The Duchess kisses Aimee, and the good Marsan drives back to her palace with the blissful ones through the black midnight Paris streets. Commodore Paul Jones is in a trance of happiness. Aimee creeps into his arms and whispers “Mon Paul,” and the surrender of the _Serapis_ is forgotten, as a thing trivial and transient, in the surrender of this girl with the glorious red-gold hair. Summer runs away into autumn, and the brown tints of October show in the trees. The honeymoon has been one of secrecies and subterfuges, and perhaps the tenderer and sweeter because _sub rosa_. Commodore Paul Jones tears himself now and again from Aimee’s arms to urge the business of the _Serapis_. He is seconded by Aimee, to whom his glory is as dear as his love. Doctor Franklin tells the king that he should give Commodore Paul Jones the ship, and is referred to de Sartine. The oily minister slips away from the proposal, and the king sends Commodore Paul Jones a “Sword of Honor” and the title of “Chevalier.” The impatient sailor bites his lip, and gives the plaything sword to Aimee. “I asked for a ship, not a sword,” says he. “As for ‘Chevalier,’ since I’m already a Commodore, it looks like promotion down-hill.” “The king,” explains Doctor Franklin, “does not, I fear, forgive your refusal of his captain’s commission when you lay at the Texel.” “And I,” he returns, “continue to regard that offer of a commission as a piece of royal impertinence.” Commodore Paul Jones determines to bring the king to a decision. He walks in the royal gardens with his ally, Genet, and comes upon the king feeding his interminable squirrels. The king--for democracy is becoming a fashion--greets Commodore Paul Jones with outstretched hands. “But do not tell me,” concludes the king, “that you come for a ship.” “It is to ask for the _Serapis_, sire.” The poor king rubs his head, his vague lip twitches, while the unlocked jaw multiplies the feebleness of his weak face. “Chevalier, I cannot,” he returns. In a tone of pathos, he continues: “Congratulate yourself, my friend, that you are not a king. You would be compelled to have ministers, and they would make a slave of you--as they have of me.” “It is over,” says Commodore Paul Jones, to Doctor Franklin. “There is no hope of the _Serapis_.” “Take the _Ariel_, then, and return to Philadelphia,” replies the Doctor. “There is the _America_, seventy-four guns, building on the Portsmouth stocks. I’ve written the Marine Committee to give you that.” Commodore Paul Jones holds Aimee close. He kisses her dear lips. “In the spring I shall return, my love,” he promises. “Three little months, and you are in my arms again.” Aimee whispers something, and then buries her face in his breast. The blush she is trying to hide spreads and spreads until it covers the back of the fair neck, and the red of it is lost in the roots of the red-gold hair.