IN THE DIM STREETS OF A GARRISON TOWN IN LORRAINE, piercing cries of distress followed by a thunder of boots on the pavement suddenly troubled the usual calm of evening. Alerted by these troubling noises, the residents opened their windows to see women in unbuttoned brightly colored dresses running down the street, holding their skirts above their knees to avoid tripping. These unfortunates were pursued by armed soldiers yelling insults and futile commands to halt. Some were caught and immediately and roughly attached by the wrist to others already captured. Others managed to get through unlocked gates and hide in the corner of a garden, in a stable, or a barnyard. But they would not be able to escape for long. After the pursuit in the streets, the soldiers would move on to searching houses, and the fugitives knew they could hardly count on the complicity or compassion of the population. The scene of these unpleasant events was Metz. The Marshal de Broglie, governor of the region, with no Prussians to fight against, had decided to launch a great roundup to rid the city of its numerous prostitutes, with whom his men were too eager to seek a solace that their lack of action did not at all justify.
Almost sixty, De Broglie, who had fought valiantly in the Seven Years’ War, had allowed his time as head of Louis XV’s secret service, Le Secret du Roi, to go to his head and developed a taste for international intrigue. The existence of this service had been revealed only at the death of the king, after operating for more than twenty years under various directors. It involved secret diplomacy, managed by thirty-two individuals, supervising ministers and increasing French influence wherever they could. It had ways of maintaining ties with Russia and Austria, and through oral reports, the interception of letters, and coded correspondence, it conducted parallel diplomacy. It worked successively on planning a French landing in England shortly after the Seven Years’ War and on supplying arms to the American insurgents under the nose of the English ambassador, thanks to the clever duplicity of Beaumarchais. It played a major role in the American War of Independence and also strove to influence the foreign policy of European nations.
All decisions were made in the central section of the château, more precisely, in the king’s apartment. It was in the ornately decorated room known as the Cabinet du Conseil after 1755 that Louis XV presided over meetings that, among other things, decided on a reversal of alliances after 1756, and participation in the American War of Independence in 1775. This apartment, in which mirrors glittered like lies, was the nerve center of the kingdom’s intelligence. Struggles for influence and power, and the tools of persuasion, calumny, intrigue, information, and propaganda, influenced the course of world events. It is strange to realize that this secret chamber was so close to the king’s private apartment that every morning, Louis XV and then Louis XVI went through a mirrored door to the right of the fireplace to go from this room full of dark plans into the chapel, while the door to the left of the great window led to the bathroom, where the king could wash his hands of the stain of politics. Meetings of the council to formulate the secret plans of the intelligence service for the glorious future of the kingdom of France were held in early morning or late evening. It is easy to understand De Broglie’s regret at no longer running this prodigious machine that organized striking actions in silence and seemed decidedly to govern the world.
A lover of mystery and a touch megalomaniacal, he was bored in Metz, where he continued to dream of glory, awaiting a sign of his destiny. To pass the time he subjected his soldiers to great numbers of drills. His strictness and the brutal zeal he brought to defending the virtue of men in uniform made some of his officers smile. One of them wrote to his young wife about the 1775 raid described earlier: “We are in a state of uproar and desolation. The whole garrison is going into mourning. The marshal has seized the girls, driven them off, locked them up. He is the sworn enemy of those ladies who curse him from the bottom of their hearts.” The author of the letter was none other than Captain Gilbert de Lafayette, who had been sent to Metz to improve his rather superficial military training and to acquire under the tutelage of vigilant superiors a sense of responsibility that he still seemed to lack. The letter seems to show that the discipline that the marshal was seeking to impose had not yet taken full effect. The comments, in a letter to his very devout and prudish wife, who had just told him that she was again pregnant, might seem out of place and even in very dubious taste. But the remarks were not those of a cynical libertine, because Lafayette had never been, and never would be, drawn to prostitutes. His reaction to their being hunted down merely expressed the compassion he spontaneously felt for hunted creatures, the proscribed, the marginal. This remained a constant trait of his character throughout his life.
He was truly bored in Metz, despite De Broglie’s efforts to keep his men alert for the day when they might be needed. Hoping to attend the coronation ceremonies and following the advice of the Prince de Poix, he had ordered a sumptuous costume for the great days. Unfortunately, the Metz troops had to remain in station, prepared to march to Champagne in case conspirators might take advantage of the situation to launch an adventure.
The Duke d’Ayen had been very optimistic in counting on the Prince de Poix to straighten out his son-in-law. The prince was an amiable man, not uncultivated, and not too opposed to the liberal ideas that were fashionable among some aristocrats. He liked everything around him to function smoothly. Lafayette inspired friendly feelings in him and he was pleased that the young captain spent his time reading the great authors everyone was talking about—Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, Raynal—rather than wasting his time gambling. There was in fact little for bored officers to do in the dreary garrison town of Metz but to gamble and try to seduce women.
In this town where nothing ever happened, however, an event occurred on August 8, 1775, that was to count in Lafayette’s life. That evening, the governor, as representative of Louis XVI, had as a dinner guest an important traveler who had decided to stop at Metz on the way from England to Italy. The traveler, accompanied by his wife and a large entourage, who bore the title Royal Highness, was the Duke of Gloucester, the brother of King George III.
To honor his guest, the governor invited to his table the most titled and distinguished of his officers, including the Prince de Poix, the Viscount Louis de Noailles, and the young Marquis de Lafayette. The reception was sumptuous, with Baccarat crystal gleaming brightly. Champagne, Louis XVI’s preferred drink, and wines from Alsace and Moselle flowed freely. Toasts were even drunk with wine tinted with rose water. De Broglie and his subordinates were intent on showing the English prince that the men who had been defeated in the Seven Years’ War were great lords who knew how to treat guests, not at all troubled by their past defeats, men with whom the English would soon have to reckon again. The message was received, but the Duke of Gloucester was not the right audience. As arrogant, harsh, and stubborn as George III was, so was Gloucester open-minded and inclined to conciliation. He gave proof of this by mentioning a matter that was extremely embarrassing for the British crown: the conflict between the royal government and the rebellious colonists of North America, known in Europe as the Insurgents, or the Bostonians, after the birthplace of the revolt. Far from condemning his rebellious subjects, the duke showed himself to be rather understanding toward them. After all, why should they be obliged to pay taxes decided on by Parliament in London without being consulted? And why should they accept that, because of these taxes, their products would be sold at higher prices than products imported from England or from other British colonies? These two issues were in fact at the source of the conflict.
As soon as the subject was raised, Captain Lafayette abandoned his silence, and stopped distributing friendly smiles and wine to his neighbors at table intended to make them appreciate the charm of French hospitality. Although his subaltern rank and his young age should have impelled him to open his mouth only to answer a question, he did not hesitate to question the duke about the details of the conflict. It seemed that this story had truly captured his interest. The duke was surprised to see that a young French captain serving in a backwater garrison was following so closely a quarrel in a distant country among people whose language he did not know and in which his own country was not at all involved. It seemed as though what was happening on the banks of the Delaware was more important to him that what happened on the banks of the Seine. Marshal de Broglie wondered if he should not frown to indicate to the excessively curious captain that he should show more discretion. But he decided not to, since his guest seemed not at all offended. The marshal allowed the conversation to continue, which he and Louis de Noailles, who joined in, also found interesting. He himself listened impassively, but what he heard gave him food for thought. He was a man who saw far, very far, or at least he thought so.
As for the Duke of Gloucester, this fervent curiosity and emotion expressed in Metz about the revolt of the North American colonists became clear to him only from information he received two years later. He understood even better when he read this account written by the young captain: “From the first moment when I heard the name America, I loved it. From the instant I found out that it was fighting for freedom, I burned with the desire to spill my blood for it; I will count the days when I will be able to serve it, in all times and places, among the happiest of my life.”