The Glorious Cause (54 page)

42. FRANKLIN

P
ARIS,
S
UMMER 1779

He had begun the day as every day before, consulting his calendar. The pages were typically a mass of scribbles, and it made no difference if the writing was his or Temple’s. The appointments would flow out into the margins of each page, row upon row of names and titles. Each name was accompanied by a time of day, a mild joke now. It was generous of the French to try to appease the American need for punctuality, but Franklin had come to understand that no one would ever arrive at his designated time.

This morning he had followed his usual routine, settled heavily into his soft chair with his cup of coffee, thumbing his way through the calendar to the current day. The result was a glorious discovery. Two pages had been adhered together by some long misplaced morsel of food. The hidden page, now blessedly blank, was for today’s appointments. Whether the sloppiness was his or Temple’s, he was grateful nonetheless. With pure glee, he had scraped the crusty bit of food from the paper, placed it in a small velvet box on his desk, a memento of an unplanned day of rest.

The house was empty, the maid away at the market. He shuffled through the papers on his desk, glanced at the empty coffee cup. He had made the attempt several times to brew his own coffee, the result never to his liking. There was always someone there to take over, Temple, certainly, or Silas Deane. He sat back in the chair, adjusted the discomfort in his legs. I am indeed forsaken. Alone and . . . coffeeless.

Deane had been gone for over a year, recalled by a congress that had been flooded with the tirades of Arthur Lee. Lee had accused every American in France of corruption and thievery, and though Franklin was included in the list, Lee had the good grace to blunt the language of those particular accusations. But Deane had few important friends in Philadelphia, and Franklin had watched him depart under a heavy yoke of defeat. Deane already knew that Lee’s accusations would carry great weight in the congress, and Franklin felt sincere pity for this man, who had labored through such arcane difficulties of trade and finance. Now, he would have little help in defending his honor. For a long while, Franklin had believed Arthur Lee was settling into some sort of annoying, harmless insanity. But Deane’s recall was serious, the man never likely to receive his due, an otherwise decent man who might now be made the scapegoat for any impropriety Lee wished to raise. Deane’s departure was an affront as well to the French, who trusted the man and had relied on him to help engineer the delicate negotiations of trade.

The congress had put its best foot forward and replaced Deane with John Adams. Adams had arrived in Paris a man clearly out of his element, and everyone in the French court was quickly aware of it. He spoke no French, and seemed unable, or perhaps unwilling to learn, and Franklin had found himself in the strange role of interpreter. Franklin knew he had Adams’ respect, but he also knew that Adams was a man accustomed to carving his own path. With Franklin so firmly entrenched as the primary negotiator with the French, Adams had bristled at accepting a role he had not been expecting, that of Franklin’s subordinate. Franklin had seen immediately that the Massachusetts lawyer truly had no idea what his job was supposed to be. In a short while, Adams had learned to grumble less and support Franklin by adding his flair for neatness to the somewhat sloppy office management of Franklin and his grandson. But Adams had never warmed to Paris, and after several months he was gone as well, returning to Massachusetts to tend to the affairs of his home state.

Franklin thought of rising from the chair, working the misery from his legs, but the soft leather had captured him completely. He reached over to the inkstand, picked up his pen, looked at the tip, a blob of ink hanging precariously. He studied it for a moment, then realized he was wearing white pants. He eased the pen back to the well, thought, That would never do. Placing an indiscreet smear of ink on myself would probably result in a sudden visit from the king. Or worse: Madame Brillon.

He grunted, pulled himself up from the chair, one hand on the desk, supporting himself. The gout gave him both good days and bad, and today seemed to be neither. He picked up the coffee cup, shuffled slowly toward the kitchen, thought, I should not allow Temple such freedom. This is when I require him most, not just when the visitors parade through here. I can endure the people. It’s the coffee that gives me such difficulty.

His grandson had been whisked away to Paris, the guest of some society belle in the village. He was gone often now, and Franklin had come to realize that if he did not give the young man specific instructions, Temple would interpret that to mean his presence was not required. Franklin moved into the kitchen, thought, He should decide if he intends to be a boy or a man. A man has responsibilities, after all. He is my secretary. A man does not allow himself to be pursued by women to such an extent that he loses his senses. Only a boy would seek such comforts. Well, no, a boy will not have the same interests. It is the man . . .

He set the cup down on the marble counter, smiled. Your logic is deteriorating as quickly as the rest of you, old man. I should find fault with him because he obeys the same instincts that have so pleased his grandfather? He listens more than I give him credit. Franklin recalled the lecture he had endured from some local busybody, who had scolded Franklin for the numerous visits from the ever-energetic Madame Brillon. He recalled the man’s finger, poking menacingly into Franklin’s face, the shrill tone of his voice. He laughed now, thought, That fellow could only regard women as objects to be feared, was positively certain that men are of so much more value. No doubt, his own home is void of anything feminine. Franklin had responded with his own view of man, a violent and mischievous creature responsible for a lengthy list of ills. He tried to recall the man’s name, Guy . . . something, the man clearly unreachable, and thus, not worth remembering at all. He is simply jealous that a woman with the charms of Madame Brillon should ride past his home on her way to mine.

He moved out of the kitchen now, having given up on the idea of coffee. Ah, Temple. Go forth, young man. Surrender yourself to the captivity of the softer gender. For one day you may be as old as your grandfather, and given to such daydreams.

He returned to the parlor, stood at the window, stared out to the empty road. This is not at all how my day should be progressing. Being alone in the house is an astounding accomplishment. And I am bored. Surely, at least one French visitor will mistake this day for tomorrow, and seek his appointment. It is so much their way. He moved toward the desk, reached for the calendar. He thought of Benny now, the empty silence of the house reminding him of the cascade of noise from his younger grandson. Benny was away at school in Geneva, a choice Franklin had made out of concern that Benny was becoming too . . . French. I find them a most amiable people to live with, he thought. They are not as cruel as the Spanish, or as avaricious as the Dutch. They are certainly not as stupidly proud as the English. They seem to possess no real vices at all, other than some harmless frivolities. But I would prefer my grandson to be a Presbyterian and a republican. It will make his path much less challenging in America. At the very least, he would be more punctual.

He heard a carriage, stared out with a surge of hopefulness. It passed by the house, disappeared beyond, and he grunted, said, “You should at least stop and pay your respects.”

He returned to his calendar, peered through his glasses, and now a carriage was suddenly close, moving in the drive. He closed the book with a small flourish, said, “Well, there you have it.”

He thought of sitting in the chair, not appearing too anxious for company, thought, No, then you have to pull yourself up again. Far too much work. He moved to the door, his pride gone, pulled it open, watched as a French army officer emerged from the carriage. The man was unfamiliar, very young, removed his hat to reveal a high forehead, topped by thinning red hair. The young man tucked his hat under his arm, turned toward the house, noticed Franklin. He swept the hat low to the ground in a deep bow, said in nearly perfect English, “Please forgive the intrusion, Dr. Franklin. I am the Marquis de Lafayette.”

He carried a letter of recommendation from Washington, and Franklin felt amused that the marquis seemed to think he required some formal introduction. Franklin returned to his chair, and Lafayette continued to stand, seemed to pulse with movement, a broad grin on the young man’s face.

“Truly, Doctor, I had thought we had established our meeting for this date. I can return tomorrow. It is a grievous error on my part.”

Franklin ignored the calendar, pointed to a chair, said, “Please, sit down. If you continue to stand, you will exhaust me.”

Lafayette moved quickly, seemed suddenly concerned, sat in the chair, rigid, his back stiffly upright.

“And, by all means, relax. Is this the result of your service to George Washington? Does he whip you into submission, or are you just naturally afraid of comfort?”

Lafayette seemed to ponder the words, and Franklin could tell he was trying to decide if the old man was serious.

“Sir, it is my honor to place myself in your company. I shall sit in whatever manner is pleasing to you. I do not wish to be a bother. Is your health good, sir?”

“That would depend on whom you ask. I am told frequently that I am maintaining good form for a man of my years. I believe that is meant as a compliment. I am not sure what
form
is appropriate for a man of sixty-seven.” He waited a moment, saw a puzzled look on the young man’s face. “Ah, see? You have heard otherwise. Some continue to insist I am seventy-three. However, I made a decision some time ago, that once I attained the age of seventy, I would begin to compute my years in the opposite direction. Three years hence, I am now sixty-seven. No one has yet shown me that there are rules that forbid this practice. Once a man reaches seventy, he should be entitled after all to establish his own rules.”

Lafayette stared at him, his mouth slightly open.

“My new rule is maddening of course to those who believe I have grown too old to exist in their world. In the case of Mr. Arthur Lee, I am constantly in violation of staying around too long. However, as long as the women do not object to my company . . .” He stopped, saw the smile returning to Lafayette’s face. “You’re too young to have such notoriety. You should be parading about the parks of Paris with my grandson.”

“I am indeed married, sir.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies. I heard that your reception at the royal court was an embarrassment to the king.”

Lafayette frowned now, said, “I certainly hope not, sir.”

“Don’t be concerned. King Louis requires a bit of sobriety occasionally. From what I was told, the audiences cheered you more loudly than anything His Majesty has heard in a while. Your accomplishments and the respect you have earned in America are gratefully appreciated here. Perhaps that will influence both the king and Count Vergennes the next time they choose a man to command French troops in America.”

He was testing Lafayette’s reaction, and the young man seemed to choose his words carefully.

“Doctor, I regret the difficulties which arose in the affair at Newport. Count d’Estaing is a most capable man.”

“More than capable. I have heard that his forces are faring well in the West Indies. The British are in something of a lather, loud voices in Parliament calling on King George to focus more of his attention to the islands than to his, um, colonies. I am privy to such things.”

“That would be a fortunate decision for America, Doctor.”

“As fortunate as the Marquis de Lafayette assuming command of the next French force to cross the ocean?”

The young man’s guard seemed to slip away, and Lafayette showed the enthusiasm again.

“Thank you for that kindness, Doctor. I only hope to give assistance to General Washington in the manner he will find useful. I admit to having some ambition to command such a force. There would be no difficulties such as we had at Newport.”

“I agree. However, my influence is limited, General. Is it acceptable to refer to you as general?”

“I accept whatever title you wish, sir. In the French army, I am but a captain.”

“Hmm. I prefer
general
. It is likely that before much time has passed, your king may agree.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I have recently been called upon to assume the office of Superintendent of Naval Affairs for America. Marvelous title, yes? The congress has added that one to my ever-increasing list. I’m not yet sure what it entails, except that French naval officers are now adding their appointments to my calendar. There is some discussion of a plan to mount an invasion force to threaten England directly. Are you aware of this?”

“More than aware, sir. The plan was, in principle, my own. I had hoped to command such a force. It is the primary reason I asked to meet with you, Doctor.”

“Thank you for your candor, General. Now, I must be candid as well. Your government is not comfortable with your plan. There is concern that the effort required in the West Indies could leave the French navy in a precarious position should a serious fight erupt in the English Channel. I cannot speak of what your role should be, and I dare not insert my views in places where they do not belong. Your notoriety and your value to General Washington will ultimately determine where your duty is best performed. As for causing injury to the British from the sea, I have my own view. It has come as a surprise to many here that America has in fact produced something of a navy. Thus far, there has been one extremely useful benefit of this. American ships have begun to appear in foreign ports of call, patrolling European waterways, protecting American shipping interests. It both amuses and distresses me that until our ships appeared in their waters, some European governments considered America as some strange mythical place. It is a peculiar notion that my country was little more than a rumor until our flag appeared from the masts of warships.”