Voltaire and Rousseau.
AT TEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning, the king, though he had supped so well, began to think of breakfast; but, going to a window, he saw his carriage and all his attendants ready for his departure. Zamore, with folded arms, was giving, or pretending to give, orders.
“What is this, countess?” said he; “are we not to breakfast? One would’ think you were going to send me away fasting!”
“Heaven forbid, sire! but I thought your majesty had to meet Monsieur de Sartines at Marly.”
“Pardieu!” said the king, “could not Sartines be told to come here? — it is so near!”
“Your majesty will do me the honor to believe that that idea occurred to me before your majesty.”
“And, besides, the morning is too fine for work; let us breakfast.”
“Your majesty must first give me a few signatures for myself.”
“For the Countess de Bearn?”
“Yes; and then name the day and the hour.”
“What day and hour?”
“The day and hour for my presentation.”
“Ma for!” said the king, “it must be so, I suppose; fix the day yourself.”
“Sire, the sooner the better.”
“Is all ready?”
“Yes.”
“You have learned to make your three curtseys?”
“I have practiced them for more than a year.”
“You have your dress?”
“In twenty-four hours it will be ready.”
“And you have your chaperon?”
“In an hour she will be here.”
“And now, countess, for a bargain!
“What is it?”
“That you will never again speak of that affair of the Viscount Jean with the Baron de Taverney.”
“Must I sacrifice the poor viscount?”
“Yes, faith!”
“Well, sire, I shall speak no more of it. The day?”
“The day after to-morrow.”
“The hour?”
“Half-past ten at night, as usual.”
“It is settled?”
“It is settled.”
“On your royal word?”
“On the word of a gentleman.”
“Give me your hand on it, France!” and Madame Dubarry held out her pretty little hand, in which the king placed his own.
This morning all Luciennes felt the gayety of its master. He had yielded on one point on which he had long before determined to yield; but then he had gained another. This was certainly a decided advantage. He would give one hundred thousand crowns to Jean on condition that he went to drink the waters of the Pyrenees, in Auvergne; that would pass for banishment in the eyes of the Choiseul party. There were louis-d’ors that morning for the poor, cakes for the carps, and praises for Boucher’s paintings.
Eleven o’clock struck. The countess, although attending assiduously to the king at his breakfast, could not help looking, from time to time, at the clock, which moved too slowly for her wishes. His majesty had taken the trouble to say, that when the Countess de Bearn arrived, she was to be shown into the breakfast room. The coffee was served, tasted, drunk, still she came not. Suddenly the tramping of a horse’s feet was heard. The countess ran to a window. It was a messenger from the viscount, who leaped from his horse reeking with foam. At sight of him she felt a chill run through her veins, for she knew all could not be right; but it was necessary to hide her uneasiness in order to keep the king in good humor. She returned to his side and sat down.
A moment afterward, Chon entered with a note in her hand. There was no means of escape; it must be read before the king.
“What is that, sweet Chon?” said the king; “a love-letter?”
“Oh, certainly, sire.”
“From whom?”
“From the poor viscount.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Look at it, sire.”
The king recognized the writing, and thinking the note might contain something about the Lachaussee affair, “Very well,” said he, pushing it aside, “very well — that is enough.”
The countess was on thorns.
“Is the note for me?” she asked.
“Yes, countess.”
“Will your majesty permit me —
“Oh, yes — read it — read it; and, in the meantime, Chon will repeat ‘Maitre Corbeau’ to me.” So saying, he pulled her on his knee, and began to sing — sadly out of tune, indeed — for Rousseau has recorded that Louis had the worst ear in his kingdom.
The countess retired into the recess of a window, and read the following epistle;
“Do not expect the old wretch; she pretends that she scalded her foot yesterday, and is obliged to keep her room. You may thank Chon’s most opportune arrival yesterday for this. The old wretch recognized her immediately, and so put an end to our little comedy.
“It was fortunate that that little wretch, Gilbert, who is the cause of this misfortune, was lost. I would have wrung his neck about! However, he may be assured it is in store for him, if ever he cross my path.
“But to return to the point — on to Paris at once, or we are lost. JEAN.”
“What is the matter?” inquired the king, surprised at the sudden paleness which overspread the countess’s face.
“Nothing, sire; it is only a bulletin of Jean’s health.”
“Does not the dear viscount get better, then?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, sire, much better,” said the countess. “But I hear a carriage enter the courtyard.”
“Oh, our old countess, I suppose!”
“No, sire, it is M, de Sartines.”
“Well, what then?” exclaimed the king, seeing that Madame Dubarry was moving toward the door.
“ Well, sire, I shall leave you with him and go to dress.”
“And what about Bearn?”
“When she comes, sire, I shall let your majesty know,” replied the countess, crumpling the viscount’s note in the pocket of her dressing-gown.
“Then you abandon me?” said the king, with a melancholy air.
“Sire, remember this is Sunday; you have papers to sign.” So saying she presented her fresh and rosy cheeks to the king, who kissed them, and she left the room.
“Devil take all signatures,” said the king, “and those who bring them! Who was it that invented ministers and portfolios?”
He had scarcely finished this malediction, when the minister and the portfolio entered by a door opposite that lay which the countess had departed. The king sighed again, more deeply than before.
“Ah! are you there, Sartines?” said he. “How very punctual you are.”
This was said in a tone which left it very doubtful whether the words were intended as a eulogium or a reproach.
The minister opened his portfolio, and busied himself in taking out and arranging his papers. Just then the sound of the wheels of a carriage was heard, grating on the sand of the avenue.
“Wait a little, Sartines,” said the king, and he ran to the window.
“What!” said he, “the countess is driving off!”
“It is she, indeed, sire,” said the minister.
“But is she not going to wait for the Countess de Bearn?”
“Sire. I am inclined to think she is tired of waiting, and goes to find her.”
“Yet the old lady had decided on coming this morning.”
“Sire, I am almost certain that she will not come.”
“Then you know something about the matter, Sartines?”
“Sire, I am obliged to know a little about everything, otherwise your majesty would be dissatisfied with me.”
“Well, what has happened? Tell me, Sartines.”
“To the old countess, sire?”
“Yes.”
“A very common case, sire — difficulties have arisen.”
“Then the Countess de Bearn really will not come?”
“Hmm! there was rather more certainty of it yesterday evening than there is this morning.”
“Poor countess!” said the king, unable, in spite of himself, to conceal a gleam of satisfaction which sparkled in his eyes.
“Ah, sire, the quadruple alliance and the family compact were trifles in comparison with this presentation!”
“Poor countess!” repeated the king, shaking his head, “she will never accomplish her purpose.”
“I fear it, sire, unless your majesty concerns yourself about it.”
“She was so certain that now all was in the right train.”
“And what makes the matter worse for the countess,” said M, de Sartines, “is, that if she be not presented before the arrival of the dauphiness, it is probable she never will be presented at all.”
“More than probable! Sartines, you are right. They say that my daughter-in-law is very strict, very devout, very prudish. Poor countess!”
“It will certainly annoy her very much, sire, if she be not presented; but, on the other hand, it will relieve your majesty from many annoyances.”
“Do you think so, Sartines?”
“Oh, yes, sire! The envious, the libelers, the ballad-mongers, the flatterers, the journalists, will not have so much to say. If she was presented, sire, it would cost us at least one hundred thousand francs additional for the police.”
“Indeed — ? poor countess! and yet she wishes so much to be presented.”
“Your majesty knows you have only to command, and her wishes will be gratified.”
“What do you mean, Sartines? Do you imagine that I could meddle in such an affair? Can I, by signing an order, make people polite to Madame Dubarry? Is it you, Sartines, a man of sense, who advise such an innovation to satisfy the whims of the countess?”
“Oh, by no means, sire! I merely say, as your majesty says, poor countess!”
“Besides,” said the king, “her position is not so desperate, after all. You always look at things on the dark side, Sartines. Who can tell, whether the Countess de Bearn may not change her mind? Who can be certain that the dauphiness will arrive so soon? It will take four days yet before she can reach Compiegne, and in four days much may be done. Let me see. Have you anything for me to do this morning, Sartines?”
“Oh, your majesty, only three papers to sign;” and the minister of police drew out the first from his portfolio.
“Oh!” said the king, “a lettre-de-cachet.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And against whom!”
“Your majesty may see.”
“Oh! against the Sieur Rousseau? What Rousseau is that, Sartines, and what has he done?”
“Done, sire! — written ‘Le Contrat Social.’”
“Oh, then, it is Jean-Jacques whom you wish to shut up in the Bastille?”
“Sire, he disturbs the public peace.”
“And what the deuce did you expect he would do?”
“Besides, I don’t propose to shut him up.”
“Of what use is this letter, then?”
“Sire, merely to have a weapon ready.”
“ — Not that I am at all fond of your philosophers, mark ye.”
“Your majesty has good cause not to love them.”
“But people will exclaim against us. Besides, I think we authorized him to come to Paris.”
“No, sire; we said we should tolerate him on condition that he did not appear in public.”
“And does he appear in public?”
“He is always to be seen.”
“In his Armenian dress?”
“Oh no, sire. We ordered him to lay it aside.”
“And he obeyed?”
“Yes, but complaining loudly all the time of our persecution.”
“And how does he dress now?”
“Oh, like other people, sire.”
“Then he cannot be so much remarked?”
“What, sire! a man who has been forbidden to appear in public not remarked! And then, only guess where he goes every day!”
“To the Marshal de Luxembourg’s, to Monsieur d’Alembert’s, to Madame d’Epinay’s?”
“To the Cafe de la Regence, sire! He plays chess there every evening. He must be mad upon that point, for he always loses; and it requires every evening a company of soldiers to keep order among the crowds around the house.”
“Well,” said the king, “the Parisians are even greater fools than I thought them. Let them go on amusing themselves in that way, Sartines; while they do so, they will not shout starvation!”
“But, sire, if some fine day he should take it into his head to make a speech, as he did in London?”
“Oh! in that case, as there would be criminality and public infringement of the laws, you would not require a lettre-de-cachet, Sartines.”
The minister saw that the king did not wish the arrest of Rousseau to rest on the royal responsibility, so he did not press the matter farther.
“But, sire,” said he, “there is another philosopher.”
“Another!” replied the king, languidly, “shall we never have done with them?”
“Ah, sire, it is they who have never done with us!”
“And who is this one?”
“Monsieur de Voltaire.”
“Has he also returned to Prance?”
“No, sire; it would be much better, perhaps, that he had, for then we could watch him.”
“What has he been doing?”
“It is not he who has been doing anything, it is his partisans; they are actually going to have a statue erected in his honor!”
“Equestrian, I suppose?”
“No, sire; and yet I assure you he is a famous captor of towns!”
The king shrugged his shoulders.
“Sire, there has not been seen such a one since Poliorcetes,” continued Sartines. “He obtains information from all quarters; his writings reach all quarters; the highest persons in your kingdom turn smugglers for the sake of his books. I seized, the other day, eight boxes full of them; two were addressed to the Duke de Choiseul.”
“It is very amusing!”
“Sire, only reflect that they are now doing for him what is only done for kings — they are decreeing him a statue.”
“Sartines, statues are not decreed by others for kings, they decree them to themselves. And who is to make this fine work of art?”
“The sculptor Pigale. He has set out for Ferney to execute the model. In the meantime, subscriptions are pouring in; and observe, sire, it is only authors who are permitted to subscribe. All come with their offerings; they make quite a procession every day. Even Rousseau brought his two louis-d’ors.”
“Well,” said the king, “what can I do in the matter? I am not an author, it does not concern me.”
“Sire, I thought of proposing to your majesty to put an end, by royal command, to this demonstration.”
“I shall take good care not to do any such thing, Sartines. Instead of decreeing him a bronze statue, they would then decree him one of gold. Let them alone. Mon Dieu! he will look even uglier in bronze than in flesh and blood!”
“Then your majesty desires that the matter should take its own course!”
“Let us understand one another, Sartines! Desire is not the word. I should be very glad to put an end to these things, certainly; but how can I? — it is impossible. The time is passed when royalty could say to the spirit of philosophy, as God says to the ocean, ‘Thus far shalt thou go and no farther!’ To blame loudly but uselessly; to aim a blow, but strike short of our aim; that would only serve to show our own weakness. Let us turn away our eyes, Sartines, and pretend not to see.” The minister sighed.
“At least, sire,” said he, “if we do not punish the men, let us suppress their works. Here is a list of books which, in my opinion, should instantly be proscribed; some attack the throne, some the altar; some teach rebellion, others sacrilege.”
The king took the list, and read in a languid voice —
“‘The Sacred Contagion; or, the Natural History of Superstition.’
“‘The System of Nature; or, Laws of the Physical and Moral World.’”
“‘Instructions of the Capuchin at Ragusa, to Brother Pediculoso, on his setting out for the Holy Land.’”
He had not read one-fourth of the list when he let it fall, while an expression of sadness and dejection overspread his usually unmoved countenance. He remained thoughtful, and for some minutes seemed quite overcome.
“Sartines,” said he at last, “one might as well undertake to move the world. Let others try it.”
The minister looked at him with that perfect understanding of his wishes which the king loved in those who approached him, as it saved him the trouble of thinking and acting.
“A tranquil life, sire,” said he, “a tranquil life — is not that what your majesty wishes?”
The king nodded.
“Oh, yes!” said he. “I ask for nothing else from your philosophers, encyclopedists, thaumaturgi, illuminati, poets, economists, journalists — tribes that come one knows not whence — that are always bustling, writing, croaking, calumniating, calculating, preaching, complaining. Let them be crowned — let statues be raised to them — let temples be built to them — but let them leave me in peace.”
Sartines arose, bowed, and left the apartment, muttering, as he went. “It is fortunate we have on our money—’Domine salvum fac regem.’”
Then the king, now left to himself, took a pen, and wrote to the dauphin the following lines:
“You have requested me to hasten the arrival of her royal highness the dauphiness, and I wish to gratify you.
“I have ordered that there shall be no stay made at Noyon — consequently, on Tuesday morning she will be at Compiegne.
“I shall be there myself precisely at ten o’clock — that is to say, a quarter of an hour before her.”
“Thus,” said he to himself, “I shall get rid of that foolish affair of the presentation, which annoys me more than Voltaire and Rousseau, and all the philosophers, past, present, and to come. The affair will then be between the poor countess, the dauphin and dauphiness. Ma foi, it is only fair that young minds, with strength for it, should contend with these vexations, hatreds, and revenges! Children should early learn to suffer — it is an excellent part of education.”
Delighted at having thus got rid of the difficulty, and certain that he would not be reproached with either favoring or hindering this presentation, about which all Paris was occupied, the king entered his carriage and drove off to Marly, where the court was waiting for him.