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 ............