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His letters from Berlin grew fewer and fewer, and more and more ambiguous; she knew nothing of his plans; 'il est ivre absolument' she burst out in her distress to d'Argental, one of his oldest friends. By every post she dreaded to learn at last that he had deserted her for ever. But suddenly Voltaire returned. The spell of Berlin had been broken, and he was at her feet once more.
Did he not write to D'Argental that he desired nothing more fervently than my utter humiliation and the punishment of my sins, on the same day on which he sent me an enthusiastic poem, written in honor of my victory at Leuthen?
It often occurred to me, that Chambord in its palmiest days, of Francis the First with his Ronsard, of Louis le Grand with his Molière, never sheltered more wit, beauty and courage, than it did at this time. The wit and courage of Count Saxe are too well-known to need comment, and the same may be said of the Duc de Noailles, Marshal Boufflers, Monsieur d'Argental, and others then at Chambord.
"M. d'Argental," said the king, "unites then at my court the double function of minister of Parma and steward of Ferney.* Are these two offices compatible?" * The name of Voltaire's residence TRANS "Yes, sire," replied the duke, laughing, "since he has not presented officially to your majesty the letters of his creation as comte de Tournay." The king began to laugh.
"Of M. de Voltaire, sire," I replied, with so much presence of mind as to please the duc de Richelieu. "What, is he at his tricks again? Have you any cause of complaint against him?" "Quite the reverse; he has charged M. d'Argental to say to M. de Richelieu, that he was sorry that he could not come and prostrate himself at my feet."
"M. d'Argental," said the king, "unites then at my court the double function of minister of Parma and steward of Ferney.* Are these two offices compatible?" *The name of Voltaire's residence- TRANS "Yes, sire," replied the duke, laughing, "since he has not presented officially to your majesty the letters of his creation as comte de Tournay." The king began to laugh.
'Wait till 1759, till 1789! murmured the Devil to himself." About two months after those Saxe-Friedrich hospitalities at Sans-Souci, Voltaire, writing, late at night, from the hospitable Palace of Titular Stanislaus, has these words, to his trusted D'Argental:
"Of M. de Voltaire, sire," I replied, with so much presence of mind as to please the duc de Richelieu. "What, is he at his tricks again? Have you any cause of complaint against him?" "Quite the reverse; he has charged M. d'Argental to say to M. de Richelieu, that he was sorry that he could not come and prostrate himself at my feet."
Voltaire, d'Argental, Moncrif, Hénault, Madame d'Egmont, Madame du Deffand herself all were born within a few years of each other, and all lived to be well over eighty, with the full zest of their activities unimpaired. Pont-de-Veyle, it is true, died young at the age of seventy-seven.
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