ring, Paris was for a moment excited even more than
by the declaration of war against England, or than by the expectation of
the queen's confinement, by the return of Voltaire, who had long been in
disgrace with the court, and had been for many years living in a sort of
tacit exile on the borders of the Lake of Geneva. He was now in extreme
old age, and, believing himself to have but a short time to live, he
wished to see Paris once more, putting forward as his principal motive his
desire to superintend the performance of his tragedy of "Irene." His
admirers could easily secure him a brilliant reception at the theatre; but
they were anxious above all things to obtain for him admission to the
court, or at least a private interview with the queen. She felt in a
dilemma. Joseph, a year before, had warned her against giving
encouragement to a man whose principles deserved the reprobation of all
sovereigns. He himself, though on his return to Vienna he had passed
through Geneva, had avoided an interview with him, while the empress had
been far more explicit in her condemnation of his character. On the other
hand, Marie Antoinette had not yet learned the art of refusing, when those
who solicited a favor had personal access to her; and she had also some
curiosity to see a man whose literary fame was accounted one of the chief
glories of the nation and the age. She consulted the king, but found
Louis, on this subject, in entire agreement with her mother and her
brother. He had no literary curiosity, and he disapproved equally the
lessons which Voltaire had throughout his life sought to inculcate upon
others, and the licentious habits with which he had exemplified his own
principles in action. She yielded to his objections, and Voltaire, deeply
mortified at the refusal,[14] was left to console himself as best he could
with the enthusiastic acclamations of the play-goers of the capital, who
crowned his bust on the stage, while he sat exultingly in his box, and
escorted him back in triumph to his house; those who could approach near
enough even kissing his garments as he passed, till he asked them whether
they designed to kill him with delight; as, indeed, in some sense, they
may be said to have done, for the excitement of the homage thus paid to
him day after day, whenever he was seen in public, proved too much for his
feeble frame. He was seized with illness, which, however, was but a
natural decay, and in a few weeks after his arr