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.