“Where is he?”
“He is dead!” she says, with a rush of tears.
Then she carries him to a quiet cemetery7, and, taking his hand, leads him to a little grave, upon which the new grass has not grown two weeks. There is a tiny headstone of pale granite8, and on it the one word:
“Paul.”
His gaze is long and steadfast9 as he holds fast by his Aimee’s hand. Then his tears are united with hers; they stand bowed above the little grave.
Commodore Paul Jones and his Aimee, while ever together, formally conceal10 the tie that binds11 them. He has business with the king about prize money; she has petitions before the king about the blood that is common to her veins12 and his; and both the good Marsan and Doctor Franklin say it is better that the king should not know. And so the king goes feeding his squirrels and forgetting his people, in ignorance of what took place on that midnight before the candle-lighted altar of Our Lady of Loretto. But the wise old world is not so thick, and winks13 and smiles and wags its wise old head; and whenever it passes a pretty cottage in the Rue14 Vivienne it points and whispers tolerantly. For the wise old world loves lovers; and because Aimee always officially resides with the good Marsan when her “Paul” is in Paris, and actually resides with that amiable15 gentlewoman when her “Paul” is in London, or Copenhagen, or elsewhere on the complex business of those prize moneys, no one finds fault. And so four years of love and truth and sweetness, four beautiful years, throughout which the birds sing and the sun shines always, come and go for Commodore Paul Jones and his Aimee; and every noble door in France swings open at their approach.
The prize money gets into a tangle16, and Commodore Paul Jones consults his friends, Mirabeau and the venerable Malesherbes. Then he visits America, and is feted and feasted, while his Aimee—each year rounder and plumper and more bewitching—with the red-gold hair growing ever redder and more golden—stays in Paris by the side of the good Marsan, and keeps a loving eye on the vine-clothed cottage in the Rue Vivienne.
Nothing can exceed the honors wherewith Commodore Paul Jones is stormed upon and pelted17 while in America. He is banqueted by the Morrises, the Livingstons, the Hamiltons, the Jays, while—what is more to his heart’s comfort—he is visited by Dale and Fanning and Mayrant and Lunt and Stack and Potter and scores of his old sea wolves of the Ranger18 and Richard, who crowd round him to press his hand. In the end he drinks a last cup of wine at the Livingston Manor19 House, rides down to the foot of Cortlandt Street, and goes aboard the Governor Clinton, which, anchors hove short, awaits him. It is his last glass in America, his last glimpse of the shores for which he fought so valorously; November sees him in the Straits of Dover, nineteen days, out from Sandy Hook.
He goes to Paris, and the king has him to lunch at Versailles—a nine-days’ social wonder, the like of which has not been witnessed by a staring world since an elder Louis dined Jean Bart. The royal luncheon20 over, Commodore Paul Jones again settles down to the dear smiles and the love of his Aimee, while the aristocracy of France lionizes the one and worships the other.
One day Mr. Jefferson, now America’s Minister to Versailles, and greatly the friend of our two love birds, walks in upon them in that little vine-embowered cottage in the Rue Vivienne. He has big news. The Empress Catherine asks Commodore Paul Jones to become an admiral in the Russian navy. The Turks are troubling her; she wants him to sweep these turbaned pests from the Black Sea.
The cheek of Commodore Paul Jones flushes, his eye lights up. Between love and war his heart was formed to swing like a pendulum21. Now he has loved for a season, he would like nothing better than another game with those “iron dice22 of destiny,” vide licet cannon23 balls; and where should be found a fitter table than the Black Sea, or a more eligible24 adversary25 than the Turk? Thus it befalls that his Aimee goes to court with Madam Campan, the noble daughter of the noble Genet, and translates English plays into French for the amusement of Versailles; while be, hot of heart and high of head, as one who snuffeth the battle afar off, makes a straight wake for St. Petersburg.
Commodore Paul Jones meets the Empress Catherine in her Palace of Czarsko-Selo. Outside the snow lies thick; for it is April, and winter is ever reluctant to quit St. Petersburg. He is pricked26 of curiosity concerning this Russian Empress, for whom he is to draw his sword. He hopes—somewhat against hope, it is true, when he recalls her sixty years—that she will prove beautiful. For he is so much the knight27 of romance that he fights with more pleasure for a pretty face than for a plain one.
The Empress is before him; he can now put his hopes to the test. His eyes fall upon a thick, gross figure—a woman the antithesis28 of romance.
Her mouth is coarse, her nose high and hawkish29, her forehead full, her gaze hard and level, her whole face harsh—having been so often burned and swept of passion. And yet he feels the power of this white, fire-eyed savage30, with her heart of a Phryne and her brain of a Henry the Eighth. There is so much that is palpable and brutish about her, however, that he stands off from her contact and remembers with regret his delicate Aimee of the red-gold locks.
Commodore Paul Jones has been too well trained as a courtier to let fall the polite mask which he wears, and nothing could be more elaborately suave31 than are the manners he assumes. The ferocious32 Catherine gets some glimmer33 of his inward thought for all that. Every inch the Empress, she is even more the woman. To the day of her death the unpardonable offence in any male of her species is a failure to fall in love with her. She receives some chilling touch of her new Admiral’s aversion, and it turns her into angry ice. Still, if he will not sigh for her, he shall serve her: so she says to herself. He remains34 in St.
Petersburg a fortnight; the Empress sees him more than once. When they are together, they talk of Potemkin, Suwarrow, the Turks, and the Black Sea.
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1
nervously
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adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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2
irritable
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adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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3
solace
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n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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4
divers
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adj.不同的;种种的 | |
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5
cargoes
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n.(船或飞机装载的)货物( cargo的名词复数 );大量,重负 | |
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6
speculation
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n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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7
cemetery
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n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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8
granite
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adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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9
steadfast
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adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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10
conceal
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v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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11
binds
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v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
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12
veins
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n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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13
winks
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v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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14
rue
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n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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15
amiable
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adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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16
tangle
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n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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17
pelted
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(连续地)投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 ); 连续抨击; 攻击; 剥去…的皮 | |
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18
ranger
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n.国家公园管理员,护林员;骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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19
manor
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n.庄园,领地 | |
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20
luncheon
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n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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21
pendulum
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n.摆,钟摆 | |
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22
dice
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n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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23
cannon
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n.大炮,火炮;飞机上的机关炮 | |
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24
eligible
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adj.有条件被选中的;(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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25
adversary
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adj.敌手,对手 | |
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26
pricked
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刺,扎,戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 ); 刺伤; 刺痛; 使剧痛 | |
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27
knight
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n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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28
antithesis
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n.对立;相对 | |
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29
hawkish
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adj. 鹰派的, 强硬派的 | |
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30
savage
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adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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31
suave
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adj.温和的;柔和的;文雅的 | |
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32
ferocious
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adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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33
glimmer
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v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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34
remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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