The chamberlain ground his teeth, then made a sound almost pained. “Come tomorrow. You will have ten minutes with the emperor—no more.”
I stifled a cry of triumph. Then, in the hours that followed, the clock could not turn fast enough. As I contemplated all I would say to the emperor, I was interrupted by my daughters. “Teach us to curtsy in obeisance.”
As the children of Lafayette, they had never learned to humble themselves before any monarch. Yet I believed that the beauty of their souls would plead eloquently for their father. We owned nothing suitable to the occasion of visiting the winter palace in Vienna. Our jewels had been long since confiscated or sold, so we donned borrowed gowns and simple ribbons of scarlet round our necks.
The chamberlain arranged the most secret of meetings in a small chamber without audience; none of the ministers had been informed. In white hose, Emperor Francis II received us politely but came directly to the point. “I cannot grant Lafayette’s liberty. My hands are tied.”
How could that be? He was a champion of authoritarian rule and the divine right of kings to do as they pleased. Yet something constrained him. At war with France, he did not wish to free the most famous, or infamous, Frenchman of all. If I had learned anything in my years in public life, it was that public opinion could be both manipulated for evil and swayed for good. My husband had changed minds with his courage, and my Lord Jesus Christ had transformed the hearts of humanity with his sacrifice. I wished to be worthy of them both. “Sire, if you will not release my husband from your dungeon, I ask permission to share his fate, as I vowed in marriage to do. You will make me happy if you grant this.”
The emperor swallowed, shifted in his chair, started to say something—perhaps to refuse me, and my heart sank. It would have been worse, in that moment, to be sent away than to be clasped in chains.
Then the emperor’s flinty eyes softened. “I grant it to you, madame.”
“Merci!” How perverse to be made so happy by the prospect of imprisonment! Yet I felt on the cusp of life again. After all these long years, to set eyes on my beloved . . .
I would have flown to Gilbert that instant, but time grew short and I must not waste it. “Sire, there are rumors about Prussian prisons . . . if I should encounter troubles in your dungeons, I would like your permission to address you with requests.”
“We consent,” he replied, with the royal we. “You will find Lafayette well fed and well treated. You will be pleased with the commanding officers. The prisoners are distinguished only by number, but of course, your husband’s name is known and he is given privileges accordingly.”
This eased my worries, and as our audience came to an end, I was resolved to join my husband in prison. My daughters were too. Anastasie said, “We will never consent to be parted from you again, Maman.”
“Never,” Virginie echoed.
As if to prove she harbored in her breast not only the sincerity of a Lafayette but the courtier’s instinct of the Noailles, Anastasie argued, “It will shame the emperor more to lock up my father’s children. Our going with you will draw the eyes of the world and soften hearts to a little family, already so wretched, reduced to this by our devotion to one another.”
It was upon this hope we staked everything.
* * *
—
As my daughters both prepared themselves to be caged, I knew that if I had done nothing else well in my life, I had done well with my children. For them, if for no other reason, I would do this in a manner befitting, even though a horror came over me at the sight of the redbrick fortifications at Olmütz in which my husband had been left to rot. I felt the need to gasp fresh air, not knowing the next time we might have the opportunity. Yet I was determined to show no fear, even when given warnings from the guardsmen. “Think carefully what you are doing, madame. It is a harsh life inside these dungeon walls. You will suffer.”
“I have been assured by the emperor that prisoners are well cared for, sir.” Of course, King Louis once believed his prisoners were well treated in the Bastille too. But our captors should know we expected humane treatment. “Surely he is not mistaken to put his faith in you. He granted me permission to write him if I found anything amiss.”
The guard had nothing to say to that. Instead, he inspected our satchels. “No knives, forks, or spoons allowed. Prisoners tend to use them for suicide.”
“How do you expect us to take our meals?”
“With your hands,” he said, turning the key in the first door, to lead us through a maze of dark, fetid hallways. We discovered my husband had been kept alone, in a chamber closed off by an iron door with locks and chains, and a wood door behind it—all this, as if to imprison a dragon.