Mine was an imprudent scheme, and only a bold and defiant man would attempt it. Fortunately, John Laurens was that man. The next day, at the king’s levee, Laurens wove his way to the front of the crowd. Then, just as the king prepared to make his way to the Hall of Mirrors, Laurens did as I suggested, sliding directly in the sovereign’s path, delivering a sealed envelope into the royal hand. This was so unexpected, so breathtakingly improper, that no one said a word. Everyone—even the guards—stood in shock. The king himself didn’t seem to know what to do, simply tucking the envelope into his coat pocket before moving on.
A complete breach of etiquette, Aunt Claude screeched when she heard. I myself predicted His Majesty would probably throw the message in the fire, yet the next day, Laurens was summoned to the palace. I waited for news, pacing near the card tables. Would Laurens be censured and banished? Would the Franco-American alliance itself be ruptured? Anything seemed possible, and I would be to blame if it went wrong.
What business had I in inserting myself when lives were at stake?
It seemed like hours before the South Carolinian appeared, striding down the gallery, his face beaming with triumph. He had secured guns, money, ships, and more. And I was so happy that if I were not Lafayette’s wife, I would have kissed Laurens, and the king too.
* * *
—
In the autumn of 1782, church bells rang to celebrate the victory at Yorktown. Victory for the French and American allies. Victory for my husband. Upon hearing this, I fell to my knees. Pray God, let it be the end. Let Gilbert come home.
Some complained that my husband might’ve taken more glory for France if he had not insisted that the final battles be led by the Americans. Yet he had known that a free people must have the greater part in liberating themselves. I swelled with true admiration that in the most decisive moments of the war, still young and wishing to prove himself, my lionhearted husband set aside his pride for the good of the cause. And he’d won!
The whole world, I was sure, must change now. Certainly, Paris did. The city was scrubbed clean from muddy street to sooty chimney for the swirl of social occasions, thanksgivings, and galas that continued from crisp autumn into the glitter of icy winter. To celebrate the long-awaited birth of the dauphin, the king and queen opened an opera house in Paris. We now had an heir to the throne, and six thousand guests came to see the debut of Piccinni’s Adèle de Ponthieu while bottles of wine and baskets of fresh warm loaves were passed to peasants in the streets. Now there was to be a costumed ball at the H?tel de Ville, and Maman reminded my sisters and me, “Don’t forget your masks!” We Noailles ladies were rouged, powdered, feathered, our feet aching in satin shoes because it had already been a very long day. We had already seen the queen purified in Notre-Dame. A banquet had followed, after which we raced home in our carriages to dress for the evening entertainment, which would include a show of illuminations over the Seine.
“Mon Dieu, is it possible to have too much gaiety?” I asked wearily, having lain awake half the night with my little Georges, who was teething. Grand-mère always advised that we let him cry, but having lost a daughter, I would never complain over losing sleep for my babies.
Thanks to the queen’s discouragement of elaborate poufs and panniers of old, we fit more than one lady in a carriage, and as my sister Louise and I traversed the city in our gilded coach, every building we passed was lit up. A pavilion had been erected for the common citizens to dance, and the royal fete for nobles was even grander.
Never before had I seen the king and queen so happy. King Louis worked the words my son into every conversation. The queen, long criticized for failing in her wifely duties, basked in her success. But while I, quite exhausted after so long a day—after so long a war—stared fondly at the queen, I realized everyone was staring at me. A murmur passed like a tray of champagne, excitement following in its wake.
“Lafayette has returned!”
Could it be true? I swayed on my heels as a cheer went up and my sister Louise rushed to embrace me. “Gilbert has gone to the H?tel de Noailles. He hurried home only to find no one there!”
I sputtered with laughter. After five years of war, my husband and I were in the same city again. Yet still we were apart! I wished to run to him. I wished to sprout wings and fly. Alas, none of us could leave before the royals. Sympathetic glances told me the guests understood my difficulty. So too did the queen. Summoning me, Marie Antoinette said, “Go to your husband. Our joy should not keep you from your hero so long absent.”