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68 arrives l’abbé de Latteignant, the ex-chansonnier, “un vieux pécheur, converti de la veille,” and who comes, reciting prayers, and repeating his confiteor aloud, “pour convertir M. de Voltaire.” Such a hubbub does the newly-converted saint make, that ere he enters the room, M. de Villette, Tronchin the physician, Lorry, the second physician, Madame Denis, rush to the rescue, and the abbé is hustled out, protesting.—“A ces causes,” writes the chronicler, somewhat obscurely, “the invalid passes a tolerable night; he eats an egg, he drinks un doigt de bon vin: il est tout réconforté d’avoir bien dormi.” And thereupon he dictates to Wagniėre, his secretary, the following declaration as to his religious faith:—

“I declare, that being attacked for four days with a spitting of blood, at the age of 84, and being unable to drag myself (me trainer) to church, M. le Curé de St. Sulpice has kindly added to his good offices by sending me M. l’Abbé Gautier; I have confessed to him (a falsehood) and if God disposes of me, I die in the holy Catholic religion in which I was born, hoping of the divine mercy that it will deign to pardon all my faults, and if I have scandalised the church, I ask pardon of God and of her.

(Signed) Voltaire, 2nd March, 1778, in the house of M. le Marquis de Villette, in presence of the abbé Mignot, my nephew, and M. le Marquis de Villevieille, my friend.”

This little matter happily disposed of, he instantly proceeded to far more important concerns, and demanded Irène, “à grands cris.” He began the arrangement for the distribution of the tickets, of which he desired to have a hundred and fifty, and received the chevalier or chevaliėre d’Eon.

The 24th of March was the day fixed for the first representation of Irėne.

Voltaire did all that man could do to collect strength, to be present on the occasion: but in vain; already the approaching Death was beginning to master him,—had his clutch on that Heart which saw yet stranger vicissitudes dead than living. But, obliged, as he found himself, to give up this triumph, he kept messengers hourly on the wing between the theatre and his sick chamber. He insisted upon knowing what portions, what tirades, what lines, had produced the most effect, and as it was told him that the passages against the clergy had been highly applauded, “he was enchanted,” writes his admiring biographer, “to know that they compensated for the unfortunate effect his confession had produced on the public!”

The piece was not successful, which in no way hindered M. Dupuy, the husband of Mademoiselle Corneille, from coming hot-foot at the end of the fifth act, to announce the most brilliant success, adding that the Queen had written several of the lines on her tablets. And the dying old man exclaimed, “Allons! I must think of my Agathocles!”

Two days later, buoyed up with excitement and gratified vanity, he went out in his “char de l’Empyrée,” a sky-blue coach, studded with stars, dressed in the grande toilette of the preceding reign; a red velvet coat, lined with ermine; an immense curled wig, black and unpowdered, surmounted by a square, crown-shaped red cap; in his hand a dainty cane. In this wig his emaciated face was so buried that little could be seen but his eyes “qui jetoient des flammes.” “Bref, il était tout joyeux, tout charmant, même égrillard.”

The poor little moribund old man, with his sprightliness! What a picture!

Then came the last earthly triumph, the scene that was so immediately to precede the dark disgraces which were to be heaped on that poor worn-out body, denied Christian burial, laid by stealth in a stolen tomb.

On the 30th of March, or, as some say, the 1st of April (mark the ironical significance of the date), he proceeded in his starry chariot, by invitation, to the Academy, where were assembled all the members, moins the clerical ones, with the exceptions of the Abbés Millot and Boismont. The Academy in a body advanced before this its oldest member. It placed him in the seat of the director, after having by universal acclamation named him director for the April quarter.

From the Academy Voltaire proceeded to the Théâtre Français. “It was then that his triumph really commenced. An enormous crowd, cries, hurrahs, tears, extended hands. He was carried into the theatre, and there was an inconceivable spectacle of all that Paris possessed of renown and splendour: the bust of Voltaire was raised on a pedestal, to the sound of fanfares, trumpets, and drums, and this bust was embraced by all the comédie with infinite transports. The entertainment consisted of Irène and Nanine (also a piece of Voltaire’s), but not one listened to the poetry; every one was greedy only to see the great old man.”

Then came the final triumph. As soon as the hero of the evening appeared in the box of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, opposite to that of the Comte d’Artois, a cry arose of “La Couronne!” and Brizard, the actor, came and placed it on the grande perruque à la Louis XIV.

“Ah, Dieu! vous voulez donc me faire mourir!” cried the old man with tears; and, taking off the wreath, he presented it (why, it is hard to say), to Belle-et-bonne. She in her turn resisting, the Prince de Beauvais once more placed it on the head (or wig) for which it was intended.

On leaving the theatre, it was with the greatest difficulty that he could be got through the crowd: even the Duc de Chartres (afterwards Egalité) and the Comte d’Artois, though they kept somewhat aloof, contrived to witness the exit, and the people were near taking the horses from the carriage, and drawing it home themselves.

“Vous voulez donc me faire mourir!” Full of prophecy was the expression.

The violent strain and excitement proved more than the object of such homage could, with his aged and enfeebled frame, endure.

For two months more he lingered, tottering on the borders of the grave, and on the 30th or 31st of May, expired tranquilly.

So much for Voltaire’s last days of life. Let us now turn to his first days of death. There is no occasion to moralise, or to repeat sage reflections on the subject.