The ladies and gentlemen all showed great joy and complaisance. They
knew that Count Saxe was not the man to do things by halves, and that
at Chambord the gay days of Francis the First and the _escadrons
volants_ would be gloriously renewed. I watched Monsieur Voltaire, as
with his wonderful and unforgettable eyes he gazed upon Count Saxe and
probably reflected on the difference of the reward given a successful
general and a great wit--for I am not denying that Monsieur Voltaire
possessed a very considerable share of wit. He was among the last to
congratulate my master, but he did it finally, winding up a fine
compliment with this:

"And now, Monsieur, I presume you will be elected to the seat in the
Academy. You shall have my vote. You can always spell victory--and
what matters the rest?"

This was the meanest allusion possible to my master's never having
time or inclination to devote to such common things as spelling. But
Count Saxe came back at him thus:

"Oh, no, Monsieur Voltaire. I am not a candidate for a seat in the
Academy. I am pledged to support a friend of mine for the vacancy."

All the people pricked up their ears and Monsieur Voltaire was the
most eager of them all.

"My candidate," said Count Saxe very impressively, "is Captain
Babache"--here he whacked me on the shoulder--"a prince of the royal
blood of Tatary, who can spell like any clerk, and write a better hand
than any academician, living or dead, ever did."

Monsieur Voltaire was a picture. The people present shouted with
laughter--Monsieur Voltaire never was very popular at court--and my
master grinned, and I felt myself grow weak in the knees with all
those laughing eyes fixed on me. It was said afterward, that some of
the Academicians were sore over this joke of Count Saxe's. I had my
turn at Monsieur Voltaire shortly after, for having occasion to write
him a note in my master's name, I directed it in full to "Monsieur
Francois Marie Voltaire, Member of the French Academy"--which he was
not until some time afterward--"at the house of Madame du Chatelet, on
the Isle of St. Louis, Paris." "Voltaire, Paris," would have taken any
letter straight to him, but I chose to assume that very explicit
directions were necessary to reach him, as if he were quite unknown,
and difficult to find. It made him very angry, so I heard, and that
was what I meant it for.

The whole of that winter and spring, I spent running to and fro
between Paris and Cha