Portrait in two mirrors

Chapter 18

The virtue of forgiving enemies is a great miracle.

--Voltaire

I hate you because I want to hate you: but if you want me to love you, my heart that hates you is more worthy of loving you.

——June 1760, 6, Rousseau's letter of resignation to Voltaire

一

everything begins where it ends

1878 5 Month 30 Day.

"Lost people tend to go out of a circle unconsciously... But what I think is: Isn't life a cycle? Everything begins at the end."

"Is it like a phoenix reborn from the ashes? There is no new life without death."

Two vague figures gradually appeared in the mist of the night, and their gray robes streaked across the grass.This is the backyard of the United Association of Individualized Individuals of the Common Memoirs of Human Beings.There is only darkness in the sky, without the shining of stars, but there is light in the darkness.Descartes and Pascal, as receptionists at the French Pavilion from 1650 to 1850, walk through the darkness towards the ferry.

"It's time to welcome new members of our association again. How do you feel at this time?" Pascal asked.

"The unknown fears uncertainty... the hope of death and rebirth, a new world." Descartes said, "What about you?"

"Life is a gamble, and the outcome is uncertain—so why don't we give it a shot?" Pascal said, striding towards the ferry platform.

A shooting star streaked across the black sky, illuminating the boundless water in an instant, and a pitch-black coffin, like a flat boat in the ocean, floated quietly.It was exactly 11 o'clock at night.

"François-Marie Arrouet-Monsieur Voltaire, your life as a human being has come to an end forever... In the midst of endless condolences, we welcome you as a new member of our memoir materialized individuals, Join the United Association of Indigenous Individuals of the Common Memoir of Humanity, and do your last strength for the future of mankind."

Descartes looked at the coffin and said.

Today marks the 100th anniversary of Voltaire's death.

"Bryce, I'm afraid I'm leaving you..." Descartes said to Pascal with a smile when the warm sunshine shone into the quiet corridor of the office the next morning.

"You don't seem to be sincere," said Pascal dissatisfied, because Descartes was still playing with his beard.

"I am the outgoing curator of the French Pavilion... A new curator of the French Pavilion is about to be chosen. The candidates are M. Voltaire and M. Rousseau. At that time, I will move to the second pavilion, and you will stay in the main one. House—who do you wish to live with for the next few hundred years, my Bryce?" Descartes smiled at him.

"I'm afraid this is not the criterion for determining the director of the French Pavilion," Pascal said distressedly, "but shouldn't we consult M. Voltaire on this matter?"

"No." Descartes' face became serious, "Never ask Mr. Voltaire for any of the syllables of Jacques Rousseau."

"But they are the leaders of the Enlightenment Movement, can their names be separated?" Pascal sneered, "As described by later generations, they are like morning stars, standing side by side as if caring for two elders, illuminating together The darkness before the Great Revolution... When Louis XVI lamented, Voltaire and Rousseau died in France; when the street children in "Les Miserables" lamented in front of the revolutionary fortress, it was all Voltaire's fault, and it was all Rousseau's fault The wrong time...their names were always inseparable. Even if, even if, either of them hated it when they were alive."

"Yes, regrettable historical legends have blinded posterity to people who were not the historical image we see after a century of baptism...Good intentions are often contrary to reality-the name of the connection is ours conjectures, rather than their wishes in life—or quite the opposite.” Descartes looked at everything blurred in the morning light, and glanced deeply and complicatedly, “How much the sorrow of the past a century ago makes future generations regret Fantasy appears precious."

"Years ago, when the Genevan came to join Voltaire's fame, Voltaire thought that the countryman was just a helper. It would never have occurred to him that this eighteenth century, which should belong to his supreme honor, should be It would be their century. He should always be a star of Parisian high society, and the Genevan should always be just a Genevan.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau is destined to be forgotten. — Voltaire

Voltaire never had Rousseau in his eyes.In his noble eyes, even if Rousseau had published such sensational works as "On the Origin of Inequality among Human Beings", "Emile", and "The Social Contract" (he thought they were waste paper), he would rather It is believed that Rousseau was nothing more than a momentarily popular and soon to be forgotten writer.

However, the young man named Jean-Jacques Rousseau thought that this great writer really valued him.He naively thought that "Candide" was written by the great writer in order to answer him.When the dazzling light of the former idol gradually faded and the dark side gradually revealed, the Genevan was confused. He thought they were true friends, and wrote a letter of renunciation: Sir, I don't like you...I hate you!

Of course Voltaire didn't care.A sensitive, fiery and suspicious heart was coldly set aside.The once companionship shattered into cracks, and the cracks widened into a canyon that would never heal.

Voltaire misread the three books and called them clumsy and useless.

Voltaire hated the church most, but Rousseau changed his teaching three times.

Voltaire was in favor of privatization of property, but Rousseau believed that privatization of property is the root of all evil.

Rousseau left the Encyclopedia because of differences of opinion, but Voltaire considered him a deserter.But the difference between them is no longer just a difference in thinking (the irony is that most of these seemingly sharp differences lead to the same goal), but also a world of difference in social status and class level.

My worst enemy: Voltaire. — Rousseau

Voltaire, exasperated by the ingratitude of the Genevans, who had led Rousseau to the light, would now drive him into the abyss.Completely out of his former literary glory, Voltaire attacks Rousseau and his family with sinister viciousness, revealing his scandal (Rousseau abandoned his five children): Rousseau, a dog of Diogenes, the dog and the viper The offspring of mating, marrying a witch... Voltaire attacks his former "friend" as if he were a truly despicable enemy (but this is Rousseau's wishful thinking), and the two quarrel.

In 1766, Voltaire cursed Rousseau to choke to death while eating... Facing Voltaire, Rousseau chose to escape.In the last ten years, he didn't mention Voltaire's name anymore. He attributed the past worship of Voltaire to ridiculous deception... But he always tried to praise the man in his early years. He believed that fame and fortune had gone to Voltaire. Ty's mind...

One is a nouveau riche who started his business and is a Parisian nobleman with a distinguished status; the other is a citizen of Geneva who once wandered on the streets and became famous.Did any of these friendships really exist?

Good luck made it impossible for them to separate their names. People of later generations, whether they underestimated the cruelty of history or harbored illusory hopes, took it for granted that they were best friends, and together they lit up the darkness before the French Revolution... …

So, Pascal, forget about it. "

Descartes' black eyes became clear in the fading morning.

"I understand." Pascal said and disappeared at the end of the corridor.

It's a pity that the artificially concealed truth will come after all.

Pascal pushed open the door at the end of the corridor.

In the four-poster bed lay an old man, lean, with wrinkled skin clinging tightly to his bones and missing teeth.But those obsidian-like eyes are as deep as the night, shining like ore, sharp and piercing.

"A child?" Seeing Pascal walking in, the old man struggled to support his old and thin body, and sat up.

"Good morning, Monsieur Voltaire," said Pascal, "Mr. Descartes may have told you about your apparent age yesterday, so you should get used to meeting a seemingly young memoir materialized entity... I am Blaise Pascal, nice to meet you."

Suddenly there was a wave in his calm eyes. Voltaire looked at the black and thin child in front of him, imagining what kind of soul was growing in this tiny body... He murmured forgetfully: "In these immortal Among the disputants, only Pascal has survived to this day, because only he is a genius, only he still stands on the ruins of the century..."

"Thank you for agreeing with me. This sentence has appeared in all the comments of the recently reprinted "Pascal's Thoughts." Pascal said shyly.

"There is something about Mr. Descartes - did he hold grudges against me for attacking his philosophical system so mercilessly during my lifetime?" Voltaire said suddenly and lightly.

"No, otherwise, with his personality, he would have fought with you yesterday." Pascal replied, "He was just a little dissatisfied—but he said that he respected different philosophical orientations, and diversity creates beauty. .”

"So..." Voltaire looked at the black velvet curtain hanging on the bed, with a trace of contempt on the corner of his mouth, thoughtful, "I managed to escape that Diogenes' dog by means of death... He has been captured People are forever forgotten, and the soul and body are turned into dust together, and I will never meet him again in any time and space... What a joyful regret!"

Pascal suddenly didn't know how to answer.There are 33 days left.

"Monsieur Voltaire, you rest."

☆, I am in this world, the days without him are only 33 days

two

I am in this world, there are only 33 days without him

1878 7 Month 2 Day.

"What's wrong with you?" Descartes asked.

"I am not full of old tears...but hot tears," the muddy tears fell silently on the old man's old and feeble face, "At any moment in my life, I have always firmly believed that my wreckage is only worthy of being thrown into the garbage dump ...Now history has affirmed me and let me get this supreme honor...and respected Mr. Descartes, it is an endless honor to meet Jean-Jacques-you are a well-deserved human mentor, as I said in "On It is generally written in Science and Art: "Learning science and art is not a bad thing fundamentally, but it can only be limited to a few people, a few geniuses who don't need a husband"..."

"Thank you, Mr. Rousseau." Descartes half-jokingly said, "but the meaning of the existence of our memoirs is for the popularization of science and literature and art among all mankind...History is not created by a few people, right? You You don't object to teaching knowledge equally to all children?"

"Of course not... Maybe history has proven me to be wrong on this point... I come here with gratitude and hope, eager to use up the last strength in my old body... Even though I am now forever I have lost the warmth of a human being, but my heart is extraordinarily warm..." Rousseau choked up again when he said this.

"I understand all the pains you suffered as a human being...no one will hurt you now." Descartes stared wistfully at the old man who suffered from human suffering.

"I am willing to deceive myself so much in false happiness... But... once I wake up, there is a strong feeling, it gushes out from the bottom of my heart, telling me that he exists... Maybe you don't understand what I mean , because I haven't mentioned this name for ten years..." Rousseau looked blankly into the distance as if he had touched an old secret wound.

"Of course I understand." Descartes' tone became firm, and he held the withered hands, "Mr. Voltaire also arrived here 33 days ago."

"So... I am in this world, the days without him are only 33 days..." Rousseau took a deep breath, "For me, it was 66 years before this, and there will be no end after this... Voltaire... My enemy, I hate him... But, for some reason, I didn't feel relieved after his death. When I heard the news of his death, like an instant, an unprecedented hidden voice hinted: Our lives are one, and my life will not be longer than his. ... Could it be that the pillar of my life is hatred? This is really ridiculous...! But I still come with him after all."

"About the strong feelings in your heart—it is actually the exclusive bond between memoir materialized individuals," Descartes was trying to adjust his tone to make the facts easier to accept, "between memoir materialized individuals formed in similar positions, all There is an indelible bond, like a telepathic connection... In fact, you and Mr. Voltaire were both buried in the Pantheon as human beings, and they were only a few feet away from each other... So the intensity is inevitable... "

"So?!" Rousseau lamented sadly, "Fate or fetters? The choice of history and the people, why do two strangers who are at odds with each other die opposite each other, looking at each other day and night?..."

"—In fact, I will soon cease to be the curator of the French Pavilion. The candidates for the new curator include Mr. Voltaire and you."

"Let that man do it," said Rousseau firmly, "and never tell him of my existence as a candidate."

"I have already done so, my dear M. Rousseau," said Descartes sadly.

"But...but, that bond will tell him of my existence...he won't let me go. This stubborn old man won't admit his mistakes easily..." Rousseau looked out the window at the endless night. "The entanglement in life will continue endlessly after death... Is this God's final sentence for Jean-Jacques?!"

"Thank you, Monsieur Pascal, for giving me an overview of the history of this century." Voltaire leaned back in the armchair and smiled faintly.

But suddenly, his smile disappeared.He looked out of the window into the dark depths again, not for the first time tonight. "—It's really unpleasant, why have I been smelling a dog's stench since today?"

A moment of silence.

"Monsieur Voltaire," Pascal's tone became serious, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but your attitude towards M. Rousseau shocked me. I have to praise you for your good sense of smell. M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau is indeed Not far from here—in my telling, did your keen eyes not see that the history I set out for you has been filtered? When you listened to the clarion calls of the American Revolution, those narratives did not remind you of The account in the Social Contract? When you listen to the Declaration of the Rights of Man, do you not hear only the voices of the Encyclopedias?...Mr. Rousseau gets his due, as do you .In fact, people are now accustomed to refer to you together as the leaders of the Enlightenment. In the world of thought, the 18th century is not only your century, but your century and M. Rousseau's century."

Every syllable of Pascal became more and more intolerable than ever.Voltaire was livid and silent.After a long time, a trembling voice spewed out from the old man's mouth, "What?! These are all true?!" At this moment, he was not only shocked, but furious.

"I understand your anger, but I still feel that I must tell you the truth now. Unfortunately, your judgment of Mr. Rousseau was probably very wrong." Pascal said calmly, "Humans will not choose a The sensationalist, popular dog becomes the Memoir Incarnation. He's on an equal footing with you—in fact, you're acutely aware of his presence precisely because you're completing the transition from human to Memoir Incarnation For 100 years, your remains will be located next to each other—in fact, your eternal neighbor in the most glorious Pantheon will be none other than M. Rousseau."

"What? I was buried with a dog?!" Voltaire ignored his old age and jumped up, flashing the flames of the devil.Trembling voice, staring eyes, "Terrible! Despicable! This is the choice of history! This history is simply the history of his barbarians!!"

With a bang, the round wooden table and vase were overturned in anger.Then there was a moan, and Voltaire fell down in pain—his waist flashed.

When Pascal finally put him on the bed, the furious old man cursed under his breath in spite of the pain.After a while, he asked Pascal for historical commentary books again, gnashing his teeth and reading the unacceptable passages.

☆, cold war

three

cold war

July of that year.

The bleak autumn wind uprooted the struggling leaves from the branches and dropped them on the ground at will.The chill quietly breeds, like mosquitoes and ants devouring hope and warmth.

Although Locke, Montesquieu, Hume, and Descartes spent a lot of time persuading them to meet in the philosophy group this time, it is obvious that this meeting was not successful at all, or it was a complete failure.

The interior of the office of the Philosophy Group of the Association.Dim lights, sharp wind outside the house.

Voltaire hunched in his chair, his face full of boredom and disgust.His waist injury hadn't healed yet, and now he had to see the source of all evil that made him hurt and humiliated, which added fuel to his resentment.If it wasn't for Mr. Locke's favor, why would he come here to suffer torture.What Rousseau looked like, he couldn't remember at all, and he didn't want to know at all.The two probably only met once in their lifetime—the passing of a certain Parisian salon. As for before, after, or now 100 years later, all impressions come from portraits...those portraits are as blurred as in a mirror Indistinct, overlapping and intertwined, mixed with historical dust, mixed personnel, deep-rooted misunderstandings... Where are they really?Or are they just portraits in two mirrors...

The door of the room opened, and Descartes walked in with an old man who was slightly shriveled.

The philosophers who had planned the meeting with such enthusiasm were suddenly silenced by the tension of the moment.

The old man was placed in the chair opposite Voltaire.The old man lowered his head, his face full of painful melancholy.

Needless to say, Voltaire already knew who it was, because the feeling of disgust in him had never been stronger—he thought he would retch, but he didn't.The contemptuous glance brought a wonderful first feeling, mixed with sympathy and surprise, this inexplicable feeling was unexpected for Voltaire.Although 18 years his junior, Rousseau looked so lifeless and aging, and every sculpting of the years seemed to be more cruel to him, reducing him to a prematurely wrinkled rag doll.All this, far from the pale, preoccupied Diogenes' dog in his own irony.The dying years... He found that he actually felt a little sympathetic to each other? !

But you have to see his ugly soul... This is something that a staunch fighter will never forget.Voltaire straightened his body, and his blunt voice broke the long awkward silence in the room: "My back injury is still serious, and sitting for a long time is really bad. I think I'd better leave."

Although there was already an ominous premonition, the speed at which the reality broke was still beyond everyone's expectations.

Locke looked at Voltaire, hesitant to speak, obviously forcing was impossible.He could only look back at the meeting place for the last time full of regret, and Locke helped Voltaire to leave.Montesquieu was confused and distressed, sighed, and walked outside into the autumn wind.

In a blink of an eye, the venue was empty again.All hope seemed just now, but in an instant it was gone.

Rousseau raised his head slowly.The room's spare bookshelves, dusty and fuzzy with age.Tears flowed down involuntarily at this moment.

Why!Poor Jean-Jacques!Don't you think you are completely detached? In 1768, didn't you write in a joking tone in "The Public's Feeling of Me from Different Sides" that "Voltaire couldn't sleep at night because of me.... His vulgar diatribes were all to me. Compliments"?Aren't you convinced that you are free from all disputes? Why do you cry before this tiger that drinks your blood?Why don't you look at him calmly and make him feel ashamed to avoid it is detachment...

You are so wrong.

"Have you ever thought about why you are so lonely? Did God really arrange it so deliberately, so that the betrayal of relatives and relatives will come to every moment of your life in such a cruel form?" When Rousseau returned to his residence in the second hall of the French Pavilion, Descartes said suddenly.

His slightly stern tone lost his usual casualness and echoed in the dark and empty second hall of the French Pavilion.

"I mean - not only Voltaire, but Diderot and Hume and many others ... many of them - at least I think so - wanted to be friends with you, but in the end They all became enemies. All this, as you think, they all form a cabal? If they were so vicious, they would not be a memoir entity. I believe... IMHO, your misfortune , not entirely their fault.”

Rousseau looked at him puzzled, with tears in his eyes.The dim light flickered on his sad and confused face.

"Mr. Hume told me before that he was very sorry for what he did to you. Whether it was or is, he hoped to be friends with you, but...he told me from the bottom of his heart that he was Sincerely invite you to England, but you have been hurt too deeply before, and you stubbornly believed some rumors... He still remembered that you wrote in your letter, 'You brought me to England, apparently for me Have found refuge, in fact, to ruin my reputation; you have spared no effort to complete this masterpiece, and you are worthy of your conscience', these words stimulated him so much that he could only believe that you are indeed dangerous..." Descartes lamented Said, "Your overly sensitive personality makes many people inaccessible... Even though I stayed with you for just two months, your suspiciousness made me sometimes only choose to remain silent."

"The torment of years of illness has made my mind often in a state of confusion. Sometimes I don't believe anything I see or think... That kind of suspicion is probably already a subconscious habit..." Rousseau lamented sadly road.

"But...if the improvement of your physical condition now can make you escape this delirium, we are willing to help you. You also know that the water is so clear that there are no fish... I don't know if you have found that there are no fish in the second hall of the French Pavilion in the past two months. What's different...?" Descartes paused, but finished his question.

Rousseau was silent for a long time, and it was obvious that he had already noticed this indifference.He whispered gloomyly, "There are three people's supplies here, but there are only two permanent residents, sir, you and me."

Descartes sighed. "Mr. Rousseau really has a good eye. In fact, Mr. Molière still lives in the second building of the French Pavilion, but as a playwright, he knows that you don't like drama, so he has to avoid it for the time being..."

"Is this true?!" Rousseau said in shock, a little out of breath.He stood up suddenly, as if he was not an old man in his 60s.Tears flashed in his eyes, and he tightly grasped Descartes' indifferent arms, "I never meant to destroy the theater...! Did my "On Science and Art" create such a big gap between people? I'm just saying that dramas made of evil will make people fall faster, but those dramas that are truly sublime and beautiful are teachers of morality and beauty...!Mr. Molière is because he is worried about me... because he is worried about me. Would he rather choose to avoid it because he belongs to the hostile side?!"

"I'm afraid so." Descartes remained expressionless.

"I am too sensitive, hastily regard suspicion as fact, and stubbornly insist on my own opinion... I even wrote at the beginning of "Confessions" that it is difficult for people to find a better person than me!"

Rousseau burst into tears, pulled Descartes and shook his long black curly hair, and tears splashed on Descartes' surprised face.Descartes couldn't help being moved by this situation.

"Don't blame yourself too much...I'm just a little suggestion..." Descartes hurriedly said, while Rousseau had already covered his face with tears and kisses.

However, with tears all over his face, Rousseau responded in a decisive tone: "No... Maybe what should make me repent and change is not my words and deeds, but the regrets in my heart... I will persist in this kind of effort, not For someone, not just to save myself like before, these thoughts are too small...It is to make everyone no longer think that I am a different kind, dangerous and burdensome, it is for everyone to be together happily...truly warm Only the heart of the people is qualified to warm others and end the cold...——Thank you, Mr. Descartes!"

☆, resurrection

four

resurrection

Six years later.

XNUM X Year X NUM X Month.

The main pavilion of the French Pavilion.

"Uh, you got lost again? Ask Mr. Boyle to bring you back." Pascal said slightly reproachfully.

"It's only been here for a month, it's normal to get lost..." Lavoisier said guiltily, "but I've been bothering you and Mr. Voltaire...do you think I'm a troublesome roommate?"

"Not really. Seeing you so happy, I'm already relieved. After all, my apparent age is 16, and you are 15—as a 'child', it's easy to persuade, and I won't be depressed. ’ Pascal sighed.

"Well, I know..." Lavoisier looked upstairs, and Voltaire locked himself in the study again, "Mr. Voltaire has been unhappy here...Actually, I I thought he and M. Rousseau would reconcile naturally."

"Why do you think so?" Pascal asked, his tone sharp and sad, "Hasn't your tragic fate revealed to you the cruelty of this world and your overly dangerous self-confidence?"

"Now, I am different from the past. I deeply know how my life started in fame and ended in shame under the guillotine, and I also deeply feel that I have committed crimes step by step in the process. His devastating mistake..." Lavoisier said sadly, his brown eyes flickering with a hazy gleam, "I know that I realized it too late, and it is irreparable. However, after experiencing so much grief and shame, it has come to this day I am in such a dire situation, but sometimes I often wonder, if a person comes back to life after death, or if he has knowledge after death like us, what will he think about the kindness and resentment in his life... It is true that I also thought about it when I was alive This question, at that time, I thought everything would be like the underworld described by Swift, all the writers who turned into ghosts have been hiding from their critics... But when I really came here, I had another feeling Now... What is eternity in the world? Money? Status? Fame? Contribution? These materialized individuals of our memoirs carry too much, and we can only look at them indifferently... The most important thing is the wonderful perception and emotion in life. Is the real beauty... In the face of life and death, those entanglements due to different academic opinions, those misunderstandings and conflicts that erupted due to different ideologies, are so insignificant... After experiencing this painful self-destruction, happiness is in my heart The definition has become so simple and even so simple, but it makes me pursue it so desperately... So, why doesn't the past grudges just disappear...?"

"Resurrection? In fact, even Swift is regretting his novel now..." Pascal smiled palely, "Mr. Voltaire's words... I wonder if my attitude is optimistic?"

Life is indeed getting better, albeit in an unexpected way. 84-year-old Mr. Voltaire (although it is more likely to be 200-year-old Mr. Voltaire) can no longer bear the life of being supported by people for several centuries. He is dazzled by the agility of 16- and 15-year-old children Dizziness.He felt that he was being played with, cared for like an old statue, and though it was thought that older was wiser and dignified, he felt that he was becoming an antique. In 1900, when he earnestly begged two young-looking roommates to buy him a copy of the recently published Leo Tolstoy's Resurrection, he decided he had had enough.

One morning in the spring of this year, Pascal and Lavoisier just woke up from their sleep and found that someone was already busy in the kitchen.When the two sleepy-eyed children came to the living room, they found many freshly baked dishes on the table.

"Hey, why are they all vegetarian? Eat this for breakfast..." Lavoisier looked at the table of vegetables and felt very sad.

"Huh? By the way, Mr. Voltaire is a vegetarian... He did this? He's so old, so it's impossible..." Pascal was confused.

"Ah, I haven't cooked for more than 100 years... But after ruining a lot of dishes, I think these may be edible..." Suddenly a completely strange voice came from the kitchen, and a teenager came out: a He has an oval face, black eyes that are piercing and kind, and beautiful silver-gray long curly hair that hangs down to his shoulders; it's just that the shirt on his body doesn't fit well, which ruins the beauty.

"Well, who are you?" Pascal asked. "Mr. Voltaire's chef? You're pretty good-looking."

"These dishes don't seem bad enough..." Lavoisier pointed to the dishes and said, "Do you know that M. Voltaire lost all his teeth?"

"Oh... don't you see anything from the shirt?" The boy was very sad.

"Monsieur Voltaire is stingy enough to make his cook wear the same old, old shirts as he does," said Pascal sympathetically.

"Well, well," said the boy, "I am your old M. Voltaire."

Now it was Pascal and Lavoisier who were jaw-dropping in astonishment.

"Don't call me 'Sir' any more. My apparent age is now seventeen," said Voltaire gravely.But it is clear that his voice has completely lost the sense of majesty at the age of 17, and it sounds very interesting. "Uh..." Seeing Pascal and Lavoisier who couldn't help laughing, Voltaire couldn't help laughing shyly, "But you have to help me keep a secret... don't tell others about it, okay? I want to temporarily Let go of the name Voltaire and live a free life incognito for two or three months..."

"We will keep you... oh, it's your secret!" Pascal immediately changed the pronoun.

For the next few weeks, Voltaire could hardly sit still, and his lightness made him scurry around(?). Although Pascal had warned that his physical coordination would be poor after changing his apparent age, Voltaire still enjoyed it, I'm not even afraid of wrestling all the time, besides, the injury heals almost instantly now.Lavoisier was very worried, because he felt that Voltaire seemed to be a completely different person, but Pascal believed that the change in apparent age would indeed greatly change a person's mood, which would make people happy and optimistic.Although sometimes a little childish.

But for Voltaire himself there was a hidden reason for these pleasures.A drastic change in apparent age would temporarily sever the bond between the memoir's materialized individuals, so he was sure he could go two or three months without smelling that Diogenes dog.In fact, for the past 22 years, they have been in a state of complete avoidance - although the main building and the second building are only separated by a wall, they would rather believe that the other party never existed.The sad Diderot completely staggered their discussions in the philosophy group, but Diderot hoped that they would reconcile all the time-but is this possible?Interestingly, Voltaire has not seen the old dog for a month, and the dog has disappeared, which is very happy