Two years later he was settled at Ferney, on the Lake of Geneva, as
a multi-millionaire, patriarch, and king.
* * * * *
Many years passed, and still the old Voltaire reigned at his
Sans-Souci called Ferney--just as energetic as ever, just as
restless and vain.
His little chateau was a modest two-storied building in a circular
enclosure, surrounded by a courtyard planted with trees. On the left
of the entrance stood a small stone chapel. A tablet over the door
bore the inscription, "Deo erexit Voltaire," which roused the mirth
of his literary friends and the hatred of the ecclesiastical party.
Below in the garden he had an arbour-walk of hornbeam covered in,
and resembling a long hall with windows cut in the side, looking
towards the lake. From thence he could see Mont Blanc, which
especially at sunset showed all its splendour, and the blue levels
of the lake stretching towards Clarens and the Rhone Valley, where
the unfortunate Rousseau had wandered, loved, and suffered. Just
now in the twilight, the old man sat in his arbour walk and played
bezique with the local pastor, when the post arrived. There were
many letters with shining seals.
"Excuse me, Abbe, I must read my letters!"
"Pray do so," answered the priest, and stood up in order to promenade
up and down the arbour walk.
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