It is a notable gathering that assembles at Doctor Franklin’s house in
Passy. Mr. Adams and his wife have just arrived, and the doctor presents
them to Madame Brillon and Madame Houdetot, already there.
“Mr. Adams is but recently come from America,” the doctor whispers. “He
takes Mr. Dean’s place as a member of our commission.”
Madame Houdetot talks with Mrs. Adams; and because of her bad English
and the other’s bad French they get on badly.
“Mr. Lee sends his compliments,” observes Mr. Adams, loftily, to Doctor
Franklin, “and regrets that he cannot come. He heard, I understand, that
Captain Paul Jones is to be here, and does not care to meet him.”
“No?” responds the doctor, evincing scanty concern at the failure
of Mr. Lee to come. “Now I do not wonder! I hear that Captain Jones
thrashed Mr. Lee’s secretary in a tavern at Nantes, and our proud Mr.
Lee, I suppose, resents it.”
“Thrashed him!” exclaims Mr. Adams, in high tones; “Captain Jones seized
a stick and beat him like a dog, applying to him the while such epithets
as ‘liar!’ and ‘spy.’ Mr. Lee’s secretary has left France through fear
of him.”
The portly doctor lifts his hands at this; but underneath his
deprecatory horror, hides a complacency, a satisfaction, as though the
violence of Captain Jones will not leave him utterly unstrung.
“He fights everybody,” says the good doctor, resignedly; “on land as
well as on sea. Nor can I teach him the difference between his own
personal enemies, and the enemies of his country.”
“He seems a bit unruly,” observes the pompous Mr. Adams; “a bit unruly,
does this Captain Jones of yours. I’m told he sold the _Drake_, and what
other ships were captured on his recent cruise, in the most high-handed,
masterful way.”
“What else was he to do? When a road becomes impassable, what is your
course? You push down a panel of fence and go cross-lots. Captain Jones
had two hundred prisoners to feed, besides his own brave crew of one
hundred and eighteen. We had no money to give him. Were they to starve?
I’m not surprised that he sold the ships.”
“I’m surprised that the Frenchmen bought them,” returns Mr. Adams.
“Captain Jones could give no title.”
Doctor Franklin’s keen eyes twinkle.
“He could give possession, Mr. Adams. And let me tell you that in
France, as everywhere else, possession is nine parts of the law.”
Madame Brillon draws Mr. Adams aside, while Doctor Franklin welcomes
the beautiful royal girl--the Duchess de Chartres; to whom he later
presents Mr. Adams and Mrs. Adams. Madame Houdetot leaves Mrs. Adams
with the girl-Duchess and talks aside with Doctor Franklin.
“I did not know,” she whispers, with an eye on the girlish Duchess,
“that you received calls from royalty.”
“The Duchess de Chartres has been with her great relative, the king,
upon the business of Captain Jones. She comes to meet the captain, whom
we every moment expect.”
“She is in love with him!--madly in love with him!” says Madame
Houdetot. “All the world knows it.”
The doctor, who at seventy-two is a distinguished gallant, smiles
sympathetically.
“Did I not once tell you that Captain Jones, the invincible among men,
is the irresistible among women!”
“Something of the sort, I think. But you have heard of the duchess and
your irresistible, invincible one, had you not?”
“My dear madam, I am a diplomat,” replies the doctor, slyly. “And it is
an infraction of the laws of diplomacy to tell what you hear.”
“They have been very tender at the duchess’s summer house near Brest.”
“And the husband--the Duke de Chartres!”
“A most excellent gentleman! A most admirable husband of most
unimpeachable domestic manners! Believe me, I cannot laud him too
highly! Every husband in Prance should copy him! He honors his wife,
and--stays aboard his ship, the _Saint Esprit_.” After a pause the
gossipy Madame Houdetot continues: “No doubt the duke considers his
wife’s rank. Is the great-granddaughter of the Grande Louis to be held
within those narrow lines that confine the feet of other women?”
“Who is this Mr. Adams?” asks Madame Brillon, coming up. “Is he a great
man?”
Doctor Franklin glances across where the austere Mr. Adams is stiffly
posing, with a final thought of impressing the sparkling Duchess de
Chartres.
“Rather he is a _big_ man,” replies the philosopher. “Like some houses,
his foundations cover a deal of ground; but then he is only one story
high. If you could raise Mr. Adams another story, he would be a _great_
man.”
The good doctor goes over, and becomes polite to Mrs. Adams; for the
enlightenment of that lady of reserve and dignity, he expands on France
and the French character. Suddenly the door is thrown open, and all
unannounced a queer figure rushes in. She is clad in rumpled muslin and
soiled lutestring. Her hair is frizzed, her face painted, her cap awry,
and she is fair and fat and of middle years. This remarkable apparition
embraces Doctor Franklin, kisses him resoundingly, first on the left
cheek then on the right, crying:
“My flame!--my love!--my Franklin!”
The seasoned doctor receives this caressing broadside steadily, while
the desolated Mrs. Adams sits round-eyed and stony.
“It is the eccentric Madame Helvetius,” explains Madame Brillon in a low
tone to Mrs. Adams. “They call her the ‘Rich Widow of Passy.’ She and
the good doctor are dearest friends.”
“Eccentric!” Mrs. Adams perceives as much, and says so.
Doctor Franklin returns to Mrs. Adams, whom he suspects of being hungry
for an explanation, while the buoyant Madame Helvetius, as one sure of
her impregnable position, wanders confidently about the room.
“You should become acquainted with Madame Helvetius,” submits the doctor
pleasantly. “Wise, generous, afire for our cause--you would dote on
her.”
Mrs. Adams icily fears not.
“Believe me; you would!” insists the doctor. “True! her manners are of
her people and her region. They are not those of Puritan New England.”
Mrs. Adams interrupts to say that she has never before heard so much
said in favor of Puritan New England.
“And yet, my dear Mrs. Adams,” goes on the good doctor, as one
determined to conquer for Madame Helvetius the other’s favorable
opinion, “you would do wrong to apply a New England judgment to our
friend. Her exuberance is of the surface.” Then, quizzically: “A mere
manner, I assure you, and counts for no more than should what she is
doing now.”
Mrs. Adams lifts her severe gaze at this to Madame Helvetius. That
amiable French woman is in rapt and closest converse with Mr. Adams,
hand on his shoulder, her widowed lips to his ear. Mr. Adams is standing
as one frozen, casting ever and anon a furtive glance, like an alarmed
sheep, at Mrs. Adams. For an arctic moment, Mrs. Adams is held by the
terrors of that spectacle; then she moves to her husband’s rescue.
Madame Helvetius comes presently to Doctor Franklin.
“What an iceberg!” she remarks, with a toss of the frizzed head towards
Mr. Adams. “Does he ever thaw!” Then, as her glance takes in Mrs. Adams:
“Poor man! He might be August, missing her. It is she who congeals him.”
And now he, for whom they wait, is announced--Captain Paul Jones. He
has about him everything of the _salon_ and nothing of the sea. His
amiable yet polished good breeding wins on Mrs. Adams, and even the
repellant wintry Mr. Adams is rendered urbane. Captain Paul Jones
becomes the instant centre of the little assemblage. And yet, even
while he gives his words to the others, his glances rove softly to the
girl-Duchess, who stands apart, as might one who for a space--only for
a space--permits room to others. The girl-Duchess is polite; she grants
him what time is required to offer his greetings all around. Then, in
the most open, obvious way, as though none might criticise or gainsay
her conduct, she draws him into a secluded corner. They make a rare
study, these two; he deferential yet dominant, she proud but yielding.
“Did you see the king?” he asks.
“See him? Am I not, too, a Bourbon?” This comes off with fire.
“Surely! Of course you saw him!” responds Captain Paul Jones, recalling
his manner to one of easy matter-of-fact. “Your royal highness will
pardon my inquiry.”
The girl-Duchess objects petulantly to the “Royal Highness.”
“From you I do not like it,” she says. “From you”--and here comes a
flood of softness, while her black eyes shine like strange jewels--“from
you, as you know, my friend, I would have only those titles that,
arm-encircled, heart to heart, a man gives to the one woman of his sou’s
hope.”
Her voice sinks at the close, while her eyes leave his for the floor.
His presence is like a gale, and she bends before him as the willow
bends before the strong wind. Meanwhile, as instructive to Mr. Adams,
the loud Doctor is saying:
“No, sir; you must have a wig. No one sees the king without a wig.”
“We talked an hour--the king and I,” goes on the girl-Duchess,
recovering herself. “I read him your letter; he was vastly interested.
Then I told him how the _Ranger_ had been called to America. Also I drew
him pictures of what you had done; and how bravely you had fought,
not only your enemies, but his enemies and the enemies of France. And,
oh!”--here again the black eyes take on that perilous softness--“I can
be eloquent when I talk of you!”
Captain Paul Jones looks tender things, as though he also might be
eloquent, let him but pick subject and audience. Altogether there is
much to support the gossip-loving Madame Houdetot, in what she has said
concerning that summer house at Brest. The voice of the good Doctor
again takes precedence.
“Until then, it had been an axiom of naval Europe that no one on even
terms, guns and men and ship, could whip the British on the ocean.”
The Doctor and Mr. Adams are discussing the _Ranger_ and the Drake, a
topic that has been rocking France.
“Yes,” goes on the girl-Duchess, with a further dulcet flash of those
eyes, fed of fire and romance, “you are to have a ship. Here is the
king’s order to his Minister of Marine--the shuffler De Sartine. Now
there shall be no more shuffling.” She gives Captain Paul Jones the
orders. “The ship is the _Duras_, lying at l’Orient.”
“The _Duras!_” exclaims Captain Paul Jones. “An ex-Indiaman!--a good
ship, too; she mounts forty guns.” Then, as his gaze rests on Doctor
Franklin, laying down diplomatic law and fact to Mr. Adams, who listens
with a preposterously conceited cock to his head: “What say you, my
friend--my best, my dearest friend! Let us re-name the _Duras_ for the
good Doctor. Shall we not call it the _Bon Homme Richard_?”
The girl-Duchess looks her acquiescence as she would have looked it to
any proposal from so near and sweet and dear a quarter. Thus the
_Bon Homme Richard_ is born, and the _Duras_ disappears. The Doctor,
unconscious of the honor done him, is saying to Madame Helvetius, whose
fat arm is thrown across his philosophic shoulder:
“With pleasure, madam! It is arranged; I shall dine at your house
to-morrow.”
The girl-Duchess and Captain Paul Jones hear nothing of these prandial
arrangements for the morrow. They are again conversing; and, for all
they talk constantly, they say more with their eyes than with their
lips.
“Lastly,” and here the words of the girl-Duchess grow distinct, “your
ship, they tell me, will need refitting. That will take money, my
friend; and so I hand you this letter to my banker, Gourlade,
instructing him to put ten thousand louis to your credit.”
Captain Paul Jones puts the letter of credit aside.
“You do not understand!” he says. “De Chaumont has----”
“You _must_ take it!” interrupts the girl-Duchess, her eyes beginning
to swim. “You shall not put to sea, and risk your life, and the ship not
half prepared!”
“I shall more easily risk my life a thousand times, than permit you to
give me money.”
As Captain Paul Jones says this, a resentful red is burning on his brow.
Doctor Franklin breaks in from over the way, with:
“You should not too much listen to Mr. Lee, sir. I tell you that the
French merchants have offered to send Captain Jones to sea as admiral
of an entire fleet of privateers, and he refused. Have my word, sir; the
last thing he thinks on is money.”
The girl-Duchess is gazing reproachfully at Captain Paul Jones. At last
she speaks slowly and with a kind of sadness:
“I do not give you money--do not offer it. What! money and--you! Never!”
Then proudly: “I give my money to the Cause.” After this high note is
struck, the flash dies down; the black eyes again go wavering to the
floor, while the voice retreats to the old soft whisper. “It is my heart
--only my heart that I give to you.”
The strident, unmollified tones of Mr. Adams get possession of the
field. He is condemning the French press.
“They declare, sir,” he is saying, “that I am not the celebrated Mr.
Adams; that I am a cipher, a fanatic and a bigot.”
Doctor Franklin laughs. “What harm is there in the French papers, sir?”
he returns. “Give them no heed, sir, give them no heed!”
Madame Brillon makes preparations to depart; Madame Houdetot, Mrs.
Adams and the rest adopt her example. And still the girl-Duchess holds
Captain Paul Jones to herself:
“I am to have one evening--one before you go?” she pleads; and her tones
are a woman’s tones and deeply wistful; and are not in any respect the
tones of a Bourbon.
“One evening? You shall have every evening--ay! and every day.”
“Remember!” and as she makes ready to go the girl-Duchess takes firmer
command of her manner and her voice; “remember! You have promised to lay
an English frigate at my feet.”
“That I shall do; or lay my bones away in the Atlantic!”
The girl-Duchess shivers at this picture, and as though for reassurance
steals her slim hand into his.
“Not that!” she pleads. His strong brown fingers close courageously on
the slender ones. “I cannot bear the thought! In victory or defeat, come
back!” Then, sighing rather than saying: “Come back to me--my untitled
knight of the sea!”