville made her cry – how she loves her friends there. Alas, dear treasures, she hopes they talk about her sometimes. Desmarets's letter putting off his visit has cast her down dreadfully.

From now on Mme de Grafigny's outlook changed entirely. She was no longer the happiest, luckiest person in the world, she no longer felt sorry for Panpichon and all who were not living in the same house as the Idol. Her letters are pathetic. The cold of a Continental winter has descended upon Cirey and the poor woman hates her horrid room more and more. The draughts are so terrible they nearly put out her candle, she sits with a screen round her but it does no good. She has no comfortable chair, her body is not at ease. Then the hours go so slowly, it is now 7 p.m. and she has seen nobody all day. When she went down for coffee at eleven, the door was bolted. None of this would matter if she were a little
more comfortable. It's not that they are mean with wood, there's a fire like the burning of Troy in her fireplace but the room gets no warmer. There are thirty-two fires in the house altogether. Then her dog, Lise, is on heat and Mme de Grafigny is afraid she will be covered by one of those great mongrels in the farmyard. Another misfortune: Dubois has given notice. Well, she has been unbearable lately, so rude and bad-tempered. And now here is the post and not a single letter. What does it mean? She is too sad, her friends alone keep her going and she begs them to remember it.

It is New Year's Day, she has been ill with colic. Pan-pan has written to say the stanza
of Jeanne
is charming. Mme de Grafigny tells him to send back whatever she wrote on the subject. This is terribly important, he must send it and make no more comments, he has been indiscreet enough as it is. He asks where she will be in March. Certainly not at Cirey. She hasn't enough money to go to Paris so she has sent to Saint-Dizier to know if there's not a convent where she could retire. He will ask why Saint-Dizier? Because it seems the posts there are regular and the only pleasure she has left in the world is the letters of her friends. Besides it is on the way to Paris. Once a year somebody might visit her for an hour. Admittedly she wouldn't think of such a thing if there were a better prospect in view, but as there is not she must fulfil her destiny.

A few days later she has received a letter from Pan-pan, but another seems to be lost. He must tell her what was in it, without fail. Her vapours are no better, worse if anything, she seldom goes downstairs now at all. Oh! how divine philosophy would be if it were any help to one!

Pan-pan's next letter had definitely been opened and very badly re-sealed. How disagreeable, really. She is terribly worried about her future, she is sorry to bore Pan-pan with it, but who else is there? Were it not for the fat lady she would have gone mad by now. Of course that ass of a Dubois has allowed Lise to be covered, just as Mme de Grafigny had feared – now they'll have to see about an abortion which may well have fatal results. She has never loved the poor little dog so much. That's it, they can all laugh at her, laugh away, she's only too delighted to make somebody laugh.
Two more letters have arrived, obviously opened and Pan-pan seems not to have received hers asking for the stanza from
Jeanne.
She has written to see if her friend Mme de Chatenay can have her for a little while before she goes into a convent. Pan-pan must send her back that letter about
Jeanne
– oh she has already said this, the vapours are making her stupid. If he could see her trembling fits he would be sorry for her. She has been ill for a fortnight. Voltaire has been most good to her and so has Mme de Champbonin. She never goes down for coffee any more, she has some soup with those who dine at midday and the rest of the time she is in her own room. She did, however, sup with M. de Maupertuis when he was there and found him very jolly and learned. As she is neither she never opened her mouth.

She must now tell Pan-pan a dreadful thing. She has no money at all. If he asks why, the answer is that on her way to Cirey she realized that her old dress would not do and she bought herself a satin one for a louis. Dubois needed a tidy cotton dress, which she also bought and tips to the coachmen finished her few remaining pence. She has written to Mme Badaud to see if she can give her a bed. It seems that Desmarets will be at Cirey in a day or two – Mme du Châtelet has sent up a message to say so, oh what good news!

It is Shrove Tuesday. Desmarets has arrived. He has hardly spoken to her but they have been living in a whirl as an enormous programme of theatricals is on foot. They have learnt and rehearsed thirty-three different acts, have given
Zaïre, L'Enfant prodigue,
and
L'Esprit de contradiction.
Her vapours are cured, Mme Badaud can have her and she is to leave Cirey in a day or two. Dubois has already gone on, with the luggage. Desmarets is a wonderful actor, nobody can talk of anything else; the wretch has certainly missed his vocation. All day they rehearse and learn their parts and the acting goes on all night, there's no time to breathe, let alone write letters. They have just finished the third act they have given today. It is midnight and they are going to sup, after which Mme du Châtelet will sing a whole opera. This is the last time she will write from Cirey, she can't answer Pan-pan's letter now, she rushes to the delights that beckon to her, though if she had wings she would fly into Pan-pan's arms.

How we wish we could leave Mme de Grafigny on this cheerful if slightly hysterical note. However the moment she was safely away from Cirey, on 12 February, she put into the post a letter she had been cooking up for several weeks, which threw a lurid light on past events and fully explained her change of spirits.

‘My dearest friend, I can now tell you a horrible thing that happened to me —'