Into the room came the King of France, a stout, heavy-set, rather stupid-looking young man. Following him I saw the familiar figure—I had seen many portraits of him in public print—of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. By his side—and it was a good sight for any eyes—walked the handsome little daredevil of a Scotsman in his naval uniform, looking as cocky as if he had been strutting on his own quarter-deck. And then—did my eyes deceive me?—came the rolling form of worthy Master Bucknall. I blessed that man in my heart. He had brought Mademoiselle to my assistance in the prison and now he had completed his work by looking up Dr. Franklin and the rest. Where he had found the Commodore I did not know.
I had heard he had recently arrived at L’Orient, but not that he had come to Paris.
“Madame,” said the King, approaching the Queen who courtesied deeply before him, “I wish you good morning. Ah, Duke, I am always glad to see you. Mademoiselle de Villars, you are fit to stand before Her Majesty, and I could pay you no higher compliment.”
I was amazed to hear this fat, commonplace, prosy-looking man speak so pleasantly, but in sooth Mademoiselle, with her cheeks flushed, a little sparkle of tears in her eyes, her head thrown back—well, any man of taste would have recognized which was Queen of Love and Beauty in that room. The King bowed shortly and coldly to du Trémigon and looked with some interest at me.
“Monsieur,” said the Queen to her husband, “will you allow me to present to you Monsieur Burnham, an American naval officer?”
I bowed low before the King. France was our ally and we hoped much from her, and although we in America had cut kings and queens out of our books, I felt it necessary for me to be politic.
“Dr. Franklin, you are always welcome,” continued the Queen, “even though you do come garbed in sober gray to our gay Court.”
“Your Majesty,” returned the old Quaker gallantly, “I wear gray that it may contrast the better with the high color of my admiration for the Queen of France.”
“And this is our old friend, the Commodore. We are glad to have you back at Versailles after your splendid fighting, Monsieur,” said the Queen, dimpling with pleasure at Dr. Franklin’s compliment and giving her hand to Paul Jones, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for this recognition of his rank and station.
“To see you again, Your Majesty,” began the doughty little Captain, with a shade too much fervor, I thought, “is better fortune than to capture a ship like the Serapis.”