there appears no act proving it; that, under such circumstances, what might have been undertaken in this respect would be absolutely illegal; and that what might have been taken from the body of M. de Voltaire without any of the indispensable formalities would not be fitted for any funeral honours. We beg of you, Monsieur, for the interest of public order and truth, to insert this assertion in the next Mercury. We are, &c.
This document, not remarkable for either straightforwardness or style, seems to have put an end to the controversy, and allowed M. de Villette to retain possession of the relic.
The Marquis, whose whole character may be judged—nay, which probably posterity would never have had any other opportunity afforded it of judging—by his conduct with respect to this matter, having purchased Ferney, swore that it should never leave his family, and thereupon called a sale of all the furniture. He vowed to erect a splendid monument to the heart of Voltaire, and “he arranged in a closet a sort of little tomb in glazed earthenware, or rather the remains of a stove, worth about two louis, and stated that in this fine monument he had placed Voltaire’s heart, which is not there now.”
Above this splendid mausoleum he inscribed the following line:—
“Son esprit est partout et son cœur est ici.”
and when he had changed, overturned, sold, and dispersed nearly every trace of the late inmate, M. de Villette let Ferney to an Englishman, persuading him that he had left him the heart of Voltaire in the earthen stove.
Some years later, the Marquis de Villette’s fortune was seriously affected by the bankruptcy of the Prince de Guéméné, and this period of trial was marked by violent revolutions in his mind. At times he would be seized with highly devout fits, during which the heart of Voltaire, in the marble urn which contained it, would be driven from cellar to garret: these moods would change to philosophical ones, whereupon the relic was brought forward once more, and treated with every honour. Finally, the Marquis arranged la chambre du cœur in the following manner:—“This room is ornamented not only with the portraits found in the château, but with those of the various most illustrious personages whom Voltaire celebrated. Benedict XIV., Ganganelli, Quirini, Fénelon, are on one side; the ladies de Sévigné, de Lambert, Tencin, Geoffrin, de Boufflers, du Deffand, de Genlis, opposite these prelates. The other side is the canton of the beaux esprits—Saint-Lambert, Chatellux, Thomas, Tressan, Marmontel, Raynal, de Lille. Below the portrait of the last is written: ‘Nulli flebilior quam tibi, Virgili.’—The friends are the nearest to the heart.”
How long the heart remained there, and when and why and whither it was removed, seems still an unfathomed mystery.
During all this time the body of Voltaire, which was to have been removed to Ferney, remained in its obscure tomb in the convent. But when in 1790 the abbey was sold and the monks dispersed, a question arose concerning it, and a year later four commissioners arrived at Romilly-sur-Seine, charged to transport the remains to the Pantheon. They were conducted to Paris in the most unceremonious manner, and while the conductors stopped to refresh themselves at a disreputable inn, the coffin, left at the door, was opened, and the embalmed body exposed to view.
The face appeared perfectly calm, as if in sleep, but at the contact of the air, it fell in, and nothing distinguishable remained.
What has become of the heart no one seems to know, nor do those who might be supposed to be specially interested appear to care.
At all events, no claim, no mention of any kind is made of the relic in the trial where all else relating to what were the possessions of M. de Villette is narrowly discussed and warmly disputed; and though the question has been several times put forth since the occurrence of the trial, which took place some three months since, I am not aware that any answer has been given.
Innumerable were the epitaphs composed on Voltaire at the period of his death, some rabidly malicious, others raising his name to the seventh heaven, most of them agreeing in the points of affectation and mediocrity.
Here is one attributed to Rousseau, falsely, I believe, not only from the poverty of the verses, but from the small probability that they would have been written during Voltaire’s lifetime, which, in the event of their authenticity, must have been the case, as Jean-Jacques died before him:—
“Plus bel-esprit que grand génie,
Sans loi, sans mœurs et sans vertu;
Il est mort comme il a vécu,
Couvert de gloire et d’infamie.”
“O, Parnasse!” writes another “poet,” who, probably, had studied the style of the sublime Emily’s epitaph:—
“O Parnasse, frémis de douleur et d’effroi!
Muses, abandonnez vos lyres immortelles:
Toi, dont il fatigua les cent voix et les ailes
Dis que Voltaire est mort, pleure, et repose-toi!”
All things considered, we may, I think, reasonably hope that the universe is consoled for the one loss, and that Fame has dried her eyes, and being sufficiently rested from her fatigues, has found employment since the death of the other.
That Voltaire was not occasionally actuated by noble and disinterested motives, we need not for a moment affirm or believe, witness the instances of his conduct in the cases of Calas, Servins, la Barre, &c. He himself wrote, perhaps, not at the moment, insincerely:—
“J’ai fait un peu de bien; c’est mon meilleur ouvrage.”
But that applause, the public voice, the gratification of his vanity, and a narrow and no way elevated fame were the objects he habitually toiled for, and regarded as a sufficient reward, are facts yet more evident.
Witness, among others, the anecdote of the Café de Procope.
When he brought out his Sémiramis, instead of waiting with dignity to study its effects when time might have been given to judge of these, he, on the night of the second representation, borrowed the dress of a doctor of the Sorbonne, consisting of cassock, long cloak, black stockings, girdle, and bands, not forgetting even the breviary. On his
