I glanced at Georges and Virginie. Were these Jacobins vile enough to punish Lafayette’s children? I would not gamble on the decency of such men. We had to flee. An offer of shelter had been made to us by a little parish deep in my husband’s mountains, where the tangled woods still echoed with his legend. Now we would hasten there . . .
“Anastasie, take your sister and gather up the valuables. Rings and watches and jewels—the silver too.”
My girls raced to do as I asked, and though the sun was setting, I called for the carriage to be brought round. That was when doubts assailed me. When the royals stole away from Paris, they went together and traveled too slowly. That is how they were captured. It would be safer to scatter my children, even though it was an affront to my mother’s instinct . . .
Though it rent my heart, I sent my wailing daughters away in the carriage to Langeac, ignoring their tearful pleas to stay at my side. The monsters might not think to look for the girls, at least not right away. But Lafayette’s only son and heir—they would hunt. “You are going to have an adventure,” I said, helping Georges into peasant’s clothing we had borrowed from a servant. “Just like the kind your father used to have.”
I pressed into his hand a dagger, telling him it must be used to defend himself against any wild dogs or wolves he might encounter, but I worried more about the beasts who walked on two legs. Thus, I led my boy and his companions—a tutor and a lad from a nearby village who would serve as guide—to the secret passages in the castle walls, now cobwebbed with age and neglect.
How I thanked God for them! They would lead away from the castle, to the darkened woods, and if we were being watched, no one would be the wiser. If my son were to be caught and questioned, he would give a false name. Jacques, Jean, Pierre . . . it did not matter. He must not admit he was the young Lafayette.
I kissed my son in hurried farewell, trying not to let him see my terror. Oh, my mother’s heart bled to send my darlings off in such distress and haste, with kisses that might be the last they ever received from my lips. Yet I remembered all too vividly the shouts of the mob in Paris.
Kill her! Let’s make Lafayette a present of his wife’s head!
My children were safer without me, and I did not want them to bear witness to my death, should it come. With my children dispatched, all that remained now was for me to steal away with Aunt Charlotte. I planned to flee deeper into the mountains, where the Protestants who lived there might remember us favorably as champions of religious freedom. If not to the Protestants, I would flee into the wilds near Mont Mouchet. In trying to decide, I went to my husband’s treasure room, grabbing up George Washington’s dueling pistols and personal tokens; I even took down my husband’s swords of honor from their case on the wall.
I should’ve sent these with Georges, I thought. As my fingertips slipped over the gold hilt of the one from America—a gift from a grateful new nation—I wished to stand and fight, wielding it in protection of everything and everyone I loved. Alas, I was no soldier.
Heartsick, I went to fetch Aunt Charlotte. I nearly got her over the threshold and out into the evening air when she stopped. “Non. I will not be rousted from my home by brigands.”
“Then you may be burned out of it!”
She tightened her lips. “I am a Lafayette. I was born here and will die here . . .”
Was I less a Lafayette than she was? I remembered my husband’s words: Chavaniac is for me a temple which gathers the sacred objects of my heart. You are the lady of my dream castle. May you guard each other well.
I had no cannon or army. I didn’t know how to guard this place. Still, now I realized I couldn’t abandon it. So as the sun finally set in scarlet splendor over the mountain peaks, I sat sweating by a blazing fire in August, burning papers our enemies might twist to their purposes. Invitations and calling cards might lead to our friends, so they went into the fire. Letters too. I worked feverishly to erase intimacies I could bear for no one to abuse.
Watching our innocent correspondence burn felt like some kind of death, but there was no choice but to entrust these memories to God for approbation or forgiveness. What I could not bear to burn, I hid. I stashed papers behind loose stones. I broke into the old dungeon chamber that Gilbert had sealed off and concealed valuables there too. I hid everything I could in the house.
Except for the swords.
Whatever should come to pass, I resolved not to let these swords fall into the hands of the desecrators of our revolution. Thus, outside into the moonlight I went, kneeling in the dew of the rose garden.