Lafayette_Courtier to Crown Fugitive, 1757-1777

by S. P. Grogan

  Among those terrified was Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette. He watched as the crowd ran in terror to escape into the side streets only to be blocked by carriages. Men and women were screaming. He saw two young men climb to safety upon the statue pedestal horse where mounted the gilded Louis XV. Though the distance seemed far to gain clear sight the exploding ordinance threw orange-red flame streaks across the sky. “Could it be,” he wondered, and saw his school tormentor and fellow class mate, Francois Barras, climb to safety. Barras and La Fayette both were standing above the frightened stampede and Barras caught Gilbert’s stare and gave a devilish laugh, silent from the distance, as he kicked away a woman who was being hoisted up on the statue to seek refuge. She fell under the hard-sole shoes of the mob and he saw her no more.

  Suddenly, Gilbert found himself torn from his perch as people sought to scramble over the wall, pushing him within a human torrent like a pebble in a fast moving current of horror. He sought the fringes of the crowd as the fleeing mass pushed towards the smaller thoroughfares and side streets, many falling into a small recently constructed ditch, where people tripped and fell over others. The dying noise of the fireworks was replaced with desperate shouts, gurgled cries and the moaning of the dying.

  As he stumbled to be trampled upon, a rough hand grabbed the scruff of his collar and Gilbert found himself yanked, then hoisted and thrown like a lump of potatoes over Giles Base’s shoulder. The servant feeling no gentleman-like remorse trod across fallen people and then stepped up and across over-turned carriages, then finally to scale another wall, a second of respite, but the surge had not yet abated.

  Blasse shouted to the scared youth, “Your Grand-mere says you enjoy your summers swimming in the Chavnaiac pond.”

  “What?” Gilbert was confused at the statement, but it was too late to realize that they had been standing up against the Quai de Tuileries, and with a strong up and over shove Gilbert was launched into the air and in a quite undignified posture hit hard the River Seine. A secondary splash was that of his servant who upon bobbing to the surface yelled out true words of wisdom, “Don’t swallow the water, sire!” as he pulled his master to the gunnels of a passing produce barque, the lone sailor aboard totally terrified of other falling bodies to the water, some flaying in desperation, many of them to go silent, bobbing face down like clothed corks.

  Later, as they made their way back to his small room in the Luxembourg apartments, Blasse put on his face and manner of feigned meekness.

  “As I once kept your secret of the villains upon the road in our journey to Paris, I feel it best if this adventure goes unrecorded. The Comte might not be so understanding and assess me as the culprit in risking your life, thereby my employment swiftly ended. Without a job or references Paris soon brings on a death sentence by starvation.”

  Gilbert smelled the lingering wafting odor of firework black powder upon the cooling night. A mild summer breeze did little at drying out his clothes. His disheveled look would be remarked upon. He needed time to formulate a believable lie. So, they stopped at a café and the glass of wine he gulped down burned warmth inside. People in the street still fast paced or ran as if the Devil’s minions were hard upon them.

  Gilbert took a breath in relief, and sipped his wine glass empty, and Blasse signaled for another medicinal libation.

  “Yes, I have no need to brag about tonight’s folly.”

  “Just remember, sire, as you might learn from this unfortunate incident, a crowd usually becomes a mob on false news. And a slow retreat from any disaster is best to save lives.” Only 28 years later would the servant’s words come back to him in the heat of choices when Gilbert faced an unruly street assembly and with a chirping zing of one discharged musket from an unknown source and direction, the crowd before him became bloodthirsty fanatics setting off mobs across France on such ‘false news’ and his height achieved within the heavens of career power toppled into the maelstrom abyss.

  “And,” Blasse continued, drinking heartedly from his glass of wine, quieting his own chill. “I daresay this night seems to be a bad omen upon which to launch the royal nuptials.”

  But Gilbert, in relief of being one of the living, only wished to see a new morrow. In the new sunrise Gilbert learned 700 Parisians had been trampled to death in the Place de la Louis XV. And though returning to the sadness of his world, missing terribly his absent mother, slowly over the next week he revived his inner confidence believing the fireworks tragedy could be interpreted as a sign of good fortune; he had survived where others perished. He began to smile once more accepting: it must be his fate to do great deeds, and if to be, his future death was ordained it must be heroic and glorious.

  Ruggieri fireworks display at French Court

  13.

  TIME HEALED OR AT BEST half buried sorrow and he returned to his studies, less devastated by the death of his mother and her father, his grandfather. Gilbert’s happy-go-lucky attitude muted with sullenness, a lingering pained feeling of being alone as he had felt in his first year of boarding school. To his schoolmates he was still seen as the outsider, from the hill country, but he had gained cautious acceptance and acquired a nickname of ‘Blondinet’ for his reddish hair gaining strands of light brown, and for his fair complexion, a few years from losing his child-like visage.

  Now, the orphan, he had to turn to his nearest relatives within the Luxembourg Palace. And to all he was again the silent boy, drawing himself into his own world of imaginary kingdoms and distant battles. Around the small salons of his adoptive aunt and uncle, the Compte and Comptess de Lusignems, he politely stood among guests, offering no smart conversation where some considered such inattention as rudeness and as his being not very bright.

  His remaining relatives found his attitude obedient but without care to his improved financial status, not wastrel snobbishness but merely unbothered by his sudden wealth, this inheritance not sought nor wanted by its cause of parental passing. It was a position of comfort that changed not one whit. He had never had want for anything nor did he have needs to play with extravagance. His direct costs such elevation might require to become the novice courtier went unstated. For years he would not know what his bookkeeper’s balance sheet of columns holding additions and subtractions even looked like. His first serious legal document he would finally read with odd interest but giving no input upon would be his own wedding contract two years hence.

  There were those however where lineage and property were part of the system of nobility and must be protected within one’s extended family.

  Upon this fall morning, where a wind whipped up the leaves of the gardens, where the slight brisk coolness touched the Palais’s marble corridors and found the fireplaces of the larger rooms in the process of being cleaned for the winter, here, the agent-bookkeeper Monsieur Morizot appeared to deliver his report on the solvency of the young marquis, and to prepare those papers that must be filed with the King’s Tax Department.

  Those present within this meeting were the boy’s great grandfather, the Comte de La Rivière (Breton nobility to a past age where the name gained fortune as ‘of the River’); the Comte de Lusignem, Gilbert’s uncle by marriage (he had married the Comte’s daughter, widowed, and now remarried). There were the two loyal servants, Gilbert’s tutor, Abbé Fayon, indirect and silent representative to one of Gilbert’s new legal guardians, Grand-mére du Motier in Chavaniac. And the Comte’s all-purpose valet, Giles Blasse, who for the last two years had stayed in Paris, to keep an eye on Gilbert when the boy chose to walk the streets with his schoolmates or go exploring to seek new distractions. One such story, back in May, of fireworks, neither Gilbert nor Blasse chose to boast of.

  Among the first such task of this meeting was to determine the estates now bequeathed to the young Marquis.

  “And you have completed your report, Monsieur?” Asked the Comte, noticing the large portfolio of papers under Morizot’s arm.

  “Only still cursory, sire. Please forgive me, but they are so ex
pansive. I still have to review the La Fayette and Motier estate lands though we have received landlord letters from Chavaniac of the main estates of La Fayette, Vissac, Siaugues-St. Romain. As to the Rivière holdings, among others, his properties include Reignac, Kaufrait, St. Quihoelt, Le Plessis, and La Touche.

  The Comte did not wish to dilly-dally over a descriptive litany of metes and bounds.

  “And what of the revenues, tithes and land fees?”

  “From what I have so discovered the marquis should be receiving from an inheritance around 200,000 livres annually [US$450,000 today], well above the 25,000 livres yearly he continues to receive from his late father’s estate.”

  Servant Blasse gave a silent whistle and leaned to whisper to tutor Fayon, “Not a bad fortune for a thirteen year old, eh, Abbé?”

  The comtes, Rivière and Lusignem, digested the math.

  “If this becomes public notice too soon without plans,” said Lusignem, “I sense a flock of vultures will descend upon him, mainly those who have comely daughters.”

  “That certainly will be a temptation to all court matchmakers, but besides this I do not wish to see him be blinded with his good fortune.” Rivière turned to the bookkeeper. “How long before you must file the report with the court? Is there a way this can be delayed?”

  “Certainly, sire, a full accounting could be put off until next spring, and perhaps a month or two more if I am directed by you gentlemen to visit each property for a proper inventory, which in a future time would be required for any wedding contract negotiations. If I say so myself I could artfully practice wizardry in recounting the counting. And if the tax collectors wish to devise their own audit to check my numbers that may give us more time to your wish.”

  “Very good, Monsieur Morizot, indeed that would be my goal. We need time to insulate the child from any bad habits, and prepare him for his court presentation, which I would entrust to you dear Comte and to your wife.” Lusignem bowed to the chore. Even if withdrawn, Gilbert was a nice boy, and now he had manly responsibilities of his landed position.

  The Compte Rivière turned to the servants.

  “We need to keep Gilbert, the marquis, from further dwelling on his maternal loss. Any suggestions?”

  “Your lord,” offered Blasse, “he always pining for a uniform. Perhaps it is time to keep his mind filled with such a future career.”

  “Yes, you are correct, Giles. I have had my mind on too many other matters. Yes, I will not delay to enroll him in the Black Musketeers. That should keep his mind alert and he more than busy. And Giles, you must give the marquis all your time while he is outside the Luxembourg or his College. There are too many scoundrels and blackguards out in the world, and he is yet an untested boy.”

  The servant Blasse dipped his head slightly in acceptance of this expanded responsibility, knowing the Comte de La Rivière would have the bookkeeper Arnaud make a change in the ledger moving over Blasse’s meager wages to now be paid by the wealthy young marquis.

  Abbé Fayon, thinking perhaps of a desire to see more of his own neighborhood, gave his advice.

  “At this time the marquis still has odd bouts of melancholy. When his studies are concluded, it should be a good idea to send him back to Chavianiac to heal his spirit. He has the Gallic wanderlust and needs the outdoors as a curing potion.”

  “Yes, I would agree, a sound proposal.”

  “Excuse me, sire,” Blasse once again entered the discussion. “We all know from the Abbé Fayon’s great dedication that master Gilbert is at the top of his class in Latin, but perhaps it is time, since it seems to me, that our young man will be less of the highlands and more of the greater world. History of France and the world would be proper new discourses, and a basic in military matters.”

  “The Musketeers will give him riding and fencing instructions.”

  “I meant no disrespect, sire; I was thinking more of troop tactics of battle movement, the art of cavalry sword more than rapier.”

  “Certainly, Blasse, I know your timbre and history. When there is time your wisdom of the front lines and boarding skills would help ground any flippancy. But I warn you to keep him safe from misadventure; he is now a young man of value.”

  “Yes, sire, he will learn, but naught in harm’s way.”

  14.

  1771

  France’s Chancellor Maupeou issues reform decrees limiting the power of judicial nobility and seeks to levy taxes on privileged classes to balance the king’s budget; but his power is to be thwarted by the nobles and his eventual downfall three years hence will be a factor leading to the country’s fiscal crisis within a decade.

  Gilbert knew in this summer sojourn from school he was not running to the arms of his grandmother, or to the security of familiarity in Chavaniac, to escape the loss of his mother and grandfather, a year past, memories distancing. Yet the sincere sympathy and tender concern by his grand-mére and from his two aunts and his cousin Marie, with her moist, doleful eyes brought him nostalgic warmth. He was treated as he had always been but not with the Parisian sort of whispered awe by the Luxembourg servants and the visiting guests of his Parisian relatives, even his Plessis schoolmates. Many times, he had felt: Wealth makes you a specimen under glass or like a bear in a zoo, trapped and self-conscious at the staring.

  Two observations were certain in his life at this point. His physique gained in a spurt of height and his limbs were tightening to sinew, hard muscle, and, oddly with his feelings, he found no further eager desire in joining games with the village children. His active mind began to see the world from a need of priorities, to set goals to reach for.

  I am myself, thought Gilbert considering his future while out one day riding with his servant Blasse. Money means nothing to me. I have always had what I wished, except...what glory might bring...public notice, honors from my king. If I were a soldier in England, instead of France, I could use piles of my money to buy myself a commission, even purchase a generalship rank. Here, I need favor from the king, help from my family Rivière. I will need other court relationships, friendships. Yes, my goal is to be a Musketeer captain and gain medals in the next war.

  “You seem distracted, sire?” Blasse and Gilbert were on an easy trot along a rural wooded path. Twice the servant had to stop to fetch the boy’s hat, knocked off by tangled branches.

  “How without a war can I advance in the Musketeers,” he asked aloud, more to himself than to his servant at his side. “I cannot spend years on the lists waiting for some dunderhead above me to fall off his horse and break his neck for me to rise to the next rank.”

  “You, sire, are now of the court. Certainly one advances if one catches the eye of your sovereign or one of his ministers. Also, you are virile, could it be one of the powerful women of the court might show you favor and promote your career?”

  “Blasse, hold your tongue and keep your place.” Gilbert was less put out as in recalling impossible possibilities. He with the great ladies, indeed a dream. He looked back on his springtime presentation at the royal court. The Comte and Comtesse de Lusignem, serving as guardians, guided him through the protocol. The Ceremony of Presentation was a three day affair, going back in stricture, before the 17th century, before the reign of King Louis XV whose court held close to all such rituals as sacred dictum.

  In the first day of the presentation, Gilbert had arrived in a golden finely embroidered long coat, justaucorps, worn over his vest-coat and britches, his rheingraves. An outfit, he knew, to be worn only once, just for this ceremony.

  He appeared at the Palace of Versailles, overwhelmed to the rich trappings and costumed extravagance within the bustle of the formal court. His name, upon his card presented, formally called and his strides to the king, the second announcement by the appointments minister, his bow, lengthy, head down and formal. The king, looking up from a distraction from a beautiful woman at his elbow, saying something, after a whisper to his ear, “Ah yes, du Motier de La Fayette. Your father served me well. And you
r great grandfather, the Comte de La Rivière, is he well?”

  ‘Yes, my liege, the Comte is in good health. And thank you for remembering my father’s service.”

  The Comtesse de Lusignem in the background, nervous, hoping the boy would speak only a little and would enunciate just the right amount with his new found court language she had been instilling in him.

  The king gave a quick and absent smile and turned as another name was announced, and Gilbert backed away, bowing three times, until he again was swallowed up within the fawning court audience.

  On the second day he had been invited to a hunt in which the king participated. A brace of stag elk, along with scores of quail and pheasants, fell to the arrows of nobles or those adept at short barrel musket with scatter shot. The doomed quarries were chased into range by noise beaters walking through the brush and forest. Gilbert, somewhat pleased to be caught up in the excitement to be among the royal party, found he went unnoticed among the hunter-gathers and participated not in any killing, nor the joy of the stag pursuit.

  On the third and final day within the designed structure, he attended the smaller evening levée of both king and queen. Gilbert’s dress was less formal, black tones, nevertheless of the best quality of cloth. Here those in the presentation queue were introduced to the entire royal family. In this exaggerated flourish of his bows when he regained his standing pose he looked around and realized (and wanted to pout aloud) that no one seemed to give him much notice; no, not quite true, one lady did focus her attention on him, and they exchanged quick stares, until her attention was pulled away to another conversation.

  The Dauphine, Marie Antoinette, the Austrian child bride to the Dauphin. Gilbert thought he saw a smile on her face, at him, but probably not.