Adrien-Louis de Bonnieres de Sousastre, comte de Guines, was the French ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Though posted in England, he disliked the island kingdom and agreed with Vergennes that America could be helped and encouraged. Guines wrote, ‘I think it might be advantageous to us…to have among them [the Americans] a capable man who could judge the situation from the political and military standpoint, could foresee the course of events, and send reports by each merchant ship.’

In fact, Guines had someone in mind for this mission, and lost no time sending a letter to Vergennes that lavishly praised the candidate. Chevalier Julien-Alexandre Achard de Bonvouloir was a retired officer of the elite Régiment du Cap who had recently returned from America, where he had established many solid contacts. Guines admitted that Bonvouloir had a handicap — he was lame — but that he was intelligent and fully capable.

Guines also noted that Bonvouloir was cost effective, willing to undertake the secret mission for 200 louis d’or. ‘If nothing is accomplished,’ explained the French ambassador, clinching his argument, ‘it is only the loss of 200 louis.’ The comte de Guines exaggerated many of his young protégé’s attributes. Bonvouloir, 26, was the black sheep of an old Norman family who had squandered much of his inheritance. He had served in the Régiment du Cap, but only as a volunteer.

Bonvouloir was a ‘prodigal son’ who desperately wished to get back into his family’s good graces. He also hoped to become a commissioned army officer, and carve out a brilliant military career. Bonvouloir mainly wanted recognition, not money, for his efforts, and this was his golden opportunity to prove himself on the world stage. He was determined to succeed at any cost.

Vergennes was convinced, and a short time later Bonvouloir was given the assignment. Nobody cared that the young French noble had no espionage experience and did not even speak English. Vergennes did give the fledgling spy a detailed set of instructions, an oblique acknowledgment of his inexperience. He was to carry no written instructions, nothing that would incriminate him or the French government. Bonvouloir was to keep his eyes and ears open, recording his impressions in minute detail. Vergennes stressed that he was not to represent himself as an official agent of France, but merely as an ‘Antwerp merchant’ with vaguely powerful ‘friends’ back in Europe.

In keeping with his ‘Antwerp merchant’ guise, letters would have to be full of routine business details. This was a cover, in case the missives were intercepted by British agents. The secret portions were to be written in a kind of invisible ink made of milk, which could be developed and read only when heated with a hot shovel.

Bonvouloir was not to make any commitments, but nevertheless assure the Americans of French sympathy and best wishes. As a further expression of goodwill, Bonvouloir was to tell the Americans the French had no designs on Canada. The memory of the Seven Years’ War, with its devastating French and Indian raids along the frontier, was still fresh in most American minds. Americans had spent blood and treasure evicting France from Canada in the late war, and did not wish to see the French flag rising once again over Montreal and Quebec.

Once American fears were assuaged on that score, Bonvouloir was to move on, hinting that French ports would be open to trade once independence was declared. Vergennes was well aware that many Americans hesitated to break with Britain; veiled offers of French trade and assistance might tip the scales for independence.

Vergennes made it clear that the first person he wanted Bonvouloir to contact was Benjamin Franklin. Franklin’s scientific writings were well known in France, and the doctor himself had visited Paris in the 1760s. Franklin was a man of influence, tact and intelligence, and also sat on several important congressional committees. The Philadelphia printer would be the perfect conduit to express France’s encouragement to a vacillating Congress.

Bonvouloir set sail for America on September 8, 1775. Unfortunately his ship was buffeted by autumnal gales, storms so severe the journey took twice as long as usual. ‘I had a frightful passage,’ he wrote. ‘I had one hundred days at sea, twenty times I thought I should perish; I was reduced to two biscuits a day…a little salt beef and stale water.’

Once ashore, Bonvouloir’s next question was how to make contact with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was a great man, and busier than usual during those hectic and tumultuous times. Bonvouloir had no credentials, no official status. He did not even have a letter of introduction, which was a common way of meeting well-known figures in those days. The chevalier did have one friend — really, just an acquaintance — who might provide the access to Franklin that Bonvouloir desperately needed.

Francis Daymon was a merchant who had been born in Paris and immigrated to Philadelphia, where he married an American woman. He spoke English well, and supplemented his income by tutoring people in French. Above all he was a part-time librarian with Franklin’s Library Company. Franklin had hired Daymon, and some accounts say the Frenchman also helped Franklin brush up on his French.

The Library Company, founded by Franklin and a group of friends in 1731, was the first circulating library in America. Books were costly in the colonial period; a single tome could cost an average man a month’s salary. The Library Company allowed subscribers to pool their money and buy books for the benefit of all. By 1770 the library boasted some 2,033 volumes, and the number grew every day.

Space was at a premium, so the Library Company moved into the second floor of Carpenter’s Hall by 1774. Carpenter’s Hall was a classic specimen of Georgian architecture, formed in the shape of a Greek cross and crowned by a shining white cupola. It had been the site of the First Continental Congress, and many delegates had borrowed books from the Library Company’s upstairs holdings. Daymon took care of the collection, recorded who took out the books and who returned them, and did shelving and other related chores.

Bonvouloir contacted Daymon and dropped enough hints to give the librarian some idea — however vague — of his mission. Daymon told Bonvouloir he would do what he could, and he proved a man of his word. When the librarian told Franklin about the encounter, the latter was naturally suspicious. Bonvouloir might well prove a double agent, or even an out-and-out British spy. Traitors to the Crown were hanged. If Franklin and the Secret Committee spoke too freely to this man, they might end up with a noose around their necks. With all the danger involved, it was ironic that the name Bonvouloir meant ‘goodwill’ in English.

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