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Duplessis painted me in Paris in 1778. I was seventy-two years old and had been in France for two years, working to secure the alliance that would decide the war. The French loved me — they made medals of my face, put my portrait on snuff boxes, named their children after me. I wore a fur cap instead of a wig because I had no wig and it suited the role: the plain American philosopher, uncorrupted by European refinement.

I was not plain. I was calculating, charming, and quite comfortable in a drawing room. But there is no harm in letting people see what they want to see, provided what they want to see serves the purpose. The alliance was secured. The war was won.