Warmest among friends of Admiral Paul Jones is the Thetford corset-maker Tom Paine, with his encarmined nose and love of freedom. Also Gouverneur Morris, who has succeeded Mr. Jefferson as America’s Minister in France, comes often to the Rue Tournon. The pair are with him every day; and because all three like politics, and no two of them share the same views, dispute is deep. Aimee of the red-gold hair takes no part in these discussions, but sits watching her “Paul” with eyes of adoration, directing the servants, with a motion of the hand, to have a care that the debaters do not voice their beliefs over empty glasses. Admiral Paul Jones, while a republican, gives his sympathies to the king, in whom there is much weakness, but no evil. “They must not kill the king!” says he. “And why not?” demands Tom Paine, whose bosom distills bitterness, and who holds there are no good kings save dead kings. “Has France no Cromwell? We are both born Englishmen, Paul; our own people ere this have killed a king.” “Tom,” cries Admiral Paul Jones, heatedly, “Cromwell and England should not be cited as precedents here. King Louis is no Charles; and, as for Cromwell, there isn’t the raw material in all France to make a Cromwell.” Gouverneur Morris says nothing, but sips his wine; remembering that, as the minister of a foreign nation, he should bear no part in French politics. The Parisian rabble insult the king, and Lafayette, in command of the military about the Tuileries, sadly lacks decision. Then comes the “Day of Daggers;” the poor king, advised by the irresolute Lafayette, yields to the mob, and the assembled notables are disarmed. The anger of Admiral Paul Jones is extreme. He breaks forth to his friend Tom Paine: “Up to this time I’ve been able to find reasons for the king’s gentleness; but to-day’s action was not gentle, it was weak. I pity the man--beset as he is by situations to which he is unequal. Lafayette cannot long restrain the sinister forces that confront him. He has neither the head nor the heart nor the hand for it. This is a time for grapeshot. I only wish that I might be in command of those thirty cannon parked about the palace, and have with me, even for a day, my old war-dogs of the _Ranger_ and the _Richard_. Believe me, I should offer the mob convincing reasons in support of conservatism and justice; I should teach it forbearance at the muzzles of my guns.” “But the rabble might in its turn teach you,” retorts Tom Paine, with a republican grin.