“The memoirs of that family are a romance of the nineteenth century,” Representative Randolph declared in the 1841 Rhode Island legislative battle over married women's rights, “and the story of Mrs. d'Hauteville, is sufficiently remarkable to attract uncommon interest and sympathy.” So had been Gonzalve's. And both had aroused intense outrage and opposition as well. Together their stories made the d'Hauteville case an avidly watched and vigorously debated legal event in 1840 and 1841. Slowly, however, the case faded from the pages of the press and the memory of most Americans.

Despite its inevitable journey to the sack-heap of forgotten cases, the d'Hauteville case left a particular kind of mark on American law and society. Unlike the d'Hautevilles’ multiple encounters with the law, though, the case's imprint cannot be found in the words and deeds of the participants. Their passionate involvement produced the vivid expressions and charged events I have used to recount the case as a series of legal experiences. But that same timebound passion prevents them from being its final commentators. The case had outcomes and consequences unknown and unknowable to Ellen, Gonzalve, and the rest of the cast of the long-running d'Hauteville drama.

Every version of the d'Hauteville case not only told a story, it had a moral. My version of the tale has one as well. The lesson I want to draw from the case, however, is not a Solomonic judgment about which parent should have gotten Frederick.