head and upper lip were bleeding. He shook us off at the first opportunity, as anxious to leave as if a wild beast were laying in wait for him. He limped down the hallway, shouting:
‘I’m going back to the kitchen! To the archives, never again!’
‘I think we need a new file clerk,’ the tall man said to Voltaire.
‘Here he is. Wagnière, let me introduce you to Dalessius. Dalessius, straighten up this mess. In addition to writing letters, from now on you’ll be in charge of the archives.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous for an apprentice?’ Wagnière asked. ‘Barras nearly died and last month, that student from Alsace…’
‘If M. Dalessius tries, he’ll learn. If not, he’ll be sent home… in the same carriage that brought him here.’
Voltaire had many enemies, so opening his mail was a dangerous task. There could be poisonous needles concealed between the pages, vials that emitted toxic fumes, venomous spiders.
The packages he received were often hollow books that contained hibernating snakes or sensitive incendiary devices. In a special room, away from the rest so as to limit the number of victims, I would check every envelope and parcel with a paralyzed heart. To assist in the task, Voltaire had bought a series of instruments in Geneva designed to detect tricks and explosives: rock-crystal magnifying glasses, a fine telescope that could be inserted through packaging, a lamp with a blue flame that allowed you to see through paper.
I not only opened the correspondence, but I also replied to it, in Voltaire’s name.
‘Look in my books and add some old witticism to your seminarian’s prose,’ he ordered.
I was young, and that work - which I would later miss dearly - filled me with impatience. The routine, even the danger, bored me: I began to open the mail without looking and reply without thinking. To my surprise, Voltaire received letters from a number of amorous women, written in their own blood. If they could only have seen the living corpse that was the object of such futile passion, they’d have scraped it all up to put back in their veins. Out of sheer tedium, I began to answer my employer’s correspondence using all of the implements at my disposal. There was nothing I wouldn’t use: albatross quills hardened in the iodine from sea foam; Chinese monkey hair brushes; inks that shone in the dark; others that disappeared as you read the words, creating the illusion of good-bye. Initially enthused by my own enthusiasm, Voltaire soon grew annoyed that his letters would be blank by the time they reached their destination, or contain jumbled words, or a signature that glowed like a ghost in the night.
To limit my experiments, Wagnière reminded me I still had to organize the archives. There were so many bundles of letters that if you took all the yellow and red ribbons that held them together, you could tie a bow around the world. Correspondence from royalty, like Catherine the Great or the King of Prussia, was to be kept in an iron chest, under lock and key. Insulting letters were burned, like the ones from the Bishop of Annecy, who every fortnight would accuse Voltaire of unconfessed sins. The ridiculous ones were burned as well, like those from a society of alchemists in Geneva that swore they possessed Paracelsus himself. We keep him hidden in the cellar, in a house on the lakeshore. He awakes every three months, mumbles something that sounds like Voltaire, and returns to his centuries-long sleep.
I had never had any trouble with the little iron stove until one day (I was distracted, reading some licentious notes from Mme. F.) a spark set fire to a pile of correspondence from the marquis d’Argenson, a dear friend of Voltaire’s. I always carried a bag of sand for making quills and sometimes to use as a blotting agent, and threw it on the fire before it burned the archives to the ground.
I couldn’t sleep that night, knowing Voltaire would be deciding my fate: expulsion or servitude.
I went to his study at dawn. Through the window, a stand of dark trees mirrored my sadness, the wind bending them into question marks. Voltaire was examining a parasite he had found on one of his plants.
‘We must get rid of everything that consumes us, everything that lives at the expense of others,’ Voltaire said by way of greeting. ‘I want you to pack your bags.’
‘Can’t you give me some other job, instead of sending me away? Don’t you need a gardener?’
‘What do you know about plants? Whenever you go into the garden, the roses impale themselves on their own thorns and the tulips commit mass suicide.’
‘What about the kitchen?’
‘They would cook you, and I’m not sure I’d like that dish.’
I liked life at Ferney. I didn’t want to go back to climbing stairs at the courts, knocking on magistrates’ doors, waiting in paper-filled offices where the air was always stale. All the strength drained out of me as I thought about leaving, and while Voltaire stood tall in front of me, I grew old and stooped.
‘I’ll go pack now and never return,’ I said, feigning dignity and hoping for compassion.
‘What did you think I meant? I’m not firing you. I need you to get ready to leave, but to go to Toulouse.’
‘Why Toulouse?’
‘A traveler arrived last night and told me of a distressing case. He said the court of Languedoc is preparing to execute a Protestant named Jean Calas, and perhaps all of his family as well.’
‘What is he accused of?’
‘Of killing his son.’
‘Then I hope the sentence is carried out.’
‘And I hope you’ll find out why they’re determined to kill this man at all costs. I’ve prepared some briefs; you can read them on the way.’
‘But I’m a calligrapher. I care about the clarity of line, not the truth behind words. That’s for others to do; philosophers, for example.’
‘I’m too old to go. Besides, my reputation there guarantees it’s a shortcut to death. I’m in no hurry to die, much less in Toulouse. You, on the other hand, won’t be in any danger, as long as you never mention my name. I’ve already asked your uncle to send a coach for you.’
‘I thought I’d stay here, to write for you and for history, not travel with the dead.’
‘If your path is one of history, then it’s only natural to be accompanied by the dead.’
The old coachman, Servin, came from the Swiss side of the border this time. He was transporting a couple from Avignon who had been killed in an avalanche. The tragedy had occurred ten years earlier, but the bodies had only recently been found. They were accompanied by a third coffin, but I didn’t bother to ask about it.
Three hours into our trip it began to rain. Ahead were only shadows and darkened trees. I shouted to see whether Servin wanted me to take a turn, but he didn’t reply; he took another swig from his bottle and spurred on the horses, indifferent
