Benjamin Franklin was a genius, a statesman, a writer, an inventor—and an absolute menace when it came to women. By the time he landed in Paris in 1776, he was 70 years old, balding, a little pudgy, and set seducing the entire city.
And Paris was ready for him.
The French adored him. His plain fur hat and folksy charm made him look like a wise, old philosopher straight out of the American wilderness, and maybe just a little sexy.
Franklin had a way with words. He knew how to make a woman feel special. He wrote flirtatious letters filled with poetic nonsense, winking innuendos, and charm that made his targets swoon. Take Madame Brillon, a married woman and a talented musician. Franklin adored her. They spent hours together, playing chess, discussing philosophy, and exchanging letters dripping with not-so-subtle desire. She played coy, but likely enjoyed the attention.
Then there was Madame Helvétius, a free-spirited widow with a sharp mind and a wilder heart. Franklin was obsessed. He proposed marriage. She laughed. He tried again. She still wasn’t interested. She preferred her dead husband to Franklin’s very alive advances, but it didn’t stop him from trying.
He played the role of the wise, affable American perfectly. The French thought he was a brilliant, eccentric old man—harmless, charming, clever. He wore simple clothes while the French aristocrats draped themselves in silks and jewels. He let them think he was a humble, backwoods genius. Meanwhile, he played the game better than anyone. The flattery. The alliances. The whispered conversations in candlelit salons. He knew exactly what he was doing.
And when he wasn’t charming the aristocracy, he was naked.
Franklin believed in what he called “air baths.” Every morning, he sat in front of an open window, completely nude, enjoying the fresh air. He swore it was for his health. The neighbors probably had their doubts. Imagine Franklin, 70 years old, slightly plump, sitting in a drafty room in Paris, writing letters to Thomas Jefferson in the nude. George Washington wouldn’t have approved.
Back in Philadelphia, his wife, Deborah, was still waiting for him.
She had been waiting for nearly two decades.
Franklin left for London in 1764. He didn’t back, not even when Deborah got sick, or when she died. He sent letters, telling her not to be jealous of his European “friends,” but he never returned. She died in 1774. He stayed in Europe.
By the time he came home in 1785, Franklin was a legend. Franklin had played his part perfectly, convincing France to fund the revolution. He had charmed kings, diplomats, and aristocrats. He had written love letters, sipped fine wine, and basked in the adoration of Paris.
America saw him as a hero.
Paris remembered him as something else.
A rogue. A flirt. And a man who never let a revolution get in the way of a good time.
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