Zadig/L'Ingénu

by Voltaire

‘How much I should love you,’ she said to him, with a sigh, ‘if you did not want to be loved so much.’

  At last, after a long resistance, and sobs, and cries, and tears, she was weakened by the struggle, and was so bewildered and exhausted that she had to give in. She had no other resource but a resolution to think only of the Child of Nature, while her tormentor relentlessly took advantage of the state to which he had reduced her.

  CHAPTER 18

  SHE DELIVERS HER LOVER AND A JANSENIST

  AT daybreak she hurried to Paris, armed with the Minister’s order. It is difficult to describe what she felt during the journey. Imagine a noble and virtuous woman, humiliated by her disgrace, yet intoxicated with tenderness, torn with remorse at having betrayed her lover, yet radiant with pleasure at the prospect of rescuing the man she adored. Her bitter experiences, her struggles, her success, all these were mingled in her reflexions. She was no longer the simple girl with her ideas restricted by her provincial upbringing. Love and misfortune had formed her character. Sentiment had developed as rapidly in her as had reason in the mind of her unfortunate lover. It is easier for girls to learn to feel than for men to learn to think. Her adventure had taught her more than four years in a convent.

  She was very simply dressed, for the attire in which she had appeared before her fatal benefactor filled her with horror. She had left the diamond earrings for her friend without giving them another thought. In confusion and enchantment, overwhelmed with love for the Child of Nature and hatred of herself, at last she arrived at the door

  Of that dread fortress, palace of revenge,

  Which oft immures both crime and innocence.

  When she was to alight from the carriage, her strength failed her, and she had to be supported as she entered with a beating heart, with flowing tears, and a brow perturbed. She was taken to the Governor; but when she tried to speak to him, her voice failed, and she could not utter more than a few words as she handed over her document. The Governor was fond of his prisoner, and glad that he should be freed. His heart was not hardened like those of some of his honourable colleagues for there are jailers who think only of the salary they earn by guarding their captives and build up a fortune on their riches; they make a living out of the wretchedness of others, while secretly feeling a horrible delight in their sufferings.

  He had the prisoner brought to his room. On seeing each other, the two lovers fainted; but though it was some time before the lovely St Yves showed signs of life or movement, the other soon came to himself.

  ‘This lady appears to be your wife,’ said the Governor. ‘You never told me you were married. It appears from my instructions that you owe your freedom to her generous efforts.’

  ‘I am indeed unworthy to be his wife,’ said the lovely St Yves, in a trembling voice, and fainted once more.

  When she came to again, she was still trembling as she presented the order of recompense and the written promise of a company command. The Child of Nature was as much astonished as moved by all this; he awoke from one dream only to fall into another.

  ‘Why have I been imprisoned here? How have you managed to get me out? Where are the monsters who thrust me into this pit? You are a divine being come down from Heaven to rescue me!’

  Mademoiselle de St Yves hung her head; then as she glanced at her lover, she blushed, and a moment later, with her eyes full of tears, she looked away again. She told him at last all she knew and all she had suffered, except what she would have liked to hide for ever, and what anyone more worldly than the Child of Nature, anyone more familiar with court customs, would easily have guessed.

  ‘Is it possible that a wretch like that Magistrate can have had the power to deprive me of my liberty? I can see now that it is the same with men as with the lowest animals; they are all capable of doing harm. But is it possible that a monk, a Jesuit who is the King’s confessor, can have had as much to do with my misfortune as the Magistrate, without my having the least idea why this detestable rogue should persecute me? Did he make me out a Jansenist? And now, tell me, how did you come to remember me? I didn’t deserve it; I was nothing but a savage in those days. And you undertook the journey to Versailles by yourself, without advice, without any help? You appeared, and my chains were broken! I see now that beauty and virtue have an invincible charm, which breaks down iron doors and softens hearts of steel!’

  The word virtue provoked a fresh burst of sobbing from the lovely St Yves. She did not know how virtuous she was in the crime she reproached herself for.

  Her lover continued thus : ‘My angel, you have broken my chains. If somehow, I cannot imagine how, you have enough credit to get justice done in my case, can you not do the same for an old man who has been the first to teach me to think, as you have taught me to love? We have been drawn together by our common misfortunes, so that I love him as if he were my father. I cannot live without either of you.’

  ‘What! You want me to go begging again to that man who…?’

  ‘Yes, I want to owe everything to you, and then I hope to owe nothing to anybody but you. Write to this powerful man, add one more to the blessings you have heaped on me, put the finishing touch to the miracles you have performed.’

  She felt obliged to do what her lover asked. She tried to write, but her hand would not obey her. Three times she began the letter, three times she destroyed it. Eventually she managed to write it, and the two lovers left, after embracing the elderly martyr to efficacious grace.

  Mademoiselle de St Yves was both elated and heartbroken as she led the way to the house where she knew her brother was staying. Her lover took an apartment in the same house.

  Soon after their arrival, her protector sent her an order giving the worthy Gordon his freedom, and requested a meeting next day. Thus she came to learn that she had to pay with further dishonour for every honourable and generous action she performed. She was filled with loathing for this system of buying and selling the misfortune and the happiness of men. She gave her lover the order of release, and refused the rendezvous with a benefactor whom she could not see again without dying of grief and shame. The only thing that could make the Child of Nature tear himself away from her was to go and release his friend; he flew there. As he performed his duty, he reflected on what strange happenings occur in this world, and admired the courage and virtue of a young girl to whom two unfortunates owed more than their lives.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE CHILD OF NATURE, THE LOVELY ST YVES, AND THEIR RELATIVES ARE REUNITED

  THE noble and admirable rebel was once more with her brother the Abbé de St Yves, the worthy Prior of the Mountain, and Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. Astonishment prevailed with all of them, but took different forms according to their situations and their feelings. The Abbé de St Yves wept at his sister’s feet for the injuries he had done, and she pardoned him. The Prior and his tender sister were also in tears, but theirs were tears of joy. The horrid Magistrate and his unbearable son did not spoil this touching scene. They took to their heels at the first rumour that their enemy was at large, and fled to bury their stupidity and their fears in their own province.

  The four actors left in this interesting scene were waiting with unsettled minds for the young man to come back with the friend he was liberating. The Abbé de St Yves hardly dared raise his eyes in front of his sister. The good Mademoiselle de Kerkabon exclaimed :

  ‘So I shall be seeing my dear nephew again!’

  ‘Yes, you will see him,’ replied the charming St Yves. ‘But he is no longer the same man. His bearing, his voice, his ideas, his mind, all are changed. He is now as worthy of respect as formerly he was raw and ingenuous. He will be the honour and consolation of your family. If only I could be the same in mine!’

  ‘You are no longer the same either,’ said the Prior. ‘What ever has happened to make so great an alteration in you?’

  In the middle of this conversation, the Child of Nature arrived, leading his Jansenist by the hand. The scene then changed to something more
unusual and moving. First came the tender embraces of the uncle and aunt. The Abbé de St Yves almost went down on his knees to the Child of Nature, who was so no longer. The two lovers exchanged glances which expressed all that they so keenly felt. The face of the one was seen to be beaming with satisfaction and gratitude; but in the other’s melting, half-averted eyes there was a note of embarrassment. All were astonished that she should show even a trace of grief in so much joy.

  Old Gordon endeared himself to all of them in the first few moments. He had shared the young prisoner’s misfortunes, and that was a great claim on their affections. He owed his deliverance to the two lovers, and that alone reconciled him to love. The harshness of his former ideas had vanished from his heart, and he too had become a man, like the Huron. Each of them related his adventures before supper. The two Abbés and the aunt listened like children enthralled by a ghost story, and like grown persons, who are all interested in tales of disaster.

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Gordon, ‘there may easily be more than five hundred innocent people still bound by the same chains which Mademoiselle de St Yves has broken. Their miseries are unknown. Hands can be raised in plenty against the multitude of unhappy people, but there’s seldom one to help them.’

  This was only too true, and the reflexion increased his tenderness and his gratitude. Everything added to the glory of the lovely St Yves. All were amazed at the greatness of her spirit and the strength of her soul. Their admiration was mixed with the respect one cannot help feeling for someone who is believed to possess credit at court; but the Abbé de St Yves sometimes wondered how his sister had managed to obtain this credit so soon.

  They were about to sit down to table at a very early hour, when who should appear but the good friend from Versailles, knowing nothing of what had been taking place. She arrived in a coach with six horses, and it is easy to guess whom the equipage belonged to.

  She entered with the air of one who is an important person at court with urgent business to transact. After casually greeting the company, she drew the lovely St Yves aside.

  ‘Why do you keep people waiting so long?’ she asked. ‘Follow me. Here are those diamonds you forgot.’

  She could not say these words softly enough to prevent the Child of Nature hearing; he saw the diamonds. Her brother was amazed; the uncle and aunt showed only the astonishment of good honest people who had never seen such magnificence. The young man, whose mind had been improved by a year’s reflexions, could not help making some in spite of himself, and for a moment showed his consternation. His lover noticed it, and a deathly pallor spread over her lovely face; a shudder seized her, and she could hardly keep on her feet.

  ‘Oh, madam,’ she cried to the evil genius. ‘You have ruined me! You have given me my death!’

  These words pierced the Child of Nature to the heart, but he had by now learnt to control himself. He did not refer to them, for fear of upsetting his mistress in front of her brother, but he went as pale as she.

  Mademoiselle de St Yves, frantic at the sight of this change in her lover’s face, dragged the woman out of the room into a little passage, where she threw the diamonds at her feet.

  ‘You knew well enough that I was not seduced by these; but the man who gave them will never see me again.’

  As the friend picked them up, Mademoiselle de St Yves added:

  ‘He can have them back, or give them to you. Leave me, I beg you, don’t make me feel so utterly ashamed of myself.’

  So the emissary departed, without in the least understanding the agonies of remorse to which she had been a witness.

  The lovely St Yves, in great distress, a prey to such physical turmoil that she had difficulty in breathing, was forced to take to her bed. But so as not to cause any alarm, she said nothing about her sufferings, and making weariness her excuse, she simply asked to be allowed to rest. Before she retired, she managed to reassure the company by all sorts of comforting and pleasing words, and her lover’s feelings were inflamed by her glances.

  Her absence from the supper table cast a shadow over it at first; but it was one of those shadows which give rise to fascinating and fruitful conversations superior to that frivolous gaiety people cultivate, which is usually no more than a tiresome noise.

  Gordon gave a short account of the Jansenist and Molinist movements, and told how one party had persecuted the other, and how stubborn they both were in sticking to their opinions. The Child of Nature commented, and pitied those who are not content with all the discord already aroused by their interests, but find new ways of doing themselves harm for the sake of interests that are purely visionary, and absurdities that are utterly incomprehensible. While Gordon unfolded his story, his young friend made comments, and the rest of the party listened enlightened and entranced. They spoke of the extent of our misfortunes and the brevity of life. They observed that each profession has its own vice and its own danger attached to it, and that everyone, from prince to beggar, seems to cry out against nature. How is it that so many men turn persecutors, or parasites, or executioners of other men, and for such small reward? A man in power will give the order for the destruction of a family with utter indifference to all humane considerations; his mercenaries will carry it out with even more barbarous delight.

  ‘In my youth,’ said the worthy Gordon, ‘I knew a relative of Marshal de Marillac, who was pursued through the length and breadth of his province just because of that famous but unfortunate man, and who finally hid in Paris under an assumed name. He was an old man of seventy-two, and his wife, who accompanied him, was about the same age. They had a dissolute son who at the age of fourteen had fled from his father’s home to be a soldier; he had deserted, and abandoned himself to all manner of debauchery and wretchedness. Finally he assumed a different name and entered Cardinal Richelieu’s service as one of his guards (for that priest had his armed guards, like Mazarin), where he acquired an officer’s baton in that band of parasites. This adventurer was ordered to arrest the old man and his wife, and he did his duty with all the severity of one whose only desire was to please his master. As he led them away, he heard the two victims lamenting the long succession of hardships which had dogged them from the cradle. Among their greatest misfortunes they counted the profligacy and ruin of their son. He recognized them, but he took them to prison all the same, assuring them that His Eminence came before everyone else. His Eminence rewarded his zeal.

  ‘I have seen one of Father de La Chaise’s spies betray his own brother in the hope of getting a little benefice which he never received, and I saw him die, not of remorse, but of grief at having been cheated by the Jesuit.

  ‘The role of confessor which I practised for so long has given me some knowledge of what goes on in families, and I have seen very few which were not plunged in bitterness while to outward appearance they wore a mask of happiness and seemed to be basking in joy. And I have always noticed that great afflictions are the result of our unbridled greed.’

  ‘For my part,’ rejoined the Child of Nature, ‘I believe that an honest man with true and generous feelings can lead a happy life, and I expect to enjoy unalloyed bliss with my noble and lovely St Yves. For I flatter myself,’ he added, addressing her brother with a friendly smile, ‘that you will not refuse me as you did last year, and that I shall go to work in a more decent manner.’ The Abbé was lavish with apologies for the past and with protestations of undying affection.

  Uncle Kerkabon declared that this was the happiest day of his life. The kind aunt was in ecstasy, and cried out through her tears:

  ‘Didn’t I tell you you would never be a sub-deacon? This acrament is worth much more than the other. Would to God I had been honoured with it. But now I will be a mother to you.’ Then they competed with each other in praising the gentle Mademoiselle de St Yves.

  Her lover’s heart was too full of the services she had rendered him, he loved her too much, to be deeply impressed by the incident of the diamonds. But he had only too clearly caught the words ‘Y
ou have given me my death’, and was secretly alarmed at them; his joy was spoilt even while their praise of his darling mistress still further increased his love. After a time they could speak of nothing else, and settled down to discuss the good fortune which these two lovers deserved. It was decided that they would all live together in Paris; and they made plans for their future grandeur and affluence, surrendering themselves to all those hopes that the least glimmer of happiness so easily arouses. But at the bottom of his heart the Child of Nature understood all too well the falsity of this illusion. He reread the promissory notes signed ‘St Pouange’, and the letters of appointment signed ‘Louvois’; he heard these two men spoken of for what they were, and for what they were thought to be. Everyone discussed Ministers and the Ministry with that freedom of speech at meal times which in France is considered to be the most precious form of liberty to be tasted on earth.

  ‘If I were King of France,’ said the Child of Nature, ‘this is what I should look for in a Minister for War. I would have a man of the highest birth, so that he could give orders to the nobility. I would insist on his having been himself an officer and having served in all the ranks, on his being at least a Lieutenant-General and worthy of being a Marshal of France. Surely he needs to have himself served in order to understand the details of the service? And would not the officers be far more ready to obey a man experienced in fighting, one who had shown his courage in the field as they had than a man from an office-stool who can only guess how a campaign should be conducted, however much intelligence he may have?

  ‘I should not mind if my Minister were generous, although this might cause some embarrassment to the First Lord of the Treasury. I should like him to take his work easily, and even to be distinguished by the gaiety of spirit belonging to a man who can rise above events, which is what endears a man to the nation and makes all duties less painful.’ He formed this notion of a Minister because he had always noticed that good humour is incompatible with cruelty. Monseigneur de Louvois would not perhaps have been satisfied with the Huron’s notions, his merit was of a different kind.