# Voltaire/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII.
LA PUCELLE.
In the quiet of Cirey, Voltaire must have felt like some storm-tost mariner who has at length reached a land-locked bay. Yet even here he was not always free from the apprehensions which had beset his earlier career. The guest already quoted, Madame de Grafigny, once had a curious illustration of this. She had been present at the readings of the several cantos of the "Maid" as they were completed. These readings were conducted with some secrecy, and took place in the bath-room, as a very private spot, accessible only to a chosen few; and Madame de Grafigny, much delighted with the poem, from time to time gave a brief account of its tenor and progress to a correspondent, M. Devaux. Among other seignorial rights exercised by Madame du Châtelet at Cirey was the control of the post-bag; and on what she might think sufficient occasion she did not scruple to open letters addressed to, others. Suspecting that people in the neighbouring towns had talked about the readings, she opened a letter from M. Devaux to Madame de Grafigny, and read these words: "The canto of 'Jeanne' is charming!" This information, conveyed ​to Voltaire, filled the excitable mind of the poet with apprehensions—he fancied that a copy of the poem had been sent to Devaux, that other copies were probably abroad, that he was compromised, that he would have to fly. Accordingly, when Madame de Grafigny had retired to rest, she was surprised by the abrupt apparition of her host, who cried out that he was lost, that his life was in her hands. "Quick, Madame, write and get it back!" he entreated hurriedly. The poor woman did riot understand him. "Fie, fie!" he exclaimed; "there ought to be good faith where the life of a poor unfortunate like me is concerned." His appeals, in spite of her attempts to explain, grew more urgent, till at last Madame du Châtelet entered in a fury holding out the opened letter, which she called a proof of infamy. The unlucky Madame de Grafigny was quite overcome by these attacks; and Voltaire, perceiving this, and seized with compassion for their helpless guest, restrained and endeavoured to soothe the Marquise. As soon as she could find voice and obtain a hearing, Madame de Grafigny explained the words which had been so misinterpreted. "I must say, in his praise," she states, "that from the first moment Voltaire believed me, and immediately begged me to pardon him." Next day she was ill, and in despair; she had no money wherewith to leave the place: "at last the good Voltaire came at noon; he was vexed to tears by my condition; he repeatedly asked forgiveness, and I had occasion to see the sensibility of his soul." After this he did all he could to make her forget the scene, of which he was much ashamed.
"The Maid," or "ma Jeanne," as Voltaire generally termed it, was, he says, his diversion between the acts of ​more serious occupations. It is a burlesque poem in twenty-two cantos, in which the female champion of France figures in a variety of adventures, which are by no means calculated to exalt her claims to sanctity: Charles VII., Agnes Sorel, the famous knights Dunois and John Chandos, and other renowned personages, also appear in Hudibrastic guise. According to Longchamp, who was Voltaire's valet and copyist throughout his abode at Cirey, and who has left many particulars of his life there, it was at a supper at the Duke of Richelieu's that the idea of the poem was started. The subject of the Maid of Orleans had been treated as a serious epic by a French Academician, Chapelain, who, whatever his abilities in other walks of literature, had only succeeded in rendering his heroine so ridiculous by his stilted and wearisome eulogies and bad verses, as almost to forbid any one else to adventure in the same direction. "I will wager," said the Duke to Voltaire, "that you would have made much better use of the subject, and would have managed to exalt your heroine without making a saint of her." Voltaire, in reply, said that he did not think Boileau himself could have made much of such an unpromising theme, and that he believed that it lent itself much better to burlesque than heroic treatment. The Duke, agreeing in this, urged him to undertake the task; the guests joined in the request, becoming so importunate, that he at last agreed to examine the subject as soon as he could find leisure; and he kept his promise so well, that in a few weeks he had four cantos ready. These, being read to the same party at the Duke's, were so applauded that he resolved to extend and complete the work. In the course of it he introduced so many satiri​eal episodes, and made it the vehicle of so much pleasantry on contemporary events and personages, that he dismissed all idea of publishing it during his lifetime, because of the hostility it would be certain to arouse; and hence the scene with Madame de Grafigny. But as usual, furtive and falsified editions began to appear, till, many years later, he published one himself at Geneva. The work is so little suited to the taste of our time that no specimens can be given; yet it was very generally esteemed as one of his most brilliant performances. "The eighteenth century," says St Beuve, "adored the libertine 'Maid,' and the most correct people could repeat entire cantos. M. de Malesherbes knew his 'Maid' by heart." In cleverness, in its audacious spirit, and in the opposing tides of admiration and reprobation which it set in motion, it is more comparable to "Don Juan" than to any other work.
Much as they appreciated their rural home, Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire did not object to leave it occasionally for a visit to Paris, where the lady plunged into amusements and dissipations with as much ardour as if Newton and geometry were idle words. In the year 1746 they were at Fontainebleau, guests of the Duke of Richelieu, and playing high at the queen's table. A run of luck, or perhaps worse, set in against Madame du Châtelet, who, on the second night, was a loser of between three and four thousand pounds. Voltaire, disturbed at so considerable a loss, whispered to her in English that her absorption in the game prevented her from seeing that she was playing with sharpers. The words were overheard and repeated; and perceiving this, and knowing how serious might be the consequences, ​they slipt quietly away, and at once, in the middle of the night, set out for Paris. On the road a wheel broke—a common occurrence of the time, and one in which the wheels probably were less in fault than the roads. Voltaire sent a peasant to Sceaux with a letter, begging an asylum from his old friend the Duchesse du Maine, now stricken in years. He was welcomed at once, was admitted with all due secrecy by a discreet steward, placed in a very private set of apartments, and waited on by a trusty valet, none else of the household knowing of his presence. At night, after the Duchess had gone to bed, and all the servants had withdrawn, Voltaire used to descend by a secret stair to her chamber (bed-chambers were places of comparatively public resort in those days); the confidential valet laid out his supper-table at the bedside; and the Duchess, who greatly delighted in his conversation, talked over old times with him. After supper he sometimes read to her a tale, composed during the day expressly for her amusement. The "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," introduced into France by Galland many years before, had rendered oriental romance popular. Voltaire had seen how English writers had made it the convenient vehicle of a moral lesson, as in Addison's "Vision of Mirza;" he now extended its use, in those light and sparkling romances, which are the most enduringly popular of his works. "Babouc," "Memnon," "Scarmentado," "Micromegas," and best of all, "Zadig," first saw the light at the delighted old princess's bedside.
While he was thus occupied, the Marquise was endeavouring to pay her play debt, and to soothe the resentment of the illustrious players, by some of whom diligent inquiry had been made for Voltaire, who was believed to ​have taken refuge in Berlin. At length, Madame du Châtelet came to Sceaux, to announce that all fear of ill consequences from his imprudent speech was over. The Duchess kept them both at Sceaux, to join a brilliant company assembled there. It was the custom to hold readings in the drawing-room before dinner. The Duchess wished the company to share the pleasure which she had felt in hearing the little romances. Voltaire, one of the finest of readers, complied; they were found altogether delightful, and he was made to promise that they should be printed; and, accordingly, "Zadig" appeared soon afterwards.