During the winter after Adrienne's marriage the Duchesse d'Ayen took
her two daughters regularly to the balls given each week by the queen,
and after the balls invited the friends of her sons-in-law to supper,
in a pathetically conscientious effort to make the home of the De
Noailles a more agreeable place for the husbands of her children than
it had been for her own. Adrienne inherited much of her mother's
seriousness, but she was young enough to enjoy dancing, and, feeling
that duty as well as inclination smiled upon this life, she was very
happy. In December of that year her first child was born, a daughter
who was named Henriette.
Lafayette tells us in his _Memoirs_ that he did not feel thoroughly
at ease in the gay society Marie Antoinette drew about her. Nor did
the queen altogether approve of him, because of his silence and an
awkwardness which did not measure up to the standards of deportment
she had set for this circle of intimate friends. "I was silent," he
says, "because I did not hear anything which seemed worth repeating;
and I certainly had no thoughts of my own worthy of being put into
[Pg 30]words." Some of his friends, who knew him better than the queen,
realized that there was plenty of fire in him, in spite of his cold
manner and slow speech. De Ségur was one of these, for at some period
of his youth Lafayette, smitten with sudden and mistaken jealousy, had
spent nearly an entire night trying to persuade De Ségur to fight a
duel with him about a beauty for whom De Ségur did not care at all.
Adrienne's family, wishing to do their best by him, tried to secure a
place for him in the household of the prince who afterward became Louis
XVIII. Lafayette did not want to hurt their feelings; neither did he
fancy himself in the rôle they had chosen for him, where he believed
he would be forced to govern his actions by another man's opinions. He
kept his own counsel,but, "in order to save his independence," managed
to have the prince overhear a remark which he made with the deliberate
purpose of angering him. The office was of course given to some one
else, and another bit of ill will went to swell the breezes blowing
over the terraces at Versailles.
There were bitter court factions. Friends of Louis XV had not relished
seeing power slip out of their hands. The queen was an Austrian who
never fully understood nor sympathized with the French. Neither her
critics nor her partizans ever allowed themselves to forget her foreign
birth. King Louis, not having confidence in himself, chose for his
premier M. de Maurepas, who was over eighty, and should therefore have
been a mine of wisdom and experience. Unfortunately, he was the wrong
[Pg 31]man; he was not universally respected, and his white hairs
crowned a pate that was not proof against the frivolities of society.
The younger men were displeased. It was not customary to give young
men positions of importance, but they were sure they could do quite as
well as he. They had their café club also, a place called the Wooden
Sword, where they discussed the most extravagant theories of new
philosophy, reviled old customs, calling them "Gothic," their favorite
term of reproach, and concocted schemes to amuse themselves and tease
their elders. Having nothing serious to occupy them, they turned their
attention to setting new fashions. A series of pageants and dances gave
them excellent opportunity. The admiration they felt for themselves and
one another in the romantic dress of the time of Henri IV made them
resolve to adopt it and force it upon others for daily wear. That the
capes and plumes and love-knots which became their slender figures so
well made older and stouter men look ridiculous was perhaps part of
their malicious intent.
Age made common cause against them, and the youngsters went too far
when they held a mock session of Parliament, one of those grave
assemblages which had taken place in far-off days in France, but had
been almost forgotten since. There was an increasing demand that the
custom be revived, which was not relished by M. de Maurepas and his
kind. When the old premier learned that a prince of the blood had
played the role of President in this travesty, while Lafayette had
been attorney-general and other sprigs of high family figured as [Pg
32]counsel, barristers, and advocates, it was evident that a storm was
brewing. De Ségur went straight to the king and told him the story in
a way that made him laugh. This saved the participants from serious
consequences, but it was agreed that such trifling must stop; and most
of them were packed off to join their regiments.
Lafayette's regiment was stationed at Metz, and he took his way there
feeling much as he had felt when he wrote his school-boy essay on the
"perfect steed." It was the most fortunate journey of his life, for at
the end of it he met his great opportunity. The Duke of Gloucester,
brother of the King of England, was traveling abroad. He came to
Metz, and the military commander of the place, Comte de Broglie, gave
a dinner in his honor to which he invited the chief officers of the
garrison. It was not the only time that a dinner played an important
part in Lafayette's career. Neither Lafayette's age nor his military
rank quite entitled him to such an invitation; but the count had a
kindly spot in his heart for young men. Besides, Adrienne Lafayette was
a kinswoman of his, and he remembered that the father of this tall,
silent lad had served under him in the Seven Years' War.
The guest of honor was not the kind of loyal subject and brother who
could speak no ill of his sovereign. In fact, he and King George
were not on good terms. He had his own views about the troubles in
America, and thought the king quite wrong in his attitude toward the
Colonists. He had lately received letters, and at this dinner discussed
[Pg 33]them with the utmost frankness, explaining the point of view
of the "insurgents" and expressing his belief that they would give
England serious trouble. Possibly Lafayette had never heard of George
Washington until that moment. Certainly he had never considered the
continent of North America except as a vague and distant part of the
earth's surface with which he could have no personal concern. Yet twice
already the names of his family and of America had been linked. The old
marshal who took _Cur non?_ for his motto had lived when the voyage of
Columbus had set the world ringing; and Gilbert de Motier, Lafayette's
own father, had lost his life in the Seven Years' War, by which England
won from France practically all the land she held in the New World.
Slight and remote as these connections were, who can say that they
did not unconsciously influence a spirit inclined toward liberty? The
conversation of the Duke of Gloucester seemed to bring America from
a great distance to within actual reach of Lafayette's hand. He hung
upon every word. The prince may not have been altogether prudent in
his remarks. It was an after-dinner conversation and in that day the
English drank hard. Even so, the duke's indiscretions made the talk
more interesting and, to Lafayette, more convincing. Every word spoken
strengthened the belief that these American Colonists were brave men,
well within their rights, fighting for a principle which would make
the world better and happier. He realized with a thrill that men three
[Pg 34]thousand miles away were not content with mere words, but
were risking their lives at that very moment for the theories which
philosophers had been preaching for a thousand years; the same theories
that orators in six hundred Paris cafés had lately begun to declaim.
Afterward he got permission to ask some of the questions with which
his brain teemed; but long before the candles of that feast had burned
down in their sockets his great resolution was made to "go to America
and offer his services to a people struggling to be free." From that
time on he could think of little else; but, as so often happens with
quick and generous resolutions, the more he thought about it the more
difficult it seemed to carry out. He had exulted at first that he
was his own master with a fortune to dispose of as he chose. Then he
remembered his wife and her family. He knew he could count upon her
loyalty; but he was equally certain that he would meet determined
opposition from the Duc d'Ayen and all his powerful connection, who had
done their worldly best to make him a member of a prince's household.
And disapproval of "the family" in France was not to be lightly
regarded. No serious step could be undertaken by young people without
their elders feeling it their solemn duty to give advice. Very likely
the king and his ministers would also have something to say. "However,"
he wrote in his _Memoirs_, "I had confidence in myself, and dared adopt
as device for my coat of arms the words _Cur non?_ that they might
serve me on occasion for encouragement, or by way of answer."
[Pg 35]He knew almost nothing about America, and, as soon as military
duties permitted, asked leave to go to Paris to make further inquiries,
opening his heart very frankly to the Comte de Broglie. It happened
that the count had vivid dreams of his own about America--dreams
which centered on nothing less than the hope that with proper hints
and encouragement the rebellious colonies might call him (the Comte
de Broglie, of wide military experience) to take supreme command of
their armies and lead them to victory, instead of trusting them to
the doubtful guidance of local talent in the person of this obscure
Col. George Washington. But De Broglie was not minded to confide such
things to the red-haired stripling who looked at him so pleadingly. He
conscientiously tried to dissuade him. "My boy," he said, "I saw your
uncle die in the Italian wars. I witnessed your father's death.... I
will not be accessory to the ruin of the only remaining branch of your
family." But finding arguments made no impression, he gave him the
coveted permission and also an introduction to a middle-aged Bavarian
officer known as the Baron de Kalb. This man had made a voyage to
America in the secret employment of the French government some years
before, and he was even now acting as De Broglie's agent.
Arrived in Paris, Lafayette found the town full of enthusiasm for the
insurgents, or the Bostonians, as they were called. Already English
whist had been abandoned for another game of cards known as _le
Boston_, and soon the authorities might feel it necessary to forbid
[Pg 36]the wearing of a certain style of head-dress called "_aux
insurgents_" and to prohibit talk about American rebels in the cafés.
Secretly the ministers of Louis wished the audacious rebels well,
being convinced that whatever vexed England served to advance the
interests of France, but officially they were strictly neutral. When
Lord Stormont, the British ambassador, complained that agents of the
American government were shipping supplies from French ports, they
made a great show of activity, asked American vessels to leave, and
forbade trade in contraband articles; but they obligingly shut their
eyes to the presence of Silas Deane, the American envoy, in Paris.
Diplomatically speaking, he did not exist, since Louis had not yet
received him; but everybody knew that people of distinction in all
walks of life went secretly to his lodgings.
Lafayette knew not one word of English. Silas Deane knew little, if
any, French, and it was De Kalb who acted as interpreter when the
young nobleman went to call upon him. Liberty, like misery, brings
about strange companionships. Three men more unlike could scarcely
have been found. Although known as "Baron," Johann Kalb was a man of
mystery who had in truth begun life as a butler and had won his place
in the army through sheer merit. He was middle-aged, handsome, and
grave. Silas Deane, the lawyer-merchant from Connecticut, was not only
imperfectly equipped with French, his manners were so unpolished as to
appear little short of repulsive. Lafayette's usual quiet was shaken by
his new enthusiasm. His bearing, which seemed awkward at Versailles,
[Pg 37]was more graceful than the Yankee envoy thought quite moral,
or than the grave soldier of fortune had been able to achieve. And
he was ridiculously young. Even he realized that. "In presenting my
nineteen-year-old face to Mr. Deane," says the _Memoirs_, "I dwelt more
on my zeal than on my experience; but I did make him comprehend that my
departure would cause some little excitement and might influence others
to take a similar step." He could make the family opposition count for
something on his side!
Whatever Silas Deane may have lacked in manner, his wits were not slow.
He instantly saw the advantage of gaining such a convert to his cause.
The two signed an agreement which was a rather remarkable document.
On his part Silas Deane promised Lafayette the rank of major-general
in the Continental Army. But hardened as Deane was to making lavish
promises in the name of the Continental Congress, he knew that a
major-general only nineteen years of age, who had never heard the sound
of a hostile gun, would be received with question rather than with
joy in America, so he added a few words explaining that Lafayette's
"high birth, his connections, the great dignities held by his family
at the court, his disinterestedness, and, above all, his zeal for the
freedom of our Colonies have alone been able to induce me to make this
promise." One would think Lafayette had been haggling, whereas quite
the reverse appears to have been the truth.
[Pg 38]Lafayette wrote: "To the above conditions I agree; and promise
to start when and how Mr. Deane shall judge it proper, to serve the
said states with all possible zeal, with no allowance for private
salary, reserving to myself only the right to return to France whenever
my family or the king shall recall me," and signed his name. After
which he left the house of the American commissioner feeling that
nothing short of all the king's horses and all the king's men could
turn him from his purpose.
[Pg 39]V