An important, if inglorious, assignment.
Laurens, meanwhile, had come as a special envoy with a sobering message—that if France did not send more money, ships, and supplies, the Americans would not only lose their independence, but also be pressed into service on British ships that would ultimately attack France.
“We would have no one but ourselves to blame,” I said.
When Gilbert went to America the first time, it was without the king’s permission, and if he’d died there, the fault would have been his own. But this time he’d gone at the king’s command with other Frenchmen who deserved the support of the nation. Whatever debts we might take on now would still be better than the cost of losing this war. My country could not commit to a fight with half measures—we had provoked the British king, and if he emerged victorious, he would visit upon us the worst retaliations. I believed anyone of sense could see this. But would our king?
Laurens needed the ear of important men at court, so I took it upon myself to introduce him into French society. At social functions, Laurens surprised me by speaking openly and with passion about the enslaved persons on his family plantation. “These trampled people are unjustly deprived of liberty and subjected to constant humiliations; they can aspire to a noble existence if only some friend of mankind would open a path for them. Which I am determined to do.”
To be a friend of mankind. Could there be a higher aspiration? With renewed determination, I went with him to Versailles—in fact, I was so often in the company of Americans that Dr. Franklin jested I was part of their delegation. I too felt frustrated by the diplomatic roadblocks. Lesser officials told us France could send no more help; the treasury vaults were closed. What folly!
One morning in May as Laurens and I strolled the gardens, discussing strategy, I spotted the foreign minister, quite unaccompanied by his usual retinue. “There is our chance,” I said as the minister walked by at a fast clip. “Pray hurry to catch him before he goes into the palace.”
Laurens, who apprehended the opportunity, sprinted after the minister. I didn’t follow, for I would have had to run to keep pace. And because my presence might inhibit the conversation, I lingered in the shade, watching the two men at a distance, until I realized the conversation had taken a decidedly hostile turn. Inching closer, I heard Laurens shout, “If you cannot send aid now, you will condemn liberty itself to death!”
The foreign minister replied testily, “Young man, the sun has addled your senses and made you forget who is friend or foe. Dr. Franklin would remember to whom he is speaking.”
“Dr. Franklin has not set foot on the battlefields,” Laurens shot back. “I have. The war will end in ignominious defeat for both our nations if—”
“Young man,” the minister barked, “you are not on a battlefield now and I am not your junior officer. The king of France has been more than charitable to the cause of your wretched colonies.”
On the word wretched, Laurens bristled, and I was shocked to see his hand go to his sword. “Not even a minister to the king of France should expect to impugn the honor of my nation in my presence without consequence, sir.”
Mon Dieu. What could Laurens be thinking? If he drew that sword, I could not contemplate the catastrophe. The incident would go round the world. “Gentlemen!” I cried, rushing to them with feigned gaiety. “Can you believe this unseasonably oppressive heat?”
Both men, red-faced and furious, stepped back from each other. Laurens let his hand drop from his sword, but then, with a curt bow, he snapped at the minister, “It is not charity that France has given, but an alliance that benefits both partners. Tell the king to expect me. I will take my words directly to him.”
The foreign minister was no messenger boy and knew the American officer would never be received by the king. A thing I explained to Laurens as we retreated. “Monsieur, that was folly!”
“Forgive me, madame, but folly is all we have left. I did not wish to put you in fear. Yet you must understand, the British will make a brutal example of all who stood up to them. My father will likely be hanged, and me beside him. As it is, your husband’s soldiers are on the verge of mutiny, and every British sharpshooter thinks Lafayette is a prize buck to be mounted on a wall. To stave off tragedy, I need to speak to the king.”
Having a fuller measure of the danger, I decided folly was the order of the day. “The king will never grant you an audience, but there might be another way . . .”