Within an hour he was on the road to Paris, traveling by the diligence.
It was his intention to get to Paris as quietly as possible, and for that reason he wore plain citizen’s clothes, and wrapped himself in a large cloak; but Danny Dixon, swelling with the importance of the charge of his commander’s portmanteau, had no notion of letting the great man pass unknown through the world. Danny sat in the rumble along with a very smart and dapper little valet, who was accompanying his master, a French officer, to Paris. As Danny was not by any means as elegant as the Frenchman, he was subject to much contempt, all of which he bore with stoical good humor.
The May morning was fresh and beautiful, and as they dashed along the broad and level road they saw green fields on each side of them, and comfortable homesteads in sight, while occasionally a noble chateau reared its towers in proud seclusion, half hidden by great trees. The trees were just budding, and when the diligence rolled occasionally over the moss-grown stone bridges the streams beneath ran over their pebbly beds with the laughing fullness of the spring. The air was deliciously soft and fresh, and as Paul Jones sat on the box seat, inhaling the beauty and glory around him, he felt a subtile joy and satisfaction in life. Presently he looked back to see how Danny was getting on. Danny, with the commodore’s portmanteau tightly clasped between his knees, was looking a picture of satisfaction.
“How do you like this?” asked Paul Jones, amused at the boy’s rapt look of enjoyment.
“Fust-rate, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “This ’ere’s mightily like being on the topsail yard, sir, and I think she rolls and pitches a good deal. But maybe that’s because she ain’t ballasted right—all the dunnage is aft, sir—”
Here Paul Jones frowned at Danny, which immediately checked his eloquence.
“Sacre bleu!” said the dandy valet, who was dressed quite as well as his master, and who spoke what he thought was English; “you talk ze rubbish. Your master, he is vidout doubt, a man of seafaring, who goes to home with a hundred louis d’or in his plocket—poket—pocket—for a jollitime.”
“He is, is he?” answered Danny wrathfully. “I’ll have you to understand, sir, that I serves Commodore Paul Jones, o’ the Bunnum Richard, what took the S’rapis, and the Britishers has sent out forty-two ships o’ the line and frigates for to ketch him, and they’d ruther have him nor the whole durned French navy, with all your wuthless admirals throwed in.”
“You are von saucy boy,” responded the Frenchman angrily; “and as for your Paul Jones, vy, I nevair heard of ze gentilhomme before!”
“Well,” replied Danny, very coolly, “I’ll give you something for to remember the fust time you ever heerd of him!” and, without a moment’s warning, he suddenly caught the little Frenchman by the ankle and by the collar, and, jerking him off the seat, held him suspended over the back of the rumble, about five feet from the ground, while the horses galloped along, the postilions cracked their whips, and the white road sped beneath them.