Upon his return to America, however, Otsiquette’s connection to Lafayette earned him wide acclaim. His arrival on the Cato in late July 1788 was reported in American papers from Maine to Pennsylvania, and those who met him that summer were impressed with the social skills and physical dexterity he had acquired in France. Sometimes, however, the precise circumstance of his journey became distorted in the telling, as at least two newspapers reported that “this young aboriginal was sent for to Paris by that benevolent nobleman the Marquis de la Fayette, for the purpose of receiving the first principles of an European education.” Before going to France, readers were told, Otsiquette was “wholly in a rude and uncultivated state,” but he returned with “his manners elegant and refined, and his genius quick and penetrating.” One young woman who had the good fortune to dance with Otsiquette at a soirée in Providence wrote in her journal that Otsiquette had been dressed in the height of French style, wearing “a scarlet coat trimmed with gold lace,” and that his skill at dancing a cotillion was “by far the best of any person I ever saw attempt it.” Evidently, Otsiquette had also obliged his audience by performing a “war dance” for the assembled Rhode Islanders—creating a spectacle that they, like the young Neuilly, deemed “terrible.”
The Oneidas, too, apparently held Otsiquette in high regard. In March 1792, he was among the Iroquois leaders who traveled to Philadelphia for an audience with President Adams. Tragically, he died during that visit; he was buried with military honors. Once again, Otsiquette’s name spread throughout the American press. Some reported that Otsiquette had died of pleurisy, but others believed that the still young man had drunk himself to death. Francis Adrian Van der Kemp, a Dutch patriot who had immigrated to upstate New York, suggested in a letter to a friend that Otsiquette had returned from Paris “highly cultivated and master of the French language and politeness, although it was doubted if his heart was as improved as his head.” Otsiquette’s death prompted Van der Kemp, a deeply religious man, to ponder the ethics of European involvement with Native American peoples. Taking a bold stance for his time, Van der Kemp wrote, “It may be justly questioned if the vicinity of their white neighbors is to them not rather a curse than a blessing. How contrary is this with the genuine spirit of Christianity.”
For all of his Americanization, Lafayette remained a Frenchman through and through in one realm of his life: although he and Adrienne shared a deep bond of affection—one that grew even stronger in times of trial—Lafayette was known to enjoy the favors of women other than his wife, and to do so quite openly. The subject has traditionally been a sensitive one for Lafayette’s biographers, some of whom may have seen marital infidelity as an unwelcome blemish on the man’s otherwise admirable character. As the late Louis Gottschalk recounted, his discovery of a love letter to a mysterious “Aglaé” ignited a “friendly controversy” among Lafayette scholars in the 1930s. Gottschalk’s insistence that Aglaé was not, in fact, a pet name for the marquise met with opposition from a group of devotees, who would “entertain no doubt of Gilbert’s constant fidelity to his Adrienne.” But in the arranged marriages of the eighteenth-century French nobility, blissful monogamy was almost unheard of, and Lafayette was a man of his time.
Lafayette recalled his early dalliances as mere peccadilloes. So unexceptional did they seem to him that he mentioned them in the third paragraph of the memoirs he sent to the American historian Jared Sparks in 1828:
I shall spare you also the confession of an unedifying youth, and even of the story of two romances dedicated to beauties who were then very celebrated, in which my head had a larger part than my heart. The first, scarcely begun, broke against the obstacles of jealousy with which I collided head-on. The other—in which I wanted at first to triumph less over the object herself than over a rival—I pursued, despite long interruptions, on every possible occasion. Our relationship went from esteem all the way to the contrary sentiment, and was finally terminated by a catastrophe unconnected with me. It is more pleasant for me to speak of the tender and stable affection that I never cease to feel for the woman whom I had the good fortune to marry.
Gottschalk’s Aglaé, Aglaé de Barbantane, Comtesse d’Hunolstein, seems to have been the first of the two women mentioned by Lafayette. Aglaé, a young woman of about Lafayette’s age, served as a lady-in-waiting to the Duchesse de Chartres in the 1770s and socialized in the circles of the Vicomte de Noailles. It was in this milieu that she and Lafayette met in 1776, before Lafayette joined the American army. At the time, she was reputed to be the mistress of the rakish Duc de Chartres—her employer’s husband—although Lafayette seems to have believed that his friend Ségur was his rival for Aglaé’s affections. She is presumed to be the unnamed lady over whom Lafayette challenged Ségur to a duel.
Lafayette failed to make an impression on Aglaé before he went to America, but his heroic exploits turned her head. By the time he’d returned as one of the heroes of Yorktown, his name and Aglaé’s were frequently being whispered in the same breath. They were enmeshed in a full-fledged lovers’ quarrel when Lafayette wrote Gottschalk’s telltale letter on March 27, 1783. “You are too cruel, my dear Aglaé,” it begins. “You know the torments of my heart, you know that it is torn between love and duty, and you demand that it take a stand on this unhappy matter.” Heated though it is, this rhetoric must not have been new: “It has been more than a year since you tried to break this tie,” Lafayette complained. “Every day you redoubled your efforts.… Now you take one last approach; it’s the cruelest one for me, but the only one that may succeed. The only question is whether I am an honest man.”
In the end, it’s not clear whether Aglaé broke the tie or whether it was broken for her. We know that she was dismissed from the Chartres household and entered a convent in the city of Nancy, in eastern France, where she remained until the French Revolution abolished religious orders. The author Stéphanie Félicité, Comtesse de Genlis, who served as tutor to the children of the Duc de Chartres and succeeded Aglaé as his mistress, had no personal fondness for her banished predecessor, yet she reported that Aglaé underwent a true conversion, embracing her Catholic faith and living an exemplary life marked by austerity and charity.
By the time Lafayette parted ways with Aglaé, his attention had drifted to the second woman referenced in his letter to Sparks—Diane-Adélaïde de Damas d’Antiguy, Comtesse de Simiane, a lady-in-waiting to the Comtesse de Provence. Gottschalk observed that Lafayette was already praising Madame de Simiane as “pretty” and “amiable” in a letter to his friend the Prince de Poix on January 13, 1783. And the celebrated painter Élisabeth Vigée-LeBrun, writing in her memoirs in the early nineteenth century, recalled Lafayette visiting her studio in 1783 “just to see the portrait that I was making of the pretty Madame de Simiane, to whom, it was said, he was paying court.” With a mixture of admiration and surprise, Vigée-LeBrun, a staunch monarchist who had been a favorite portraitist to Marie Antoinette, added that Lafayette’s “tone, his manners, had a great deal of nobility, and did not in the least suggest revolutionary tastes.” Coming from Vigée-LeBrun, this was meant as high praise.
Élisabeth Vigée-LeBrun, portraitist to Marie Antoinette, was working on the Portrait of Diane-Adélaïde de Damas d’Antiguy, Comtesse de Simiane, in 1783, while Lafayette was courting the comtesse. (illustration credit 10.5)
In telling Sparks that this second affair had terminated in “a catastrophe unconnected with me,” Lafayette was not being entirely truthful. On March 14, 1787, the Mémoires secrets reported, “Rumor has it that Monsieur the Comte de Simiane, husband of the renowned beauty Madame de Simiane … killed himself a few days ago in a fit of jealousy over the Marquis de Lafayette.” Despite the gossip, the tragedy did not put an end to the relationship. By all accounts Madame de Simiane remained, at the very least, one of his closest confidantes for many decades to come.
PART THREE
FRENCH REFORMER
CHAPTER 11
A POLITICAL EDUCATION
Never did Lafayette express kinder words for Louis XVI or greater optimism about France’s future than in the letter he wrote to George Washington on January 13, 1787. The cause of Lafayette’s enthusiasm was a royal decree that, as he put it, promised to influence “the Happiness of 26 millions of People.” To address the problem of a grossly imbalanced budget, the French king had decided to convene “an Assembly of Notables” consisting of 144 men—“ArchBishops, Bishops, Nobles, presidents of the Several parliaments, Mayors of towns,” and other “principal men” selected from every corner of the realm. The dignitaries would gather in February to conduct “an Examination of the finances to Be adjusted, of the Means to alleviate the taxes of the people, and of Many abuses to Be Redressed.” Lafayette blamed the crown for France’s fiscal woes, pointing to “the sums squandered on Courtiers and Superfluities,” yet he believed that Louis XVI was taking honorable steps to make matters right. As Lafayette wrote to Washington, “There Was no Way more patriotic, more Candid, more Noble to Effect those purposes. The King and M. de Calonne His [Finance] Minister deserve Great Credit for that. And I Hope a tribute of Gratitude and Good Will shall Reward this popular Measure.”
As pleased as he was for the nation, Lafayette was also happy for himself. For the first time in his life, he had been accorded a measure of influence over France’s domestic affairs. All members of the assembly had been handpicked by the government—Lafayette was one of thirty-six men chosen from the ranks of the nobility (known as the “Second Estate” in the social order of the day), with the remaining slots filled by members of the clergy (“First Estate”) and the nation’s wealthiest and most influential commoners (“Third Estate”). Lafayette saw his selection as more than simply an honor: it was an opportunity to introduce into France some of the liberal social and economic measures he had first encountered in the United States. He had come to consider such reforms both just and necessary if France hoped to keep pace in a rapidly changing world. Itemizing his goals, Lafayette wrote to Washington:
My Earnest Wish, and fond Hope is that our Meeting will produce popular Assemblies in the provinces, the destruction of Many Shackles of the trade, and a change in the fate of the protestants, Events which I will promote By my friends as well as my feeble endeavours with all my Heart.
In retrospect, Lafayette’s envisioned reforms were modest compared with the changes that the larger forces of history would soon bring about in France. But Lafayette, who had never imagined that the foundation of his ancient homeland would soon be shaken to the core, could hardly have known that he was about to participate in a transformation so momentous that it has been termed the “French Prerevolution.”
For a time, it was not at all clear that Lafayette would be invited to the Assembly of Notables; his name appeared on an early list of participants, vanished from a second version, and then reappeared on the final roster. The crown never explained the vacillation, but the task of selecting the notables was certainly a delicate one. It was in the government’s interest to choose men who would be docile enough to sign off on the king’s proposed reforms while appearing sufficiently independent to withstand charges of blind subservience. Clearly, Lafayette’s name had raised flags. But why? Had the royal ministers feared that Lafayette, the celebrated friend of the American republic, might add a dangerously radical voice to the proceedings? Or was Lafayette, who had been working closely with the king’s advisers on American dealings, perceived to be so closely tied to the interests of the monarchy that he would be more puppet than participant? In other words: Was he too safe? Or was he not safe enough?
Both theories were floated by Lafayette’s contemporaries, whose interpretations tended to break down along national lines. Thomas Jefferson, who had replaced Franklin as America’s Minister Plenipotentiary to France in 1785, saw in Lafayette living proof that the Old World could learn important lessons from the New. Jefferson believed that Lafayette’s republican tendencies must have rendered the Americanized marquis persona non grata in a court “whose principles are the most absolute despotism.” As Jefferson explained to his fellow Virginian Edward Carrington, Lafayette’s “education in our school has drawn on him a very jealous eye.” Jefferson did not blame Louis XVI. He insisted that “the king, who is a good man, is favorably disposed towards [Lafayette].” But he implied that the court’s most conservative faction—which was headed by the Comte d’Artois, a former classmate of Lafayette’s from the Académie de Versailles—might fear that Lafayette, an experienced general who was “supported by powerful family connections, and by the public good will,” could wield undue power and use it to push for reforms, if not more.
A very different account of Lafayette’s temporary exclusion from the assembly appeared in the Mémoires secrets, which harbored profound doubts about the entire project. In a summary guide to the notables published the day before the assembly convened, the newsletter assessed each member’s potential to make a genuine contribution. Lafayette did not come off well. The guide dismissed Lafayette with harsh words that were rendered all the more damning by their telegraphic style: “Having a mild and timid character, uneducated; not much is to be expected.” Worse than ineffective, Lafayette was said to be in the pocket of Charles-Alexandre de Calonne, the finance minister, who masterminded the assembly. “Coached by the Noailleses,” the Mémoires secrets predicted, “he will be counseled to be on the side of the court and not to compromise.” According to this logic, neither animosity nor fear led to Lafayette’s omission from the notables. Rather, Lafayette was excluded on the solid grounds that he “was very young”—he was, in fact, younger than all but one of the notables—and “that he had not demonstrated any knowledge of administration, that he held no office that would entitle him to be called to this Assembly.” The author reported that Calonne had, in the end, praised Lafayette’s “commendable character” and agreed to propose his name to the king. In return for the favor, Lafayette was said to have promised “zeal and submission,” not to the American principles endorsed by Jefferson but to whatever plans might be hatched by the royal ministry.
The truth was probably somewhere in between. Lafayette was all but certain to participate with zeal, but accepting the role of a pawn—for the sake of a king or anyone else—was not in his character. Iconoclastic in his views and spirited in the pursuit of his goals, Lafayette was not easily swayed on any topic, and he may simply have been considered too much of a loose cannon for the government to trust him. If the monarch expected quick affirmation of plans already devised, Lafayette could be trouble.
At ten o’clock in the morning on February 22, 1787, Lafayette and the other notables filed into a vast meeting hall erected in the courtyard of the Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs du Roi—the bureau of the “King’s diversions”—in the town of Versailles. Measuring 120 feet long by 100 feet wide, the hangar dwarfed the men who gathered beneath its coffered ceilings. The space had been used as a warehouse for storing the piles of furniture and props constantly churned out for the lavish festivities that punctuated court life, but it had been transformed so thoroughly for the occasion that it was barely recognizable. Now every nook and cranny overflowed with symbols of the monarchy: niches held orbs covered with fleurs-de-lis; walls and seats were cloaked in tapestries produced in royal manufactories; and, at the far end of the room, the king’s throne towered above the scene, surmounted by a richly decorated canopy of purple fabric. These silent signals reminded the notables that they were guests of the king, serving at his pleasure.
In retrospect, a less charged locale might have been a better choice for a meeting intended to address a budget crisis. The Menus Plaisirs had earned a reputation as the epicenter of extravagant spending. In 1781, Louis-Sébastien Mercier had criticized the bureau, writing that “any frugal-minded citizen must deplore the waste of time and good money upon ceremonies and shows.” While the hall was being readied for the arrival of the notables, the Mémoires secrets waxed indignant that the king, unsatisfied with any of
the existing spaces within the enormous expanse of Versailles, had seen fit to transform a warehouse into an assembly hall; the government, opined the newsletter, had opened an austerity meeting by “tossing several millions out the window for a vain and ephemeral ceremony.” This was a monarchy famously tone-deaf to matters of public image, and the assembly would be asked to ponder the nation’s fiscal woes in a setting that reeked of profligacy.
Meeting room of the Assembly of Notables constructed at Versailles. 1787. (illustration credit 11.1)
Inside the chamber, clusters of long, backless benches were arranged on two levels, with every notable assigned a seat. Lafayette sat at the periphery of the upper level, where he looked out on a sea of costumed dignitaries: clergymen wore cassocks surmounted by long tunics of white linen; noblemen dressed in suits complemented by lace cravats, velvet capes, and plumed hats; members of the legal profession appeared in black robes and square hats; and others sported garb befitting their respective stations. The king’s bodyguard stood at attention, ceremonial weaponry in hand, and officers of the chancellery, representing the judicial system, silently asserted the king’s power over the law by assuming kneeling poses on the dais. Shortly after eleven o’clock, all stood to witness the arrival of heralds, princes, dukes, captains of the guard, high-ranking members of the royal household, the ever important comptroller of finances, Charles-Alexandre de Calonne, and, of course, the king.
Louis XVI strode across a fleur-de-lis-patterned carpet, climbed two steps to the dais indicating his position of honor, then sat down in a duly appointed throne. “Gentlemen,” he began, “I have chosen you from among the various orders of the state, and have gathered you around me to inform you of my plans.” As Louis described his intentions, they seemed very much in line with those articulated by Lafayette. The king said his aim was to “improve the nation’s revenues” through a series of changes that would place France in the vanguard of free trade. He would institute a more equitable system of taxation, “liberate commerce from the obstacles that have impeded circulation,” and, in the end, “bring relief … to the most indigent of my subjects.” Taking up no more than twenty minutes, the speech was as vague as it was brief. And it was the last the notables heard from the king for some time.
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