“And go somewhere else and start again,” one of the men said, to the murmured approval of his friends.
“But you are a government minister, Abbé!” the man called Leclerc replied. “As tax collector for Limoges, surely you aren’t arguing that there is no role for the government in trade. We live in modern times! Everyone—the parlement and the king—agrees that progressive regulations can move our economy beyond the—shall I say it?—medieval exchanges of peasants on market day—”
“Everyone agrees?” Abbé Turgot arched his thick eyebrows.
“All but a few lunatics!” someone else broke in. “We need to do whatever it takes to rebuild our treasury, if we are to avoid another military defeat at the hands of the English. Mon Dieu, we just handed them North America!”
“My dear Monsieur Leclerc,” Turgot went on. “There is nothing more important to the financial health of France than market day, and without financial health there is no such thing as military victory. And if we are going to talk about reason, let’s include the first principle of it, which is to hold sacred the liberties that are the right of all men. The government should always protect the freedom of the buyer to buy, and the seller to sell, and the minute it imposes restrictions and special privileges, it stops doing that.”
“How so?” Lili asked.
Monsieur Turgot turned in surprise at hearing a young woman’s voice. “Mademoiselle du Châtelet,” he said with a slight bow, “I am charmed to be the recipient of what I believe are your first words at Madame’s salon.”
The man standing next to him guffawed. “Oh, come now, Turgot—a lovely young woman is taking you seriously! You’re more than charmed—you’re amazed!”
Turgot joined the laughter for a moment before moving out of their circle. Standing in front of Lili, he addressed her alone, bending slightly at the waist to accommodate her smaller stature. “The price of goods should work out between any two people so that the buyer pays no more than is necessary for the seller to make a reasonable profit,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course,” Lili said, resisting the urge to take a step back. “Although minds might differ on what is reasonable.”
The men roared. “Be careful what you say, Turgot,” Leclerc said. “You’re not used to having an audience actually listen to you!”
Turgot ignored him. “A point well taken,” he said to Lili before turning to include the group. “But it can never be as simple as that when governments get involved. Am I correct about that, gentlemen?” When they had nodded agreement he turned back to Lili. “Suppose the king wants to make the price of grain the same everywhere, and he decrees that it remain the same next year as last. That sounds like a good thing for a king to do, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Lili said, “because it would mean everyone gets enough bread.”
“Precisely. But to do so would require inspectors, and reports, and possibly even the need to move grain from one place to another to ensure such a system was workable. And that would involve money. If the king promised not to raise the price of grain, the money to make such a program work would have to come from somewhere else—a higher tax on wine perhaps, or salt. Or another charge added on top of the official price of grain—an inspection fee, say, or a transportation tax. So in the end, the person buying the grain is buying it for the merchant’s fair profit plus a little more, or else the merchant finds his profit eaten up by his costs. Or perhaps the buyer can’t afford the price and has to substitute something cheaper—rye for wheat, perhaps. Poorer products, higher prices. It’s hardly a benevolent act in the end, when the results come to that.”
Seeing Lili’s troubled expression, he stopped. “Do you understand?”
Lili’s mind was whirling. “I’ve never tried to see the whole of France at one time,” she said, “but I think I see your point.”
“Well, then explain it to me!” another man said, but Lili didn’t hear.
“Still,” she said, “I’ve seen times right here in Paris where it wasn’t a matter of reasonable profit, but whether a person would be paid at all for his work. And I understand the population flottante grows every year just because peasants can’t avoid going into debt to feed their families. It seems only fair that the government would concern itself with those things, if it cares so much about the natural liberties of man. How can a man feel free if he has no way of knowing if his labor will be rewarded or his family will be fed?”
“Vive Mademoiselle la Philosophe!” Leclerc said.
Denis Diderot cleared his throat. “You, my friends, may some day say you were here when this young woman made her first mark on the world.”
Lili scarcely heard him. “No—I mean it,” she said, her voice piercing the levity in the room. “I want to know what you have to say about those who need the protection of the law and don’t have it.”
“Mademoiselle,” Turgot said, with a noticeable tightness in his voice. “Should the government pay the cleaning bills for every hem that is dirtied in a city street? To demand regulations against every fraud or cheat who takes advantage of another person is to assume a perfectible society—and I, for one, will leave that to dreamers like Rousseau, who have nothing practical to offer.”
Lili took in a breath. Nothing practical? Before she could reply, she felt an arm around her shoulder. “I think that’s enough,” Maman whispered.
I want to be heard. Lili felt like crying. But Maman was right. She had to know a great deal more about the world before she could win a challenge with someone like Abbé Turgot. A vision of Baronne Lomont at her breakfast flashed into Lili’s mind. If I can learn to whack the top off an egg, Lili told herself, I can learn how to argue in Maman’s salon. Her day would come, but now it was time to retreat. “You are right, monsieur,” she said, with a demure smile. “It is most important to be practical, and I know little about that, being still so young.”
Turgot’s eyes softened and he cocked his head in amusement. “Well, it appears I am not going to suffer defeat today after all. But much as I fear my demise may be imminent, I await our next encounter with the most delightful trepidation.”
Another intense but nice man, Lili thought, just like Rousseau and Diderot, with ideas bigger than she could comprehend. She gave him a smile Delphine would have been proud of. “I shall practice all week for it,” she said, feeling Maman’s hand give hers an approving squeeze.
Château de Montjeu, Bourgogne, 15 June 1734
To Monsieur Pierre-Louis Moreau de Maupertuis
Paris
My Dear Friend,
Words cannot express my dismay at your last letter, which I received this morning by post. Monsieur Voltaire and I are still guests of the Duc de Richelieu a full month after we came to his wedding, since he knows full well the need at present to keep Voltaire safely in hiding. Things have gone steadily from bad to worse, if worse is indeed still possible. The lettre dde cachhet for Voltaire’s arrest created quite a stir here, and though Richelieu did not produce his guest for the authorities—thank heavens for the continuing devotion of former lovers, among whom I most fondly include you as well!—the letter is still in effect, and my dear Voltaire is afraid even to walk the grounds lest some enthusiastic local policeman carry him off.
That such a reaction should come from a mere book! Philosophical Letterscontains nothing that any thinking man should fear, except perhaps the truth that in some ways the English means of government is superior to our own, and that their manners are often more civilized, especially in matters of social class. Are we French so brittle that we crumble at any criticism? And could it not be soundly argued ipso facto that those who cannot take criticism with a mind to self-improvement are indeed of a lesser breed than those who can?
But I digress, and important matters remain. I shudder to think it is true what you have said is true, that Parlement—without the mind of a milk cow in the way they bow to the king!—made a public ceremony of burning the book and the police have now confis
cated all copies they can find. “Scandalous to religion, morality, and the respect deserved by the authorities” indeed! The scandal is they, not Voltaire’s book!
My treasured friend, my misery is great, since I can now no longer deny to myself how deeply I love him. I am mortified at the ridicule with which my pleas to my usual allies at court have been met. I ask only that they convey to the king that Voltaire did not authorize the book to be smuggled into France, but I am met with the cold reply that having written an evil book in England while exiled there for writing another evil book in France hardly warranted any protestation of innocence when said evil book found its way here, whether by his leave or not. My dear Maupertuis, I know there is nothing you can do, but rest assured I do not intend to see someone of such brilliance languish in prison, especially since his health is already a cause of concern, having never been strong even in his youth.
My husband has told me he intends to ask for official authorization to sequester Voltaire at his ancestral home in Cirey. It is a dull place, and house arrest there will be a dreary thing for such a sociable man. Still, Voltaire is pleased, since the house is but a two-hour ride from the border of Lorraine, which is still, thank heaven, independent enough from the reach of the king to offer safe haven should he need to escape quickly. On his end, Voltaire has agreed to use his own money to renovate the château while he is in residence. An excellent bargain according to my husband, since the place is in a terrible state of disrepair.
I have faith in the marquis as the most respectable and esteemed man I know. He continues to offer no protest at Voltaire’s intimate involvement in my life. Perhaps it gives him a feeling of being in some way equal to the acknowledged genius of the age that he is willing to share something of such value as a wife. We do not speak of such things out of mutual respect for each other but it is clear his acceptance is more than grudging, since when he is home from his regiment at the front, he invites Voltaire to accompany us everywhere.
It is time to dress for dinner, and I must break off this letter. Please write again soon, hopefully with at least a morsel of better news.
Your adoring and ever-affectionate,
Emilie, Marquise du Châtelet-Lomont
1765
“DELPHINE, PLEASE choose, so I can get some of these fabrics off at least one chair. If I don’t sit down I’m going to collapse.”
“Please, Maman, just one more?” Delphine clasped her hands as fervently as if she were praying to a statue of the Virgin. “If I could choose five dresses instead of four, it would be so much easier!” The mercier came over to take the swatches of fabric from a chair in the corner of the shop, and Julie sat down with a resigned sigh.
“We’ve been here for two hours and it’s almost dark,” Julie said. “They’re lighting the streetlamps already.”
“Lili, please,” Delphine begged. “Help me just a little more!”
Lili, whose choices had long since been recorded in the mercier’s order book, put down the intricate piece of brocade she had been examining to while away the time. “They’re just dresses!” She shrugged.
“Just dresses?” Delphine’s eyes widened in disbelief. “They’re for Versailles!”
“It’s all equally beautiful, really,” Lili said.
“Well, that’s the problem!” Delphine said, choking back tears. “Look at this—yellow like butter.” She touched one sample. “And this—yellow like daffodils.” She scolded the cloth as if it were responsible for putting her in such a difficult position. “How can I choose?”
Lili shut her eyes and waved her finger back and forth, before stopping and opening her eyes. “That one!” she said.
“Don’t mock me!” Delphine said, wiping her eyes. “This is supposed to be a wonderful time, and you’re spoiling it.”
“It was, for the first hour,” Julie chided, “but I’m about ready to choose for you if you don’t hurry up.”
“Perhaps if Mademoiselle stood by the mirror and we held them up again to her face?” the mercier suggested, but it wasn’t going to help. Delphine’s fair beauty seemed to be equally accented by every color he had laid out for display.
“I know!” said Lili. “We’ll pretend there’s a crowd of invisible people watching—handsome men of course, and fashionable ladies from Versailles.” She folded a swatch of taffeta and covered Delphine’s eyes, tying it in the back. “I’ll spin you around and they’ll choose for you, like magic. Hold out your finger.” She guided Delphine in a tight circle. “Point,” she commanded. Delphine’s finger picked out a lavender-colored silk.
“I love that one,” Delphine whispered. “I think it was always my favorite.”
Julie heaved a sigh of relief as the girls finished off the task in a few minutes. “Time to get home,” she said. “Tomorrow’s the milliner and the shoemaker.”
Lili groaned. “Delphine—pick the hats for me,” she said. “I don’t want another day like this one.”
“Really?” Delphine perked up. “I’ll get to pretend I’m ordering twice as many for me!”
“I can hardly wait,” Julie said as she shooed them both toward the door. “And I’m sorry to keep you so long,” she said to the mercier, shaking her head in Delphine’s direction.
Night had fallen and the lamplight from inside the shops on the Rue Saint-Honoré cast a glow over the wares behind the glass—intricate porcelain snuffboxes and figurines, delicate cakes and pastries, books in embossed leather, and feathery hats. Julie had given orders for the driver to stop at the apothecary for some chocolate to take home, and as they waited for him to come back with the package, Lili watched as a young boy scrambled up to set candles inside the glass enclosures of the lampposts. Another man, perhaps his father, followed behind with a long pole tipped with a small wick.
“The mercier will have to go home in the dark,” Lili said, looking up a cross street. The overhanging roofs would have made it gloomy any time of day, but the street was already impenetrable to the eye long before the light in the sky was completely gone. “He’s a nice man. I hope he doesn’t have far to walk.”
“Moi aussi,” Julie murmured. “I wish they lit the lamps all the time, instead of just at the new moon, and then only a few places. No wonder There’s so much crime. People beaten and robbed in the street … it’s black as ink most nights.” She looked out the carriage window. “The light is quite beautiful, isn’t it? Imagine if the whole city were lit—but I suppose taxes would be frightening if the king decreed something like that.”
“We do pay our bills, don’t we, Maman?” Lili asked.
Julie smiled. “Of course.”
“Does the mercier pay taxes too?”
Julie exhaled, looking out the window. “Far more than we do. The nobility is exempt from most of them, and tries to get out of the rest. I guess he pays for the lights and doesn’t really get the benefit, except in front of his shop.”
Delphine shuddered. “I’m glad we’ll be safe at home soon,” she said, taking Maman’s hand. “Especially with four new dresses to discuss over supper!”
Maman didn’t seem to hear. “There are many things wrong with France,” she said. “The reason I wanted to have a salon was that if I couldn’t do anything about it myself, at least I could draw together intelligent men who might find a way.”
“It doesn’t look as if they have yet,” Lili said. “But I’d rather put up lights than work out a philosophy about them.” She turned to Julie but they were now passing the old cemetery of Les Innocents, beyond the last streetlamp of Rue Saint-Honoré, and the darkness inside the coach made her unable to see Maman’s face. Lili felt the coach pick up speed, as if hurtling through the now dark and narrow streets was preferable to taking a minute longer to arrive safely in the courtyard of Hôtel Bercy.
“Am I wrong, Maman?” Lili went on. “Abbé Turgot seemed to think that helping people could have dire consequences, and I see his point. But still, if the mercier pays taxes, why isn’t his own street lit?”
“He scares me a little,” Lili admitted. “He knows so much more than I do.”
“Then try asking him another way. Why not use Meadowlark? I imagine others will argue for you quite forcefully after a story makes your point.” She leaned across toward Lili, as the light from one of the hôtels along their route shone briefly on them. “Meadowlark is more than what you said—a girl whom strange things happen to. She’s your voice, Lili. Don’t you want it to be heard?”
* * *
“Meadowlark and Tom got off their camels in the African oasis and saw that all the people were wearing rags. ‘I thought this place was supposed to be rich from trade with the Musulmen,’ Tom said, as a woman wearing a tattered veil turned toward them.
“‘You there!’ Meadowlark called out. ‘Why are you dressed that way?’
“‘Because I don’t have anything else to wear,’ the woman said. ‘I used to have a different veil for every day of the week, but I don’t know where the rest of my clothes have gone. The only reason we’re not all naked is we sleep in what we have on. Otherwise, this would probably be gone in the morning too,’ she said, shaking the hem of her gown.
“Just then three philosophers walked by. ‘Why are they dressed better than you are?’ Tom asked.
“‘I don’t know,’ said the woman. ‘Only ordinary people seem to lose everything the minute they get it …’”
The men in the room were shifting their weight as Lili read, and the rustle of fabric caused her eyes to dart around the salon. They don’t like it, she thought, but feeling Maman’s hand on her shoulder gave her the courage to read on. A few minutes later, she came to the end:
“The three philosophers went down an alley to a grand building near the town walls. Invisible, Meadowlark and Tom tiptoed in before the doors closed. They went into a dining room where a grand meal had been laid out on dishes of gold. Through a window, Meadowlark and Tom could see trunks full of clothing, including hundreds of veils, being loaded onto camels, while the caravan driver handed a bag of coins to a servant.
Finding Emilie Page 13
