about it, thus laying up misery for all concerned. Voltaire brooded over the Abbéâs ingratitude and hated him.
Voltaireâs health was a good deal better than when he had been younger. The nervous indigestion which was his chief complaint was cured by happiness and success. He began to understand his own body, an unfailing source of interest to him; he knew that it needed rest, regular exercise, and a careful diet. He had sensible ideas about health, greatly in advance of his time. Most illness, in his view, came from overeating. âGood cooks are poisoners, they ruin whole families with ragoûts and hors-dâÅuvre.â When he was ill he went to bed and starved himself. He was never at war with the doctors and said the advice of a sensible one was by no means to be despised, but he mocked at all medical superstitions. He thought it ridiculous to pretend that animals enjoy better health than human beings. Stags and crows were supposed to have exceptional longevity â he would like to see the stag or the crow which had lived as long as the Marquis de Saint-Aulaire (nearly a hundred). In 1723 Voltaire recovered from a virulent form of smallpox, which carried off one-third of the population of Paris; he attributed his cure to eight emetics and two hundred pints of lemonade. Probably he loved life too much to die. But his happy, industrious existence was soon to suffer a very disagreeable interruption.
In December 1725, Voltaire was at the Opera with AdrienneLecouvreur, one of the most famous actresses in the history of French drama. The Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot came into her box, evidently anxious to pick a quarrel with him. Rohan-Chabot was a stupid, peppery soldier and man-about-town, ten years older than Voltaire. He was well connected and had many friends at Court. As Mlle Lecouvreur had been, possibly still was, Voltaireâs mistress, there may have been jealousy between the two men; Voltaire may have been giving himself airs or perhaps Rohan-Chabot was one of those people who could not endure him. During the evening the Chevalier said, insultingly and several times: âM. de Voltaire, M. Arouet, or whatever you call yourself.â In the end, Voltaire lost his temper and said that he was the first of his name while the Chevalier was the last * of his. This stung Rohan-Chabot on the raw. His grandmother had been the only child of the Duc de Rohan, an ancient family descended from Kings of Brittany. She had married a Chabot; the family was no longer Rohan at all. The Chevalier, furious, lifted his cane and said that such an insult could only be wiped out by a good hiding. Voltaire put his hand to his sword; Mlle Lecouvreur tactfully fainted away and the Chevalier left the box.
Two or three days later Voltaire was dining at the Hôtel de Sully, with his adorable duke, when he received a message asking him to go outside as somebody wished to see him. He went out; there was a hired carriage drawn up in the street and Voltaire, supposing that whoever had sent for him was sitting in it, put his foot on the step. At this moment several ruffians fell upon him from behind and roundly whacked him with sticks. The Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot, watching the scene from his own coach, called out, âDonât hit him on the head, something might come out of that one day,â at which the bystanders are supposed to have said, âOh! the gracious Lord!â Describing the scene later to his friends, Rohan-Chabot said, âI commanded the labour-corps â â in person.â
When Voltaire had finally struggled away from his tormentors he rushed back into the house and told his host and fellow guests what had happened. He was received with cold embarrassment.Nobody took his side, sympathized with him, or even agreed that he had been vilely treated. The Duke behaved outrageously. He had been like a father to Voltaire for years, yet he would not raise a finger to obtain justice for his