Voltaire in Love (29 page)

Voltaire would have liked to escape, he longed to go back to Paris, but he was kept in Lorraine by Mme du Châtelet. She was in her element at Lunéville. Her undoubted snobbishness was gratified by the honours paid her there and the high precedence which her husband's rank obtained for her. She had incessant gambling to keep her soul in a healthy state. She became the leading lady of a well-appointed theatre. She could show off her clothes and jewels to more effect than at Versailles. When she felt inclined to work she retired, self-importantly, to her apartment and nobody was allowed to disturb her. She did not realize that she was regarded as an amiable joke by the whole company, though Voltaire had a pretty shrewd idea of it. The anonymous author of
a sort of gossip column circulating at Lunéville said that she was a ‘madwoman who knows more about atoms than about her own family'. Voltaire remarked that this was nonsense. Why, she took any amount of trouble over her family, she had got excellent commands in the army for her husband and son and a splendid Italian duke for her daughter. What more could she do?

Very soon after the arrival of Voltaire and Mme du Châtelet at Lunéville, Père Menou's magic began to work. As magic often does, however, it took a slightly different course from that intended by the magician. Émilie fell in love, and with a lover of Mme de Boufflers, but not with King Stanislas. Saint-Lambert, seeing his mistress in full fling with M. d'Adhémar, had continued to suffer. When Mme du Châtelet arrived at Lunéville, handsome, eager to please, and high-spirited, he bethought him of that powerful love philtre, a dose of jealousy. He made ostentatious advances to Émilie; it was no trouble to him to do so, he found her attractive. Mme de Boufflers, who laughed at everything, laughed, but Mme du Châtelet did not. In a ferment of desire and sensibility she fell into Saint-Lambert's arms and announced her intention of spending the rest of her life with him. With him, Voltaire, and M. du Châtelet of course; Saint-Lambert was to be an addition not a substitute. Mme de Boufflers, still laughing, gave Émilie the key of the hidden room with a bed in it and Saint-Lambert was disconcerted to find that his parlour flirtation had become a full-dress love-affair.

Mme du Châtelet, excessive in everything, now behaved with an ardour embarrassing to contemplate. She was forty-three (ten years older than Saint-Lambert), one of the most learned women ever produced by our civilization, engaged on a task (the translation of Newton) for which many scientists would find themselves inadequate; she had two grown-up children; the greatest writer of the day was at her beck and call. But her letters to her new lover read like those of a clever, hysterical schoolgirl. They begin with little notes on lace-edged paper which Émilie would slip into Mme de Bouffler's harp for the loved one to find during the evening party. As time goes on they get longer, sadder, and more sentimental, no jokes, no gossip, nothing but self-pity, love, and plans for the future. They are very dull.

Almost at once, Saint-Lambert fell ill in the little secret room. He had fever and his body was covered with a rash. Mme du Châtelet, who was quite used to illness, though she had never known a day of it herself, drowned him with tea, tisane, and Seidlitz water, plied him with roast chickens and partridges, and made him open his window from time to time. She crept downstairs when everybody else had gone to bed in order to watch him as he slept. He got better, and soon Émilie was rewarded for her attentions: ‘I hope I did not agitate you too much last night.' Pan-pan acted as go-between and the lovers spent their time writing and exchanging letters. Saint-Lambert wrote: ‘It is very sweet to wake up and read your charming letters and to know the happiness of loving and being loved by you. I feel that I shall never be able to do without your letters which are the joy of my life. You have never been more tender, more lovable, and more adored.'

With one of Émilie's nature, so whole-hearted and possessive, no affair could keep a light touch for long, and as soon as Saint-Lambert was better she began to make scenes. He has treated her so coldly today, as if hardly giving her a thought, has never spoken of expedients for seeing more of her, has not even mentioned the subject. Why does he never look at her? Does he only care to be with her in company, does he not long to spend all his time with her? That is the test of love, every minute apart should be an agony. Why does he never go to her room where they can be alone together? The eggs she has cooked for him have grown cold with waiting, but she has not. Now she seems to have spoilt everything and made him cross. He must forgive and forget what she said last night and only remember the happy day they had. She is sorry now, she sees that she has been unfair, she only wishes she had taken more advantage of the time they have spent together to be happy in his love. She is too easily upset and she knows it. As we read these endless scribblings we wonder how the highly-strung Voltaire could ever have put up with her.

Saint-Lambert behaved rather well. Having aroused this unwanted passion, he did nothing unkind to try and check it, he waited for it to die down again. Émilie knew that she was more in love than he, but she was quite used to that. She only asked permission to
go on loving and this Saint-Lambert graciously accorded. He even put off a journey to Italy when she implored him to do so.

As for Voltaire, he saw with satisfaction that Émilie was enjoying herself but perhaps did not realize that she was plunged in such a menacing joy. She, of course, with her mixture of logic and selfishness, never thought for a moment that she was behaving badly to him. He no longer made love to her and therefore could not expect her to be faithful. Besides, in spite of the burning, volcanic quality of her love for Saint-Lambert, her soul was not involved. She could never have written to him, as Voltaire wrote to Mme Denis, ‘Sensual pleasure passes and vanishes in the twinkling of an eye, but the friendship between us, the mutual confidence, the delights of the heart, the enchantment of the soul, these things do not perish and can never be destroyed. I shall love you until I die.' Émilie's betrayal of Voltaire was spectacular; his of her was fundamental.

In May 1748 the party at Lunéville broke up for a while, for Stanislas to pay one of his periodical visits to his daughter the Queen. The two philosophers were to go to Paris, taking in Cirey on the way, for the rehearsals of
Sémiramis.
Saint-Lambert rejoined his regiment at Nancy and Mme du Châtelet managed to spend a few happy days with him there while Mme de Boufflers kept Voltaire amused and unsuspicious at Lunéville. After this Émilie was more in love, and Saint-Lambert less. As soon as she and Voltaire had arrived at Cirey she began to be tormented by the thought of Mme de Boufflers, rather at a loose end at Lunéville (M. de Boufflers and La Galaizière having gone to Versailles with the King) and Saint-Lambert, also with nothing much to do, nearby at Nancy. She knew too well that Mme de Boufflers had but to say the word and Saint-Lambert would be her slave again. She could not settle down to her work, as she had planned, she could only pour out endless letters. ‘This is too long,' she sometimes says. (Yes indeed, too long and much too plaintive.) She thinks of Saint-Lambert at Lunéville, hardly giving her a thought. The fact is he has no capacity for love, so what will he do with a heart like hers, now that it belongs to him? He must come to Cirey, otherwise she cannot believe all the things he told her at Nancy. In the end he did go, for twenty-four hours, and killed her suspicions for the time being.
At Paris she felt calmer, because Mme de Boufflers had joined King Stanislas at Trianon. Louis XV always lent him this little palace for his visits to the Queen. However they were only there another week, and it seemed rather a horrid coincidence that, as soon as Mme de Boufflers arrived back at Lunéville, Saint-Lambert rejoined the garrison there. His letters became very short and the writing (Mme du Châtelet noticed) very large, as though he wanted to fill the pages in a hurry. He did address her as ‘
Ma chère Maîtresse',
which was a little comfort.

‘Je vous adore, je vous adore.'
All the same, Émilie's out-pourings to the loved one were not particularly tactful. She is having a watch made for him with a secret spring to contain her portrait. Should it be exactly like the one she had given to Voltaire or would he prefer something different? She sees from his reply that he really has no feelings, Voltaire's watch will do, but that he wants her, in the miniature, to wear the head-dress of Issé. Very well, so it shall be. She hopes he will not be angry, she is sending him an enormous bottle of nut-oil, excellent for thinning hair. He must anoint his head like a Pharisee. Abbé de Bernis is writing a poem on the Seasons, how dreadful, the very subject Saint-Lambert himself has chosen. Babet la Bouquetière must have heard of it from somebody at Lunéville. Now Mme du Châtelet has sent for Babet, who has read her the poem; it is very dull and very much like Saint-Lambert's. No need to answer so disagreeably and tell her to mind her own business; surely it must be perfectly obvious that she thought to do for the best; nobody would listen to a long poem by Bernis for the fun of the thing. Now in her turn she has to scold Saint-Lambert. It seems he has been making trouble between her and Mme de Boufflers, and this does not suit Mme du Châtelet at all. For one thing Mme de Boufflers is a much better friend than he is a lover – however, that is not the point. It is most important for M. du Châtelet to be given an official position at Lunéville and his wife is counting on Mme de Boufflers to arrange this. If he were passed over again, as he has already been once, by King Stanislas, he and Mme du Châtelet could not possibly stay on at Lunéville. They would have to leave Lorraine for ever, and go and live at Cirey. As Saint-Lambert's love is not of the quality to survive
short meetings and long absences he must see the absolutely vital necessity of M. du Châtelet's appointment. She really must beg him to be careful to keep Mme de Boufflers on their side.

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.