During the winter after Adrienne's marriage the Duchesse d'Ayen took her two daughters regularly to the balls given each week by the queen, and after the balls invited the friends of her sons-in-law to supper, in a pathetically conscientious effort to make the home of the De Noailles a more agreeable place for the husbands of her children than it had been for her own. Adrienne inherited much of her mother's seriousness, but she was young enough to enjoy dancing, and, feeling that duty as well as inclination smiled upon this life, she was very happy. In December of that year her first child was born, a daughter who was named Henriette.

Lafayette tells us in his Memoirs that he did not feel thoroughly at ease in the gay society Marie Antoinette drew about her. Nor did the queen altogether approve of him, because of his silence and an awkwardness which did not measure up to the standards of deportment she had set for this circle of intimate friends. "I was silent," he says, "because I did not hear anything which seemed worth repeating; and I certainly had no thoughts of my own worthy of being put into words." Some of his friends, who knew him better than the queen, realized that there was plenty of fire in him, in spite of his cold manner and slow speech. De SÉgur was one of these, for at some period of his youth Lafayette, smitten with sudden and mistaken jealousy, had spent nearly an entire night trying to persuade De SÉgur to fight a duel with him about a beauty for whom De SÉgur did not care at all.

Adrienne's family, wishing to do their best by him, tried to secure a place for him in the household of the prince who afterward became Louis XVIII. Lafayette did not want to hurt their feelings; neither did he fancy himself in the rÔle they had chosen for him, where he believed he would be forced to govern his actions by another man's opinions. He kept his own counsel,but, "in order to save his independence," managed to have the prince overhear a remark which he made with the deliberate purpose of angering him. The office was of course given to some one else, and another bit of ill will went to swell the breezes blowing over the terraces at Versailles.

There were bitter court factions. Friends of Louis XV had not relished seeing power slip out of their hands. The queen was an Austrian who never fully understood nor sympathized with the French. Neither her critics nor her partizans ever allowed themselves to forget her foreign birth. King Louis, not having confidence in himself, chose for his premier M. de Maurepas, who was over eighty, and should therefore have been a mine of wisdom and experience. Unfortunately, he was the wrong man; he was not universally respected, and his white hairs crowned a pate that was not proof against the frivolities of society. The younger men were displeased. It was not customary to give young men positions of importance, but they were sure they could do quite as well as he. They had their cafÉ club also, a place called the Wooden Sword, where they discussed the most extravagant theories of new philosophy, reviled old customs, calling them "Gothic," their favorite term of reproach, and concocted schemes to amuse themselves and tease their elders. Having nothing serious to occupy them, they turned their attention to setting new fashions. A series of pageants and dances gave them excellent opportunity. The admiration they felt for themselves and one another in the romantic dress of the time of Henri IV made them resolve to adopt it and force it upon others for daily wear. That the capes and plumes and love-knots which became their slender figures so well made older and stouter men look ridiculous was perhaps part of their malicious intent.

Age made common cause against them, and the youngsters went too far when they held a mock session of Parliament, one of those grave assemblages which had taken place in far-off days in France, but had been almost forgotten since. There was an increasing demand that the custom be revived, which was not relished by M. de Maurepas and his kind. When the old premier learned that a prince of the blood had played the role of President in this travesty, while Lafayette had been attorney-general and other sprigs of high family figured as counsel, barristers, and advocates, it was evident that a storm was brewing. De SÉgur went straight to the king and told him the story in a way that made him laugh. This saved the participants from serious consequences, but it was agreed that such trifling must stop; and most of them were packed off to join their regiments.

Lafayette's regiment was stationed at Metz, and he took his way there feeling much as he had felt when he wrote his school-boy essay on the "perfect steed." It was the most fortunate journey of his life, for at the end of it he met his great opportunity. The Duke of Gloucester, brother of the King of England, was traveling abroad. He came to Metz, and the military commander of the place, Comte de Broglie, gave a dinner in his honor to which he invited the chief officers of the garrison. It was not the only time that a dinner played an important part in Lafayette's career. Neither Lafayette's age nor his military rank quite entitled him to such an invitation; but the count had a kindly spot in his heart for young men. Besides, Adrienne Lafayette was a kinswoman of his, and he remembered that the father of this tall, silent lad had served under him in the Seven Years' War.

The guest of honor was not the kind of loyal subject and brother who could speak no ill of his sovereign. In fact, he and King George were not on good terms. He had his own views about the troubles in America, and thought the king quite wrong in his attitude toward the Colonists. He had lately received letters, and at this dinner discussed them with the utmost frankness, explaining the point of view of the "insurgents" and expressing his belief that they would give England serious trouble. Possibly Lafayette had never heard of George Washington until that moment. Certainly he had never considered the continent of North America except as a vague and distant part of the earth's surface with which he could have no personal concern. Yet twice already the names of his family and of America had been linked. The old marshal who took Cur non? for his motto had lived when the voyage of Columbus had set the world ringing; and Gilbert de Motier, Lafayette's own father, had lost his life in the Seven Years' War, by which England won from France practically all the land she held in the New World.

Slight and remote as these connections were, who can say that they did not unconsciously influence a spirit inclined toward liberty? The conversation of the Duke of Gloucester seemed to bring America from a great distance to within actual reach of Lafayette's hand. He hung upon every word. The prince may not have been altogether prudent in his remarks. It was an after-dinner conversation and in that day the English drank hard. Even so, the duke's indiscretions made the talk more interesting and, to Lafayette, more convincing. Every word spoken strengthened the belief that these American Colonists were brave men, well within their rights, fighting for a principle which would make the world better and happier. He realized with a thrill that men three thousand miles away were not content with mere words, but were risking their lives at that very moment for the theories which philosophers had been preaching for a thousand years; the same theories that orators in six hundred Paris cafÉs had lately begun to declaim.

Afterward he got permission to ask some of the questions with which his brain teemed; but long before the candles of that feast had burned down in their sockets his great resolution was made to "go to America and offer his services to a people struggling to be free." From that time on he could think of little else; but, as so often happens with quick and generous resolutions, the more he thought about it the more difficult it seemed to carry out. He had exulted at first that he was his own master with a fortune to dispose of as he chose. Then he remembered his wife and her family. He knew he could count upon her loyalty; but he was equally certain that he would meet determined opposition from the Duc d'Ayen and all his powerful connection, who had done their worldly best to make him a member of a prince's household.

And disapproval of "the family" in France was not to be lightly regarded. No serious step could be undertaken by young people without their elders feeling it their solemn duty to give advice. Very likely the king and his ministers would also have something to say. "However," he wrote in his Memoirs, "I had confidence in myself, and dared adopt as device for my coat of arms the words Cur non? that they might serve me on occasion for encouragement, or by way of answer."He knew almost nothing about America, and, as soon as military duties permitted, asked leave to go to Paris to make further inquiries, opening his heart very frankly to the Comte de Broglie. It happened that the count had vivid dreams of his own about America—dreams which centered on nothing less than the hope that with proper hints and encouragement the rebellious colonies might call him (the Comte de Broglie, of wide military experience) to take supreme command of their armies and lead them to victory, instead of trusting them to the doubtful guidance of local talent in the person of this obscure Col. George Washington. But De Broglie was not minded to confide such things to the red-haired stripling who looked at him so pleadingly. He conscientiously tried to dissuade him. "My boy," he said, "I saw your uncle die in the Italian wars. I witnessed your father's death.... I will not be accessory to the ruin of the only remaining branch of your family." But finding arguments made no impression, he gave him the coveted permission and also an introduction to a middle-aged Bavarian officer known as the Baron de Kalb. This man had made a voyage to America in the secret employment of the French government some years before, and he was even now acting as De Broglie's agent.

Arrived in Paris, Lafayette found the town full of enthusiasm for the insurgents, or the Bostonians, as they were called. Already English whist had been abandoned for another game of cards known as le Boston, and soon the authorities might feel it necessary to forbid the wearing of a certain style of head-dress called "aux insurgents" and to prohibit talk about American rebels in the cafÉs. Secretly the ministers of Louis wished the audacious rebels well, being convinced that whatever vexed England served to advance the interests of France, but officially they were strictly neutral. When Lord Stormont, the British ambassador, complained that agents of the American government were shipping supplies from French ports, they made a great show of activity, asked American vessels to leave, and forbade trade in contraband articles; but they obligingly shut their eyes to the presence of Silas Deane, the American envoy, in Paris. Diplomatically speaking, he did not exist, since Louis had not yet received him; but everybody knew that people of distinction in all walks of life went secretly to his lodgings.

Lafayette knew not one word of English. Silas Deane knew little, if any, French, and it was De Kalb who acted as interpreter when the young nobleman went to call upon him. Liberty, like misery, brings about strange companionships. Three men more unlike could scarcely have been found. Although known as "Baron," Johann Kalb was a man of mystery who had in truth begun life as a butler and had won his place in the army through sheer merit. He was middle-aged, handsome, and grave. Silas Deane, the lawyer-merchant from Connecticut, was not only imperfectly equipped with French, his manners were so unpolished as to appear little short of repulsive. Lafayette's usual quiet was shaken by his new enthusiasm. His bearing, which seemed awkward at Versailles, was more graceful than the Yankee envoy thought quite moral, or than the grave soldier of fortune had been able to achieve. And he was ridiculously young. Even he realized that. "In presenting my nineteen-year-old face to Mr. Deane," says the Memoirs, "I dwelt more on my zeal than on my experience; but I did make him comprehend that my departure would cause some little excitement and might influence others to take a similar step." He could make the family opposition count for something on his side!

Whatever Silas Deane may have lacked in manner, his wits were not slow. He instantly saw the advantage of gaining such a convert to his cause. The two signed an agreement which was a rather remarkable document. On his part Silas Deane promised Lafayette the rank of major-general in the Continental Army. But hardened as Deane was to making lavish promises in the name of the Continental Congress, he knew that a major-general only nineteen years of age, who had never heard the sound of a hostile gun, would be received with question rather than with joy in America, so he added a few words explaining that Lafayette's "high birth, his connections, the great dignities held by his family at the court, his disinterestedness, and, above all, his zeal for the freedom of our Colonies have alone been able to induce me to make this promise." One would think Lafayette had been haggling, whereas quite the reverse appears to have been the truth.

Lafayette wrote: "To the above conditions I agree; and promise to start when and how Mr. Deane shall judge it proper, to serve the said states with all possible zeal, with no allowance for private salary, reserving to myself only the right to return to France whenever my family or the king shall recall me," and signed his name. After which he left the house of the American commissioner feeling that nothing short of all the king's horses and all the king's men could turn him from his purpose.