To hide the faults I see; That mercy I to others show, Such mercy show to me.’ “There!” he concludes, “I call that stanza a complete boxing of the religious compass.” Gourgaud looks in professionally, and is inclined to take a solemn view of his patient’s health. He rebukes him for running about the garden among his guests. “You should not have permitted it,” says Gourgaud, admonishing Aimee with upraised finger. “But he refused to be restrained!” returns Aimee, ruefully. “Gourgaud!” the patient breaks forth cheerily, “you know the aphorism: At forty every man is either a fool or a doctor. Now I am over forty; and, as a fellow-practitioner, I promise you that our patient, Paul Jones, is out of danger and on the mend.” Then, gayly: “Come, Gourgaud, don’t croak! Take a glass of wine, man; you frighten Aimee with your long looks.” Gourgaud takes his wine; but his looks are quite as long as before. Abruptly and apropos of nothing, Admiral Paul Jones decides to make his will. “Your will!” protests Gouverneur Morris, somewhat aghast. “But you haven’t been in such health for months.” “Not on account of my health,” he explains, “but because of those Barbary pirates.” Notaries are brought in by Benoît-André, and the will is drawn. The gallant testator is for giving all to his Aimee. “The house you already have,” says he; “and also an annuity. Now I leave you the rest; and Beaupoil shall be executor, with Morris as a witness. There; it is arranged!” But it is not arranged. The red-gold Aimee points out that he has certain nieces and nephews in Scotland and Virginia; they must not be forgotten. He yields to amendments in behalf of those nieces and nephews. Then the will is sealed and signed. “It has eased my mind,” he says, giving the document into the hands of Major Beaupoil for safe-keeping--“it has eased my mind more than I supposed possible.” Then, with a look at Aimee: “There will be enough, _petite_, to take care of you, even though our friends here turn the country bottom-side up. Luckily, too, the property is in England and America and Holland, where values stand more steadily than they do in France.” Aimee remembers the “Sword of Honor,” given by King Louis for that victory over the _Serapis_. “You always declared it should go to your friend, Dale,” she says. “So I do still!” Aimee brings the sword. She presses the gilt scabbard to her lips; then she puts it in the hands of her “Paul.” He half draws the blade, and considers it with an eye of pride. “You see this sword?” he remarks to Gouverneur Morris, “Should I die, carry it with my love to Dick Dale--my good old Dick, who did more than any other man to help me win it!” 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.