Chapter Twenty-Six
AUTEUIL
France
“It won’t hurt as much as you think it will,” John Quincy said, helping me into the carriage. In this, my son was echoing
his father, who insisted I must summon the courage to leave our safe little circle of American friends and go calling.
I had special cards for the occasion, with my name printed on one side in a decorative frame of laurel. The back was blank
for any message I might wish to write.
I’d provided the driver with the addresses of ladies upon whom I meant to call—and the driver took some umbrage, as if I thought
him incapable of knowing his way around Paris.
Thankfully my eldest son, with his well-trained courtly manners, soothed tempers and now assured me of a painless affair.
“You’ll simply have your servant knock, ask for the lady, and wait to be told whether she’s at home.”
Well, of course, none of these French ladies were at home when I called. And why should they be? I was merely a stranger sprinkling my card all over Paris like seed corn.
Knock. Ask for the lady. Leave the card.
From my carriage, I watched my servant repeat this for several hours until we finally reached one of the grandest homes in
all Paris—the H?tel de Noailles—and the last name on my list.
The Marquise de Lafayette.
The formidable doorman in livery of red with gold lace said the lady was not at home. The card was left, the gates closed, and my servant returned to my carriage grateful to be done with this business for the day.
However, no sooner had our carriage wheels started to turn than did appear that same doorman, banging on the side of the coach
to make us stop. Breathless, he said, “Excusez-moi, madame, je suis désolé.”
As it happened, the lady was indeed at home, and she was now waiting in the majestic doorway, my card in hand. “Mrs. Adams,
I am happy to be seeing you by your visiting. So happy!”
Thereupon Lafayette’s young wife threw her arms around my neck like an old friend and pressed kisses to my cheeks with such
warmth that it melted my New England reserve. Breathlessly, and in tolerably good English, she said, “I pray you forgive the
mistake. Today I am in a family way with mother and sisters—who you must meet.”
She took me to her ornate chambers where the women of her family were indeed knitting together in familiarity—and I was sensible
of the honor to be admitted into such intimate company, so I tried not to gawp at the gilded mirrors, silvered sconces, and
ornate moldings. Everything elegant, expensive, and refined as far as the eye could see.
I was introduced to the lady’s mother and sisters, who were all most kind to me. Then the marquise said, “I foresee we will
make good friends, Mrs. Adams, for the sake of our husbands. As mine teaches me to love Americans.”
I happily recounted for her the few meetings I had with her heroic young husband during the war, and she expressed regret
he couldn’t greet me himself, as he’d recently returned to America for a visit with George Washington at Mount Vernon. “But
you must be meeting the children,” she enthused, sending nursemaids to fetch the heir, four-year-old Georges; his older sister,
Anastasie; and his younger sister, Virginie, who was just learning to talk.
I saw how fond and attentive she was to them—which was very much not the custom for women of her class.
But the Marquise de Lafayette was a different sort of lady than I’d come to expect.
She was pious and possessed the gentlest ease in her manners that can possibly be conceived of.
Almost studied as an art and rendered as nature.
Best of all, she was thoughtful—so much so that she gifted me with a little songbird.
“To remind you of your dear boys left in America. When you told me how much you missed them, you mentioned your Charles loved
songbirds, so I hope this puts you in remembering him. Unfortunately, I do not know how to remember your Thomas for you.”
“This little bird will make me remember both boys,” I said, touched by the noblewoman’s gesture. In truth, I also came to
love that little French bird in its cage. In the weeks that followed, it chirped to cheer me every day, making me think even
more fondly of Adrienne Lafayette.
The marquise eventually came to dine at our home dressed neatly, but without rouge, diamonds, or elaborate coiffure. And to
my surprise, I heard the American women at my table whisper with sneering disdain. “No lady of our country would go to dinner so unadorned.”
Irritated, I remembered what Jefferson had said about Madame Helvétius and repeated it this time with sincerity. “The lady’s
rank sets her above the little formalities of dress. For her husband is a hero of our revolution, and she presents herself
with the simplicity of a good republican.”
In truth, Adrienne was so wonderful a creature that I felt ashamed of myself for forming too hastily a bad opinion of France
and the French. And though Lafayette’s wife was closer in age to my daughter Nabby than she was to me, we did indeed become
good friends.
When I complimented her wisdom for a young woman of only twenty-four years, Adrienne said, “It is because I was forcing to
put away childish things too soon. The custom in our country for families like mine is to marrying young. I was myself betrothed
at only thirteen.”
I hoped I’d misunderstood. “Ten years and three?”
She nodded. “It is why the husbands and wives in France do not love. We are just children when matching.” Her doe eyes went soft and wistful. “I was married before capable of love. But my friends made so wise a choice for me that I learned to love mon Gilbert with all my heart.”
Hearing this, Nabby blushed a little, which led me to tell the Frenchwoman about my daughter’s betrothed. Nabby, of course,
had nothing to say—seemingly mortified by the discussion. And as she stared out the window, I gave an exasperated laugh. “She
has been a quiet girl most of her life. Silent and sad.”
“What does it mean, sad?” Adrienne asked.
“Triste,” Nabby replied. “Mama believes me to be triste by nature.”
“Oh, no, I do not think so,” Adrienne said at once. “If I am a physiognomist, I say Miss Adams is not triste. She is grave. A serious girl thinking serious thoughts in a serious world.”
This characterization absolutely delighted Nabby, who repeated it several times to forestall my criticisms. And while I couldn’t
entirely discredit what Adrienne said, I knew my daughter well enough to know her silences—and the one she fell into by winter
was triste indeed.
“Mr. Tyler does not write me,” Nabby finally admitted.
“Be patient,” I told her. “I’ve written Mrs. Warren numerous letters and have yet to receive a reply. Those letters must make
a long journey over the ocean. They’re often lost.”
Nabby crossed her arms. “Less so, one would think, now that there is no war.”
I was sorry to see the way a lack of letters soured her mood; she was, in this way, too much like her mother. For weeks she’d
thrown herself into our travels, eager to improve her French, practicing with me every day. But now, with no letters from
her betrothed, she withdrew into a silence so long and so provoking that it annoyed even the hairdresser.
Working Nabby’s locks into a high coiffure, she asked whether the pins were too tight. “Les épingles à cheveux vous font-elles mal, mademoiselle?”
Nabby did not answer.
Only when I poked my daughter did she murmur, “I’m sorry. I do not speak French.”
And the hairdresser snapped, “Mademoiselle does not speak English, either!”
I laughed at that, but then and there I decided that Nabby needed cheering.
Diversion was to be the order of the day. So, while my husband attended court in Versailles, we shared mid-day meals with
American ladies. We supped with French ladies in the evening. And because Paris was so much less dangerous than London—perfectly
safe for ladies to traverse without fear of pickpockets—we did our share of sightseeing at ease. We took chocolate in a shop
outside the Tuileries Garden and looked for bargains in boutiques. We saw Figaro at the Comédie-Francaise, though Nabby airily dismissed it as a production of low wit.
We dined with Mr. Jefferson and his daughter most nights. On one evening when we were entertaining foreign diplomats, the
ambassador of Sweden made eyes at my daughter and leaned over to tell Johnny, “Your sister is of such perfect porcelain complexion
that she looks ten years younger than anyone else her age in France.”
My poor son was torn between what he felt was his diplomatic duty and his duty as a brother to warn the man off. He nearly
tore his cloth napkin to shreds in his fisted palm, which did make his sister laugh.
In the new year we toured the courts of justice with its grand architecture. We browsed glassware in the shopping arcades,
running our fingertips over the smooth and intricately designed decanters and perfume bottles. Jostling for good deals, I
found gifts to send home: sweets for Charlie and Tommy, ribbons for my sisters, and lace kerchiefs for Phoebe.
We went to see the hot-air balloon land in Paris, followed by a tour of Notre-Dame, in all its awe-striking grandeur. Truly,
the gigantic gray structure with its fascinating gargoyles made me feel humbled as a human being!
Then came a celebration in early January when the servants followed the chicken course with an especially large pie. My husband
eyed it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Tomorrow is to be celebrated La Fête des Rois,” our servant replied, as if we should know what this celebration portended.
But it was quite impossible to keep track of these celebrations because the religion of this country required an abundance of feasting and fasting, and each person had his particular saint, as well as each calling and occupation.
“It’s to celebrate the three magi,” Johnny said, always informed. “The tradition is to serve a galette with a bean hidden