“Me?”
“I wish you weren’t in this position, but as Madame LeVerrier likes to say, you couldn’t have grown up here without the certainty that goodness exists and must be defended. So I have to ask it of you . . . if I provide the forms, can you create falsified documents like these?”
She shows me examples of school certificates and other related paperwork. And before I know it, I’m considering it. Filling out the certificates for vaccinations would be easy. Even the letterheads could be mimicked. The tricky part would be the official blue stamp bearing the words Etat Fran?ais, surrounded by the seal of the town mayor, but with the right brush and ink . . .
I should take some time to think about it, but I don’t. “I can do it.” I’m a better artist than I was two years ago, and I just have to slip these under the nose of whatever overworked, overwhelmed old secretary they hire to replace Madame Simon. “I know I can.”
She nods with a fond smile. “Good. Now, we need a false surname for this little Jewish girl . . . something French, something common . . .”
The only inspiration we have is a picture of the castle back when it was white. Henri used to say it was a pretty fortress even then. “What about Beaufort?”
Madame Simon nods. “That will do. Now, I need to ask two more things of you. First, you must promise me that once I’m gone, you won’t do anything to get yourself fired. After all, you’ll be the only person at the preventorium who knows the real identity of Gabriella Kohn, and you need to take responsibility for her and make sure she gets back to her family when she’s cured and released.”
I take a deep breath, not really wanting to agree, not wanting responsibility for anybody but myself, but in the end, I nod.
“Second, you must keep this between the two of us. If there’s trouble, the only way to protect people is to keep them in the dark.”
“I understand. I’ll keep quiet.”
“Absolutely silent, Marthe. You can’t tell anyone. Especially not the baron’s daughter.”
I bristle as she zones in on precisely the one person I most want to tell. “I said I’d keep quiet . . . but why not Anna especially?”
“Because she’s going to be my successor and the person you’ll have to deceive.”
SEVENTEEN
ADRIENNE
Paris
March 1781
The American war was going badly, and I was in no mood to hear the complaints of the financial agent appointed to manage my husband’s finances until he came of age. “Mon Dieu, the deficit the marquis de Lafayette runs to equip his soldiers in America is impossibly large!”
“It does not matter.” What price could I put on my husband’s life and those he fought for? “We must find a way to raise money if the king won’t give more.”
By necessity, what a merchant I became! I worked with the manager to sell land, collect rents, and find new ways to manage the estates. I was desperately inventive. I could not fight beside Gilbert on a field or carry pitchers of water to his thirsty cannoneers. I could not cook for his soldiers, or tend them in camp in the way of Martha Washington. I could do only this, but would it be enough?
In the midst of these worries, I received a letter from my husband.
My dear heart, I am very fond of the man who gives you this message, and wish you to become good friends. He will inform you of what has happened in America, where we republicans rely on the people, our only rulers, to provide aid and comfort in the war.
The man in question was Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, aide-de-camp to General Washington. This young, soldierly South Carolinian gentleman had been sent by his government to assist the aging Dr. Franklin, and now he drawled, “Madame Lafayette, what an honor to make your acquaintance.”
I returned his greeting in English, and then, with a gallant bow, the American officer explained in French, “It’s been a dreadful slog for Lafayette—for all of us. The French fleet is stranded in Rhode Island. We don’t know when, or if, the enemy will attack. So your husband bids me to tell you he has been in little danger.” I exhaled deeply with relief, and Laurens smiled. “Of course, he also bade me to tell you that he loves you, and to tell you this so often that you will find me tedious . . .”
I laughed. “Oh, I shall never tire of hearing it, sir!”
I invited Laurens for dinner, where he charmed the women of my family—even Anastasie, for whom he drew little pictures of New World songbirds. And Laurens gave us all pleasure when he said, “Lafayette is an essential ingredient to nearly every success we’ve had against the British. He is, even now, chasing the traitor Benedict Arnold.”