The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [114]
Vergennes had summoned Franklin as soon as the news had reached the French court, and within minutes of the invitation, Franklin was dressed and had summoned his carriage. As he stepped out of the hotel, a small crowd was waiting, and he heard his name, surprising calls of congratulation, as though this one old man had accomplished such a feat three thousand miles away. He was accustomed to being recognized, but this was different, and he was amazed that word of Washington’s victories had spread so quickly beyond the official halls of government. The carriage was not yet there, and he stood alone, while the crowd grew, more of the passersby clamoring for a look at this celebrated American. As their joy flooded over him, he began to relax, would board the carriage in due time, would enjoy the moment, the extraordinary show of affection from a people he was still trying to know.
He had begun a healthy routine again, would brave the chilly days for long walks through the wide streets. There was always attention, the old round man moving slowly past the shops and small cafés dressed still in the style that seemed to amuse the socialites. He would always wear his trademark plain fur hat and dull brown coat, and always the tiny glasses perched on his nose. By appearance alone his fame had spread, far beyond the drawing rooms of the elite. As he made his daily walks, people stopped him on the street, if only to speak to him, and his responses were polite, if somewhat inaccurate. He had tried to master the French language, had become fluent enough to understand most of what was spoken to him, but his failing was in the details, and his poor grammar and clumsy pronunciation only added to his charm. To the poor and working classes, his lack of concern for pomp and grandeur was making him a hero, and within a few weeks, his image had begun to appear in stone and wax and paper, adorning the modest walls and hearths of simple homes all over Paris. In clothing shops, merchants began to stock more goods of the color brown, described now as the Franklin Hue. Hat shops began to sell the Franklin Hat, his simple fur now reproduced as an object of popular fashion.
His image was not all accident. His purpose from the beginning was to show that America was not so obsessed with finery as with the substance of its own crisis. He had hoped that his appearance would at the very least draw attention to his purpose for being there, a humble man from a humble nation. It could only help his cause, and it had seemed to work. To those in and around the royal court, he continued to be a charming and curious oddity, sought after for his graciousness and his vast collection of stories. But the sudden outpouring of affection from the people was a surprise, both to Franklin and to the elite. There had been some of this in London, but the response there had not been so positive, his image more a symbol of the annoying rebellion. But the French workers had made him an icon, the consummate American, a symbol of a dynamic people who would throw off their chains. There was something in their response that reached him beyond his grateful vanity, a gnawing sense that beneath their affection was another voice, aimed perhaps at their own government, a growl of discontentment that his appearance had brought to the surface. But he could not focus on that, the old man’s limited