“From what you say of him, George Washington would never lend his name and reputation to these crimes.”
“You are right,” he said. “As always.”
My husband announced that he would resign if these abuses continued. Within hours, it seemed as if every important person in Paris was in my parlor, begging us to reconsider. And Mr. Morris thumped his wooden leg to make his point. “Now is not the time to resign! Seize power, rule France, and bring an iron fist down over the country.”
I gaped to realize the American was not jesting. And my husband made a sound of disgust. “One taste of power, sir, and I have eaten my fill.”
Mr. Morris was not easily dissuaded. “You cannot resign. You cannot leave people to fend for themselves. I tell you frankly, sir, it is not what George Washington would do.”
He had invoked Washington too. And as Gilbert pinched at the bridge of his nose, I knew he would rescind his resignation.
* * *
—
I startled awake at the clang of the tocsin bells, wondering if we were under attack. The king’s brothers had fled to Austria; perhaps they had returned with a foreign army to put down the Revolution.
“What is it?” I asked as my husband received a missive from an aide-de-camp at our bedroom door.
“Fishwives,” Lafayette replied, his reddish hair askew. “They’ve captured cannons and dragged them to the H?tel de Ville.”
I went to the window overlooking the river, where I saw apron-clad market women on the bridges carrying butcher knives, pitchforks, and rolling pins. “Bread, bread, bread!” they chanted.
“Keep the children inside.” My husband pulled on his boots, then was out the door. By noon, he had not returned, and an endless stream of peasant women poured into every street, shouting for a march to Versailles.
Could this be spontaneous? The chants for bread were sincere, but ordinary women do not steal out of their houses before dawn to steal cannons, do they? I did not wish to think women incapable of protest, but to steal arms . . .
Were they taking advantage of the fact that my husband would never open fire upon ladies?
I fed our children a humble breakfast and, unable to eat a bite, gave my portion to the servants. Meanwhile, storm clouds darkened the sky. I prayed for rain. Rain would send people inside—give them time to reconsider violence, I thought. In this I was wrong. Even a cold wet wind did not disperse them.
I could not determine the mob’s purpose in wishing to march on Versailles. Was it to plead with the king, overthrow him, or kill him? Later, I would learn that my husband refused, again and again, to allow a march. He was threatened with the lamppost. He was threatened with muskets. He was threatened hour after hour until at last he knew he would either die here or die defending the king. He chose the latter.
He was now a veritable hostage to the women—and to some of his own rebellious guardsmen whose pockets were filled with Philippe’s gold. Thus, with rainfall battering against my windows, I watched my husband lead a long march he did not approve.
I stood desolate and in despair, my hand pressed to the glass, long after the sound of the drums faded. It would be seven hours, plodding in mud to reach Versailles. Long enough, I hoped, for the royal family to flee. For myself, I took the children to the H?tel de Noailles, where Grand-mère and my sister Pauline had determined our family should leave the country.
“Adrienne,” Pauline said fiercely. “We cannot allow you to be here when the mob brings Lafayette’s head back on a pike for you to kiss!”
I shuddered, realizing my family had given him up for dead. Even my own mind played evil tricks, imagining my husband beheaded. But I would not leave Paris. I would not leave France. I would not leave him. I prayed more feverishly than ever before, and my faith was rewarded, for the next morning my husband returned, leading a royal procession, installing the king and queen safely in the Tuileries Palace.
“God save the poor king,” Grand-mère said, weeping. “He is overthrown!”
“He is alive,” I said, realizing what a miracle that truly was.
I hurried home to the Rue de Bourbon to find Gilbert at the foot of our bed, head in hands. “I warned the royals,” he said. “I sent word ahead. I sent drummers to make noise. I slowed the march by pacing the horses. I did everything to buy the royals time to flee, and nearly bought that time with my life; but the king was still somehow inexplicably there when the mob reached the palace.”
Whether the king was brave or foolish, I could not decide. Of my husband’s courage, I had no doubt, even though he trembled to tell the tale. “I made my men commit again to their oath to serve the law, the nation, and their king. We received word from the palace that the declaration of rights had been accepted, and the people shouted in triumph. This should have ended it, Adrienne. This should have ended it.”