The rigour of the rule did not forbid theatrical performances, when any company, even a company of marionettes, came into the neighbourhood of the desolate Champagne château. Sometimes after supper Voltaire would exhibit a magic lantern, with explanatory comments after the showman’s manner, in which he would convulse his friends at the expense of his enemies.[86] But after the evening’s amusement was over, the Marquise would retire to work in her chamber until the morning, and, when morning came, a couple of hours’ sleep was the only division between the tasks of the night and the tasks of the day. Two splenetic women have left us a couple of spiteful pictures of Madame du Châtelet, but neither of her detractors could rise to any higher conception of intellectual effort than the fine turn of phrase, the ingenious image, the keen thrust of cruel satire, with which the polished idle of that day whiled away dreary and worthless years. The translator of Newton’s Principia was not of this company, and she was wholly indifferent to the raillery, sarcasm, and hate of women whom she justly held her inferiors. It is much the fashion to admire the women of this time, because they contrive to hide behind a veil of witty words the coldness and hollowness of lives which had neither the sweetness of the old industrious domesticity of women, nor the noble largeness of some of those in whom the Revolution kindled a pure fire of patriotism in after days. Madame du Châtelet, with all her faults, was a far loftier character than the malicious gossips who laughed at her. ‘Everything that occupies society was within her power, _except slander_. She was never heard to hold up anybody to laughter. When she was informed that certain people were bent on not doing her justice, she would reply that she wished to ignore it.’ This was surely better than a talent for barbing epigrams, and she led a worthier life at Cirey than in that Paris which Voltaire described so bitterly. Là, tous les soirs, la troupe vagabonde, D’un peuple oisif, appelé le beau monde, Va promener de réduit en réduit L’inquiétude et l’ennui qui la suit. Là sont en foule antiques mijaurées, Jeunes oisons et bégueules titrées, Disant des riens d’un ton de perroquet, Lorgnant des sots, et trichant au piquet. Blondins y sont, beaucoup plus femmes qu’elles, Profondément remplis de bagatelles, D’un air hautain, d’une bruyante voix, Chantant, dansant, minaudant à la fois. Si par hasard quelque personne honnête, D’un sens plus droit et d’un goût plus heureux, Des bons écrits ayant meublé sa tête, Leur fait l’affront de penser à leurs yeux; Tout aussitôt leur brillante cohue, D’etonnement et de colère émue, Bruyant essaim de frélons envieux, Pique et poursuit cette abeille charmante[87].