Marat’s lack of a fixed address, along with the high anxiety caused by the concerted efforts of the police, National Guard, and National Assembly to capture him, did nothing for his fragile mental and physical state. His skin, which had improved during their time away in England, flared into an agony of itchy, red sores. Marcus prescribed a vinegar wash to quiet the inflammation and prevent infection. It stung like the devil, but it brought Marat relief—so much so that he began to wear a vinegar-soaked cloth around his head. The sharp tang announced his presence long before he appeared, and Veronique dubbed him Le Vinaigrier and aired out her back room whenever Marat slept there so as not to tip off the authorities.
While Marat hid, Marcus spent late May and June digging out the Champs de Mars and ferrying wheelbarrows of dirt to the side of a vast oval arena so that Paris could properly celebrate the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille come July. Marat was the only creature of their acquaintance who did not participate in the excavation, pleading a bad back and sore hands due to the many hours he spent crouched over newspaper copy and writing screeds against his political rivals.
With Marat increasingly convinced that there were vast conspiracies at work to undo the Revolution, and Veronique busy recruiting new members of the Cordeliers Club for Danton, Marcus found himself spending more time with Lafayette. As head of the National Guard and author of France’s new draft constitution, the marquis was up to his neck in plans for the July celebrations. He had ordered troops from all over the country into Paris—one of Marat’s conspiracies argued that Lafayette did so to proclaim himself king—and now had to find housing, food, and amusements for them. At the same time, Lafayette was called upon to greet the visitors who were arriving to join in the festivities. Even the royal family was slated to attend the fete.
Given the presence of the king, queen, and heir to the throne, as well as hundreds of thousands of intoxicated Parisians, foreign dignitaries, and armed soldiers, Lafayette was understandably concerned about safety. His anxiety mounted when Marat announced his opposition to the planned spectacle, bringing the simmering animosity between Marcus’s two friends to a vitriolic boil.
“‘Blind citizens whom my cries of pain cannot penetrate—sleep on, on the edge of the abyss,’” Lafayette read aloud from the newspaper. He groaned. “Is Marat trying to cause a riot?”
“Jean-Paul doesn’t think people are listening to his calls for equality,” Marcus said, trying to explain Marat’s position.
“He publishes one shrill call to tear society apart after another. We have no choice but to listen.” Lafayette tossed L’ami du peuple on his desk.
They were seated in Lafayette’s private cabinet, the doors to the small balcony open to the heavy July air. Lafayette’s house was luxurious, but not as large as the Hôtel de Clermont. The marquis had deliberately chosen a residence that was less ostentatious than those of most aristocrats, and decorated it with simple, neoclassical elegance. He and Adrienne, along with their children Anastasie and Georges, had gladly left Versailles to enjoy life as a family on the rue de Bourbon.
Lafayette’s page entered, a letter in his hand.
“Monsieur Thomas Paine,” the page announced. “He is waiting for you in the salon.”
“There is no need for such ceremony,” Lafayette said. “We will greet him here.”
Marcus leaped to his feet. “The Thomas Paine?”
“There is only one, alas.” Lafayette straightened his waistcoat and his wig while his servant fetched his American visitor.
After what seemed like an eternity to Marcus, the servant returned. With him was a man who looked like an English country parson, dressed in severe black from shoulder to foot, his simple white cravat the only thing to provide a dash of contrast apart from his hair, which was gunmetal gray. Paine’s nose was long and bulbous, the end of it angled slightly to the right. The left side of his mouth drooped slightly, which gave him the odd appearance of someone whose features had been fashioned out of soft modeling clay.
“Ah, Mr. Paine. You found us. Adrienne will be sorry to miss you. She is with her family at the moment.”
“Monsieur.” Paine bowed.
“But I have some consolation, as well as some refreshment,” Lafayette said. More servants appeared with tea and melted away again without uttering a word. “This is my dear Doc, who treated me at Brandywine. He is a great admirer of your writing, and can recite Common Sense chapter and verse. Marcus de Clermont, my friend Thomas Paine.”
“Sir.” Marcus returned Paine’s polite bow, but was then overcome with emotion. He rushed to him with an extended hand. “Allow me to express my thanks for all you have done to bring liberty to America. Your words were the greatest comfort to me, during the war.”
“I have done nothing, except cast a light on self-evident truths,” Paine replied, taking Marcus’s hand in his own. Somewhat to Marcus’s surprise, it was a perfectly ordinary handshake. He had long suspected Paine was a Freemason like the rest of them. “Marcus de Clermont, you say? I believe you knew Dr. Franklin.”
“Marcus and Dr. Franklin spent many happy hours experimenting together,” Lafayette said, ushering Paine to a chair. “His death was a blow to all who believe in freedom, not least to his friends who could sorely use his advice in these troubled times.”
News of Franklin’s death reached Marcus a few days after he and Marat returned to France. His friend had died of pleurisy, the infection causing an abscess that had made it impossible to breathe. Marcus had always imagined Franklin would live forever, so powerful was his personality.
“A great loss indeed. And what would you ask Dr. Franklin, if he were here?” Paine inquired gently of Lafayette, taking a cup of tea with thanks.
Lafayette pondered the question, struggling over his answer, while he fiddled with the teapot and strainer. He preferred coffee, and was not as familiar with the equipment as he should be. Marcus, who had been trained in the proper handling of it by his mother, rescued the marquis from certain disaster and poured his own cup of tea.
“The marquis is troubled by Monsieur Marat,” Marcus explained as he poured. “Jean-Paul does not like insincerity, and feels that the Bastille celebration is frivolous.”
“Insincere! How dare he?” Lafayette cried, putting his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “I can be accused of many failings, Doc, but not my devotion to liberty.”
“Then you have nothing to fear,” Paine said, blowing on his tea to cool it so that he could take a sip. “I have heard that Marat opposes all attempts at reconciliation between those who support his views, and those who are more moderate.”
“Marat is a menace,” Lafayette said. “I do not trust him.”
“Perhaps that is why he does not trust you,” Paine replied.
Another servant interrupted them, murmuring in his master’s ear.
“Madame de Clermont has come,” Lafayette announced, face wreathed in smiles. “How wonderful. She will not want tea. Fetch wine for her, at once. Madame will be exhausted, having come all the way from Auteuil.”
Marcus had not seen his grandmother since he returned from London, and did not know what to expect from the encounter given how many of her invitations he had refused in order to please Veronique. He stood, nervous, as Ysabeau de Clermont sailed into the room, ribbons and ruffles fluttering. Her primrose dress was striped with white and adorned with sprigs of blue forget-me-nots. Her hair was lightly powdered, which made her green eyes and the touch of color in her cheeks more evident. And the tilt of her broad-brimmed hat was decidedly playful—not to mention flattering.
“Madame!” Lafayette went to Ysabeau, bowing and then kissing her familiarly on each cheek. “You have brought the summer gardens inside with you. What a happy surprise that you came today. Marcus and I are talking with Monsieur Paine about the fete. Will you join us?”
“Marquis.” Ysabeau beamed at him. “I could not resist calling on you, when Adrienne said you were home alone. I have just come from the Hôtel de Noailles. How the children have grown. Anastasie is more like her mother every day. And Georges—what a rascal he is.”