Twenty-six years after, one Voltaire, in his “Life of Molière,” wrote
that all who had made a name in the _beaux-arts_ had done so in spite of
their relations. “Nature has always been much stronger with them than
education;” and again, “I saw early that one can neither resist one’s
ruling taste, nor fight one’s destiny.” It was so in this boy’s case at
any rate. Some of the monetary prudence inherited from the old notary,
and which was so greatly to distinguish a later Voltaire from most of
his brothers of the pen, was in embryo within him now. Yet when he got
back to Paris after those few months at Caen he was as gay, wild, and
determined as ever, and M. Arouet, in despair, procured for him the post
of page or _attaché_ to the Marquis de Châteauneuf (brother of the abbé)
and shipped him off with that ambassador to the Netherlands in the
September of 1713.
The Marquis de Châteauneuf and suite reached The Hague on September 28,
1713, but did not formally enter the town until later. “It is amusing,”
one of the suite wrote, “to make an entry into a city where you have
already been living several weeks.”
Page, _attaché_, or diplomat, whichever people called him, _this_ page,
_attaché_, or diplomat was going to enjoy himself. Before they were well
established at The Hague he must needs fall head over ears in love with
a certain Olympe Dunoyer, the daughter of an adventurous mother who
lived by her wits and an audacious society periodical called _The
Quintessence_. Olympe, or, more endearingly, Pimpette, was
one-and-twenty. She knew something of the world already. With such a
mother and the impecunious roving life they had led, that was
inevitable. She was not pretty, her lover said long after. She was what
is a great deal more dangerous--fascinating and impulsive. He gave her
from the first a boy’s honest ardent affection. He wrote her immensely
long, vigorous, passionate epistles. He originated the most beautiful
youthful scheme by which Protestant Pimpette (Madame Dunoyer and her
daughter were Protestant) was to be brought back to the true Church, and
to Paris, where her Catholic father and sister were living. For a couple
of months, the worldly mother not suspecting its existence, the course
of true love ran smoothly. But one fatal night Arouet coming home late
after a blissful interview, encountered his chief. Madame Dunoyer will
certainly disapprove of the addresses of a penniless boy of nineteen!
Having a wholesome fear of that libellous “Quintessence,” the ambassador
felt bound to disapprove too. The _attaché_ must go back to France
to-morrow. The _attaché_, with his irresistible energy and daring, got
forty-eight hours’ grace. His valet, Lefèvre, was his accomplice; a
certain shoemaker was Pimpette’s. A further unavoidable delay in the
time of Arouet’s departure came to the lovers’ assistance. One moonlit
night Arouet disguised himself, signalled beneath his mistress’s window,