Upon the events in particular which led up to Voltaire’s departure for England, M. Foulet has been able to throw considerable light.  The story, as revealed by the letters of contemporary observers and the official documents of the police, is an instructive and curious one.  In the early days of January 1726 Voltaire, who was thirty-one years of age, occupied a position which, so far as could be seen upon the surface, could hardly have been more fortunate.  He was recognised everywhere as the rising poet of the day; he was a successful dramatist; he was a friend of Madame de Prie, who was all-powerful at Court, and his talents had been rewarded by a pension from the royal purse.  His brilliance, his gaiety, his extraordinary capacity for being agreeable had made him the pet of the narrow and aristocratic circle which dominated France.  Dropping his middle-class antecedents as completely as he had dropped his middle-class name, young Arouet, the notary’s offspring, floated at his ease through the palaces of dukes and princes, with whose sons he drank and jested, and for whose wives—­it was de rigueur in those days—­he expressed all the ardours of a passionate and polite devotion.  Such was his roseate situation when, all at once, the catastrophe came.  One night at the Opera the Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot, of the famous and powerful family of the Rohans, a man of forty-three, quarrelsome, blustering, whose reputation for courage left something to be desired, began to taunt the poet upon his birth—­’Monsieur Arouet, Monsieur Voltaire—­what is your name?’ To which the retort came quickly—­’Whatever my name may be, I know how to preserve the honour of it.’  The Chevalier muttered something and went off, but the incident was not ended.  Voltaire had let his high spirits and his sharp tongue carry him too far, and he was to pay the penalty.  It was not an age in which it was safe to be too witty with lords.  ‘Now mind, Dancourt,’ said one of those grands seigneurs to the leading actor of the day, ’if you’re more amusing than I am at dinner to-night, je te donnerai cent coups de batons.’ It was dangerous enough to show one’s wits at all in the company of such privileged persons, but to do so at their expense——!  A few days later Voltaire and the Chevalier met again, at the Comedie, in Adrienne Lecouvreur’s dressing-room.  Rohan repeated his sneering question, and ‘the Chevalier has had his answer’ was Voltaire’s reply.  Furious, Rohan lifted his stick, but at that moment Adrienne very properly fainted, and the company dispersed.  A few days more and Rohan had perfected the arrangements for his revenge.  Voltaire, dining at the Duc de Sully’s, where, we are told, he was on the footing of a son of the house, received a message that he was wanted outside in the street.  He went out, was seized by a gang of lackeys, and beaten before the eyes of Rohan, who directed operations from a cab.  ‘Epargnez la tete,’ he shouted, ‘elle est encore