For all his lovelorn case, however, he makes arrangements for his two pets, Lieutenants May-rant and Fanning, to go privateering for the French, and gives them nearly one hundred and fifty of his fiercest sea-wolves to bear them company. “Why keep them rusting ashore,” says he, “like good blades in their sheaths! No; let the lads sail forth with letters of marque, and make their fortunes.” The _Serapis_ is held by the French as a king’s prize, and de Sartine pays Commodore Paul Jones twelve thousand dollars as his share. There are other thousands from other prizes, and, after a French sort, he finds himself rich. When, following his visit to l’Orient, he returns to the good Marsan, that estimable lady is discovered in a state of much excitement. The Duchess de Chartres has “commanded” the presence of Commodore Paul Jones at her palace. The prospect does not overcome him. He receives it with steadiness, although privily a-quake because of that feeling of guilt. The good Marsan’s excitement is supplanted by wonder to see him take his honors so coolly. “Ah, these Americans!” she thinks. Then, out loud: “She is a Bourbon, my Commodore! No one below the blood royal has ever received such a summons.” In spite of the uplifted palms of the good Marsan, her “Commodore” refuses to be impressed. He will go; since no one should decline the “command” of royalty. But he will go calmly--hiding of course his sense of guilt, and spreading the skirts of his conscience very wide to hide it. Aimee hears that he is to go, and cannot avoid a little flutter of alarm. She knows her beautiful kinswoman, the girl-Duchess--knows the spell and the power of her. It gives the tender Aimee a dull ache of the heart. A lone feeling of helplessness overwhelms her, as fears rise up for her poor love that, in so short a space, has become the one sweet thing in life. True, she herself is a Bourbon! But with the bar sinister. How then shall she, obscure and poor and by the left hand, hope to sustain herself in the heart of her lover against the wiles and siren wooings of one who is at once the most legitimate, the most beautiful, and the most wealthy woman in France! The tears gather in the soft eyes. The good Marsan goes from the room; for she has a deal of sympathy and good sense. Commodore Paul Jones, when now the two are alone, draws Aimee to him, and dries those tears in ways that lovers know. For the first time he folds her in his arms and kisses her lips. “Perhaps it is also the last time,” she thinks sadly. And the gallant lover, as though he reads her thoughts, kisses her again, and vows by sword and ship to love her always. Commodore Paul Jones finds the Duchess de Chartres in spirits. She and the Duke give him a suite of apartments that has heretofore been sacred to Bourbon occupation alone. At this the sensation that rocks the Court is profound.