"My son, the court your merit knows,
Your every phrase with genius glows,
Your scraps of verse, your love-songs gay;
And, as all work deserves its pay,
The king, my son, with grateful heart,
Will make your recompense his part;
And so you'll be, without expense,
Lodged in a royal residence."
In reply to his remonstrances, the escort take him by the hand and conduct him to his prison, dark and with walls ten feet thick, where he is put under triple bolts.
"The clock strikes noon: a tray is brought,
With humble, frugal cheer 'tis fraught:
Said they who bore it, when my air
Showed no great relish for the fare,
'Your diet is for health, not pleasure;
Pray eat in peace—you've ample leisure.'
See thus my fate distressful sealed—
Behold me cooped up, embastilled,
Sleep, food, and drink distasteful made;
By all, e'en by my love, betrayed."
Nor was this light way of viewing his misfortune assumed in retrospect only. Never did captive bear a better heart. All the joys of existence cut off, he employed himself, though denied pen and paper, in planning and partly composing the "Henriade," and in finishing his first tragedy, trusting the lines partly to his memory, partly to markings made somehow in a copy of Homer which he was allowed to have. After nearly eleven months imprisonment, he was permitted to return to Chatenay. It is said that a nobleman of the Court conducted him to an interview with the Regent. While Voltaire awaited the audience in the ante-chamber, a great storm broke over Paris.
