Never, perhaps, did a tale so carry its own moral on the face of it.
Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
was, as soon as cold, refused a burial by the Archbishop of Paris. The Academy, addressing themselves to the brotherhood of the Cordeliers, to say a mass for the soul departed, the fraternity, though “peu scrupuleux,” says the account, and ready enough to do as they were requested, replied that they regretted to have to refuse the Academy, but they had already received express orders not to pray for M. de Voltaire.
The Academy then addressed themselves to the Prime Minister, M. de Maurepas. The cynic, whose sneers were mere aperies of the sneers of Voltaire, replied that his conscience opposed itself to the accordance of any funeral honours, adding that there would be no great harm if the people of France should be persuaded that M. de Voltaire had been carried off by the devil. At the same time the Government issued orders that no writers should mention him in their books, newspapers or conversations, and that in no theatre should any piece be represented that could in any way recal him to the minds of the people.
And while these things were going on, the poor corpse was unburied.
At last, to escape public outrage, the Abbé Mignot, nephew of the deceased, and some of his friends, determined to inter the body in secret. In the middle of a dark night (already M. de Villette had had the heart removed, with a promise to preserve it at Ferney), silently, in fear and trembling, they took the uncoffined corpse from the bed where it lay, dressed it in a dressing-gown and night-cap, and placed it in a carriage, propping it up to represent an invalid, who was being taken into the country for change. Then they turned their steps towards Romilly-sur-Seine, where stood the abbey of Scellières, of which the Abbé Mignot was Abbé Commendataire.
Picture that night journey! No longer the old man, “en grande toilette, tout charmant, tout égrillard,” parading in triumph the streets of Paris, in broad daylight, with eyes “qui jetoient des flammes;” but a poor, weary worn-out corpse, covered up in a dressing-gown and night-cap, being stolen along bad country roads in the stillness and darkness of night, to escape insult and outrage; helplessly jerked about by the movement of the vehicle, the mocking smile on those lips replaced by flaccid formlessness, the “flames” of those glittering eyes extinguished for ever and for ever!
Arrived at the abbey, the body was buried with the least possible movement and ceremony, and there, as might be supposed, it would be allowed to rest in its stolen tomb. Not so, however. Next day the Bishop of Troyes wrote to the Prior of Scellières, forbidding the body to be buried in hallowed ground. The Prior replied that it had been buried twenty-four hours previously at the entreaty of M. l’Abbé Mignot, councillor of the grand council, Abbé Commendataire of the house, “who showed us the consent of M. le Curé de St. Sulpice, signed by that pastor—that the body of M. de Voltaire might be transported hither, without ceremony. He showed me, as well, a copy collated by the same Curé of St. Sulpice, of a profession of the Catholic, apostolic, and Roman faith, which M. de Voltaire had made under the hands of an approved priest, in the presence of two witnesses, of whom one is M. Mignot, our abbé, nephew of the penitent, the other a gentleman, the Marquis de Villevieille. Besides these, he showed me a letter of the minister of Paris, M. Amelot, addressed to him and to M. de Dampierre d’Hornoy, nephew of the Abbé Mignot and grand nephew of the defunct, by which those gentlemen were authorised to transport their uncle to Ferney, or elsewhere.”
At Ferney Voltaire’s happiest, and, on the whole, we may say, best days were spent. There, where he lived so long, where he did so much, where he was visited by hundreds of Europe’s celebrities; where everything, imagined or constructed by him, was so intimately and personally associated with him, he ought to have died. Such had been his intention. He had built there, beside the theatre, a chapel, and a tomb for himself half in the church, half in the churchyard.
“Et les malins,” he said, “vous soutiendront quand je serai là, que je ne suis ni chair, ni poisson, ni dedans ni dehors,” thus anticipating M. de Maurepas’ suggestion on the subject.
Voltaire left Ferney, with a very considerable income, a large sum of ready money, and his pictures, plate, furniture, books, &c., to Madame Denis. Hardly had they come into her possession when she sold Ferney to the Marquis de Villette, and wrote to propose the library to the Empress of Russia, who purchased it, writing a most flattering letter addressed to “Madame Denis, la nièce d’un grand homme qui m’aimoit beaucoup.”
Having sold the chateau, the land, the furniture, everything, in short, even to the private letters and papers of her uncle, the lady having probably heard something vaguely about the removal of his heart, but having been too much occupied with the arrangement of her property to occupy herself sooner in the matter, began to make inquiries thereanent. Learning that it was in the hands of M. de Villette, who proposed to take it to Ferney, she got in a rage, and threatened to resort to the most peremptory steps to reclaim the precious relic.
Touching this matter, a number of the “Mercure” of the day gives the following letter, signed by Voltaire’s other relatives:
