These swords, like Chavaniac, were only symbols; a symbol was nothing. And yet, everything. Thus, with the moon as my witness, I dug with my bare hands into the cold earth. I hid the blades deep in volcanic soil that served to remind me that the precious things we bury, like fire in the heart of the world, must one day rise up again. And that our voices would not be silenced forever, but echo through the ages for those who are willing to listen.
At daybreak, Aunt Charlotte stared at me in confusion when I told her my idea. “Put Chavaniac under seal? What does that mean?”
I forced myself to calm. “It means we surrender the castle and everything in it to the civic authorities. Gilbert’s enemies are calling him an émigré and consider all he owns forfeit, so they will not want it stolen by pillagers before they can take it for themselves.”
Aunt Charlotte laughed like a hyena. “You want bourgeois brigands to protect us from peasant pillagers?”
It was our only hope. Aunt Charlotte believed there was no lawful government but the king’s, yet she did not stop me from writing the letter that invited the tribunal in Brioude to vouchsafe our castle and all its belongings. The Revolutionary officials came straightaway to affix the seal on our door, and though Aunt Charlotte took this for the greatest indignity, it would keep looters away.
The officials then advised that I go before a tribunal in Brioude to answer a warrant that had been issued for my arrest.
“Non, Adrienne,” Aunt Charlotte said. “You must not go. Here at Chavaniac, you can hide in these woods. They will keep you safe.”
“But amongst the officials in Brioude, we have Fayettist friends,” I argued. “If I go now and prevail upon them before the Jacobins can remove them from power, we stand a better chance.”
I was dressed and ready with a small traveling valise when the curé, waving a missive, came from the village. “Madame! You will want to read this.”
My breath caught at the sight of my husband’s handwriting. The letter both comforted me and put me in torment, for Gilbert, in crossing over the frontier as a noncombatant, invoking the right of safe passage to a neutral country, had nevertheless been detained—not by the Jacobins, but by our Austrian enemies.
When I am released, I wish for my family to join me in America, where we will find the freedom that no longer exists in France. And I will try, with all my love and tenderness, to console you for all you’ve lost.
I did not know when he might be released, or when we could go with him to America, but he was alive. We were all still alive, and I meant for us to stay that way. “Guard this letter,” I said to Aunt Charlotte, surrendering the precious pages to her.
“With my last breath.” She tucked it into her bodice, near her heart.
In Brioude I was surprised to find an atmosphere of carnival. Every person was in the streets for the elections. Only one man shouted, “For shame! There is a warrant for the wife of Lafayette and yet no one dares lay a hand on her?”
Thankfully, he was alone in his ranting. I was welcomed. Friendly officials came to console me. “No one here would hold against an innocent wife the transgressions of her husband. You will not be arrested.”
The grandee of the town meant to imply it would be easier for me if I denounced my husband, and this gave me the deepest insult. “Monsieur Lafayette has not transgressed. He’s been captured by our enemies, sir. He’s not one of them.”
“He is lucky to have so loyal a wife, madame. Many still love your husband and remember all the good you have done. For your own sake, though, at least refuse to take Mass from a nonjuring priest.”
It seemed so simple a request, yet the pain of my conscience burned. “Is the violation of my religious principle the price of my safety?”
He was not base enough to force me, but when I announced my determination to take Mass with a nonjuring priest, he said, “To give so little care for pragmatic concerns, madame, I fear you have been infected by the heady air of Chavaniac.”
Perhaps I had been. And perhaps I would have been more circumspect if I had known of the atrocities committed that terrible day. For throughout France the Orléanists and the Jacobins embarked upon a killing spree. They went first for the priests, killing hundreds of them, and bishops too. Then they killed common prisoners, the surviving king’s guards, aristocrats, or any noble they found.
Princesse de Lamballe was raped, beaten, and dismembered—her head paraded through the streets. When I heard this, I nearly howled with sorrow, and went straight to see my daughters at Langeac—both of whom had also heard about the massacres. Virginie was in a terrible fright, flying into my arms, but Anastasie was furious. “How can God forgive such crimes?”