And had Jean Calas in Toulouse been
a Catholic, and his son a Protestant, I would still have attacked
the judges, although I am nothing. I am nothing; only, what I write
is something."
"Then some day we will raise a monument to Monsieur Voltaire's
writings--not to Voltaire."
"You have no need; I have already raised my monument myself in the
hundred volumes of my collected works. The world has nothing to do
with how the old ass looked; there is nothing to see in that. We
know my weaknesses; I have lied, I have stolen, I have been
ungrateful; something of a scoundrel, something of a brute! That is
the dirty part of me, and I bequeath it to Jesuits, pettifoggers,
hair-splitters and collectors of anecdotes;--but my spirit to
God who gave it, and to men an honest purpose to understand their
Monsieur Voltaire."
He rose, for the sun had descended.
"Good-night, Mont Blanc; you have a white head like myself, and
stand with your feet in cold water, as I do! Now I go and lie down!
Tomorrow I travel to Paris, where I will die."
DAYS OF JUDGMENT
In the northern tower of the Church of Notre Dame de Paris was
the tower-watchman's chamber. But it had been arranged like a
bookbinder's workshop, for the watchman's day-duty was not
particularly heavy, and the hours of the night passed with sleep or
without sleep, no one troubling themselves to oversee this now
superfluous church servant.
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