“Let’s get poor Barras out of here. You take one arm and I’ll take the other.”
We pulled out a weedy young man whose head and upper lip were bleeding. He shook us off at the first opportunity, as anxious to leave as if a wild beast were lying 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.”
The Correspondence
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 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 from a number of amorous women letters 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 goodbye. Initially enthused by my own enthusiasm, Voltaire soon grew annoyed that his letters would be blank by the time they reached their destination or would 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 who 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 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 Passenger
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; indifferent to the storm, he took another swig from his bottle and spurred on the horses.
He soon told me to get some sleep so I could take over for him later. A small iron cot hung down inside the carriage above the three coffins. I crawled up into it, settled onto one blanket, and pulled another one over me. I fell asleep for a few minutes, despite the swaying bed and squeaking chains, but a sudden jolt woke me from a dream in which I was supposed to take Voltaire’s body to some faraway place. Seconds later a violent lurch tossed me into the air and onto the third coffin.
The shuttered viewing window snapped open, as if someone had answered my knock. I peered in at the third passenger with the help of intermittent lightning bolts. It was the same curiosity that had led me, as a boy, to stare at the hanged man’s blue tongue, the soles of his feet carved with unrecognizable symbols, and the superstitious old women patiently pulling his nails and teeth. I was imagining an unsightly powdered face when I saw her: she had been beautiful, and that hadn’t changed. Her features spoke of not death but enchantment. I had found a secret door into a fairy tale.
I shouted for Servin to stop and waited for the storm to bring us another flash of
lightning. The coachman didn’t bat an eye.
“Sometimes a dry climate preserves a body intact.”
“You call this rain a dry climate?”
“Maybe they embalmed her the Egyptian way. They say there are funeral parlors in Geneva that cover a body in animal fat and replace the organs with sawdust.”
I wanted him to stay and discuss the enigma, but he went back to the reins, unburdened by the curiosity that leads one to search for answers and find only problems.
We hid the carriage behind a copse of trees and spent the night in an inn, keeping the nature of our cargo from the owner so she would let us stay: gravediggers, Night Mail coachmen, and executioners were generally unwelcome guests. It was still raining outside and there was a leak above my bed. I moved, but the drips followed me, reminding me there was still a mystery to be solved.
I lowered myself out through a window, being careful not to wake Servin. Inside the hearse, I used the lamp I had brought to illuminate the face behind the glass. The closer I brought the light, the darker it was all around. The woman’s lips were pursed, as if she were about to reveal a secret. No Egyptian technique was capable of such perfection.
The next morning Servin found me asleep on top of the coffin and woke me with a cuff on the head.
“I’m going to tell the maréchal. That’s all he needs, for you to fall in love with a passenger. You take the horses as far as Avignon.”
I let the horses take me. They seemed much wiser, their soft side-to-side motion indicating a philosophical acceptance of the world’s contradictions. I began to talk to them and was sure they understood by the way they would sometimes toss their heads, as if agreeing with my arguments.
The storm had ended by the time Servin took the reins again. I didn’t dare tell him I was lost, but one glance at the surrounding forest and the old coachman immediately turned the horses around. He found the road to Avignon, delivered the two bodies from the Alps, and pocketed an enormous tip. He gave me less than a tenth but promised I would earn a little more once we reached Toulouse.
Whenever we passed through a town to replenish our food supplies, residents would close their windows and cross their fingers: the passing of a Night Mail coach was a bad omen. Twice we were refused entrance and forced to go another way. I tried to convince Servin to remove the black crêpe and carved allegorical images that decorated the hearse. Without these, it would look like any other carriage, but he refused.
“Maréchal Dalessius personally decorates each coach, and no changes are allowed. He wants us to be recognized from afar. Alternate routes and delays shouldn’t concern us. As he says: a detour is just another road.”
Toulouse
I had been eager to arrive, but now that the wheels (about to take one last turn before falling off their axles) were shakily tracing the route to Toulouse, I felt that mixture of exhaustion and unease that comes over a traveler whenever he reaches a new city.
We delivered the last coffin to the rue des Aveugles. The house belonged to M. Girard, a toy manufacturer. A long table displayed wooden horses painted blue, puzzles of city maps, porcelain dolls, and armies of tin soldiers that seemed to be returning in defeat: broken, hungry, their flag in tatters.
“Is she your daughter?” I asked.
“The Night Mail is known for not asking questions,” Girard replied.
“That’s true, sir,” Servin said, worried my curiosity might reduce or eliminate the tip altogether. “Please forgive him. Young Dalessius is new to the profession.”
The owner gave us each a few coins, but Servin snatched mine from me.
“You should be glad you rode here for free,” he said under his breath.
He asked the toy manufacturer whether he wanted us to move the coffin to another room in the house.
“Just there is fine,” Girard said, anxious for us to leave. Since we were no longer in danger of losing the tip, I asked about the cause of death.
“She ate a poison apple,” he snapped, pushing us toward the door.
We came out of the house, and Servin said good-bye there and then. A shipment was waiting for him on the outskirts of the city. He offered his hand, and in it was a coin. He told me to take care and, if anyone asked who sent me, to say anything at all, that I was an emissary to the devil or the Huguenots themselves, but under no circumstances was I to tell the truth.
I found lodgings near the market and took a room where I had to pay two nights in advance.
“Are you here for the festivities?” the proprietor asked. His face was scarred by illness and injury, and he was missing three fingers on his right hand.
“No. Is something happening tonight?”
“Celebrations begin in a few days.”
“And what are you celebrating?”
“The day the people of Toulouse had the courage to get rid of four thousand Huguenots. It’s the two hundredth anniversary.”
“They were expelled?”
“Straight to the hereafter. Never, sir, will you see such fireworks-not even in China! I lost three fingers when I was igniting them fifteen years ago, but don’t think I regret it. The moment I was hurt, I thought: Others have to smell gunpowder and are blown to pieces on the battlefield; I get to be a hero right here. I’d do it again, especially now, with the Calas family as the guests of honor. A whole year of boredom, sitting by the fire, greeting visitors as they come and go; a whole year of waiting just to watch the world explode. I can start to feel my lost fingers as the day draws closer.”
That night I looked out the window of my room and saw five men dressed in white robes, hoods pulled up, carrying an image of Christ. Voltaire had warned me: Be careful of the White Penitents. Windows opened as they passed, and wilted flowers showered down on their linen hoods.
The Scene of the Crime
The room I took was cramped and cold. Previous guests had scratched their names into the musty walls. The blanket was so dirty it was much heavier and warmer than if it had been clean. Insects of every kind crawled along the floor. As I waited for sleep to free me from these annoyances, I studied the bugs with my magnifying glass. I even kept a few specimens: I liked to press them between the pages of my books as reminders.
The next morning I bought a fresh loaf of bread. The bakers of Toulouse were paying homage to the Calas boy: it was in the shape of a hanged man, sprinkled with salt and raisins, the little noose decorated with sesame seeds. I finished reading Voltaire’s briefs and set out for the Calas house.
The judges had ordered a twenty-four-hour guard to be posted there. I asked the only soldier on duty if I was allowed to go in, but he said no. I had predicted as much and pulled out a bottle of wine with a loaf of that bread. The guard stepped aside, and I wandered through the now-empty rooms.
All of the inhabitants had been hauled away: the father, the mother, the sister, the brother, the friend who was visiting, even the maid was in prison, and every last piece of furniture had disappeared as well. All that remained was the large, rusty nail that had held Marc-Antoine’s rope. I felt I had crossed all of France just to see that nail.
“Why didn’t anyone take it?” I asked the soldier.
“They say it’s cursed. No one wants to touch it.”
I walked over to test its strength and show him I wasn’t superstitious but changed my mind.
“Were you here when they looted the house?”
“No, but I was told they came down the street singing and carrying torches. As soon as they got here, they stopped and stood in silence: inspiration had vanished and they didn’t know what to do, whether to kneel down or lay waste. Their enthusiasm was renewed the moment they stepped through the door: most of them had never been in a house like this, and they discovered what fun it was to empty drawers and upend furniture. Other people’s lives are such mysteries. At some point, one of the women wanted to burn down the house and set fire to a curtain; the others put it out and nearly set her on fire. They all arrived together but left alone, arrive
d singing but left in silence, arrived with torches but disappeared in darkness.”
I studied every last corner with my magnifying glass as the guard followed me around. There were fewer signs of the Calas family’s whole life than of the looters’ brief stay: tatters of clothing, splinters of wood, chicken bones, and broken bottles.
“There aren’t enough saints in these godless times; that’s why people are willing to pay such a high price for relics. You can buy the hanged man’s teeth on the black market for two francs apiece.”
“I wonder if they’re even real.”
“Oh, the hundreds of teeth, nails, and locks of hair for sale are all real. By the time I came on duty, only the martyr’s books were left. No one wanted them because books aren’t relics. But you seem like you might be interested. Maybe we could come to an arrangement.”
The guard mentioned an exorbitant sum. I gave no reply but concentrated on examining the nail instead. He dropped the price lower and lower until, discouraged and irritated, he knew he had no choice but to listen to my offer.
“I’ll tell you what,” I proposed, as I cleaned the magnifying glass on my shirt. “I don’t have the money to buy the books, but if you let me look at them, I’ll pay you one coin now and another when I’m done.”
He agreed and went to the window to make sure no one was coming.
“I’ve hidden them.”
We went into what had been the maid’s room. The soldier lifted up some floorboards and handed me five dusty books. I surreptitiously looked for even a scrap of paper that might have been left behind, but all I found were notes penciled in the margins beside certain passages. I read the titles of the works: a collection of essays by Seneca, organized by topic; Hamlet by William Shakespeare; a speech by Cicero; The Apology of Socrates by Plato; and a fifth book that, no matter how hard I try, refuses to come to mind. Every paragraph the reader had marked praised death by one’s own hand. It wasn’t depression that led him to commit suicide; he had prepared himself until he was ready for the rope.
Voltaire's Calligrapher Page 2
