Marat’s lack of a fixed address, along with the high anxiety caused by the concerted efforts of the police, National Guard, and National Assembly to capture him, did nothing for his fragile mental and physical state. His skin, which had improved during their time away in England, flared into an agony of itchy, red sores. Marcus prescribed a vinegar wash to quiet the inflammation and prevent infection. It stung like the devil, but it brought Marat relief—so much so that he began to wear a vinegar-soaked cloth around his head. The sharp tang announced his presence long before he appeared, and Veronique dubbed him Le Vinaigrier and aired out her back room whenever Marat slept there so as not to tip off the authorities.
While Marat hid, Marcus spent late May and June digging out the Champs de Mars and ferrying wheelbarrows of dirt to the side of a vast oval arena so that Paris could properly celebrate the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille come July. Marat was the only creature of their acquaintance who did not participate in the excavation, pleading a bad back and sore hands due to the many hours he spent crouched over newspaper copy and writing screeds against his political rivals.
With Marat increasingly convinced that there were vast conspiracies at work to undo the Revolution, and Veronique busy recruiting new members of the Cordeliers Club for Danton, Marcus found himself spending more time with Lafayette. As head of the National Guard and author of France’s new draft constitution, the marquis was up to his neck in plans for the July celebrations. He had ordered troops from all over the country into Paris—one of Marat’s conspiracies argued that Lafayette did so to proclaim himself king—and now had to find housing, food, and amusements for them. At the same time, Lafayette was called upon to greet the visitors who were arriving to join in the festivities. Even the royal family was slated to attend the fete.
Given the presence of the king, queen, and heir to the throne, as well as hundreds of thousands of intoxicated Parisians, foreign dignitaries, and armed soldiers, Lafayette was understandably concerned about safety. His anxiety mounted when Marat announced his opposition to the planned spectacle, bringing the simmering animosity between Marcus’s two friends to a vitriolic boil.
“‘Blind citizens whom my cries of pain cannot penetrate—sleep on, on the edge of the abyss,’” Lafayette read aloud from the newspaper. He groaned. “Is Marat trying to cause a riot?”
“Jean-Paul doesn’t think people are listening to his calls for equality,” Marcus said, trying to explain Marat’s position.
“He publishes one shrill call to tear society apart after another. We have no choice but to listen.” Lafayette tossed L’ami du peuple on his desk.
They were seated in Lafayette’s private cabinet, the doors to the small balcony open to the heavy July air. Lafayette’s house was luxurious, but not as large as the H?tel de Clermont. The marquis had deliberately chosen a residence that was less ostentatious than those of most aristocrats, and decorated it with simple, neoclassical elegance. He and Adrienne, along with their children Anastasie and Georges, had gladly left Versailles to enjoy life as a family on the rue de Bourbon.
Lafayette’s page entered, a letter in his hand.
“Monsieur Thomas Paine,” the page announced. “He is waiting for you in the salon.”
“There is no need for such ceremony,” Lafayette said. “We will greet him here.”
Marcus leaped to his feet. “The Thomas Paine?”
“There is only one, alas.” Lafayette straightened his waistcoat and his wig while his servant fetched his American visitor.
After what seemed like an eternity to Marcus, the servant returned. With him was a man who looked like an English country parson, dressed in severe black from shoulder to foot, his simple white cravat the only thing to provide a dash of contrast apart from his hair, which was gunmetal gray. Paine’s nose was long and bulbous, the end of it angled slightly to the right. The left side of his mouth drooped slightly, which gave him the odd appearance of someone whose features had been fashioned out of soft modeling clay.
“Ah, Mr. Paine. You found us. Adrienne will be sorry to miss you. She is with her family at the moment.”
“Monsieur.” Paine bowed.
“But I have some consolation, as well as some refreshment,” Lafayette said. More servants appeared with tea and melted away again without uttering a word. “This is my dear Doc, who treated me at Brandywine. He is a great admirer of your writing, and can recite Common Sense chapter and verse. Marcus de Clermont, my friend Thomas Paine.”