and now dawn many days of love and peace and plenty for admiral panl jones, days in the midst of friends, glad days made sumptuous by a beautiful woman, who is a king’s daughter crowned with a wealth of red-gold hair. he has his business, too, and embarks in speculation; wherein he shows himself as much a sailor of finance as of the sea. the imperial catherine refuses to lose him; but pays to the last like an empress, bidding him prolong his vacation while he will. he grows rich. he has twelve thousand pounds in the bank; while in america, holland, denmark, belgium and england his interests flourish. he sells his plantation by the rappahannock for twenty-five hundred dollars—less than a dollar an acre; for he says that he has no more heart to own slaves, and the plantation cannot be worked without them.
the little happy cottage in the rue vivienne grows small; neither is it magnificent enough for his aimee, of whom each day he grows more proud and fond. so he removes, bag and baggage, to a mansion in the rue tournon. there the rooms are grand, ceilings tall, fireplaces hospitably wide.
the wide fireplaces will do for winter; just now he swings a hammock in the back garden, which is thick-sown of trees and made pleasant by a plushy green may carpet of grass. here he lolls and reads and receives his friends. for the careful aimee counsels rest, and much staying at home; because he is a long shot from a hale man, having been broken with that fever in the west indies, and in no wise restored by the mists and the miasmas of the dnieper marshes.
through the summer the back garden is filled with chairs, and the chairs are filled by friends. in the autumn, and later when winter descends with its frosts, the chairs and the incumbent friends gather in a semicircle about the wide flame-filled crackling fireplaces. there be times when the wine passes; and the freighted mahogany sideboards discover that they have destinies beyond the ornamental.
french politics bubbles and then boils; paris is split by faction. mirabeau controls the assembly; lafayette has the army under his hand—a weak, vacillating hand! these two are of the moderates.
admiral paul jones, coolly neutral in what sentiments go shaking the hour, has admirers in the parties. they come to him, and talk with him, and drink his wines in the shade of the back garden, or by the opulent fireplaces. robespierre and danton, as well as mirabeau and lafayette, are there. also, bertrand barère, who boasts that he is not french but iberian, one whose forbears came in with hannibal. later, barère will preach an open-air sermon on the “life and deeds of admiral paul jones.” just now in the assembly he makes ferocious speeches, garnished of savage expletives culled from the language of the basques.
warmest among friends of admiral paul jones is the thetford corset-maker tom paine, with his encarmined nose and love of freedom. also gouverneur morris, who has succeeded mr. jefferson as america’s minister in france, comes often to the rue tournon. the pair are with him every day; and because all three like politics, and no two of them share the same views, dispute is deep. aimee of the red-gold hair takes no part in these discussions, but sits watching her “paul” with eyes of adoration, directing the servants, with a motion of the hand, to have a care that the debaters do not voice their beliefs over empty glasses.
admiral paul jones, while a republican, gives his sympathies to the king, in whom there is much weakness, but no evil.
“they must not kill the king!” says he.
“and why not?” demands tom paine, whose bosom distills bitterness, and who holds there are no good kings save dead kings. “has france no cromwell? we are both born englishmen, paul; our own people ere this have killed a king.”
“tom,” cries admiral paul jones, heatedly,
“cromwell and england should not be cited as precedents here. king louis is no charles; and, as for cromwell, there isn’t the raw material in all france to make a cromwell.”
gouverneur morris says nothing, but sips his wine; remembering that, as the minister of a foreign nation, he should bear no part in french politics.
the parisian rabble insult the king, and lafayette, in command of the military about the tuileries, sadly lacks decision. then comes the “day of daggers;” the poor king, advised by the irresolute lafayette, yields to the mob, and the assembled notables are disarmed. the anger of admiral paul jones is extreme. he breaks forth to his friend tom paine:
“up to this time i’ve been able to find reasons for the king’s gentleness; but to-day’s action was not gentle, it was weak. i pity the man—beset as he is by situations to which he is unequal. lafayette cannot long restrain the sinister forces that confront him. he has neither the head nor the heart nor the hand for it. this is a time for grapeshot. i only wish that i might be in command of those thirty cannon parked about the palace, and have with me, even for a day, my old war-dogs of the ranger and the richard. believe me, i should offer the mob convincing reasons in support of conservatism and justice; i should teach it forbearance at the muzzles of my guns.”
“but the rabble might in its turn teach you,” retorts tom paine, with a republican grin.
“bah!” he exclaims, snapping contemptuous fingers. “they of the mob are but sheep masquerading as tigers. one whiff of grapeshot, and they would disappear.” then he continues, thoughtfully: “their saddest trait is their levity. they are ridiculous even in their patriotism. their emblems, representative of the grand sentiments they profess, are as childish as the language in which they proclaim them is fantastic. there is the red cap! borrowed from the gutters, they make it the symbol of sovereignty! as though a ship were better for being keel up.”
mirabeau, with his lion’s face, comes in. he is in a fury, and declares that lafayette is a practising hypocrite in his pretences of attachment to the king.
“hypocrisy!” cries mirabeau. “that, at least, is a lesson in the school of liberty he never learned from washington.”
others of the moderates arrive, and join in the conversation.
“you must understand, gentlemen,” observes admiral paul jones warmly, “that i, in my time, have fought eight years for liberty. but i did not fight with the decrees of blood-mad assemblies, or the plots of secret clubs.”
those present smile tolerantly; for the mighty paul is a person of many privileges, the one man in france who may speak his mind.
“you do not deeply respect the assembly?” remarks mirabeau, with a sour smile.
“the assembly? what is it? a few who talk all the time, and a great many who applaud or hiss! everything about it is theatrical. it struggles for epigram not principle, and the members would sooner say a smart thing than save france.”
paris is turmoil and uproar and tumult. to keep his mind from that strife which surrounds him, and into which he longs to plunge, admiral paul jones puts in hours with his secretary, beno?t-andré, dictating his journals. also, business calls him to london, where he is much celebrated by the whigs. he hobnobs with fox and sheridan, while walpole carries him away to strawberry hill. he is with walpole, when word arrives that mirabeau is dead.
“what will be the effect in paris’?” asks walpole.
“what will be the effect! it will unchain the worst elements. the assembly will now go to every red extreme. while mirabeau lived, that strange concourse of evil spirits had a master. he is gone; the animals are without a keeper.”
admiral paul jones returns to paris, and finds a letter from mr. jefferson, now secretary of state. mr. jefferson asks him to discover how far europe will co-operate to crush out piracy in the mediterranean. also, he explains that president washington will want the services of admiral paul jones when he sends an expedition against the barbary states.
while he is reading mr. jefferson’s letter, a deputation from the assembly waits on him, and sets forth informally that it is the present french purpose to reorganize the navy, and call him, admiral paul jones, to the command.
“would you accept?” asks the deputation.
“it would be, gentlemen,” he returns, “the part of prudence, and i think of modesty, to defer crossing that bridge till i come to it.”
when the deputation goes away, he calls beno?t-andré, and sits long into the night dictating a treatise on reforming the french navy. he points out how its present inefficiency arises from the fact that, for centuries, it has been the feeding-ground of a voracious but incompetent aristocracy, a mere asylum for impoverished second sons, and other noble incapables. he sends a copy of his treatise to walpole, who writes him a letter.
“my dear admiral,” says he of strawberry hill; “let france go. either return home to america and rest upon your laurels, or come over to england, where even those who do not love you admire you. you have fought under two flags; isn’t that enough? i take your pamphlet to be simply a bid for a commission in the new french navy, and, because i love and admire you, i hope it will fail. it will be better so. your laurels, won off flamboro’ head, will else be turned to cypress, when, as a french admiral, you become the target of british broadsides, with none of your stout yankee tars to stand by and man your guns.”
the winter is at an end; the grass of spring is starting. admiral paul jones receives a letter from president washington, who speaks of the barbary states, and asks him to give up his commission in the russian service. there have been two whose requests with him were ever final—franklin and washington. he does not hesitate, but forwards his resignation to catherine. she will not accept, and puts forward old suwarrow.
“do not, my good brother,” writes the old soldier—“do not let any siren entice you from the service of the empress. your frenchmen are preparing a stew of mischief that must soon keep all western europe busy to save themselves. that will be russia’s time. we shall then have a free hand with the turk. our command of the black sea is safe. since you were there, we have built nine new ships of the line, and six stout frigates. you shall have them all. also, i can now protect you from court intrigues, which i could not do before. courtiers, since ismail, no longer trouble me; i brush them away like flies. in a new turkish campaign, i would be generalissimo by land and sea; you would be responsible to no one but me—a situation which, i flatter myself, would not be intolerable to you. now, my good brother, the empress has a copy of this letter, and agrees with all i say. make no entanglements in the west; return to your old papa suwarrow as soon as you can, and we shall discuss plans.”
old suwarrow’s missive fails of its hoped-for effect. admiral paul jones gets out president washington’s letter and reads it again. then he sends a polite but peremptory resignation to catherine, and ends forever with the russians.
“but, mon paul,” says aimee, who looks over his shoulder, “what a compliment! england, france, russia, america—the whole world calls you! and the answer to all”—here a kiss—“is that you shall stay with your aimee until she coaxes back your health.”
