There was pride, though, in Chavaniac, with its liberty capstone over the door. This chateau wasn’t an intimidating palatial edifice. And I was pleased to show the officers the treasure room, where, in the place of honor, was my husband’s copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. Letters from Washington. Keepsakes from Dr. Franklin. All the reminders that my husband was, and had always been, a champion of liberty.
Over wine and pork stew, the officers explained they no longer trusted the king, and they wanted a republic instead of a constitutional monarchy. Given the king’s likely conspiracy with the army at our borders, I could no longer blame anyone for preferring a republic, yet I restricted my comments to learning their names and asking after their families, and talking about my hopes for France, which were hopes we all shared.
They explained they were on their way to the border to join the fight against our enemies. And when the wineglasses were drained and plates scraped clean, I said, “On behalf of General Lafayette, I invite you to billet here for the night.”
The ranking officer kissed my hand. “Madame, after what you have shown us today, I consider it an honor to sleep under the same roof where Lafayette was born. And even more an honor to have dined with the Mother of the Nation.”
The next day, as I watched them march off, I felt a flicker of hope in my breast that the Revolution might still defend itself and prove its own worth.
It was a short-lived hope, for in Paris, it was now civil war.
For while my husband was battling at the border to defend France, his enemies in Paris went to war with his bust in the H?tel de Ville. They chopped to pieces the gift from Jefferson that I had dedicated, the same bust near which my husband swore upon his sword to protect the people. Only after they destroyed my husband’s imitation did they find the courage to storm the gates of the Tuileries Palace—destroying everything in their path, slaughtering the Swiss Guard, and arresting the king.
The Jacobins took power with the same cruel tyranny they condemned. This was not a revolution, but a coup d’état led by corrupt demagogues like Danton and ascetic fanatics like Robespierre.
They had overthrown the monarchy and the constitution. And I was now in more terror for my family than I had ever been. I knew that back in Paris the H?tel de Noailles was caught betwixt the Jacobin Club on the one side and the Tuileries Palace on the other. Had Papa, as the king’s guard, been slaughtered at the Tuileries? What about the rest of my loved ones? I felt a thousand regrets and was desperate for news. “Does my husband know what these scoundrels have done in Paris?” I asked the local curé.
The priest swallowed, pressing the latest reports into my hand. “He does, madame. He denounced this uprising and summoned his troops . . . but they are in mutiny. And now there is a bounty on your husband’s capture, dead or alive.”
I sank down into an armchair, in despair. These wicked men would slaughter my husband without trial. The Jacobins spoke of rights, but honored none. So everything was undone . . .
Where was Lafayette now? He might be captured. He might be in hiding. He might even be dead—murdered by his mutinous soldiers. I had to know. I sent to Brioude for news, then gathered the children into my chambers. Georges and Virginie had been playing shuttlecock, having little notion of the catastrophe. Yet my eldest stood at the window, staring at the mountains all mantled in green foliage. At fifteen, Anastasie was now older than I was the day I married her father, and she understood our situation all too well.
The church bell rang for vespers, and still no news. I paced, feeling more faint with every chime of the clock. Then a cannon boomed from the direction of Paulhaguet, and we all startled. At last came a missive from my sister Louise, who had decided against leaving for America to join her husband.
My eyes raced over my sister’s elegant script, savoring her reassurance that everyone I loved in Paris was alive. How my father escaped alive from the Tuileries, I will never know, because the mob butchered even the servants in their fury, leaving bloody red gore smeared upon the walls. Then my sister dared to add the postscript that would change everything.
Gilbert has made it across the border.
I dissolved in tearful joy to learn my husband had fled into neutral Belgium with his loyal officers. Aunt Charlotte dissolved into a different emotion. “Left France? No! He cannot have done it.”
I tried to explain he had escaped certain execution. Still Aunt Charlotte keened, stumbling into the corner as she plucked at her cap, wailing that she would never see her nephew again. It was her age, I thought. She did not understand this was the best possible news under the circumstances. Then again, was I any more sensible? I had wasted hours waiting for news when there was much to be done. If our enemies could not capture my husband, they would come here. They would seize his papers. His property. His—