At Paul Verney's quarters, therefore, on the stroke of twelve, Toni
presented himself. He had laid aside his pretended awkwardness and when
he stood, erect and at attention, in his dragoon uniform, he was a
model of lithe and manly grace. His circus training had developed his
naturally good figure, and he was as well built a young fellow as one
would wish to see. He was handsome, too, in his own odd, picturesque
way. His teeth were as white as ever and shone now in a happy grin,
while his black eyes were full of the mingled archness and softness
that had distinguished the dirty little Toni of ten years before.
Paul was as happy as Toni, and the two eyed each other with delight
when they were alone. Paul stepped softly to the door and, locking it,
held out his arms to Toni, and the two hugged each other as if they
were ten years old, instead of being twenty and twenty-two.
"And now, Toni," said Paul, "tell me all that you have been doing. I
don't suppose you learned anything good in the circus except riding."
"That's just what Sergeant Duval said to me," replied Toni, and then
the memory of all he had suffered since his association with Pierre and
Nicolas came to his mind and his expressive eyes glowed.
"It is true, Pa--I mean, Lieutenant, that I got into bad company when I
was in the circus, and I want to tell you all about it. But first tell
me something about Bienville. I have written regularly to my mother,
but I was afraid to give her my address."
"Afraid of what?" asked Paul.
Toni's eyes wandered around the room aimlessly, and came back to Paul's.
"I always was afraid," he said.
"Your mother is alive and well," said Paul, "but heart-broken about
you. What induced you, Toni, to run away as you did?"
"Because--because--" That one franc still loomed large in Toni's mind.
"I took a franc from my mother--only a single franc, to go to the
circus, and Clery, the tailor, caught me and accused me of taking the
money and whipped me and said he would have me arrested and then--oh, I
was so frightened! I have been frightened every time I thought of that
franc in these more than seven years."
"Some story of the sort got out," answered Paul, "but your mother
always denied it. I don't really think she missed the franc that you
took out of the box. But Toni, what a fool you were--what a monumental
fool you were."
Toni shook his head. "And a coward, too, sir," he said. It was very
difficult to add that "sir" when he spoke to Paul, and equally strange
for Paul to hear.
"Look here, Toni, don't call me 'sir' when we are alone--I can't stand
it. As soon as we step outside in the corridor it shall be 'my man' and
'sir,' but when the door is locked we are Paul and Toni."
Toni nodded delightedly. "It never would have worked," he said, "when
the door is locked on us."
"I never could understand that cowardice in you," said Paul. "You were
the most timid boy I ever saw in my life about some things, and the
most insensible to fear about others."
"I know it, but the reason why you can't understand it is because you
are not afraid of anything. I am not afraid of horses, nor of railroad
wrecks--I have been in one or two and was not frightened--nor fires,
nor--nor any of those things which come on a man unawares and where
he has just to stand still, keep cool and do what he is told to do.
But when it comes to other things, like going against another man's
will--oh, Paul--I am the biggest coward alive and I know it. I would
never volunteer for the forlorn hope, but if there was an officer by
the side of me with a pistol I'd march to the mouth of hell, because
I would be more afraid of the officer than I would be of hell. That's
the sort of courage I have," and Toni grinned shamelessly. "But before
I tell you all of the evil things that have befallen me, tell me some
more about Bienville. How does my mother look?"
"About twenty-five years older since you left. And Toni, you must write
to her this very day--do you understand me?--to-day, and I shall write
to her that she may get our letters together."
"I will," answered Toni. "And how about little Denise?"
As Toni said this, he blushed under his sunburned skin, and Paul
laughed. They were both very young men and their thoughts naturally
turned in the same direction.
"Denise is here with her father. Mademoiselle Duval has sold out the
bakery shop, so I suppose you will no longer be in love with Denise."
Toni giggled like a school-girl.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I never have thought about any girl
except Denise, but I can only think of her now as a little creature in
a checked apron with her flaxen plait hanging down her back."
"She is an extremely pretty young lady, and a great belle with the
young corporals. Mademoiselle Duval has given her a nice little dot of
ten thousand francs to her fortune. But, for that reason, the sergeant,
who is a level-headed old fellow, is looking around very carefully
before he disposes of Denise's hand."
Toni struck his forehead with his open palm.
"Oh!" he cried, "Denise is not for me. I am only a private soldier--I
never will be anything else."
"You can be something else if you choose," said Paul Verney.
"And I have been in the circus. The sergeant will never forgive me
that."
Paul shook his head dolefully. It was pretty bad, and the sergeant was
a great stickler for correctness of behavior. But Paul, being a lover
himself, and a poor man, who sincerely loved a rich girl, sympathized
with Toni.
"Oh, well," he said, "we must wait and see. One thing is certain--if
Mademoiselle Denise takes a notion into her head to like you the
sergeant will give in, for he is a very doting father. But, Toni, you
must behave yourself after this."
"Indeed I will," replied Toni. "When I tell you what I have got by bad
association, you will understand that I mean what I say."
And then Toni, seating himself at Paul's command, poured out the story
of all that he had suffered at the hands of Nicolas and Pierre, ending
up with that last dreadful account of the murder of Delorme.
"And that secret, Paul, I am carrying," cried poor Toni, putting his
fists to his eyes, into which the tears started, "and sometimes it's
near to killing me."
Paul listened closely. He realized, quite as fully as Toni did, the
position in which Toni had got himself, and did not make light of it.
"At all events," he said, "I don't think any one regretted Delorme's
death. He was the worst sort of a rascal--a gentleman rascal. You know
he was the first husband of Madame Ravenel at Bienville."
Toni nodded.
"I have seen many women in the seven years that I have been traveling
about the world," said Toni, "but I never saw one who seemed to radiate
modesty and goodness as Madame Ravenel. Do the Ravenels still live at
Bienville?"
"Yes." The color came into Paul's face, which was pink already. "They
live there as quietly as ever, but much respected. They are no longer
avoided, but still live very quietly."
Toni, looking into Paul's eyes, saw his face grow redder and redder,
and his mouth come wide open, as Toni said, with a sidelong glance and
his old-time grin:
"And Mademoiselle Lucie?"
"Beautiful as a dream," replied Paul, with a lover's fondness for
superlatives, "and charming beyond words. Only," here his countenance
fell, "she has a great fortune from America, and why should she look at
a sublieutenant in a dragoon regiment with two thousand francs a year
and his pay?"
"If I recollect Mademoiselle Lucie aright," answered Toni, "and she
takes a notion into her head to like you, her grandmother will give in,
because you used to tell me, in the old days when we sat in the little
cranny on the bridge, that Mademoiselle Lucie said her grandmother
allowed her to do exactly as she pleased."
Paul laughed at having his own words turned against him.
"Oh, Toni!" he cried, "we are a couple of poor devils who love above
our stations, both of us."
"Not you," replied Toni with perfect sincerity. "The greatest lady
that ever lived might be proud and glad to marry you." And as this
was said by a person who had known Paul ever since he could walk, in
an intimacy closer than that of a brother, it meant something. "I
have seen Mademoiselle Lucie," continued Toni. "I saw her one morning
about two months ago, when you and she were riding together. She rides
beautifully--I could not teach her anything in that line."
"She does a great many things beautifully, and she is the most
generous, warm-hearted creature in the world."
"And just the sort of a young lady to fall in love with a poor
sublieutenant and throw herself and her money into his arms."
"But if the poor lieutenant had the feelings of a gentleman he could
not accept such a sacrifice. He would run away to escape it." Paul
grew quite gloomy as he said this, and stroked his blond mustache
thoughtfully. But it is not natural at twenty-two, with youth and
health and a good conscience and abounding spirits, to despair. It was
all very difficult, but Paul did not, on that account, cease loving
Lucie.
"And does she still go to Bienville every year to visit Madame
Ravenel?" asked Toni.
"Yes, every year, except two years that she spent in America. She is
just home now, and very--very--American."
Paul shook his head mournfully as he said this. He had all the prim
French ideas, and the dash of American in Lucie frightened him, brave
as he was.
"But, on her last visit to Bienville, before she went to America,
her grandmother sent with her a carriage and a retinue of horses and
servants, which quite dazzled Bienville. I think Mademoiselle Lucie
bullies her grandmother shamefully. And whom do you think she pays
most attention to of all the people in Bienville?"
[Illustration: Lucie.]
Toni reflected a moment. "Monsieur and Madame Verney?"
Paul's light blue eyes sparkled. "That's just it. She has my mother
with her all the time, and as for my father, he adores her, and Lucie
actually pinches his arms and pulls his whiskers when she wants to be
impertinent to him. You know she takes advantage of being half American
to do the most unconventional things, and my father quite adores
her--almost as much so as his son."
"It looks to me," remarked Toni, "as if Mademoiselle Lucie were taking
things in her own hands, and meant to marry you whether you will or
not. I have often heard that heiresses run great risks of being married
for their money and then finding their husbands very unkind. Perhaps
Mademoiselle Lucie knows this and wants to marry a man like yourself,
who loves her for herself."
"I think Mademoiselle Lucie has too much sense to marry me," answered
poor Paul quite honestly. "I think it is simply her kindness and
generosity that make her kind to me and affectionate to my father
and mother. She will marry some great man--a count or a duke
perhaps--there are still a few left in France--and not throw herself
away on a sublieutenant of dragoons," and Paul sighed deeply.
The pair spent nearly two hours together. It seemed to Toni as if he
could never be satiated with looking at his old friend, as pink and
white and blond as ever. Paul felt the same toward Toni, and when, in
the old way, Toni took Jacques out of his pocket and showed him, it was
as if seven years passed away into mist and they were boys together.
But at last Paul was obliged to dismiss Toni, who went back to his
quarters with a heart lighter than it had been for seven years.
And he was to see more of Paul than he had dared to hope, for Paul
had promised to arrange that Toni should be his soldier servant. The
present incumbent was not exactly to Paul's liking and he was only too
glad to replace him with Toni.
There was work waiting for him, and that, too, under Sergeant Duval's
eye, and Toni did it with the energy of a man who is determined on
pleasing the father of his beloved. No one would have recognized, in
this smart, active, natty trooper, the dirty idle Toni of his boyhood.
Sergeant Duval, however, was a skeptic by nature, and he waited to
see more of Toni before reversing the notion he had formed of that
young man. He had heard something, on his annual visits to Bienville,
of Toni's fondness for Denise, and, when she was in short frocks and
pinafores, had sometimes joked her about it, but Denise, who blushed at
the least little thing, would hide her head on her father's shoulder
and almost weep at the idea that she had even glanced at a boy.
Toni was longing to ask after Denise, but he dared not. As soon as he
had a moment's time to himself--and a recruit lately joined has not
much leisure--he wrote a long letter to his mother. He did not write
very well, and was a reckless speller, but that letter carried untold
happiness and relief with it to the Widow Marcel at Bienville. His
duties as Paul's servant began at once. Toni was not overindustrious,
but if he had to work for any one he would wish to work for Paul.
And then came a radiant time with Toni--a time when life seemed to him
all fair. He managed to put that secret horror of Nicolas and Pierre
out of his mind as they were out of his sight. He got his mother's
forgiveness by return of post, and he laid aside all the fear he had
had of Nicolas and Pierre, and enjoyed the sight and the occasional
society of the two beings who, with his mother, were nearest to him of
the world--Paul Verney and Denise. He dared not mention Denise's name
to Sergeant Duval, who preserved the most unfeeling reticence about her
toward Toni. The sergeant had no mind to encourage the attentions of
young recruits, just out of the circus, to his pretty daughter with her
splendid dot of ten thousand francs.
Toni, however, knew that the time of his service would come to an
end in a year, and then he would be able to carry out that beautiful
scheme that had haunted him during his circus life. He would become
an instructor in a riding-school and earn big wages, as much as two
hundred and fifty francs the month, and meanwhile he would lead so
correct a life that even Sergeant Duval would be forced to approve
of him. All these resolutions were very much increased by the first
sight he caught of Denise. It was about a fortnight after he joined,
and during that time he had kept his eyes open for the lady of his
love. Although Sergeant Duval had quarters at the barracks, Denise and
Mademoiselle Duval lived in lodgings in the town, and Toni did not
have many opportunities of going into the town. One Sunday evening,
however, a beautiful August Sunday, Toni found himself standing in
the public square where the band played merrily and one of those open
air balls, which are so French and so charming, was going on. Ranged
on benches around were the older women, and among them Toni at once
recognized the tall, angular, black figure of Mademoiselle Duval; and
whirling around in the arms of a handsome dragoon with a beautiful pair
of black mustaches, much finer than Toni's, was Denise. Toni's heart
jumped into his mouth, his soul leaped into his eyes. It was Denise, of
the acacia tree, and the buns, of long ago.
She was as blond, as modest, as neat as ever, but far prettier. Her
fair hair was twisted up on her shapely head, on which sat a coquettish
white hat. She wore a white muslin gown, with the short, full skirt
much beruffled. Denise would have liked a train, but Mademoiselle Duval
frowned sternly on such unbecoming frivolities as trained gowns for a
sergeant's daughter.
Denise had developed into as much of a coquette as Lucie Bernard had
been, only in a different direction. Lucie achieved her conquests by
a charming boldness, a bewitching unconventionality. Denise Duval
succeeded in attracting the attention of the other sex by a demureness
and quaint propriety which were immensely effective in their way.
Toni, having some instinctive knowledge of this, determined to proceed
with great caution and military prudence. He would strive to carry
the fortress of Denise's affections by gradual approaches and not by
assault. So, in pursuance of this plan, he walked up to Mademoiselle
Duval and making a low bow said:
"Mademoiselle Duval, may I recall myself to your memory? I am Toni
Marcel, the son of Madame Marcel, of Bienville, and had the honor of
knowing you when I was a boy."
Mademoiselle Duval gave him one grim look, and then cried out:
"Oh, I know you very well, Toni. You were the worst boy in Bienville,
and as dirty as you were bad. Oh, how much trouble did you give your
mother!"
This was not a very auspicious beginning for a young man who wished
to become the nephew-in-law of the lady he addressed, but Toni was
not deficient in the sort of courage which could take him through an
emergency like that. He only said hypocritically, and with another bow
and a sigh of penitence:
"Ah, Mademoiselle, every word that you say is true. I know I was very
naughty and very idle, and my mother was far too patient with me. I
gave her a great deal of trouble, but I hope to be a comfort to her
in the future. I had a letter from her only yesterday in which, like
the rest of your sex, Mademoiselle, she showed a beautiful spirit of
forgiveness. I hope that she will come to visit me for a few days
before long."
Mademoiselle Duval was not greatly softened by this speech, but seeing
Toni disposed to take a scolding meekly, she invited him to sit down
by her side, when she harangued him on all his iniquities for the last
seven years. The sergeant had told her that Toni had been in the circus
and that was enough. Mademoiselle Duval warned Toni that all circus
people were foredoomed to hell-fire, and that he would probably lead
the procession. Toni took the attack on himself very meekly, but said:
"I assure you Mademoiselle, there were some good people in the
circus--some good women, even."
"Good women, did you say?" screamed Mademoiselle Duval, "wearing tights
and spangles, and turning somersaults!"
Toni bethought him of the time when there was an outbreak of scarlet
fever in the circus company and how these same painted ladies in
tights and spangles stood by one another and nursed each other and
each other's children day and night, and uttered no word of complaint
or reproach. He knew more than Mademoiselle Duval on the subject of
the goodness and the wickedness which dwell in the hearts of men. He
told Mademoiselle Duval, however, the story of the outbreak of scarlet
fever. He had a natural eloquence which stood him in good stead, and
Mademoiselle Duval, who was one of the best women in the world and had
a soft heart, although a sharp tongue, was almost brought to tears by
Toni's story.
Just then Denise's cavalier brought her back to her aunt, and Toni,
jumping up, profoundly saluted Denise. His soul rushed into his eyes,
those handsome, daredevil black eyes which the prim and proper Denise
had secretly admired from her babyhood. She glanced back at him as she
courtesied to him with great propriety, and something in her face
made Toni's pulses bound with joy. There was a softness, almost a
tenderness, in her look which Toni, having some knowledge of the world,
interpreted to his own advantage. Denise's own heart was palpitating,
not tumultuously like Toni's, but with a gentle quickness which was new
to her.
[Illustration: "There was a softness, almost a tenderness, in her
look."]
"Ah, Mademoiselle," said Toni, calling Denise Mademoiselle for the
first time, "how well I remember you in my happy days at Bienville,
when you used to give me buns under the acacia tree."
He stopped. A soft blush came into Denise's fair cheeks. She smiled and
looked at him and then away from him. Denise remembered the bench under
the acacia tree and all that had happened there well enough. Denise
knew then, and knew now, that when the Toni of those days gave up
something to eat to a small girl, his feelings were very deeply engaged
to her. She recollected in particular the first afternoon the Ravenels
took tea with the Verneys that Toni had selected one beautiful, ripe
plum, and after eying it longingly, had put his arm around her neck and
put the plum in her mouth, and what he had said then. Her blushing now
revealed it all to Toni.
Suddenly the band struck up a waltz, Toni politely asked Denise to
favor him with her hand for the dance, and they went off together. The
moon smiled softly at them, and even the electric lights had a kind of
tenderness in their glare, when Toni, clasping Denise in his arms for
the first time, began to whirl around with her to the rhythm of the
music. He felt himself raised above the earth--all his fears, all his
evil-doing had departed from him--he felt, poor Toni, as if he would
never be afraid of Nicolas and Pierre again, and as if that waltz was a
foretaste of Heaven for him.
And Denise, too, was happy. He saw it in her shy eyes, in the softness
of her smile, and presently Toni drew her closer to him and whispered:
"Denise, Denise, do you remember?" and Denise whispered back, "Yes,
Toni, I remember all."
And so as it was with Paul Verney and Lucie Bernard, they called each
other by their first names when they were alone.
Presently in the mazes of the dance Toni looked up and there was Paul
Verney passing through the square. He caught Toni's eye and Toni
grinned back at him rapturously. When the music stopped, Toni, putting
Denise's hand within his arm, escorted her back to the bench where
Mademoiselle Duval sat knitting in the electric light. He contrived to
pass directly in front of Paul Verney, whom he saluted respectfully,
and Paul bowed low to Denise and said to her:
"Mademoiselle, we are both natives of Bienville, and I am most happy
to see you here with your worthy aunt and your respected father," and
then Paul, with an eye single to Toni's interests, walked on the other
side of Denise up to where Mademoiselle Duval sat and promptly claimed
acquaintance with her. In the old days at Bienville there had not been
such a tremendous difference between Paul Verney, the poor advocate's
son, and the children of the pastry shop and the confectioner. Now
Paul was an officer, but he was very pleasant and gentlemanlike,
however, though quite dignified, and gave himself no haughty airs. He
inquired with the deepest solicitude after Mademoiselle Duval's health,
remembered gratefully sundry tarts and cakes she had given him in the
old days, and then said to her, in the most unblushing manner:
"And, Mademoiselle, we have here another citizen of Bienville,
Marcel"--it was the first time that Paul had ever called Toni, Marcel,
in his life--"who, I assure you, is worthy of our old town. He is
strictly attentive to his duties, and the best rider in my troop. I
predict that he will be a corporal before his enlistment is out."
And thus having advanced Toni's cause with his prospective aunt-in-law,
Paul Verney withdrew, winking surreptitiously at Toni as he went off.
It was impossible that Mademoiselle Duval should not revise her opinion
of Toni after this testimony from his officer, so Toni at once found
himself in a most acceptable position with Mademoiselle Duval. He
danced twice more with Denise, carrying her off in the face of a couple
of corporals, and, by his devoted attentions and insidious flattery of
Mademoiselle Duval, gained that lady's good-will. He would have liked
to escort his old friends back to their lodging, but, as he explained,
he barely had time to reach the barracks before the tap of the drum,
and he scurried off, the happiest trooper in Beaupré that night.
When he neared the quadrangle on which the barracks faced, he overtook
Paul Verney, and as he rushed past he whispered in his ear:
"Thank you, thank you, dear Paul."
In that moment he could have not refrained, to save his life, from
calling his lieutenant Paul.