Trial Post
Beaumarchais introduces me to a Madame du Deffand.
“You should know, Monsieur Temple, I have heard nothing good about you,” She says.
“I’m a double-distilled bastard; the bastard of a bastard. And I have heard of you.”
Deffand smiles, “And what does that scoundrel Beaumarchais say about me?”
“Nothing good. He says you are a cynical old bitch who cannot see good in anyone. But—”
“—That’s because I am blind you silly bastard,” Deffand says.
“—but, Beaumarchais claims that once upon a time you were a beautiful, passionate woman, and regrets he had not been born sooner.”
Deffand, “To what end?”
Beaumarchais eyes me, grinning.
“If you had had sex with him, you would not have degenerated into the cynical bitch you became.”
Beaumarchais, “I did NOT say that.”
Deffand, “I think you did say that; or at least thought it. I was beautiful once. I like you Temple. What else did Monsieur Beaumarchais have to say about me?”
“After hearing the story that St. Denis had walked two miles to Montmartre carrying his decapitated head in his arm, you said, ‘it was the first step that was the hardest.’”
“I did say that,” Deffand admits. “Tell me, why does your grandfather carry a white hat under his arm, is it a symbol of liberty?”
“How did you know he’s carrying a white hat?”
Deffand, “I am blind, not deaf.”
“The good guys always wear white hats. . . . Pierre, I’d like to meet the king’s aunts that you managed to beguile.”
Adelaide and Victoire are warm and friendly, and have nice things to say about “charming Pierre” Beaumarchais.
Adelaide shows me her watch that Beaumarchais made for her nearly twenty years ago . . .
Beaumarchais points out the Lees, Izard and Lauraguais standing morosely in the corner together.
Beaumarchais, “Imagine their frustration. Your grandfather works long days everyday, and plays every night; the Lees are merely an itch he must scratch occasionally. They have nothing to do; no real responsibilities; nothing to account for; they consume every waking moment conniving and plotting to destroy your grandfather. Despite their best efforts, your grandfather always stays two steps ahead of them. The Lees and Izard wear expensive new clothes, a wig, powdered just so; fastidiously following protocol for this special occasion. Dr. Franklin ignores protocol: with no wig, and a brown wool Quaker outfit, he looks like something out of Rousseau. Instead of general disapproval, he wins unfeigned applause; everyone here is captivated. Your grandfather is a genius. The Lees look like mere footmen for the great man. He has . . . how did you put it to Izard?”
“I told Izard and William Lee that Ben has five brains, and each one is smarter than theirs.”
Beaumarchais chuckles and nods, “From the look of them, they just learned the truth of that.”
3:30 p.m.
Dinner with Vergennes
Vergennes hosts a lavish dinner in his suite at the palace for us and fifty nobles and their wives. Ben sits in the chair usually reserved for Stormont. The King and queen do not attend, but the queen requested Ben visit with her after dinner …
5:30 p.m.
Ben and I find Marie Antoinette in the Queen’s gaming room. Ben is obliged to stand while she plays card game with dice, chips and a game board I am unfamiliar with.
Marie-Antoinette, “I understand you were once a printer’s foreman.”
Ben, “Yes, your majesty.”
Marie-Antoinette, haughtily, “In Europe, no man with that background could have risen so high.”
Ben, “Yes, your majesty.”
Ben’s mock-gracious reply tinged with sarcasm and pride mortifies the pampered queen. She understands. Her fellow game-players at the table do too; they silently place their bets on the board, stealing glances at the queen.
Marie-Antoinette, “Do you not dread the fate of Prometheus?”
Ben, “Your Majesty?”
Marie-Antoinette, “Prometheus was severely punished for stealing fire from Heaven.” [I missed her reference to lightning — so will the reader]
“I was worried, your Majesty,” Ben says. “Until now.”
Marie-Antoinette, “Now?”
Ben, “If I did not behold a pair of eyes this moment, which have stolen infinitely more fire from Jove than I did, pass unpunished, though they do more mischief in a week than I have done in all my experiments.”
Ben owns her …
Ben proceeds to draw on his rich store of anecdotes to amuse the young queen. She would have left Ben standing next to her indefinitely, had I not finagled chairs for us, and paper and pencil for myself from the staff. Ben’s homey delivery work its magic: Marie-Antoinette brightens, she asks one question after another about America and the war which Ben answers with his usual good humor. Eventually the gambling slows down, everyone at the table listening to Ben and the queen banter.
After about an hour and half of this, she turns abruptly to face me.
“What are you drawing?” she asks, accusingly.
“Your portrait,” I answer without looking up.
Marie-Antoinette, “Let me see, let me see.” She seems almost giddy.
I am not really much of an artist, but by regular practice drawing the same face over and over again, I have mastered one female face that looks like no one I know. Ladies gather about me to appraise my pencil art.
Marie-Antoinette, “That doesn’t look like me.”
“Madame, I draw what I see. Women, yourself included, cannot see what men see. Women, even queens, simply do not possess the visual powers of men. This is, in fact, what I see, and what every man sees when he looks at you.”
“Leopold,” Marie-Antoinette waves a man over from the next table.
Leopold denies my drawing looks like the queen.
“Your majesty, this is what happens when queens surround themselves with sycophants; she only hears what she wants to hear, no one dare tell her the truth.”
Leopold is set to call me out. The queen dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
Marie-Antoinette, “but you dare tell the truth?”
“The truth is that men fall in love with their eyes, women fall in live with their ears.”
The queen likes it, “Say that again.”
“Men fall in love with their eyes, women with their ears.”
The queen stands and shoves the picture in front of Ben, “Do you think this looks like me?”
Ben examines the picture while she looks down over his shoulder, “Hmm. She is beautiful, don’t you think … your majesty?”
Marie-Antoinette, “Follow me, son of Benjamin Franklin.”
She thinks I am Ben’s son.
The queen leads me, with several of her female entourage in tow to the Queen’s Bedchamber. She has me sit at a table, while she disappears into another room, returning with a stack of pencil and paper drawings. She dismisses the ladies; she wants to show me her own drawings without the women seeing her work. I slowly leaf through the drawings, nodding and pretending to evaluate each one carefully. Most of them are of flowers and trees. Modest talent. Very modest.
“Well Marie—may I call you Marie?”
Marie-Antoinette, “For now, but never in public.”
“Well Marie, when you have only modest talent, the key is repetition. I draw the same female face over and over again.”
Marie, “So that was not my portrait you drew. I knew it. So you lied.”
“And look where its got me.”
Marie smiles widely, “I should have known.”
“Ben says that to me too. Now, I think your best work are roses. They look like the real thing. In fact, they look idealized—better than the real thing. As if you reached into the heavens and captured Plato’s form for the ideal rose.”
Marie, “You think so? Really?”
“If you show me how to draw a prefect rose every time, I will show you how I draw my beautiful female face.”
We have a deal.
[Temple draws face. Marie Antoinette wants to know who it is. Temple says “you.” Marie says no, because the face looks French. Who is it? Maybe Temple will figure it out someday.]
8:30 p.m.
Marie and I exit her room to return to the gaming room. And there, down the hall is Beaumarchais with Marie-Thérèse. When he spots us, he blushes, then turns abruptly, and with Marie-Thérèse in hand, disappears around the corner. Perfect.