As the covered wagon lumbered past the Louvre on its way to La Place Louis XV, Richard caught a glimpse of the Tuilleries Palace and its majestic gardens, where colorful hot-air balloons had once enticed the well-to-do to pay for lofty rides over Paris on warm summer afternoons. As he looked out, a wave of fond remembrance washed over him. It was here, at the Théâtre de la Nation, that he and Anne-Marie had attended a performance of
The Barber of Seville,
a play by Beaumarchais performed by the Comédie Française. It had been her gift to him on his eighteenth birthday, and he smiled at the recollection. They had stayed only through the first act in the private alcove Anne-Marie had reserved for them before rising in a mutual desire to return to the privacy of her château in Passy. In the intervening years he had not forgotten her or that night, or the nights that followed until duty and his captain commanded him back to his ship. He had not seen her since, but the memory of her remained forever tucked away in that secret refuge of the mind where life's most cherished memories are kept.
The military wagon had approached Paris from the south to avoid the area around the Bastille on the Right Bank, where remnants of rioting lingered, as well as the Hôtel de Ville, where thousands of Parisians had gathered to cheer King Louis for ordering the German regiments out of France. They thus avoided the sight of angry citizens dismantling the Bastille brick by brick and the spectacle of dead bodies heaped one on top of another in horse-drawn carts. The rank smell of the dead fouled the air nonetheless, and the stench turned Richard's stomach. Or perhaps it was just the thought of those putrefying corpses, their rotting flesh food for rabid, half-starved dogs.
Suddenly there came a sharp
bang!
against the wooden base of the wagon, followed by another and another and another. The two horses reared up as the driver pulled hard on the reins, causing the wagon to shudder and lift, throwing Richard and the two soldiers off the plank
on which they had been sitting and into crates of what had been neatly stacked supplies. Cursing, Richard got to his knees and crawled to the back of the wagon. He pulled aside the canvas flap to see a knot of young boys, several not yet in their teens, running awayâneedlessly, for there was no one in pursuit. Hurling rocks at a military wagon, an offense that a week ago would have been dealt with severely, was today
une petite délinquance.
When the wagon arrived at 19, avenue des Champs-Ãlysées, the wagon creaked to a halt in front of a three-story gray building of modest yet attractive design. The three rectangular windows facing the avenue on each of the upper two floors were embraced by blue wooden shutters on each side and intricate black ironwork beneath. Above the red mansard roof fluttered the stars and stripes of the American flag.
The driver glanced back at Richard. “
Nous sommes arrivés,
” he said, adding, as if in apology for the broadside of rocks, “
Je regrette le dérangement, monsieur.
”
“
Pas de quoi,
” Richard said, stepping down. A National Guard soldier handed him his sea bag and satchel, and the driver flicked the reins. As the wagon rumbled on, Richard walked up the shrub-lined pathway to the front of the building and knocked on the door.
His knock was answered by a liveried servant wearing a glossy red coat and a white peruke, its long strands tied back at the nape of his neck with a black silk bow. The man did not step aside and offer entrance, but instead remained standing in the doorway, his eyes asking who this visitor was and what he wanted.
“
Bonjour,
” Richard said. “
Je m'appelle Richard Cutler. Je suis américain et je viens pour voir Monsieur Jefferson.
”
“
Très bien, Monsieur Cutler,
” the footman replied deferentially. “
Attendez ici pour un moment, s'il vous plaît
.”
His footsteps clicked across the black-and-white-tiled floor until he reached a door at the far end of the hallway, on which he knocked and announced the visitor. The door opened and a man emerged. Even at that distance Richard could see that he was tallâtaller than himselfâand appeared gangly, gawky even. He was dressed in a suit of brown cloth that at first blush did not seem to fit him properly. But that impression vanished as the man began walking toward him. It was his smile that first captivated Richard, so open and sincere, but he quickly noted the man's handsome patrician featuresâlong face, thin lips, and aquiline noseâand the easy, fluid way he walked. He was, Richard knew, in his middle fifties, married with two daughters, and came from Charlottesville,
Virginia. That was almost all he knew about the man, except that he had served as American minister to France since taking the reins from Benjamin Franklin.
“Good day, Mr. Jefferson,” Richard said. He removed his tricorne hat and bowed from the waist. “I am Richard Cutler. I trust you have received my letters?”
“I have indeed, Mr. Cutler,” Jefferson replied in the aristocratic accent of Tidewater Virginia, “and I am relieved to see that you have arrived safely. That, in and of itself, is no small feat. I have received three letters from you, and I am holding a number of others on your behalf. No doubt you wish to review them. But first, if you are agreeable, I was just having a cup of chocolate with an acquaintance. You are most welcome to join us. I'll have the letters and your baggage sent upstairs to your room while we chat. I am eager to hear what you have to report.”
Richard was struck by what Jefferson had just said. “You are offering me lodging, sir? Here, in your home?”
“By all means, Mr. Cutler. My home, as you refer to it, serves as the American consulate in Paris. You are an American, are you not? On a mission for our country? Then of course you are most welcome to stay here. Had you alternative lodgings in mind?”
Richard hesitated. It was an obvious question, but he lacked an obvious answer because the person he had hoped to stay with had not replied to his messages. “I had thought perhaps with Captain Jones,” he said.
“Yes, I see. That would be a possibility were Captain Jones in sufficient health to receive you in that capacity. I am sorry to report that he is not. Do not be overly concerned; he is most anxious to see you. But the poor man has not been well recently. I believe it is nothing serious, but since he refuses to see a doctor, one cannot be certain.” Jefferson sent the footman upstairs with Richard's bag and satchel and motioned to Richard to follow him down the hall. “Perhaps you will understand better after you see him. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?”
“I had hoped to visit him today,” Richard said frankly.
“That I cannot permit, Mr. Cutler,” Jefferson said with equal frankness. “It is a long walk across the river to his lodging, and it would be dark before you could return. Surely you have seen for yourself that the streets of Paris are not safe during the daytime, let alone at night. Allow me to send a messenger to him announcing your visit in the morning. Shall we say ten o'clock?”
Richard nodded his assent and allowed himself to be led into a room that apparently served as Jefferson's study. Three of the four walls were lined with books, many with gold-blocked spines, and most appearing in mint condition, either recently published or, if not, long in the care of a bibliophile. Brightly colored oil paintings of wildflowers and rural landscapes graced the walls above the shelves. On the right was a desk holding an inkwell, quills, and neatly stacked papers. In the center of the room was a round table with four chairs drawn up to it. On one of them sat a man with many of Jefferson's physical attributes, except that he wore a peg leg attached by leather straps to his thigh and knee. Despite this infirmity, he rose with surprising agility when Richard entered the room.
“Mr. Morris,” Jefferson said, “allow me to introduce Richard Cutler, from Boston. You may recall my mentioning his recent voyage to Algiers. He has come from there to share information with Captain Jones, who, as you know, is our president's choice to lead a delegation to the Barbary States. Mr. Cutler, this gentleman is Mr. Gouverneur Morris. He is our commercial attaché here in Paris, an office I held when I first came to France in '84. He will continue in that position after I have returned to Philadelphia to serve as President Washington's secretary of state.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Jefferson,” Richard said. “I had heard rumors to that effect, and I am pleased to learn they are true. And I am honored to meet you, Mr. Morris,” he added, bowing courteously to the richly attired man. “Your reputation precedes you. As you may know, my family is engaged in the carrying trade. We appreciate what you have done to promote American commerce overseas.”
“That is generous of you, Mr. Cutler,” Morris said, retaking his seat, “most generous indeed. And you are most welcome. You clearly understand that I best serve my country by serving your family's interests. I have long maintained that commerce holds the key to our prosperity as a young nation.”
“I could not agree more, sir,” Richard countered, “especially if our young nation is prepared to invest in a navy to protect our commerce.”
“Here, here,” Jefferson said, clapping his hands. “It seems we three are of equal mind on that score. You may be assured, Mr. Cutler, that I will be advancing that position once I hold office. Now then, please be seated. May I offer you a cup of chocolate?”
“I'd prefer tea if it's no trouble.”
“No trouble whatsoever.”
Jefferson made a small gesture to the liveried servant, who bowed and departed. He returned a few minutes later with a silver tray on which was set an elegant silver pot with three tiny legs at its base and a straight wooden handle opposite its spout. The servant poured tea into a porcelain cup and placed little bowls of cream and sugar nearby. He then bowed and took his leave, gently closing the door behind him.
“I must say, Mr. Jefferson,” Richard commented after he had sampled the tea, “the atmosphere in here is very different from what it is outside. Did you happen to witness the recent riots?”
“No, I did not. Mr. Morris was with me that day, and we thought it wise not to venture out. This uprising is a nasty business, Mr. Cutler. God alone knows how, where, and when it will end. I have lived in Paris for five years now, and during those years I have grown to love this city. I cannot tell you how deeply it saddens me to watch it disintegrate at the hands of a mob.”
“I met General Lafayette on my way into Paris,” Richard informed him. “He told me that many people in the third estate are hoping to establish a new form of government much like our own.”
“Yes, I have often heard that said. The general may also have told you that I have been invited on several occasions to express my opinions on a new manifesto. It's called the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, and it was introduced to the National Constituent Assembly by Lafayette. This manifesto is fashioned after our own Bill of Rights, so I suppose we should be flattered. But there is one thing that people tend to overlook in contemplating an American basis for a new government in France. We Americans fought the British. The French are fighting themselves. It's a critical distinction.”
Richard understood that distinction, but to him it did not seem so critical. Before the revolution that carved America out of the British Empire, the vast majority of Americans were, after all, British. To his mind, the American Revolution was just as much a civil war as the looming French Revolution would be, and just as much a war fought for principles and ideas rather than for territory and commercial advantage.
“Personally, I agree with Mr. Jefferson,” Morris cut in, warming to the subject, “though perhaps I would take what he said a step further. To be frank, I do not believe that the French can duplicate our republican form of government. And they have no business overthrowing their
king. I favor what Lafayette favors, a constitutional monarchy based on the British model.”
Richard nodded, then shifted the topic of conversation toward the subject uppermost on his mind. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Morris,” he said, “please do not think me rude. You have been most kind in receiving me today. But since I have little time in Paris, I must be blunt. In Algiers, I was unable to ransom my brother and other Americans held there. There were a number of reasons for that, most of them, perhaps, outside anyone's control. But I was informed there, by the dey himself when I was brought before him in the royal palace, that you, Mr. Jefferson, have let it be known that the United States henceforth will not pay ransoms to Algiers or any of the Barbary States, or treat with them under any circumstances. Is that truly your position, sir? And will that be your position as secretary of state? If so, there can be no dialogue with these people. Captain Jones will have failed in his mission before he leaves Paris. I mean no disrespect in asking such questions. But it is imperative to me, as I am sure it is to Captain Jones, that our government's position be clarified. My brother's life is at stake, as are the lives of many American sailors.”
Jefferson frowned. He placed his cup of chocolate delicately back on its matching saucer as Morris said: “It appears, Mr. Cutler, that you have no difficulty coming straight to the point.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I have no choice. I am meeting with Captain Jones tomorrow and I will be leaving Paris the following day. I have no time for diplomacy or genteel discourse.”
Jefferson uttered a sharp laugh. “
Time
for diplomacy, Mr. Cutler? I believe what you mean to say is, there is no
opportunity
for diplomacy in this topsy-turvy world, here or anywhere else. But no matter. I can see that you are disappointed with me and I understand why.” Richard drew a breath to temper the word “disappointed,” but was waved off. “I admit I may have made an error in diplomacy,” Jefferson continued, “but I stand by my position. I had hoped, in saying what I did, that the Barbary States would do exactly what you want them to do: stop seizing our ships and imprisoning our sailors. If they were convinced that our government would not parlay with theirs and would pay no ransoms under any circumstances, then what would be the advantage of taking hostages, especially if other nations were to follow our lead? Representatives of several other nations have assured me they will, if we have the courage to use this weapon. France and England have declined,
which should come as no surprise. France is distracted by internal issues at the moment, and England is quite content to let the Arabs continue to wash their dirty linen for them.”