It even reaches the rabbit-faced king--weak rather than dull--at Versailles, and gives him a shock. He draws down the uncertain corners of his undecided mouth, says naught, and goes out under the trees to feed his squirrels. He would be wiser were he to go out into the starved highways and byways of his oppressed realm, and feed his subjects. Did he do so, he might even yet avoid that revolution, which is slowly yet terribly preparing itself in the ante-chamber of Time. CHAPTER XXII--THE FÊTE OF THE DUCHESS DE CHARTRES The Duke and Duchess de Chartres give a grand banquet in honor of Commodore Paul Jones. The Duchess asks Doctor Franklin, whom she esteems, and calls “Monsieur le Sage” for his wisdom. Also, to please the worthy doctor, she has Madame de Houdetot, and the rest of his Passy friends, including the vivacious Madame Helvetius. “Only,” says the Duchess, who has weaknesses that favor washtubs--“only I trust that our ‘Rich Widow of Passy’ will wear a fresh frock, if only to give us something to, talk about.” The good Marsan and Aimee are among the guests. Indeed, it is to see Aimee and Commodore Paul Jones together that has caused the Duchess de Chartres to order the fête. She will bring the pair beneath her eyes--the young Aimee, and the “Commodore,” who has become formal. She will then know the best and worst of their hearts. The Duchess is right in this assumption; for you may no more hide love than smoke. With half-watchfulness, she readily surprises their secret. Still she is gay and light; for her heart is the heart of a Bourbon, and the heart of your Bourbon is never a breakable. She seats Commodore Paul Jones on her right, which is the thing expected. Aimee is on his other hand; which last excites his suspicions--having that guilty feeling--while attracting the attention of nobody else. Over across is the wise Franklin, who finds himself vastly at home between the Houdetot and the rosy Helvetius, who is a marvel of tidiness. The Duchess pays a deal of polite attention to Commodore Paul Jones. “I cannot think, my dear Commodore,” she cries, “how, with your ship on fire, and sinking under your feet, you had courage to continue the fight.” “Your royal highness forgets. To surrender would have meant a postponement of the bliss of meeting you.” “Now, Bayard himself,” returns the Duchess, “could have said nothing so knightly!” Aimee glows at this. In the face of her fears, she still likes to hear her lover-hero praised. “There is a promise!” exclaims the Duchess. Commodore Paul Jones reddens through the tan. What is coming! There is much of royal recklessness in the Duchess’ royal blood; she will now and then say a bold thing. “You promised,” she goes on, “to lay an English frigate at my feet.” Commodore Paul Jones is relieved. More, he is pleased, since the Duchess gives him a chance to be dramatic. He sends for his servant, who brings him a slim morocco case.