aimee is right. admiral paul jones, never his old sound self since that last cruise in the west indies, is ill. gourgaud says it is his lungs, and commands him to take care of himself. he obeys by sticking close to the red-gold aimee, and the pleasant house in the rue tournon, with its fireplaces in the winter and its tree-shaded back garden in the summer—summer, when the hammock is swung.

now a stream of visitors pours in upon him. even the poor king, in the midst of his troubles, sends to ask after the health of the “chevalier jones.” at odd hours, when visitors do not overrun him, he dictates his journals to beno?t-andre, while aimee gently swings his hammock with her white hand.

0319

it is a hazy july day; the drone of pillaging bees, busy among the flowers, fills the back garden in the rue tournon. it is one of admiral paul jones’ “good days;” a-swing in his hammock, he chats with major beaupoil about a recent dinner at which he was the guest of jacobin honor.

“it was at the cafe timon,” he says, “a favorite rendezvous of the jacobins. believe me, major, while i cannot speak in highest terms of the jacobins, i can of the cafe timon. one day i hope to take you there.”

gouverneur morris is announced. he tells admiral paul jones of advices from mr. jefferson, and that mr. pinckney has been selected minister to st. james.

“what, to my mind,” concludes mr. morris, “is of most consequence, mr. pinckney bears with him from president washington your commission as an admiral in the american navy. you are to be ready, you note, to sail against those barbary robbers when the squadron arrives.

“i shall not alone be ready,” he returns, “i shall be delighted.” he springs from the hammock, and takes a quick turn up and down the garden. the prospect of a brush with the swarthy freebooters of the mediterranean animates him mightily.

other visitors are announced. barère, lafayette, carnot, cambon, vergniaud, marron, collot, billaud, kersaint, gensonne, barbaroux and louvet one after the other arrive. laughter and jest and conversation become the order of the afternoon; for all are glad, and argue, from his high spirits, the soon return to health of admiral paul jones. there has been no more cheerful hour in the rue tournon back garden. corks are drawn and glasses clink.

the talk leaves politics for religion. “my church,” observes admiral paul jones—“my church has been the ocean, my preacher the north star, my choir the winds singing in the ship’s rigging.”

“and your faith?” asks major beaupoil.

“you may find it, my dear major, in pope’s universal prayer:

‘teach me to feel another’s woe,

to hide the faults i see;

that mercy i to others show,

such mercy show to me.’

“there!” he concludes, “i call that stanza a complete boxing of the religious compass.”

gourgaud looks in professionally, and is inclined to take a solemn view of his patient’s health. he rebukes him for running about the garden among his guests.

“you should not have permitted it,” says gourgaud, admonishing aimee with upraised finger.

“but he refused to be restrained!” returns aimee, ruefully.

“gourgaud!” the patient breaks forth cheerily, “you know the aphorism: at forty every man is either a fool or a doctor. now i am over forty; and, as a fellow-practitioner, i promise you that our patient, paul jones, is out of danger and on the mend.” then, gayly: “come, gourgaud, don’t croak! take a glass of wine, man; you frighten aimee with your long looks.” gourgaud takes his wine; but his looks are quite as long as before.

abruptly and apropos of nothing, admiral paul jones decides to make his will.

“your will!” protests gouverneur morris, somewhat aghast. “but you haven’t been in such health for months.”

“not on account of my health,” he explains, “but because of those barbary pirates.”

notaries are brought in by beno?t-andré, and the will is drawn. the gallant testator is for giving all to his aimee.

“the house you already have,” says he; “and also an annuity. now i leave you the rest; and beaupoil shall be executor, with morris as a witness. there; it is arranged!”

but it is not arranged. the red-gold aimee points out that he has certain nieces and nephews in scotland and virginia; they must not be forgotten. he yields to amendments in behalf of those nieces and nephews. then the will is sealed and signed.

“it has eased my mind,” he says, giving the document into the hands of major beaupoil for safe-keeping—“it has eased my mind more than i supposed possible.” then, with a look at aimee: “there will be enough, petite, to take care of you, even though our friends here turn the country bottom-side up. luckily, too, the property is in england and america and holland, where values stand more steadily than they do in france.”

aimee remembers the “sword of honor,” given by king louis for that victory over the serapis.

“you always declared it should go to your friend, dale,” she says.

“so i do still!”

aimee brings the sword. she presses the gilt scabbard to her lips; then she puts it in the hands of her “paul.” he half draws the blade, and considers it with an eye of pride.

“you see this sword?” he remarks to gouverneur morris, “should i die, carry it with my love to dick dale—my good old dick, who did more than any other man to help me win it!”

it is nine o’clock; night has fallen. the many friends have gone their homeward ways. the back parlor of the house in the rue tournon is peaceful and still.

admiral paul jones sits in his cushioned easy-chair reading a volume of voltaire. now and then he addresses to aimee some comment of agreement or disagreement with his lively author. aimee offers no counter comments, but smiles accord to everything; for her heart is lighter and her bosom more tranquil than for many a day, as she basks in the sunshine of new hopes for the restoration of her “paul.”

some duty of the house calls aimee. she leaves her paul the lamplight shining on the pages of the book, his loved face in the shadow. she pauses at the door, her deep, soft eyes full of worship.

aimee is on the stair returning. an ominous sound reaches her ears! her heart grows cold; alarm seizes her by the throat, as though a hand clutched her! she knows by some instinct that the end has come, and her “paul” lies dead or dying! she can neither move nor cry out!

presently she regains command of herself. with quaking limbs she mounts the stair. the door of the back drawing-room stands open. the lamp still burns, but its radiance no longer lights the pages of the philosopher of fernay. they fall across the motionless body of her “paul.” he lies with head and shoulder resting on a couch, which he was trying to reach when stricken down.

aimee gazes for one horror-frozen moment. then, with a wailing sob, as from the depths of her soul, she throws her arms about him. she covers the marble lips with kisses—those dauntless, defiant lips!—while her thick hair, breaking from its combs, hides, as with a veil of red and gold, the loved face from the prying lamp.

napoleon is reading those gloomy despatches which tell of trafalgar. crushing the paper in his hand, he paces the floor, his pale, moody face swept by gusty emotions of pain and anger and disappointment.

“berthier, how old was paul jones when he died?”

“forty-five, sire.”

there comes a gloom-filled silence; the gray, brooding eyes seek the floor in thought. then the pacing to and fro is resumed, that hateful despatch still clutched fast in the nervous fingers.

“berthier: paul jones did not fulfil his destiny.”