They all listened. Some coldly; others with emotion. But they listened. “This was the reason for our revolution,” I explained. “The curé has disturbed no one. So by what authority does anyone threaten his life?”
“The same authority that allowed you to remain under house arrest,” one answered. “Now you will renew calls to throw you in jail.”
My voice shook, but still I spoke. “I ask to be left with my children in the only situation which can be bearable to me so long as their father remains the captive of France’s enemies. Yet, if that will not suffice, I beg of you, good patriots—put me in jail and send the curé home.”
It was this offer to give up my freedom in exchange for his that moved them. “You have expressed feelings worthy of you,” one of the officials said in announcing that the curé would be spared.
With grateful relief and an emboldened heart, I met the man’s eyes. “I wish only to be worthy of him that I love.”
* * *
—
In June, I had a reply from George Washington, and when I read it, I wished it hadn’t come at all. I feel sincere sympathy in your afflictions on account of Lafayette, it began. I can only add my most ardent prayers that you may again be united. With sentiments of sincere attachment to yourself and your dear offspring, George Washington.
So the Americans would do nothing as our bloody red summer gave way to an autumn of crimson gore. Slicing heads off was now the favorite pastime of Robespierre’s minions and their new policy of terror. It was not enough to have murdered the king; the queen’s blood was also sacrificed to the thirst of the mob. It was the death of Marie Antoinette—for whom I grieved—that made me fear the national bloodlust was a thirst that might never be slaked. After the queen’s execution, Philippe was dragged to his death. Minister Roland was proscribed, then Roland’s wife went under the blade. In the end, Brissot, Condorcet, our old friends all, were—as Mr. Morris might say—crushed under the same wheel of revolution that we put in motion.
Catholics were drowned and burned. The Jacobins changed even the calendar, banning saints’ days and the word for the sabbath. All those stories Maman used to read about martyrs had always seemed to belong to a long-forgotten age.
Now I knew the torments of cruelty were with us in every age.
On a clear November day, a representative of the Revolutionary Committee came to Chavaniac with a new warrant for my arrest. I had delayed this moment for more than a year. Now there was no escaping. As my whole world became a buzz of bees, only my daughter’s voice broke through. “Citizen, are daughters forbidden to go with their mothers?”
“Anastasie,” I snapped.
The commissioner shook his head. “Mademoiselle, be still . . .”
Anastasie would not be still. “I am sixteen; I am the daughter of Lafayette. I should be arrested too.”
“Non,” I insisted. These were different times. This time they would kill her too. Even Aunt Charlotte knew it, because she grasped Anastasie’s arm, holding her fast. With my eyes, I pleaded with the commissioner, Don’t take my daughter.
As this drama of love and loyalty played out, the commissioner found some decency and ignored my daughter’s outburst. Kissing her lovely face, I surrendered to her all that I loved in the world but my wedding ring. “If I should not return—”
“You will!” Anastasie cried.
“Courage.” I smoothed her tears from her cheeks. “Whatever happens to me, protect your siblings and try to get to your father free . . .”
All three were crying now as I took Georges’s hands in mine, whispering to him the secret of where his father’s swords were buried. “You will know when the time is right to take them up again . . .”
A soldier crowed from the courtyard, “Look what we found in the barn!” He held a marble bust of King Louis aloft. Aunt Charlotte had stashed it away. It went into a wagon with the papers and titles and deeds the Lafayettes had held for centuries. Then I was led out of the gates.
Parading me in the town center, the soldiers shouted, “Come see us burn the king in effigy!”
Wasn’t it enough that King Louis was already dead? He had caused us all much pain, but his soul should be left to rest.
When none of our villagers came out, my tormentors shouted, “Don’t be afraid of nobles anymore. You are liberated from the aristocrats. Come celebrate the fall of la femme Lafayette.”
Not a single door opened. Every shutter remained latched. No one in Chavaniac wished to see me shamed. There was, perhaps, still goodness in this village, if not this world.