The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [260]
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.