Lafayette_Courtier to Crown Fugitive, 1757-1777

by S. P. Grogan

  Just then he wanted to believe that they had mutual empathy that he and she seemed to be wallowing in a sea of grown-ups, she more closed in surrounded by a protective nesting of older court ladies. At ceremony end as he made his way back to his aunt’s carriage, he had to wonder, if she felt what he did, an austere coldness where awkward primping highlighted the indulged reception. His first visit to the court felt out of place, uncomfortable, he the ever stranger. He stayed silent to his observations though pleased he made no offense which would have upset his attending relatives.

  “What?” He had not heard as his memories came alive to his day’s cantering and what his servant was commenting upon, as he led his horse into a field of green wheat.

  “I said another way of gaining what you want is to marry well.”

  “It is a gamble and I do not gamble.” Gilbert maligned Socrates: “’marry well and one is happy, marry badly and one is a philosopher’. No thank you,” and spurred his horse to gallop. Matrimonial circumstances were out of his hands and he could care less, besides such considerations would be years away, or so he believed, and that distraction would not help him in the true ardor he sought, his passion for a military care

  15.

  THE SERVANT BROUGHT Madame La Fayette’s neighbor to the grand salon within the Château Chavaniac. Monsieur de La Colombe owned his own large manor house and farming estate further down the valley along the L’Allier River. Still, as he sought comparison, his residence was not the equal. He admired the Bayeux tapestries and several gilt mirrors on the walls beside the family portraits going back to ancestors within the regime of King Louis XIII. Elegant upholstered chairs sat upon the multi-wood parquet floor, seating arranged in apportioned corners of the rooms, so that if there was a large gathering, most guests would find themselves standing.

  “Monsieur, I am indeed honored you have come to visit me,” smiled Gilbert’s grandmother, suspecting the squire was not here to be merely social.

  “Indeed, it has been some time, but postponed only because the hard rains brought rot to several of my fields.”

  They used a few early minutes of conversation to discuss the news of the neighborhood, partaking in cider and small breads brought to them. Finally, M. Colombe nudged around to the reason of his journey, his desire as a concerned gentleman to bring a marriage together which might anchor local families into a great family of the Auvergne.

  “And who might be this young woman you propose for my dear Gilbert?” She knew the steps to this game.

  “A relative of mine. Mademoiselle de Crussol. Her pedigree is impeccable. Her late father, you may have heard of him, was the minister to Louis XV to the court of Parma. Her mother, I have been informed, has no objection to such a match.”

  Of course, the mother would not, thought Madame du Motier, keeping that to herself. Who would not say yes to a contract dealing with her now affluent grandson? It was a certainty the court gossips had gaggled around the news that the Marquis La Fayette was now an eligible rich prize. Grandmother du Motier knew, as one of the boy’s guardians, she would not sacrifice him to any machinations of the rising number of amateur matchmakers who have been juggling for introductions to plead their cause. The regal art of the rejection had to be finessed without any sense of affront.

  “I assume the young lady in question is attractive, and of my Gilbert’s age? I have never liked such marriages where there are covenants between a young child and a babe in the cradle. Time and disease never seems to bring such arrangements to consummation.”

  Monsieur de La Colombe felt it did not matter what the young girl might look like. In truth, the girl was a little to the plump side but with her wide hips, child bearing would be easier. And what did her looks matter, it would be expected for the groom to take lovers or a mistress to alleviate any ho-hum duty in nuptial bedding.

  “I believe her looks are tolerable. One true asset the mademoiselle offers is that she is six years older than your grandson, which would bring maturity to his affairs.”

  Another smile of understanding, what was implied without saying, the girl must be a dolt or a shrew, or both and some not mentioned family member would take hold of his estates’ finances. She gave a light smile to her neighbor.

  “Well as you know, I am just one guardian, and I would certainly have to communicate your kind suggestions, to others in Paris, which may take many weeks. Perhaps we can exchange letters and see what might transpire?”

  They both exchanged further pleasantries, before he took his leave. Neither of them noticed the door off the salon, the one leading to the library, which had been left slightly open now silently shut.

  16.

  MARIE DE GUÈRIN RAN from the manor house looking for her cousin. She was now in her 15th year, and a young woman. People would say she had a pleasant countenance, even if a little rough. Make-up did not cover her freckles from the country life and her hair hung to her shoulders, seldom braided or placed in a bun, as some in court did in the ‘pompadour’ fashion. When required of course she could dress attractively for the local fairs and neighborhood dance halls.

  In the previous year, the year of Gilbert’s grief, she had been a stalwart friend, a shoulder to lean on, to whom letters of true feelings could be written between them, and when he arrived for holiday she had seen their summer play as children ended. More so, he went off alone, with his servant. And when as cousins together, they walked and conversed about her love of literature, and again, his desire to ride to the kingdom’s rescue.

  This summer their togetherness felt stilted. He came to Chavaniac, proud to be a Black Musketeer, eager to show off his uniform, when occasions arose. It was apparent to her that he now noticed her own changes, the nuances of her body, which had filled to stretch upon her summer linen dresses.

  Now, in her running to find him, she swallowed heart-pounding panicked stress. Gilbert was going to be auctioned off, taken away from her, and turned over to those who did not appreciate his good character but sniffed only at the weight of his purse.

  She found him at the barn dismounting his horse, handing the reins to his personal servant, the man she knew as Blasse, who in turn turned both horses over to the farm manager’s stable boy who led them away to be curried and groomed.

  “Gilbert, we must talk, and talk now,” she panted, and looked anxious, red splotches to her face.

  “Is everything okay, Marie?”

  “Yes,” and caught her breath. “No. Let’s walk, please.” And she took his hand.

  The servant Blasse smiled with a silent chuckle, and turned away, back to the Chateau.

  The cousins found their favorite copse of trees, a hidden sanctuary from any prying eyes. Marie turned to him, tears in her eyes.

  “Gilbert, they are planning on taking you away, forever.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Grand’mere has been entertaining guests; each of them bragging of some well positioned trollope for you to marry. There is no love just commerce. I can’t bear how they treat so cruel upon your sensitive nature.”

  “My dear, Marie.” They were holding hands.

  “I have heard such rumors. Believe me, I will not be bargained off cheaply.”

  She opened wide her eyes incredulously.

  “You find your marital sacrifice acceptable?”

  “Being not of legal age, what can I do? I must hope for the best outcome, hope that my guardians have my best interests in their hearts.”

  “But what of your heart? I would not wish to see you unhappy.”

  Their eyes took in each closely, they were no longer children. His face tan from daily riding and hiking, her countenance flush, her dress heaving, drawing his eyes, embarrassed, reluctantly turning away. There was an attachment here, at the cusp of deep friendship, one urge short of slipping beyond into too familiar curiosity. In these times, cousins might marry cousins to keep family fortunes intact; a cousin might take a cousin as a lover for private gratification. Yet, both
Marie and Gilbert accepted the circumstances that they saw each other irregularly, the last two years, more ‘distant’ cousins by geography. Nor were they ever in control of their lives, such independence of their minds not in their upbringing. She had witnessed his transformation these last two years into the courtier, no longer a restless child of Auvergne hills, and herself, knowing she was to remain in the background a young woman living in the province, basically educated, a lady of heritage, not fortune, her skills being little in value. Marie saw these two worlds of social classes, between Gilbert and her, moving apart for good.

  She grabbed his face, kissed him hard, took his hand and shoved it into her bodice and placed it above her small breast.

  “Feel my heart. Never forget me.” She ran from the forest sanctuary of their childhood back to the waiting future, her heart broken.

  GRANDMOTHER LA FAYETTE’S daughter, Louise-Charlotte, and one of Gilbert’s aunts, entered the salon after Monsieur de la Colombe’s departure.

  “I think it is time we send Gilbert back to the city earlier than usual,” said Madame de La Fayette, suddenly feeling weary.

  “Was it not a favorable meeting?”

  “This is the third such gracious call upon me, inquiring after my good health, and then inquiring of the Marqui’s plans for matrimony, with their own suggestions of the right choice which they have decided upon. Giving control of my lands and those of my dear departed son and now my grandson over to the power of my neighbors will not be to the benefit of my family’s honor. He will do no good if he stays here as temptation, like some ripe fruit to be plucked. Let his mother’s family use their art of negotiation to put Gilbert in the best of circumstances.”

  Louise-Charlotte nodded. “I too am to face such decisions. I received a letter yesterday inquiring if Marie might be available. It is an offer from a good local family, the d’Abos, and she, in time, will be a marquisess, with much farm land and her own house.

  “Has she ever met the prospective suitor?”

  “No, but does it really matter? I am sure Marie will see that this is a good situation as possible for all parties.”

  “She is a sweet girl,” said the mistress of Chateau Chavaniac. “She will make a future husband proud.”*

  On the way back to Paris, among all their general conversation during the week of travel, Gilbert, upon one occasion from nowhere, grasped out of the sultry summer air, and said to no one in particular, “I do not understand women.” His travelling companions felt no desire to neither comment on the subject nor admit they had no answer to such a timeless quandary.

  *[IN FIVE YEARS, GILBERT’S cousin and childhood playmate, Marie d’Abos, will die in childbirth.]

  17.

  1772

  Divisive emotions are rising in the Thirteen American Colonies, heightened by the Boston Massacre in 1770. In June 1772 the burning of the HMS Gaspée, a customs schooner, by Rhode Island smugglers raises fears of hanging retribution from England. This year, Massachusetts Sons of Liberty founders Sam Adams and Dr. Joseph Warren establish Committees of Correspondence, which will be repeated in other colonies and evolve regionally into shadow governments, opposing far distant Parliament’s taxing legislation.

  The Duc d’Ayen had a problem, actually five of them – his daughters. A son had died in infancy a victim of small pox first contracted by his mother, who still bore scars and guilt from the tragedy. For the Duc d’Ayen it was his obligation that family heritage must continue as they were one of the most powerful political families in France. Therefore, it was his duty to settle his daughters with the best possible marriage contracts. After all, he was Jean de Noialles of the Noialles Family, son of the 4th Duc de Noailles, whose direct male line consisted of a great grandfather and grandfather chosen Marshals of France, with his own father, presently Captain of the King’s Bodyguards, expected to assume his own prestigious mantle of Marshal at any time to the King’s discretion. As they said in court whispers, next to the Bourbon dynasty, bearing the current monarchies of France, the Noailles line were perhaps more powerful, through subtlety and palace intrigue, if not by military prowess as leaders of armies.

  Since the 16th century the Noailles family tree basked at the top of an illustrious sub-dynasty within the French nobility further entrenched when Jean de Noialles had married the grand-daughter of the Chancellor d’Aguesseau, one of the great ministers in the reign of Louis XV. In marrying off his daughters he had another problem to face, his wife, Henriette, the Duchess d’Ayen.

  His wife had not ignored her daughters by farming them out to nurses or governesses, or sending them away to private schools, but kept them at home, the Hôtel de Noailles in Paris, the family mansion on the rue St.-Honoré, near the palace of the Tuileries. Here she created a vibrant learning circle where she taught them of her deep religious beliefs requiring good deeds and self-sacrifice to achieve heaven and the art of courtly manners, the nuances of gossip, and most particularly on how to serve and honor their husbands when they would someday marry, a hope she placed far into the future, for she loved her daughters and kept them close to her protective bosom.

  Duc d’Ayen was one of those rare nobles who dabbled in the natural sciences and his sharp ear absorbed news within several different circles of the court’s learned men. On this particular day it was the Duc d’Ayen’s such intelligence which brought him to this ritual levee. Among other nobles he was delegated to lead the procession of the king and his retinue, as they strolled from the Palace, out into the gardens to take refreshments, and to hear forms of pleasure in light entertainment, away from the afternoon sun under a massive golden pavilion. Here it was he waylaid the Comte de La Rivière.

  “How fares your ward, the Marquis La Fayette?” Such a question was neither social nor a simple inquiry, but signaled the course of the conversation.

  The Comte was slightly taken aback. Next to the Bourbons, the King’s lineage, the Noailles family tree with many highly placed branches of relatives were historic protectors of the throne, and in turn blessed by royal favor. The Comte’s mind definitely had been in the previous months faced with the dilemma of a good match for Gilbert, but it had not crossed his mind to look to the prized apple at the top of the tree. His mind boggled at the presumed implications at what court power might bring to the boy and thereby to himself.

  “A fine young man, healthy at fourteen. Unfortunately, the sadness of his position, a lonely orphan upon the death of his mother two years past, then soon after her father, and now we receive news that his Grandmother living in Auvergne has died, and the boy had just seen her a month ago. There is a melancholy that seems to be held in with silence, but I can attest he brightens every time he dons his uniform.”

  “I hear he is of the Mousquetaires du Roi [the Mousquetairs Noirs –Black Musketeers].”

  “For that he trains diligently; for his life goal is to serve the king in a military capacity.”

  “ ‘Worthy as a Noailles’, it is said when speaking of the ultimate in military service.”

  “Yes, I have heard that expression. And today, your grace, you might see him, as he rides here as a Musketeer, to seek his regiment’s orders from the King.”*

  * [NOVELIST ALEXANDRE Dumas (pere-father as fils, the son, also a novelist) would make famous this military order of the king in writing, Les Trois Mousquetaires, 1884]

  Indeed that had been the artful stratagem of the Duc D’Ayen to place himself in such acquaintanceship with both boy and grandfather.

  “Yes, such is coincidence. I had heard about the boy from my brother, the Duc du Mouchy, who has been kind enough to learn of this child soldier, as du Mouchy is more to the active army than I am.” They walked on, watching a feather ball being hit back and forth between two ladies with wooden paddles, who seem to be melting under the day’s heat, especially buried under layers of lace and silks in their dress. Others were eating from glass goblets holding chipped and flavored ice to quench thirst or browsing a large dining table of fruits an
d raw milk cheeses, while palace servants, using ostrich feathers as fans scattered the hovering flies.

  Within a short period of time down the dirt road to the side of the Palace came a lone rider, in his black uniform and red cape, a flurry of dust billowing behind horse and rider. As the horse moved gracefully to a cantered trot the Duc d’Ayen could see that the boy sat the horse well, a good sign of breeding and bearing, but then thought better, knowing he probably had learned to ride farm horses from his country living. He looked hard in discernment as the boy dismounted and approached the pavilion and the king. He could hear a small but steady voice shout the command that came daily from the Musketeer headquarters in Paris.

  “Sire,” came with the deep bow, and the graceful sweep of the large brimmed hat, “My Captain begs to inquire: ‘Are there any commands to His Majesty’s Musketeers this day?’”

  The King looked up from his game board he had been playing with the bejeweled Madame du Barry, his maitresse-en-titre [official mistress], and dismissed the lad with his limp waved hand. ‘Non’, said the King of France, and Musketeer Gilbert de La Fayette, backward exited, still, in a bowing position, then rose, replaced his hat, and turned to mount his horse for the long ride back to the city. If the message had been a warning or a call to arms, Black Musketeer (Sous) Lieutenant La Fayette would have killed his horse racing to give the alarm, to raise the regiment. But these were still times of an uncomfortable peace, restless boredom for the career soldier.

  The Duc d’Ayen gave close inspection to Gilbert, noticing the boy’s red hair, and saw his nose too prominent, very Gallic, and attached to a narrow face. He was neither handsome nor a pimpled monster, if that were to matter at all. What was important was that Gilbert du Motier, titled as the Marquis de La Fayette, alone in the world, was extremely rich. That his bookkeepers, and the King’s tax collectors, were still trying to add up all the estates he had inherited over the last two years; that the boy’s income, as rumor held, would be close to 550,000 livres per annum, an extraordinary sum. [US$1.8 million per year in today’s currency].