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 Benoît-Andre, while Aimee gently swings his hammock with her
white hand.
[Illustration: 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 Benoît-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.”
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Paul Jones, by Alfred Henry Lewis