problem with laconic clarity: In return for an annual payment of cash, which he badly needed, Louis XVI had granted to a group of wealthy individuals, the Farmers-General, the sole right to purchase these three crops; they collected indirect taxes on every sale and used the full power of the government to enforce their monopoly. What Congress wanted was a market for American goods. What the Farmers-General wanted was the highest possible taxes. What the king wanted was any agreement that would damage British trade.
“You’re not daunted, William,” Jefferson asked a little mischievously, “by the prospect of writing a brief on whale oil?”
Short had never encountered a subject that didn’t interest Jefferson. “I will master the whale,” he declared.
“We will shake the poetry from him.”
“Whale—hail!”
But Jefferson’s moment of playfulness was over. As they ascended the six stone steps to the door, he rubbed his face again wearily. James Hemings pulled the door open and took his hat, and in a matter of moments Short stood alone in the hallway, listening to his vanishing footsteps.
The next day was Sunday, ordinarily the most festive day of the Parisian week, when cartloads of shut-in city dwellers flocked to the Bois de Boulogne. But the rain had returned, there was a bleak hint of January snow. Jefferson kept to his room, and the others passed quietly through a gray tunnel of twenty-four hours.
On Monday Lafayette arrived from Philadelphia, as expected, and went directly to Auteuil for conferences with Franklin and Adams. At midday, still in rain, he stopped for half an hour at the rue Taitbout. (Short glimpsed the extraordinary gilded carriage from his third-floor window, the swift pineapplish top of the marquis’s head.) He spoke privately with Jefferson, presented a great leather pouch of mail, and left with a flourish. When one of themanservants came rapping wildly on the door, Short had just opened the first of his letters.
“Le maître—venez-le-voir! Le maître est mort!”
Short ran down the stairs two at a time, shouting for Humphreys. At the study door he collided with James Hemings, shoved him aside, and bolted through.
Jefferson sat, legs akimbo, sprawled backward in a chair by the fire. As Short reached him he struggled upward and started to stand, then simply held out a sheaf of letters and fell back.
“Lucy,” he said.
“Sir?”
His face had lost every tint of color. Short seemed to peer straight through it, a transparent shadow. He caught Jefferson’s wrist; the older man shook him away. Then Humphreys was beside him speaking loudly and going to his knees on the floor. Servants darted behind the chair and hurried forward with linen and bowls of water, but Jefferson motioned them all toward the door, as if an impassable zone surrounded him.
Humphreys thrust the sheaf of letters at Short. The first was from Francis Eppes, Jefferson’s brother-in-law in Richmond. Short scanned it, seeing the names of Jefferson’s two younger daughters, the words
illness—Hooping Cough—fears
. The second was from Dr. James Currie:
I am sincerely sorry my dear friend now to acquaint you of the demise of poor Miss Lucy Jefferson, who fell a Martyr to the complicated Evils of teething, Worms, and Hooping Cough.
Short glanced at the date—October 14, 1784. Three months ago. The last letter was from Jefferson’s sister:
It is impossible to paint the anguish of my heart. A most unfortunate Hooping cough has deprived you, and us of two sweet Lucys, within a week. Ours was the first that fell a sacrifice.… Your dear angel was confined a week to her bed, her sufferings were great though nothing like a fit. She retained her senses perfectly, called me a few moments before she died, and asked distinctly for water. Dear Mary has had it and is now recovered.
When Short looked up again, Jefferson was on his feet, swaying, supported by Humphreys’s strong arms. We are all in our
“You’re not daunted, William,” Jefferson asked a little mischievously, “by the prospect of writing a brief on whale oil?”
Short had never encountered a subject that didn’t interest Jefferson. “I will master the whale,” he declared.
“We will shake the poetry from him.”
“Whale—hail!”
But Jefferson’s moment of playfulness was over. As they ascended the six stone steps to the door, he rubbed his face again wearily. James Hemings pulled the door open and took his hat, and in a matter of moments Short stood alone in the hallway, listening to his vanishing footsteps.
The next day was Sunday, ordinarily the most festive day of the Parisian week, when cartloads of shut-in city dwellers flocked to the Bois de Boulogne. But the rain had returned, there was a bleak hint of January snow. Jefferson kept to his room, and the others passed quietly through a gray tunnel of twenty-four hours.
On Monday Lafayette arrived from Philadelphia, as expected, and went directly to Auteuil for conferences with Franklin and Adams. At midday, still in rain, he stopped for half an hour at the rue Taitbout. (Short glimpsed the extraordinary gilded carriage from his third-floor window, the swift pineapplish top of the marquis’s head.) He spoke privately with Jefferson, presented a great leather pouch of mail, and left with a flourish. When one of themanservants came rapping wildly on the door, Short had just opened the first of his letters.
“Le maître—venez-le-voir! Le maître est mort!”
Short ran down the stairs two at a time, shouting for Humphreys. At the study door he collided with James Hemings, shoved him aside, and bolted through.
Jefferson sat, legs akimbo, sprawled backward in a chair by the fire. As Short reached him he struggled upward and started to stand, then simply held out a sheaf of letters and fell back.
“Lucy,” he said.
“Sir?”
His face had lost every tint of color. Short seemed to peer straight through it, a transparent shadow. He caught Jefferson’s wrist; the older man shook him away. Then Humphreys was beside him speaking loudly and going to his knees on the floor. Servants darted behind the chair and hurried forward with linen and bowls of water, but Jefferson motioned them all toward the door, as if an impassable zone surrounded him.
Humphreys thrust the sheaf of letters at Short. The first was from Francis Eppes, Jefferson’s brother-in-law in Richmond. Short scanned it, seeing the names of Jefferson’s two younger daughters, the words
illness—Hooping Cough—fears
. The second was from Dr. James Currie:
I am sincerely sorry my dear friend now to acquaint you of the demise of poor Miss Lucy Jefferson, who fell a Martyr to the complicated Evils of teething, Worms, and Hooping Cough.
Short glanced at the date—October 14, 1784. Three months ago. The last letter was from Jefferson’s sister:
It is impossible to paint the anguish of my heart. A most unfortunate Hooping cough has deprived you, and us of two sweet Lucys, within a week. Ours was the first that fell a sacrifice.… Your dear angel was confined a week to her bed, her sufferings were great though nothing like a fit. She retained her senses perfectly, called me a few moments before she died, and asked distinctly for water. Dear Mary has had it and is now recovered.
When Short looked up again, Jefferson was on his feet, swaying, supported by Humphreys’s strong arms. We are all in our
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