“But, mon Paul,” says Aimee, who looks over his shoulder, “what a compliment! England, France, Russia, America--the whole world calls you! And the answer to all”--here a kiss--“is that you shall stay with your Aimee until she coaxes back your health.” CHAPTER XXVIII--LOVE AND THOSE LAST DAYS Aimee is right. Admiral Paul Jones, never his old sound self since that last cruise in the West Indies, is ill. Gourgaud says it is his lungs, and commands him to take care of himself. He obeys by sticking close to the red-gold Aimee, and the pleasant house in the Rue Tournon, with its fireplaces in the winter and its tree-shaded back garden in the summer--summer, when the hammock is swung. Now a stream of visitors pours in upon him. Even the poor king, in the midst of his troubles, sends to ask after the health of the “Chevalier Jones.” At odd hours, when visitors do not overrun him, he dictates his journals to Benoît-Andre, while Aimee gently swings his hammock with her white hand. [Illustration: 0319] It is a hazy July day; the drone of pillaging bees, busy among the flowers, fills the back garden in the Rue Tournon. It is one of Admiral Paul Jones’ “good days;” a-swing in his hammock, he chats with Major Beaupoil about a recent dinner at which he was the guest of Jacobin honor. “It was at the Cafe Timon,” he says, “a favorite rendezvous of the Jacobins. Believe me, Major, while I cannot speak in highest terms of the Jacobins, I can of the Cafe Timon. One day I hope to take you there.” Gouverneur Morris is announced. He tells Admiral Paul Jones of advices from Mr. Jefferson, and that Mr. Pinckney has been selected Minister to St. James. “What, to my mind,” concludes Mr. Morris, “is of most consequence, Mr. Pinckney bears with him from President Washington your commission as an Admiral in the American navy. You are to be ready, you note, to sail against those Barbary robbers when the squadron arrives. “I shall not alone be ready,” he returns, “I shall be delighted.” He springs from the hammock, and takes a quick turn up and down the garden. The prospect of a brush with the swarthy freebooters of the Mediterranean animates him mightily. Other visitors are announced. Barère, Lafayette, Carnot, Cambon, Vergniaud, Marron, Collot, Billaud, Kersaint, Gensonne, Barbaroux and Louvet one after the other arrive. Laughter and jest and conversation become the order of the afternoon; for all are glad, and argue, from his high spirits, the soon return to health of Admiral Paul Jones. There has been no more cheerful hour in the Rue Tournon back garden. Corks are drawn and glasses clink. The talk leaves politics for religion. “My church,” observes Admiral Paul Jones--“my church has been the ocean, my preacher the North Star, my choir the winds singing in the ship’s rigging.” “And your faith?” asks Major Beaupoil. “You may find it, my dear Major, in Pope’s Universal Prayer: ‘Teach me to feel another’s woe,