"Outlawed in my own land for having served her with courage," the Marquis de Lafayette wrote to his wife, Adrienne, "I have been forced to flee into enemy territory from France, which I defended with so much love. To the very last minute I fought for the Constitution I swore to uphold…let us resettle in America where we will find the liberty that no longer exists in France."

The August rains fell cold and gray, as the riders absconded from the camp like traitors in the night. Indeed, traitors they may very well have been. Mere hours before, their leader, the Marquis de Lafayette, had stood before an army of 50,000 men, imploring them to turn and march on Paris, to liberate their imprisoned king and save their Revolution from itself. The soldiers were unmoved by their general's impassioned words. When prompted to recite their oaths to the new Constitution, two whole battalions had remained deathly silent, staring up at Lafayette with hate-filled eyes. The red-headed general was smart enough to see the writing on the wall. The Jacobin government in Paris had already been calling for his head, and now that he had cast his die and lost, there was little for him to do but flee. He returned to his tent, where he penned a quick letter to his wife.

He stayed long enough to ensure the army's hierarchy would remain intact without him, and that it was still positioned to defend his beloved France from the Prussian and Austrian armies preparing for invasion. Then, on the rain-soaked morning of 19 August 1792, he rode out of the military camp at Sedan with 52 followers including the disgraced former revolutionary Alexandre de Lameth, his loyal aide-de-camp Louis Romeuf, and his close friend the Chevalier de La Colombe, who had been by his side from the moment he had first set sail for America, all those years ago. In fact, it was to America that this tired little troupe was now bound; surely, Lafayette could almost hear the cheers of his adopted American countrymen upon his return, could almost smell the dusty roads of Virginia, could see his father figure, that great hero George Washington, standing on the steps of Mount Vernon and extending his arms to embrace his foster son. But first, the little company would have to make its way beyond the French border and into the Austrian Netherlands – modern Belgium – before they could take ship first to England, then on to the United States.

Upon crossing the border, the French émigrés were apprehended by a company of Austrian soldiers, who stripped them of their weapons and escorted them to Nivelle, just south of Brussels. By this point, the émigrés had no reason to be alarmed. Hundreds of French noblemen had previously fled the Revolution by way of Belgium and had been allowed to pass unmolested by the Austrian authorities. But this was different. Lafayette was hated throughout monarchical Europe for his leading role in two of the great revolutions of the 18th century. Just as the French Jacobins hated him for being too conservative, royalists throughout Europe viewed him as a scourge, a figure for future revolutionaries to rally around. What was worse, Lafayette could hope to find little sympathy from the governor of the Austrian Netherlands, the Duke of Saxe-Teschen, who had a personal stake in the matter, seeing as he was married to the sister of the captive French Queen, Marie Antoinette. Appearing before the detained Frenchmen, Saxe-Teschen angrily rebuked Lafayette for his crimes. "You were the instigator behind the revolution that turned France upside down," he said. "It is you who placed irons on your king, deprived him of his rights and his legitimate powers, and kept him in captivity…it is you who have been the principal instrument of all disgraces that befell this unhappy monarch."

The Austrians clapped the Frenchmen in chains and sent them on to Luxembourg, where they were to await the judgment of a coalition military tribunal. The émigrés protested, claiming that they were non-combatants and could not be detained, while Lafayette protested his imprisonment on the grounds that he was an American citizen. During his first days in prison, he wrote to William Short, the American ambassador to the Dutch Republic, to ask for help:

My dear friend: You have been acquainted with the atrocious events which have taken place in Paris, when the Jacobin faction on the 10th of August overthrew the Constitution, enslaved both the Convention and the King, the one by terror, the other by destitution and confinement, and gave the signal for pillage and massacre. I raised an opposition to Jacobin tyranny, but you know the weakness of our honest folks; I was abandoned…nothing was left for me but to leave France. However, we have been stopped on our road and detained by an Austrian detachment, which is absolutely contrary to the rights of non-combatants…I am an American citizen, and an American officer. I am no longer in the service of France. In demanding my release, you will be acting within your rights, and I have no doubt of your immediate arrival. God bless you.

Lafayette also wrote to his old friend, the Duke of Rochefoucauld, to vow that as soon as he gained his freedom, he would become "more purely American" and would relate to Washington and the other revolutionaries how "the French Revolution was defiled by criminals, thwarted by plotters, and destroyed by the vilest of men". But Rochefoucauld would never read this letter – on the morning of 4 September, he was pulled from his horse by a mob hunting aristocrats on a road in Gisors, Normandy, and decapitated, before the horrified eyes of his wife and mother. His death was part of the September Massacres, in which the Jacobins spurred on terrified mobs to purge their nation of counter-revolutionaries and traitors. The majority of the killings took place in Paris where, amidst the unfolding violence, Adrienne de Lafayette and her three children sat helpless in their château. As the massacres reached their fever pitch, Adrienne could hear the sound of the mobs getting closer to her château, chanting the revolutionary song La Marseillaise. Thinking quickly, she sent her 10-year-old daughter Virginie off to the shelter of a farmer's house, sent her 13-year-old son Georges-Washington to hide in the woods, while 15-year-old Anastasie was hurriedly stashed in a cubby.

No sooner had she hidden her children than the mobs burst into her home, headed by revolutionary officials. Aware of the massacres spreading across the city, Adrienne must have braced for death as one of the Jacobin officers reached inside his coat – and then sighed with relief when he produced nothing more than a warrant for her and her husband's arrests. She was arrested along with Lafayette's 73-year-old aunt Charlotte and the teenage Anastasie, who climbed out of her hiding place and refused to leave her mother's side. They were taken before a Jacobin court 25 miles away, which informed Adrienne that her husband had been declared a counter-revolutionary émigré, meaning that his properties and all his assets were to be confiscated by the state. Adrienne and her family were taken back to their château – now owned by the government – where they were allowed to live under house arrest, but always with the looming threat of the guillotine hanging over their heads. The next time a Jacobin mob stormed their home might not end in stern words and property confiscations. For Adrienne, who had heard no word from her husband since his arrest and now had to fear for the lives of her children, every day must have been a new agony.

Lafayette, meanwhile, had heard nothing from Short, nor any other American diplomat. Indeed, while the Americans were anxious to see Lafayette's freedom, they knew they could not intervene without risking involvement in the French Revolutionary Wars. Since President Washington had declared a strict policy of neutrality when it came to European affairs, American emissaries were left helpless as Lafayette was dragged before a military tribunal on 12 September. The tribunal declared that he was to be imprisoned indefinitely until such time as the French King, Louis XVI, returned to his full powers and could pass judgment.

Lafayette and three of his companions were then transferred to the custody of the Prussians, who brought them to the prison fortress of Wesel in the Rhineland. He was locked by himself in a damp, dark dungeon with only a board for a bed and nothing to keep his mind occupied aside from his thoughts and the sound of the rats scurrying across the cold floor. He remained in this cell, constantly underfed and sick, for three months, until January 1793, when he was moved to a more secure prison at Magdeburg. He remained imprisoned here for exactly a year, during which time great events were unfolding in Europe. The ragged French revolutionary citizen-soldiers had defeated a Prussian army at the Battle of Valmy and declared France a republic; Louis XVI had been beheaded, as had Marie Antoinette several months later; Maximilien Robespierre and his ilk of Jacobins had seized control of the French government and implemented the Reign of Terror.

As the French armies penetrated deeper into Europe, Lafayette was moved deeper into Prussian territory, to a cell in the town of Neisse near Poland. The marquis was convinced that his captors were planning to quietly execute him. He found a piece of wood and used soot to write what he believed would be his last words: "Adieu, then, my dear wife, my children, my aunt…whom I shall cherish with my last breath." But the Prussians were not about to execute Lafayette. Indeed, they were on the brink of suing for peace with France and, not wanting the liability of holding such a controversial prisoner, decided to pass him back to the Austrians. In the spring of 1794, he was transferred to the Austrian prison at Olmütz in Moravia. The prison here was built into the city walls and was therefore in close proximity to the Morawa River, meaning the imprisoned marquis was never free from the overwhelming stench of the city's sewage that was dumped into the river. He was kept here in solitary confinement, forbidden any personal possessions, and never allowed to bathe. Food was brought in filthy pots that the prisoner had to eat with his fingers. He was referred to only by his inmate number and could not speak unless spoken to first. It was a terrible, dehumanizing condition.

As he festered away, Lafayette's thoughts constantly drifted to his dear Adrienne. Having heard only vague whisperings of the events taking place in Paris, he had no way of knowing whether she was still alive. She was, in fact, alive, though in graver danger than ever; at a time when Robespierre's 'Law of Suspects' sent more people to the guillotine, Adrienne was arrested once again. As her children sobbed and looked on with horror, she was loaded into a wooden cart and taken to the prison at Hôtel de La Force. She was under no illusions that she was here to await her execution by guillotine – indeed, her mother, sister, and grandmother had all fallen victim to the bloodthirsty machine. However, each day came and went without Adrienne herself being taken to the guillotine. Unbeknownst to her, Robespierre had stricken her name from the daily death lists, believing that her execution would strain relations with the still-neutral United States. For Adrienne, the nightmare ended in July 1794 when Robespierre and his followers were themselves consumed by the very Terror they had unleashed and were executed before cheering throngs of Parisians. The mass killings came to an end, but Adrienne remained imprisoned.

After the fall of Robespierre and the Jacobins, a new, more moderate revolutionary faction took control of the French Republic. To deal with this new government, the United States sent a new ambassador, James Monroe. Monroe was a close friend of the Lafayettes and was determined to use his position to help them in any way he could. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he sent his wife to visit Adrienne in prison and check on her condition. The next day, Monroe joined his wife in visiting Madame Lafayette, and, before long, the pair were making frequent, highly publicized visits to the prison, armed each time with fresh provisions. Monroe lobbied for her release, arguing that Adrienne had never been formally tried nor even charged with a crime. Thanks to his efforts, Adrienne de Lafayette was released on 22 January 1795 after 16 harrowing months in prison. After a tearful reunion with her children, Adrienne's thoughts turned toward her husband, whose fate was still unknown. She sent her son, Georges, off to the safety of America to live with his godfather and namesake, President Washington. Then, gathering her two daughters, she traveled to Austria in search of Lafayette.

Meanwhile, as Lafayette languished at Olmütz, some friends in London were hatching up a plot to free him. Emboldened to action by the death of Robespierre, a young German doctor named Justus-Erich Bollmann traveled to Olmütz to learn what he could about the prison. After spending some nights buttering up drunken guards at a local inn, Bollmann learned that Lafayette had fallen ill, and that the prison doctor had ordered the guards to take him on a carriage ride through the countryside every other day in the hopes of improving his health. If Bollmann considered this to be a stroke of luck, he was about to get a deal luckier. By some strange twist of fate, he met Francis Huger, a 21-year-old American student and the son of Major Benjamin Huger, the man who had hosted Lafayette when he first came to America back in 1777. Bollmann invited Huger into his plot, and the young American eagerly agreed to help. They spent several days hatching their scheme, hunched over maps and mugs of beer, until the day finally arrived for them to put it into action. On a warm Saturday morning, 8 November 1794, Bollmann and Huger mounted their horses and trotted leisurely down the country road that the prison carriage was known to travel. Presently, it came into view, and the two young conspirators nonchalantly rode up to it as if to pass.

Suddenly, they leapt from their horses, prying open the carriage door and tackling the guards to the ground. "Lafayette! Lafayette!" they frantically shouted to the prisoner within. "Mount one of the horses! Go to Hoff! Go to Hoff! We will follow!" Lafayette stumbled from the carriage, blinking in the sunlight, no doubt startled to hear his name for the first time in months of isolation. It did not take long for him to grasp the situation. He jumped on one of the horses and rode off as fast as the steed would carry him. Tears began to sting his eyes as, for the first time in years, he felt the wind blowing through his matted red hair, the warm sun beating down on his face, and he could smell the crisp early November air. He was free! As soon as the marquis had ridden off, Bollmann mounted the other horse and gallopped away, leaving Huger to wrestle with the guards for as long as possible, as planned. The German doctor made his way to Hoff, the small town where they had told Lafayette to go, and where a coach was waiting to take them out of Austrian territory. He arrived before the marquis and stood by the coach, nervously waiting. Hours passed. Day turned to night, and there was still no sign of Lafayette. As Bollmann's anxiety grew, a company of Austrian soldiers rode into town. There was no time to run, and he was arrested.

Lafayette, meanwhile, had been riding rather aimlessly; he had not been able to understand the shouts of his saviors and had not heard them telling him to go to Hoff. Instead, he had raced down the main road until he, too, ran into a company of Austrian soldiers. He was rearrested and sent back to Olmütz, where he was confronted by the angry prison commandant. The commandant told him that he had captured both Bollmann and Huger, and threatened to hang them outside the marquis' window. Fortunately, it never came to that – the two conspirators were sentenced to six months' hard labor after which they were released. But Lafayette was thrown back into the darkness of his miserable cell, doomed to rot away as the world moved on and his memory faded into nothingness.

But Adrienne had not forgotten him. Traveling under an assumed name with an American passport provided by the Monroes, she arrived in Vienna in October 1795, where she secured an audience with the Austrian emperor, Francis II. Falling at his knees, she pleaded for her husband's freedom or, failing that, to be allowed to share in his imprisonment. Moved by her words, the emperor admitted that he could not free Lafayette, but, if Adrienne truly wished to share his prison cell, he would allow it. "Your presence will add to his comfort," the emperor said, "in our prison we give our prisoners numbers, but everyone knows your husband's name quite well." And so, on 15 October, the maddening silence that Lafayette had grown accustomed to was shattered by the sound of a sliding bolt and the groaning hinges of an opening door. He must have thought he had gone delusional as Adrienne stepped into his cell, flanked by their two daughters. Still, he rushed forward, eager to embrace this lovely illusion before it dissipated and he was left alone once again. He took her in his arms and found that she was only too real. For the next several hours, the family huddled together on the filthy floor, unable to do much else but sob tears of joy.

Like Lafayette, the women were soon subjected to the horrors of Olmütz prison – the suffocating smells, putrid food, the screams of the other prisoners. But they had survived the Jacobin Terror and knew that they could survive this as well. Soon, they settled into a little routine. Lafayette educated his daughters and told them stories of his adventures in America, the land where they would one day go. As the months went on, their condition improved little by little. Guards allowed the girls to have coloring books, and Adrienne convinced the prison commandant to let her write letters to family members. When the women had come to Olmütz, Lafayette was malnourished and gaunt, naked save for the dirty rags that covered his body. They spent their time fashioning new clothes for him out of their skirts, and gradually his strength began to return. Meanwhile, the Monroes continued to work for their release, and by 1796, even President Washington was writing to his envoys in London, telling them to find ways to liberate his friend. In May, Washington ignored diplomatic formalities and wrote directly to the emperor. "In common with the People of this Country," he wrote, "I retain a strong and cordial sense of the services rendered to them by the Marquis de La Fayette, and my friendship for him has been constant and sincere. It is natural therefore that I should sympathize with him and his family…and endeavor to mitigate the calamities which they experience."

Despite Washington's best efforts, the Lafayettes would remain imprisoned for another full year. But in 1797, the Austrians made peace with Revolutionary France after five long years of war. The commanding French general, Napoleon Bonaparte, dictated the terms of the Treaty of Campo Formio, which included the release of Lafayette and the other French prisoners of Olmütz. On 19 September 1797, an Austrian guard led Lafayette, his wife, and his daughters out of the Olmütz fortress and into the bustle of the city. After five years and one month of imprisonment, he was finally free. All along the road to Hamburg, crowds cheered him and his family. When they arrived, they found American merchant ships in the harbor, flags flying high in Lafayette's honor. Eventually, they made their way back to Paris, fatigued and penniless, with gaunt and withered features that made them look older than their years. But they had survived. Lafayette and his family would settle into their new home of the Grange, where he would quietly wait out the despotic years of Napoleon's reign. One day, he would have a role to play in yet another revolution, but for now, he was content to be alive, surrounded by his loved ones.