The good Marsan and Aimee are among the guests. Indeed, it is to see Aimee and Commodore Paul Jones together that has caused the Duchess de Chartres to order the fête. She will bring the pair beneath her eyes—the young Aimee, and the “Commodore,” who has become formal. She will then know the best and worst of their hearts.
The Duchess is right in this assumption; for you may no more hide love than smoke. With half-watchfulness, she readily surprises their secret. Still she is gay and light; for her heart is the heart of a Bourbon, and the heart of your Bourbon is never a breakable.
She seats Commodore Paul Jones on her right, which is the thing expected. Aimee is on his other hand; which last excites his suspicions—having that guilty feeling—while attracting the attention of nobody else. Over across is the wise Franklin, who finds himself vastly at home between the Houdetot and the rosy Helvetius, who is a marvel of tidiness.
The Duchess pays a deal of polite attention to Commodore Paul Jones.
“I cannot think, my dear Commodore,” she cries, “how, with your ship on fire, and sinking under your feet, you had courage to continue the fight.”
“Your royal highness forgets. To surrender would have meant a postponement of the bliss of meeting you.”
“Now, Bayard himself,” returns the Duchess, “could have said nothing so knightly!”
Aimee glows at this. In the face of her fears, she still likes to hear her lover-hero praised.
“There is a promise!” exclaims the Duchess.
Commodore Paul Jones reddens through the tan. What is coming! There is much of royal recklessness in the Duchess’ royal blood; she will now and then say a bold thing.