SEVENTEEN
ADRIENNE
Paris
March 1781
The American war was going badly, and I was in no mood to hear the complaints of the financial agent appointed to manage my husband’s finances until he came of age. “Mon Dieu, the deficit the marquis de Lafayette runs to equip his soldiers in America is impossibly large!”
“It does not matter.” What price could I put on my husband’s life and those he fought for? “We must find a way to raise money if the king won’t give more.”
By necessity, what a merchant I became! I worked with the manager to sell land, collect rents, and find new ways to manage the estates. I was desperately inventive. I could not fight beside Gilbert on a field or carry pitchers of water to his thirsty cannoneers. I could not cook for his soldiers, or tend them in camp in the way of Martha Washington. I could do only this, but would it be enough?
In the midst of these worries, I received a letter from my husband.
My dear heart, I am very fond of the man who gives you this message, and wish you to become good friends. He will inform you of what has happened in America, where we republicans rely on the people, our only rulers, to provide aid and comfort in the war.
The man in question was Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, aide-de-camp to General Washington. This young, soldierly South Carolinian gentleman had been sent by his government to assist the aging Dr. Franklin, and now he drawled, “Madame Lafayette, what an honor to make your acquaintance.”
I returned his greeting in English, and then, with a gallant bow, the American officer explained in French, “It’s been a dreadful slog for Lafayette—for all of us. The French fleet is stranded in Rhode Island. We don’t know when, or if, the enemy will attack. So your husband bids me to tell you he has been in little danger.” I exhaled deeply with relief, and Laurens smiled. “Of course, he also bade me to tell you that he loves you, and to tell you this so often that you will find me tedious . . .”
I laughed. “Oh, I shall never tire of hearing it, sir!”
I invited Laurens for dinner, where he charmed the women of my family—even Anastasie, for whom he drew little pictures of New World songbirds. And Laurens gave us all pleasure when he said, “Lafayette is an essential ingredient to nearly every success we’ve had against the British. He is, even now, chasing the traitor Benedict Arnold.”
An important, if inglorious, assignment.
Laurens, meanwhile, had come as a special envoy with a sobering message—that if France did not send more money, ships, and supplies, the Americans would not only lose their independence, but also be pressed into service on British ships that would ultimately attack France.
“We would have no one but ourselves to blame,” I said.
When Gilbert went to America the first time, it was without the king’s permission, and if he’d died there, the fault would have been his own. But this time he’d gone at the king’s command with other Frenchmen who deserved the support of the nation. Whatever debts we might take on now would still be better than the cost of losing this war. My country could not commit to a fight with half measures—we had provoked the British king, and if he emerged victorious, he would visit upon us the worst retaliations. I believed anyone of sense could see this. But would our king?
Laurens needed the ear of important men at court, so I took it upon myself to introduce him into French society. At social functions, Laurens surprised me by speaking openly and with passion about the enslaved persons on his family plantation. “These trampled people are unjustly deprived of liberty and subjected to constant humiliations; they can aspire to a noble existence if only some friend of mankind would open a path for them. Which I am determined to do.”
To be a friend of mankind. Could there be a higher aspiration? With renewed determination, I went with him to Versailles—in fact, I was so often in the company of Americans that Dr. Franklin jested I was part of their delegation. I too felt frustrated by the diplomatic roadblocks. Lesser officials told us France could send no more help; the treasury vaults were closed. What folly!
One morning in May as Laurens and I strolled the gardens, discussing strategy, I spotted the foreign minister, quite unaccompanied by his usual retinue. “There is our chance,” I said as the minister walked by at a fast clip. “Pray hurry to catch him before he goes into the palace.”
Laurens, who apprehended the opportunity, sprinted after the minister. I didn’t follow, for I would have had to run to keep pace. And because my presence might inhibit the conversation, I lingered in the shade, watching the two men at a distance, until I realized the conversation had taken a decidedly hostile turn. Inching closer, I heard Laurens shout, “If you cannot send aid now, you will condemn liberty itself to death!”
The foreign minister replied testily, “Young man, the sun has addled your senses and made you forget who is friend or foe. Dr. Franklin would remember to whom he is speaking.”
“Dr. Franklin has not set foot on the battlefields,” Laurens shot back. “I have. The war will end in ignominious defeat for both our nations if—”
“Young man,” the minister barked, “you are not on a battlefield now and I am not your junior officer. The king of France has been more than charitable to the cause of your wretched colonies.”
On the word wretched, Laurens bristled, and I was shocked to see his hand go to his sword. “Not even a minister to the king of France should expect to impugn the honor of my nation in my presence without consequence, sir.”
Mon Dieu. What could Laurens be thinking? If he drew that sword, I could not contemplate the catastrophe. The incident would go round the world. “Gentlemen!” I cried, rushing to them with feigned gaiety. “Can you believe this unseasonably oppressive heat?”
Both men, red-faced and furious, stepped back from each other. Laurens let his hand drop from his sword, but then, with a curt bow, he snapped at the minister, “It is not charity that France has given, but an alliance that benefits both partners. Tell the king to expect me. I will take my words directly to him.”
The foreign minister was no messenger boy and knew the American officer would never be received by the king. A thing I explained to Laurens as we retreated. “Monsieur, that was folly!”
“Forgive me, madame, but folly is all we have left. I did not wish to put you in fear. Yet you must understand, the British will make a brutal example of all who stood up to them. My father will likely be hanged, and me beside him. As it is, your husband’s soldiers are on the verge of mutiny, and every British sharpshooter thinks Lafayette is a prize buck to be mounted on a wall. To stave off tragedy, I need to speak to the king.”
Having a fuller measure of the danger, I decided folly was the order of the day. “The king will never grant you an audience, but there might be another way . . .”
Mine was an imprudent scheme, and only a bold and defiant man would attempt it. Fortunately, John Laurens was that man. The next day, at the king’s levee, Laurens wove his way to the front of the crowd. Then, just as the king prepared to make his way to the Hall of Mirrors, Laurens did as I suggested, sliding directly in the sovereign’s path, delivering a sealed envelope into the royal hand. This was so unexpected, so breathtakingly improper, that no one said a word. Everyone—even the guards—stood in shock. The king himself didn’t seem to know what to do, simply tucking the envelope into his coat pocket before moving on.
A complete breach of etiquette, Aunt Claude screeched when she heard. I myself predicted His Majesty would probably throw the message in the fire, yet the next day, Laurens was summoned to the palace. I waited for news, pacing near the card tables. Would Laurens be censured and banished? Would the Franco-American alliance itself be ruptured? Anything seemed possible, and I would be to blame if it went wrong.
What business had I in inserting myself when lives were at stake?
It seemed like hours before the South Carolinian appeared, striding down the gallery, his face beaming with triumph. He had secured guns, money, ships, and more. And I was so happy that if I were not Lafayette’s wife, I would have kissed Laurens, and the king too.
In the autumn of 1782, church bells rang to celebrate the victory at Yorktown. Victory for the French and American allies. Victory for my husband. Upon hearing this, I fell to my knees. Pray God, let it be the end. Let Gilbert come home.
Some complained that my husband might’ve taken more glory for France if he had not insisted that the final battles be led by the Americans. Yet he had known that a free people must have the greater part in liberating themselves. I swelled with true admiration that in the most decisive moments of the war, still young and wishing to prove himself, my lionhearted husband set aside his pride for the good of the cause. And he’d won!
The whole world, I was sure, must change now. Certainly, Paris did. The city was scrubbed clean from muddy street to sooty chimney for the swirl of social occasions, thanksgivings, and galas that continued from crisp autumn into the glitter of icy winter. To celebrate the long-awaited birth of the dauphin, the king and queen opened an opera house in Paris. We now had an heir to the throne, and six thousand guests came to see the debut of Piccinni’s Adèle de Ponthieu while bottles of wine and baskets of fresh warm loaves were passed to peasants in the streets. Now there was to be a costumed ball at the Hôtel de Ville, and Maman reminded my sisters and me, “Don’t forget your masks!” We Noailles ladies were rouged, powdered, feathered, our feet aching in satin shoes because it had already been a very long day. We had already seen the queen purified in Notre-Dame. A banquet had followed, after which we raced home in our carriages to dress for the evening entertainment, which would include a show of illuminations over the Seine.
“Mon Dieu, is it possible to have too much gaiety?” I asked wearily, having lain awake half the night with my little Georges, who was teething. Grand-mère always advised that we let him cry, but having lost a daughter, I would never complain over losing sleep for my babies.
Thanks to the queen’s discouragement of elaborate poufs and panniers of old, we fit more than one lady in a carriage, and as my sister Louise and I traversed the city in our gilded coach, every building we passed was lit up. A pavilion had been erected for the common citizens to dance, and the royal fete for nobles was even grander.
Never before had I seen the king and queen so happy. King Louis worked the words my son into every conversation. The queen, long criticized for failing in her wifely duties, basked in her success. But while I, quite exhausted after so long a day—after so long a war—stared fondly at the queen, I realized everyone was staring at me. A murmur passed like a tray of champagne, excitement following in its wake.
“Lafayette has returned!”
Could it be true? I swayed on my heels as a cheer went up and my sister Louise rushed to embrace me. “Gilbert has gone to the Hôtel de Noailles. He hurried home only to find no one there!”
I sputtered with laughter. After five years of war, my husband and I were in the same city again. Yet still we were apart! I wished to run to him. I wished to sprout wings and fly. Alas, none of us could leave before the royals. Sympathetic glances told me the guests understood my difficulty. So too did the queen. Summoning me, Marie Antoinette said, “Go to your husband. Our joy should not keep you from your hero so long absent.”
For this gracious gesture, I forgave everything. Her cruel laughter and frivolity—these were the larks of children. We were both women and mothers now, and I wanted, with all my grateful heart, to accept the queen’s kindness. Unfortunately, now more than ever, I felt it was important to be worthy of the prominence to which my family had risen. “I would not wish to miss a moment of our national celebration, but if Your Majesties would see fit to stop in front of the Hôtel de Noailles on your return so that my husband might pay respects, I would consider it a great favor.”
“Of course!” said the queen. “In fact, you shall ride with me at the head of the procession. It is my wish and command.”
I had no right to ride ahead of those much above me in rank, but I said, “Then it is my honor to obey.” What a torment it was, every farewell that evening, every last spark of fireworks. Each moment an eternity. As grateful as I was to ride beside the queen in her carriage, the wheels simply could not turn swiftly enough. As the horses clopped down the Rue Saint-Honoré, I saw a crowd gathered at our gates, and when our carriage came to a stop, a tall figure in uniform emerged.
Gilbert! I was blinded by tears. It was everything I could do not to leap out of the carriage. I sat upon my hands, trembling with the effort at self-control until, after the heartfelt meeting of the queen of France and the nation’s returning hero, she said, “Go embrace your wife.”
A moment later, the carriage door on my side flew open, and there he was. Somehow, impossibly, more dashing and elegant—holding his hand out to me. It had been nearly two years since I’d seen my husband last. Two years of letters. Two years of loneliness and fear. And when I took his hand to exit the coach, our eyes met and a thousand unspoken words passed between us. He had returned to me before in the cloak of darkness, in the privacy of our rooms. This time, all the world was watching, and I understood somehow that he was no longer mine. At least not mine alone.
He belonged to the world.
Thinking this, my step faltered—and I fell, for the first time in my life, into a swoon. Gilbert caught me round the waist, lifting me into his strong arms, cradling my head against his chest as he carried me into the house. And the last things I heard that night were the cheers of the crowd, and my husband’s murmurs of love.