unconstitutional means. Infuriated by Lafayette’s rejection, Talleyrand ordered Lafayette’s lands in Brittany, hitherto untouched, sold at public auction. At forty-one, Lafayette was not only deeply in debt, but the sale of his last properties left him a pauper, without income, without property, and without a country.
After nearly two weeks, Adrienne was still too weak and ill to voyage to America, and the Lafayette caravan crossed into Denmark, where, fifty milesto the north, Adrienne’s aunt, the comtesse de Tessé, had purchased a large estate at Witmold, on the north shore of Lake Ploën. Adrienne’s sister Pauline and her husband, who had fled to England during the Terror, had joined the countess and were waiting when the Lafayettes arrived—as were surviving members of the La Tour-Maubourg and Bureaux de Pusy families. To Adrienne’s distress, one surviving member of the Noailles family was absent: her father, the duc d’Ayen—now the duc de Noailles, since his father’s death. Still in exile in Switzerland, he sent his daughter a clumsy, almost distant letter that only added to her pain when he explained the reason for his absence: he had remarried. The new duchesse de Noailles sent a note welcoming Adrienne back from prison and expressing hope that her father’s remarriage would not pain her. Too devout a Roman Catholic to countenance her father’s remarriage—and too devoted to her mother— Adrienne was devastated and replied in uncharacteristically bitter tones:
“You must have foreseen, my dear Papa, how torn my heart would be on receiving your letter . . . it is by making myself one with my mother that I maintain my strength. There is no circumstance in my life which brings me closer to her than in sending my every wish for your happiness.” In a postscript, she added these words to her father’s new wife: “Duchess, you have well judged the deep and painful impression made upon my heart by your letter and by my father’s, an impression which will remain as ineffaceable as my regrets.” 48 Adrienne and her father would never see each other again.
During the ensuing days, the families shared hours of joyful rest and play—and too many hours of tear-filled tales of family tragedies during the Terror. After a month, the Lafayettes had regained enough strength to move into a place of their own, with more spacious quarters for themselves and the girls, and a quiet study for Lafayette in which he could add his memoirs to those of previous generations of the world’s fallen, forgotten heroes. Adrienne remained weak and ill, however. Her daughters tried to comfort her, but she spent much of the day praying and weeping softly at the constant vision of her grandmother, mother, and sister riding the wooden cart to their deaths.
After a sober holiday celebration, bitter January winds from the Baltic Sea whirled about the gray stone château; eddies of mist sped by, metamorphosing into ghastly specters of relatives and friends in the grips of the Terror. Lake Ploën froze into a thick, impenetrable black block and reduced the once-joyous landscape into a silent congregation of dark, leafless trees, mourning autumns past and patiently awaiting future springs.
Then, in February, a blinding burst of sunshine exploded through the mournful winter shroud:
It was George; George had returned from America.
After the riot of embraces and kisses had subsided, George handed his father a letter:
Mount Vernon, 8 October 1797.
My dear Marquis,
This letter will, I hope, be presented to you by your son, who is worthy in every way to be your son and that of your amiable Lady. . . . The conduct of your son since he set foot on American soil has been exemplary and has earned him the trust of all who have had the pleasure of knowing him. . . . He can tell you better than I how I felt about your sufferings. . . . I hasten to congratulate you, and you may rest assured that no one does so with a deeper or more ardent
After nearly two weeks, Adrienne was still too weak and ill to voyage to America, and the Lafayette caravan crossed into Denmark, where, fifty milesto the north, Adrienne’s aunt, the comtesse de Tessé, had purchased a large estate at Witmold, on the north shore of Lake Ploën. Adrienne’s sister Pauline and her husband, who had fled to England during the Terror, had joined the countess and were waiting when the Lafayettes arrived—as were surviving members of the La Tour-Maubourg and Bureaux de Pusy families. To Adrienne’s distress, one surviving member of the Noailles family was absent: her father, the duc d’Ayen—now the duc de Noailles, since his father’s death. Still in exile in Switzerland, he sent his daughter a clumsy, almost distant letter that only added to her pain when he explained the reason for his absence: he had remarried. The new duchesse de Noailles sent a note welcoming Adrienne back from prison and expressing hope that her father’s remarriage would not pain her. Too devout a Roman Catholic to countenance her father’s remarriage—and too devoted to her mother— Adrienne was devastated and replied in uncharacteristically bitter tones:
“You must have foreseen, my dear Papa, how torn my heart would be on receiving your letter . . . it is by making myself one with my mother that I maintain my strength. There is no circumstance in my life which brings me closer to her than in sending my every wish for your happiness.” In a postscript, she added these words to her father’s new wife: “Duchess, you have well judged the deep and painful impression made upon my heart by your letter and by my father’s, an impression which will remain as ineffaceable as my regrets.” 48 Adrienne and her father would never see each other again.
During the ensuing days, the families shared hours of joyful rest and play—and too many hours of tear-filled tales of family tragedies during the Terror. After a month, the Lafayettes had regained enough strength to move into a place of their own, with more spacious quarters for themselves and the girls, and a quiet study for Lafayette in which he could add his memoirs to those of previous generations of the world’s fallen, forgotten heroes. Adrienne remained weak and ill, however. Her daughters tried to comfort her, but she spent much of the day praying and weeping softly at the constant vision of her grandmother, mother, and sister riding the wooden cart to their deaths.
After a sober holiday celebration, bitter January winds from the Baltic Sea whirled about the gray stone château; eddies of mist sped by, metamorphosing into ghastly specters of relatives and friends in the grips of the Terror. Lake Ploën froze into a thick, impenetrable black block and reduced the once-joyous landscape into a silent congregation of dark, leafless trees, mourning autumns past and patiently awaiting future springs.
Then, in February, a blinding burst of sunshine exploded through the mournful winter shroud:
It was George; George had returned from America.
After the riot of embraces and kisses had subsided, George handed his father a letter:
Mount Vernon, 8 October 1797.
My dear Marquis,
This letter will, I hope, be presented to you by your son, who is worthy in every way to be your son and that of your amiable Lady. . . . The conduct of your son since he set foot on American soil has been exemplary and has earned him the trust of all who have had the pleasure of knowing him. . . . He can tell you better than I how I felt about your sufferings. . . . I hasten to congratulate you, and you may rest assured that no one does so with a deeper or more ardent
Similar Books
