Presently the beautiful Aimee quits the room, and the good Marchioness
de Marsan tells her story.
“There is surely no reason why you shouldn’t know, my dear Commodore,”
she says; “since all France knows. Aimee’s mother is of the de
Tiercelins--a noble house, but impoverished. As a girl the mother was
ravishingly lovely. This was in the days of Monsieur le Bel and
the Parc-aux-Cerfs. The old king saw Mademoiselle de Tiercelin; the
Pompadour did not object. Aimee was born; and presently her mother,
whom the king called his ‘de Bonneval,’ was put away with a pension.
The Bonneval’s father talked loudly, and was sent to the Bastile as a
‘Russian spy.’ One may say what one will in the Bastile; the walls are
thick and have no ears. The Pompadour looked after poor de Bonneval and
the little Aimee. She married the mother to a gentleman named Telison.
The Pompadour died; the king died; Aimee was sixteen. Her stepfather de
Telison, and her mother de Bonneval neglected her. They said ‘She is
a Bourbon. Let the Bourbons provide.’ So I, who am her godmother, took
Aimee. That was four years ago; and now it is as though she were my own
child in very fact--I love her so.”
“But the present king?”
“Thus far he has done nothing for Aimee. She goes to court; her position
is recognized; the king is kind. But you know the cold Savoy blood?--it
is stingy! However, that is now of little moment so far as Aimee is
concerned, for I am rich.”
Commodore Paul Jones is established at the palace of the good Marsan.
Sailors are swift to love; the image of Aimee fits into his heart as
into a niche that was made for it.
The second day he calls on the Duchess de Chartres--the beautiful
girl-Duchess. He wears a guilty feeling at the base of his conscience.
Fortunately his cheek is tanned by wind and weather, and the guilty
feeling does not show.
The girl-Duchess is with her husband, the Duke de Chartres, who has quit
the sea for the shore, his man-of-war for his palace. The girl-Duchess
receives Commodore Paul Jones in something of a formal manner, which
is a relief to him. His manner is also formal, which is not a relief to
her. The Duke, who makes a specialty of democracy, greets him with bluff
cordiality as a brother sailor. He congratulates him on beating the
“English dogs,” whom he hates professionally. Commodore Paul Jones is
modest in his replies. For he is not thinking of the _Serapis_, but
on Aimee; and, with the eyes of the girl-Duchess upon him, that guilty
feeling overlays all else.
The girl-Duchess watches him through halfshut lids. She almost guesses
the truth; for she knows of the good Marsan, and Aimee. Besides, she is
a woman, and clairvoyant in matters of the heart.
After an hour with the Duke and the girl-Duchess, Commodore Paul Jones
goes back to the good Marchioness de Marsan and to Aimee. As an excuse
for his own idleness, he travels down to l’Orient and, albeit the
_Alliance_ is as fit as a fiddle, sets Lieutenant Dale, “Dick the
practical,” to overhauling the ship from truck to keel. Then he returns
to the good Marsan and Aimee.
Now he spends sunny hours in the beautiful Aimee’s company, and his
love creeps and grows upon him like ivy on a wall. The conqueror is
conquered; the invincible is overthrown. As for Aimee, her blue eyes
become a deeper blue, her pink cheeks take on a warmer pink when he is
near. And the good Marsan sees it all, and does not interfere. For she
is versed in the world and its ways; and this is France; and after life
comes death.
When the ardent sailor would be too ardent, Aimee represses him; the
barrier of her modesty is as a barrier of ice between them. Thereupon he
loves her the more, and refreshes his soul with Shakespeare:
“Chaste as the icicle
That’s curdled by the frost of purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple.”
Commodore Paul Jones goes down to l’Orient again. Not so much to see
after the _Alliance_, as to pique his love and give it edge. For absence
makes the flame burn brighter, and Aimee bursts upon him with a new
charm when he has been away.
For all his lovelorn case, however, he makes arrangements for his two
pets, Lieutenants May-rant and Fanning, to go privateering for the
French, and gives them nearly one hundred and fifty of his fiercest
sea-wolves to bear them company.
“Why keep them rusting ashore,” says he, “like good blades in their
sheaths! No; let the lads sail forth with letters of marque, and make
their fortunes.”
The _Serapis_ is held by the French as a king’s prize, and de Sartine
pays Commodore Paul Jones twelve thousand dollars as his share. There
are other thousands from other prizes, and, after a French sort, he
finds himself rich.
When, following his visit to l’Orient, he returns to the good Marsan,
that estimable lady is discovered in a state of much excitement. The
Duchess de Chartres has “commanded” the presence of Commodore Paul Jones
at her palace.
The prospect does not overcome him. He receives it with steadiness,
although privily a-quake because of that feeling of guilt. The good
Marsan’s excitement is supplanted by wonder to see him take his honors
so coolly.
“Ah, these Americans!” she thinks. Then, out loud: “She is a Bourbon,
my Commodore! No one below the blood royal has ever received such a
summons.”
In spite of the uplifted palms of the good Marsan, her “Commodore”
refuses to be impressed. He will go; since no one should decline the
“command” of royalty. But he will go calmly--hiding of course his sense
of guilt, and spreading the skirts of his conscience very wide to hide
it.
Aimee hears that he is to go, and cannot avoid a little flutter of
alarm. She knows her beautiful kinswoman, the girl-Duchess--knows the
spell and the power of her. It gives the tender Aimee a dull ache of the
heart. A lone feeling of helplessness overwhelms her, as fears rise up
for her poor love that, in so short a space, has become the one
sweet thing in life. True, she herself is a Bourbon! But with the bar
sinister. How then shall she, obscure and poor and by the left hand,
hope to sustain herself in the heart of her lover against the wiles
and siren wooings of one who is at once the most legitimate, the most
beautiful, and the most wealthy woman in France! The tears gather in the
soft eyes.
The good Marsan goes from the room; for she has a deal of sympathy and
good sense. Commodore Paul Jones, when now the two are alone, draws
Aimee to him, and dries those tears in ways that lovers know. For the
first time he folds her in his arms and kisses her lips.
“Perhaps it is also the last time,” she thinks sadly.
And the gallant lover, as though he reads her thoughts, kisses her
again, and vows by sword and ship to love her always.
Commodore Paul Jones finds the Duchess de Chartres in spirits. She and
the Duke give him a suite of apartments that has heretofore been sacred
to Bourbon occupation alone. At this the sensation that rocks the Court
is profound.
It even reaches the rabbit-faced king--weak rather than dull--at
Versailles, and gives him a shock. He draws down the uncertain corners
of his undecided mouth, says naught, and goes out under the trees to
feed his squirrels. He would be wiser were he to go out into the starved
highways and byways of his oppressed realm, and feed his subjects. Did
he do so, he might even yet avoid that revolution, which is slowly yet
terribly preparing itself in the ante-chamber of Time.