Page 50 of My Dear Hamilton

Chateau Villette, Summer 1786

My Dear C, my letter began, You said you’d like to read my additions to Smith’s work, so I’ve taken the liberty of sending them . . .

Having been spirited away to our estate in Villette where we awaited my uncle’s visit, writing letters was a pleasant enough diversion from the boredom of country life.

And when Condorcet’s surprising reply arrived, it was not only with praise for my intellectual efforts, but also an enclosure of a pamphlet of his own.

One that lit a fire inside me like a spark to tinder.

“Can you believe the boldness?” I cried.

Having run from the house onto the wide drive in front of our manor to greet my uncle as he stepped out of the carriage, I read aloud one of my favorite lines from Condorcet’s pamphlet on behalf of our three prisoners.

The people groan to be obliged to ask once more, not for a system of laws worthy of an enlightened people, but just for basic human rights . . .

Condorcet championed a right for all accused to have the assistance of legal counsel and an ability to confront accusers.

He called for an end to interrogations by torture.

And he made an utter mockery out of any trial, such as the one in which our three prisoners were condemned, where the prejudices of witnesses were not questioned and unreliable testimony was given undeserved weight.

No one was spared from the heat of his fiery words—not the Paris Parlement, not the king, and not even those who simply wished to look the other way.

Condorcet’s pamphlet was stirring and brave and the news from Paris was that it had resulted in at least a temporary reprieve for the prisoners whilst the court reconsidered their case. Victory!

So why did my uncle look so weary? “The Paris Parlement might spare the prisoners,”

he said.

“But they’ve vented their rage upon me.”

My uncle’s work was to be publicly burned.

He was also stripped of his magistracy.

After dedicating his entire life to the law, my uncle was discarded in disgrace.

“To save men’s lives, I’d do it again,”

Uncle Charles said bravely.

But he took the retaliation hard.

We all did.

Even Maman, who confined her remarks to this single utterance: “Let’s count ourselves fortunate it hasn’t come to worse.”

“I object to the idea we should think ourselves fortunate not to be imprisoned for seeking justice,” I said.

I wasn’t the only one, as I learned when Condorcet called upon us late that summer.

He came without an entourage, having made the day’s travel from Paris driving his own little chariot, and because he wasn’t expected, I was the only adult member of the family at home to receive him.

“You came alone?”

I asked, after explaining that my mother was delivering bread made from potato flour to the poor and that my father, brother, and uncle were hunting.

“You’re lucky you weren’t set upon by highwaymen.

We’d have sent a servant to escort you if you’d sent word ahead.”

“I was uncertain I’d be received if I sent word ahead,”

Condorcet admitted as we sat together outside in view of our fountain with its statue of an ancient sea god amidst the spray.

With my nephews playing nearby under the supervision of their governess, it was the only place I might entertain a gentleman without suspicion or censure.

He’d caught me out wearing only a white muslin gown with blue satin ribbon, and I smoothed the dress over my knees as we settled together upon a marble bench.

“I’ve come to convey my apologies to your uncle,”

he explained.

“As I’ve been the cause of his ruin.”

“My family doesn’t blame you.”

After all, Condorcet had only done what we asked.

And he’d done it brilliantly.

I looked at this shabby absentminded man and wondered how he could write prose that made my heart thump.

Condorcet’s pamphlet had been, perhaps, impolitic.

But he’d been right.

“Nevertheless . . .”

Condorcet took from his coat a letter on very fine paper, and when he handed it to me, my silly heart thumped again in recognition of Lafayette’s seal.

“An invitation from my young friend for your family to join him at Versailles.

It will be quite impossible, of course, to obtain a direct personal audience with the king.

Still, there may be powerful people at court who will intervene on your uncle’s behalf.”

I broke the wax seal and, inside the invitation, found an enclosure.

Pressed between the folded page of a brief note, a trio of blue forget-me-nots.

My compliments to the unforgettable Mademoiselle de Grouchy.

It annoys me now to remember how, like a schoolgirl in the convent again, I traced the lines of my name where Lafayette had written it, smiling like an idiot.

The soldier-hero was, once again, trying to help.

But what did he mean by sending me dried flowers? It could be a mere token of friendship and respect.

In spite of all good sense, I still wanted it to be more . . .

“Thank you for delivering this invitation,”

I said.

“There’s cause for optimism, then, is there not? After all, Maman feared we’d all be thrown into the Bastille with the Marquis de Sade, and yet, we’re still free.”

“As free as one can be in France,”

Condorcet remarked, “where anyone can be jailed on a mere lettre de cachet.”

“But in the Marquis de Sade’s case, they say he’s a deviant lunatic.

The list of rapes and crimes he’s alleged to have committed is long . . .”

“Perhaps he’s guilty and must be jailed, but how can we know without a trial? He might’ve been released but for the suspicion he’s committed sodomy with his manservant.”

I gulped in surprise at Condorcet’s frank use of the word sodomy.

“You think that’s an unjust reason to imprison a man?”

“I don’t believe in crimes without victims.

Whether suicide or consensual sodomy, it is no one else’s affair.

But rape is a violation of the right every woman has to do with her own body as she pleases.”

I’d never known anyone to defend sodomites before.

Nor to claim a woman’s body was her own, though I’d always had an innate sense that I belonged to myself.

Still, again, there was something exhilarating in hearing him say it, and I gave him a radiant smile.

To which he bit his lip and looked away.

A servant came with tea, and Condorcet eyed an easel upon which my latest sketch of the executed man remained unfinished.

“That’s very vivid.

Is it yours?”

“Yes,”

I admitted.

“But despite all my attempts, it doesn’t capture the human suffering . . .”

“Because torture consists of more than what we can see.

There are smells and sounds and—”

“Pain,”

I said, swallowing, feeling it anew beneath my breastbone.

“Just to witness it.”

He nodded.

“I feel that when I hear about the slave markets too.”

“I’d like to end torture and slavery,”

I said, realizing how grandiose such a statement sounded.

Perhaps I should bring an end to smallpox while I was at it, or give men wings and women the right to become jurists.

“I might as well wish for the moon, I know—”

“Why not reach for the moon, however out of reach it seems? Torture and slavery have no place in a civilized world.”

I felt the familiar pleasure of intellectual camaraderie—the delight of my opinions being echoed.

Of an impulse, I touched his arm.

“I think, sir, we shall be good friends.”

“Because we agree?”

“Surely that helps.”

Condorcet blew upon his cup.

“I suspect true respect is formed when you find something upon which you disagree and yet remain on good terms.”

“Unfortunately, I agree with that too.

So how will we test the theory?”

“We’ll have to find something upon which to disagree.”

We made a game of it, discussing, rapid-fire, social and religious subjects, searching for something upon which our opinions differed, and finding nothing.

Finally, he asked, “And how do your thoughts run on the matter of marriage?”

I set down my teacup, hoping to vex him.

“I believe marriage ought to be abolished.”

“Abolished?”

Condorcet cleared his throat in apparent shock.

I nearly laughed at having turned the tables.

“The church holds marriage is a sacred covenant between a man, a woman, and a god who doesn’t exist, for the purpose of children being brought forth advantageously.

And yet the church permits—nay, encourages—fathers to sell their daughters into marriage whilst they are still children, delivering them unto the tyranny of their husbands in an arrangement that can never be undone.”

“Regrettably true,”

Condorcet said.

Since he didn’t look ruffled enough, I continued.

“Fidelity is openly laughed at—and why shouldn’t it be? Husbands and wives, betrothed before adolescence, scarcely compatible, should naturally prefer the beds of others.”

Condorcet cleared his throat again.

Perhaps he was succumbing to an illness, so I poured him more tea as I continued, “It’s bad enough a woman has no legal standing; before marriage, she’s controlled by her father.

After marriage, by her husband.

Which is why I prefer to remain unmarried.

If I must choose between a father or a husband to rule me, it seems wiser to remain with the devil I know.”

Not that Papa was a devil, of course.

I regretted phrasing it that way.

But passion was carrying me away.

“So, in summary, my thoughts on the matter of marriage is that it is, at worst, church-sanctioned despotism and, at best, an empty, meaningless farce.”

I punctuated my argument by taking up my teacup for a long, satisfying gulp.

Meanwhile, Condorcet’s eyes were inscrutable. “I see.”

Was that all he was going to say? “Sir, I’m not too fragile to endure an attack on my arguments, if you should wish to make one.”

“I do not,”

he said, his finger tapping against the edge of his seat.

“It’s only that . . .”

He trailed off, wry.

“It’s only that when I asked how your thoughts ran on the matter of marriage, I didn’t mean as an institution ...

but rather, with regard to how you might consider the prospect of marrying me.”

I laughed, delighted by what I took for a jest.

Then he winced, and my laugh strangled in my throat.

He pinched at the bridge of his nose, and I covered my lips with my fingertips, wishing I could call back the laughter.

How had I misunderstood the direction of our conversation? Condorcet hadn’t behaved like a suitor.

He’d not flattered or fawned or even sent me dried forget-me-nots.

I couldn’t imagine what would possess him to think . . . to think what? That I found him interesting? That I enjoyed his company? I did.

Perhaps for a cool-tempered scientist, that was enough to justify marriage. It was better justification than most could claim. But I mumbled into my teacup, “We scarcely know each other . . .”

“That’s true,”

he admitted.

“Unfortunately, even as a scientist, I cannot explain the mechanics of love.”

At the word love, I quite nearly choked on my tea.

“Please forgive me.

I did not realize—”

“I worried it could scarcely be more obvious that I’ve been struck by the arrows of Eros.”

He flushed, which somehow made me flush too.

Had I been expecting a declaration of love, I’d have known how to gently reject his suit as I’d gently rejected many others.

But taken entirely off guard, I retreated to flippancy.

“How strange that a rational philosopher who has no faith in a Christian god should believe in Eros . . .”

He returned his gaze to his cup.

“Well, I have evidence of Eros by way of the pain in my heart.”

I felt his pained embarrassment.

It was a very familiar feeling, as I experienced it every time I thought about Lafayette.

Love really is ridiculous, I thought.

Humiliating, distracting, nonsensical, and undignified.

And it could apparently manifest, like a disease, out of thin air. Like a sneeze, it simply must be excused.

I was trying to think of a tender way to excuse Condorcet when he hurried forth to add, “I know you don’t share my feelings.

Which is why I’ve been trying to talk myself out of them.

Fortunately, your argument against marriage is so persuasive that no fair-minded man could possibly take personally the rejection of his suit.”

It was gallantly done and I had no wish to bruise his feelings.

“I wouldn’t have argued so vehemently if I wasn’t trying to make you disagree with me.”

He nodded.

“Alas, there’s no point you made without merit.

I’ve reached the age of forty-two without having taken a bride because marriage, as the church would define it, is immoral.

But between mature, consenting individuals, I believe marriage can be a useful social arrangement . . .”

“For a man, perhaps.”

“For a woman too.

A married woman, for example, is freer to mingle unchaperoned,”

he said, gesturing lightly at the governess, watching us like a hawk.

“A married woman is capable of hosting literary salons without censure.

And the right husband might leave you free to enjoy intellectual pursuits.

In short, given the right sort of husband, marriage could secure your liberty.”

It was a notion I’d never entertained because I had never met a man who might allow a wife complete freedom.

Because it was an appealing notion, I humored him.

“And you’d be the right sort of husband?”

He met my eyes.

“I’d attempt to be.

If I should fall short, I’d attempt it anew.

I’m not a very wealthy man, but I’m industrious.

You aren’t likely to find yourself impoverished. I’d neither require nor accept a dowry. Nor would I demand to know your whereabouts or circumscribe your social sphere. And I’d not trouble you for children. The world has enough.”

I tilted my head.

“And on the other side of the equation?”

“The other side?”

“What would you expect in exchange for these benefits ... other than . . .”

I hesitated, trying to think of a delicate way to phrase it.

Fortunately, the most appealing thing about Condorcet was that one could be perfectly frank with him.

“Other than the conjugal benefits of the marital bed that I assume you’d demand.”

His complexion went, almost in an instant, to ash.

“Only a monster would demand that.”

His proposal was becoming a greater curiosity all the time.

“What benefit, then, would you receive? I hope you won’t say that you wish only for my happiness, because I’m uneasy to be the object of unselfish charity.”

“I’m not unselfish.”

He looked chagrined.

Excruciatingly so.

“I seek to explore the possibility that you may, in time, grow to care for me, if not precisely the same way I care for you, then in some approximation thereof.

I think it quite a high probability actually, as I’ve done some calculations.”

I didn’t think he could startle me a third time in one conversation, and yet, he did.

Retrieving from within his coat a tattered scrap of paper upon which he’d scribbled indecipherable equations, he began to ramble.

“Assuming esteem and trust to be the necessary ingredients of affection, and further assuming that trust and esteem may increase with both proximity and time . . .”

The man who had applied mathematics to juries and democratic decision making had now turned his statistician’s mind to the problem of love.

And in spite of myself, I was inexplicably charmed.

So charmed I regretted I could not give him serious consideration.

Remembering the dried forget-me-nots, I said, “My dear sir, I’m afraid your formula fails to account for the possibility of a prior claim on the lady’s heart . . .”

“To the contrary,”

he said, pointing at his equation.

“I’ve made allowances for the Lafayette variable here . . .”

“Oh,”

I breathed with instant and intense dismay.

“You knew . . .”

Did everyone? How painfully obvious had I been?

At my distress, Condorcet’s expression fell.

“Oh, no.

I knew nothing until this moment.

I merely thought to give my variable a clever name and since so many women in France admire him . . .”

“I am just one more,”

I murmured, wishing the ground would swallow me up.

A man of Condorcet’s age and stature must have seen gaggles of infatuated girls in his time, and there was no explanation I could give that distinguished myself from them.

“My dear lady, the fact that so many others share your tenderness for Lafayette is merely a testament to your good judgment.

As I’ve said, the more reasonable jurors added to a pool, the more likely they are to reach a correct result . . .”

It was a kind thing to say.

And because he was kind, I would not mock his mathematical formulations.

“You don’t think that love for one man is likely to foreclose all possibility of loving another?”

“I’m willing to test the proposition.”

“You’re a gambler,”

I accused.

He folded his arms, but he didn’t deny it.

“I have flaws, of course.

But unless there is some immutable quality about me that repels you, I believe there’s a possibility—nay, a probability—that marriage would contribute to our mutual happiness.”

I stared at him then.

Really looked at him, as if for the first time, seeking his soul in his face.

As I would later write, one can hardly doubt that beauty, or at least something interesting in the person’s appearance, is necessary for love.

Exceptions to this are fairly rare among males.

If there are more exceptions among women, that is because we’ve been taught from the cradle to be wary of first impressions and to value more important qualities.

I noted again his bent beak of a nose.

The Condor, indeed.

There was the shadow of a beard, which he ought to have shaved.

His upper lip was too thin and his hairline receding.

He slouched, his nails were ragged, and his aging face wasn’t handsome.

But neither was it disagreeable.

He was not ill-made. Beneath his white stockings, I could see his calves were strong. Moreover, I confess, there was something arresting about his dark eyes.

Unfortunately, I felt not the slightest stirring of amorous attraction, but I could find no immutable quality that repulsed me.

And I supposed that was something.

“But what if marriage did not add to our mutual happiness? Then we’d be unhappily bound together unless divorce becomes legal in this country.”

“If it does not, we’d be precisely as free to take lovers as any other married couple in France and without censure.

As I said, I won’t demand to know your whereabouts or circumscribe your social sphere.

Moreover, I’ve always had a premonition of an early death, and given that I’m twice your age, I’ll likely make you a young widow, whereupon you’ll have the means to live independently or marry again, more to your liking.”

It guts me to remember how dispassionately he said this.

But even then I flinched at the thought of his untimely demise.

Meanwhile, he concluded, like the scientist he was, “Given your worries, I’d like to test the proposition that equality in marriage can flourish.”

“You don’t propose a marriage, sir, so much as a social experiment.”

“Isn’t every marriage a social experiment?”

I remained dubious.

“Even the most amiable spouses sometimes come to an impasse.

Then the husband is the final arbiter ... and thus the ruler.”

“It’s true someone must have the final say.

But it needn’t be the same person.

Look to the ancient Romans, who had a solution between co-rulers.

They simply took turns.”

He had an answer for everything.

On the whole, it was the most unique offer of marriage I’d received.

Certainly the most agreeable.

Which is why I regretted so very much having to dismiss it.

But before I could, he asked, “Would you at least consent to think about it for a little while? Perhaps on your long carriage ride to Versailles . . .”

And I nodded because that was, I thought, too reasonable a request to refuse.