It was a bond of sympathy between Paul and Toni that each should, as
it were, love above his station. Paul was a frequent visitor at the
Château Bernard, and was regarded by the stately and imposing Madame
Bernard with very mixed feelings. The old lady looked on Lucie very
much as a hen does which has hatched out a duckling among her brood.
Madame Bernard was a representative of the strictness of manners, such
as had prevailed in France fifty years before.
Although dragon-like in her manner, Madame Bernard was at heart a
grandmother, and that tells the tale. Lucie was her idol, and the two
years the young girl had spent with her mother's family in America had
been one long nightmare to Madame Bernard. When she returned she was
the same Lucie, with an added dash of Americanism which frightened
Madame Bernard almost out of her wits. Nevertheless there was something
about this wild young creature, this half American, something which
gave Madame Bernard instinctive confidence that she could never commit
the fearful error of Sophie Ravenel.
Madame Bernard was now more than seventy years of age, and quite
unequal to opposing Lucie's will, and Lucie, at twenty years of age,
reigned over the Château Bernard in a manner that terrified and
enchanted all under her sway. She had, somewhere in her beautiful head,
a nugget of American common sense--a thing which none of those around
her quite understood, only they saw that Mademoiselle Lucie never
came to grief in any of her pranks and schemes. She was, of course,
surrounded by admirers. Madame Bernard had been considering offers
of marriage for her ever since her eighteenth year, and had nearly
arranged one or two for her of the most advantageous description,
but what should this madcap Lucie do but laugh at every one of these
desirable lovers, declaring that she did not mean to marry until she
was quite ready, and might not marry at all. This latter grotesque idea
mortified Madame Bernard, who had already promised no less than six
ambitious mamas that in a year or two she was sure that Lucie would
come to her senses. Then Lucie was given to joking, a practice which
Madame Bernard had never heard of any girl indulging, and actually made
fun of the excellent _partis_ which Madame Bernard offered for her
consideration, drew caricatures of them, wrote nonsense verses about
them, and otherwise amused herself at their expense.
Madame Bernard observed that the sandy-haired young sublieutenant,
Paul Verney, cool, calm, and matter-of-fact, seemed to have a singular
influence, and that for good, over Lucie.
Their meeting had come about in the most natural way possible. On
Lucie's return from America she had gone to Bienville to pay Madame
Ravenel that longed for visit. Her coming upset the whole town, and was
of itself a cyclone. With the rash generosity of youth Lucie, who now
understood Sophie's sad history, took on herself the task of placing
the Ravenels upon the footing which she thought they deserved. This
meant bringing, as she had promised to do in her childish days long
ago, a retinue of horses and carriages and servants with her, likewise
of dazzling gowns and ravishing hats, and making her visit one long
fête. The Ravenels, wiser than little Lucie, tried to curb her, but as
well try to curb a wandering zephyr as Lucie Bernard, with a noble and
generous impulse in her heart. The people of Bienville were a kindly
set on whom the self-respecting seclusion of the Ravenels had not been
without its impress. When ambitious mamas and impressionable young
officers found that the only way to make any terms with this child of
brilliant destiny was to accept those she loved at the value she placed
on them, it was not so difficult to accomplish. The Ravenels, in that
fortnight of Lucie's visit, got more invitations than they had received
in all the years they had lived in Bienville.
Among the first was to drink tea in the Verneys' garden--a modest
form of entertainment suited to the advocate's means. It happened
to be Madame Verney's fête-day, a day which Paul always spent with
his mother, if possible. Madame Verney had not only written, but
telegraphed, for Paul to get leave if he possibly could. It was a long
distance to travel to spend twenty-four hours with his mother, and
Paul's two thousand francs' allowance, besides his pay, had a habit
of walking off mysteriously, just like the allowances of other young
officers, but one line at the end of Madame Verney's letter settled the
matter for Sublieutenant Paul Verney. The line ran thus--"Mademoiselle
Lucie Bernard will be staying with the Ravenels--her first visit since
her return from America--and the Ravenels are coming to tea with us on
my fête-day." Paul went that moment and asked boldly for a week's leave.
He got to Bienville at noon on the great day, and at five o'clock, when
the little festivity was inaugurated in the garden and the Ravenels
entered, there was Paul, still pink and white and sandy-haired,
not spoiled with beauty, but adorned with manliness. With the new
affectation of the young French officers he adopted the modern fashion
of discarding his uniform on every possible occasion and wearing
citizens' clothes whenever he could, but on this day he could not
but remember what Lucie had said, a long time ago, about his wearing
a uniform next time they should meet. So he put on his handsome new
undress uniform and looked a soldier. His mother admired him immensely,
so did his father, and so, in fact, did Lucie, when that young lady,
in a dazzling white costume and charming white hat and white shoes,
came tripping along the garden path. Paul blushed from his head to his
heels as he made her a beautiful bow, but Lucie, who had acquired the
startling American fashion of shaking hands with any and everybody,
deliberately slipped her little hand in his and gave him a look from
under her long eyelashes which said as plainly as words--"Welcome,
Paul." And by Madame Verney's tea-table in the little garden their
hearts were cemented without one word being spoken between them.
After that Paul was with Lucie every moment he could contrive while
he was in Bienville, cursing himself meanwhile for being a villain
in forcing his company on that radiant creature with her millions of
francs. He had, however, the best excuse in the world--he could not
help it. And when he found that he would shortly be sent to Beaupré,
in the immediate neighborhood of the Château Bernard, he was the
happiest and likewise the most miserable creature alive. Lucie was
unblushingly happy and demanded that as soon as he arrived at Beaupré
he should present himself at the château and pay his respects to Madame
Bernard. Of course, he did it, wicked as he knew it to be, with the
result that he was the only man whom Lucie really encouraged. And in a
little while, as natures quickly adjust themselves to each other, Paul
acquired a species of control over Lucie, a thing which no one but
Sophie Ravenel had ever done before.
She generally wished to do what was right, but on the occasions
when she wished to do what was wrong, Madame Bernard saw that the
sandy-haired young sublieutenant could turn Lucie from her way.
In particular, he could dissuade her from doing many rash things,
sometimes innocent, sometimes dangerous. She was an accomplished,
though reckless rider and when she would have ridden a horse which,
rightly named Comet, had run away once, and might be depended on to do
so again, Paul Verney had managed to do more with her by a few words
than all of Madame Bernard's prayers and the exhortations of the head
groom.
Paul often came over to the Château Bernard and, on one special
afternoon he found Comet saddled and waiting, and when he went into
the drawing-room, Madame Bernard implored him to try to persuade Lucie
not to ride Comet. Presently Lucie tripped in, looking charming in her
riding-habit, and with the light of contradiction in her eyes. Paul,
she knew, objected to her riding the horse, and she was prepared to
defy him.
"I think, Mademoiselle," said Paul quietly, "it would scarcely be
judicious for you to ride Comet."
Lucie, who was proud of her horsemanship, resented this promptly, and
replied:
"But I wish to ride Comet. I am perfectly capable of managing him, and
besides, he is not really vicious."
"The last may be true, Mademoiselle, but I think you are mistaken in
the former. You have no more real control over Comet than a butterfly
has."
For answer, Lucie tapped her whip smartly on the mantelpiece, and said:
"Thank you very much, Monsieur Verney--I must beg you to excuse
me--good afternoon," and was going out of the room when Paul, who had
walked over from his quarters, asked of Madame Bernard:
"Madame, may I have one of your horses saddled, and follow Mademoiselle
Lucie on her dangerous ride?"
"Indeed, you may," replied poor Madame Bernard, wringing her hands,
"take anything you may find in the stables."
Lucie burst out laughing. "And do you mean to ride in that dress?" she
asked of Paul, who had on a frock coat and held a silk hat in his hand.
"It isn't the dress that I would choose to ride in, Mademoiselle,"
answered Paul, laughing. "I dare say I shall look quite ridiculous in
this costume scampering after you--everybody we meet will surmise the
reason--nevertheless, I shall go."
"But you will not," cried Lucie, running out of doors to where the
horses were standing. She was not equal to the impertinence of having
her groom assist her on horseback with an officer and a gentleman
standing by, and, furthermore, the groom understood the situation
and kept discreetly in the background. Paul further astounded her by
directing the groom to ride to the stables and have a horse saddled for
him and brought at once. Lucie was so angry that she had to wink her
dark, bright eyes to keep the tears from coming, but Paul was as cool
and as calm as possible.
"Never mind, Monsieur," said Lucie, in a trembling voice, "I shall ride
Comet--of that you may be sure. You may force yourself on me to-day,
but you can not do it every day, and I shall ride what horse I please."
Paul, urged by his love and tenderness for her, said words for which he
thought he would have died rather than have spoken:
"Dear Lucie, if you are as reckless as that you will break my heart.
Forgive me for calling you by your name, but don't you remember, seven
years ago, in the park at Bienville, you told me that when we were
grown up we should call each other Paul and Lucie in private?"
Paul stopped. He felt as if he were guilty of a crime in saying these
words to that enchanting creature, who would marry so far above him in
every way. All at once he saw a vision of his father's modest house at
Bienville, and thought of his own small allowance and slender pay, and
reckoned himself the greatest fool in existence. But Lucie's reply to
this was to look at him with a mysterious smile on her expressive face,
and to say softly:
"This is the first time that you have ever called me by name, Paul--"
They were standing on the lawn, in full view of dozens of eyes, while
this was passing. Paul looked at her in dumb admiration and despair,
but there was nothing in the least despairing in the smile which
presently rippled over Lucie's face, with her eyes all fire and dew.
The fact is that Mademoiselle Lucie had been very much in love with
Sublieutenant Paul Verney, ever since they had been children together
in the park at Bienville, and wished him to know it, and she was in
love with the best part of him--his courage, his modesty, his good
sense, his clean and upright life, and having the American archness
in her nature, she saw the humorous side of it and could not forbear
laughing at poor Paul.
"But I think," she said, "a gentleman should keep his word. You
promised me that you would call me by my first name in private, and you
have only done it once, and now you speak as if you would never do it
again."
Paul secretly thought Lucie, just as he had always done, a very
improper little person, but quite irresistible.
"At all events," said Lucie airily, flicking the blossoms of a tall,
blue hydrangea nodding gravely in the sun, "I intend to call you
Paul, in private that is--and I don't think I shall go to ride this
afternoon."
"And promise me," said Paul, coming a little closer and looking at her
earnestly, "that you won't ride Comet any more--Lucie."
"I promise then, Paul," replied Lucie, with an affectation of a
meekness which was far removed from her, and which she only used for
purposes of her own. Then the horses were sent away, and the two walked
together across the lawn and into the drawing-room where Madame Bernard
sat in an agony.
"I shall not ride this afternoon, Grandmama," said Lucie. "Monsieur
Paul would insist on going with me, and he would look so utterly
ridiculous on horseback dressed as he is that I was ashamed to be seen
with him; so, instead, he will stay and have tea with us, and meanwhile
we shall go and play billiards."
This charmed Madame Bernard, who concluded that the next time Lucie
was refractory she would send post-haste for Sublieutenant Verney to
manage her. It is not to be supposed that Madame Bernard did not see
the possibilities of the future as well as Madame Verney had done long
years before, when Paul and Lucie had played together as children. But
Madame Bernard, like many other women who know much of the world, was
beginning dimly to reach a just estimate of things. After having seen
many marriages and a considerable number of divorces she had realized
that it was the man, and not the title or the estate, with which a
woman must reckon. And Paul was so very attentive to Madame Bernard,
picking up her ball of worsted when she was knitting, and giving her
his advice, when asked, regarding the colors of her embroidery, that
she had begun to wish Paul Verney had at least a family tree if not a
title. Money she was not so particular about, as Lucie had plenty of
that. But he was only a sublieutenant and his father was an advocate
in a small way in a provincial town. Madame Bernard groaned when she
thought of these last things.
When billiards was proposed, the old lady made no objection whatever,
but followed the two young people into the large, cool billiard room
with its parquet floor and ground glass ceiling, and embroidered
industriously while the two played a merry game and Lucie beat Paul
two points to one. She could beat him at billiards, at tennis, and at
cards; she sang and played much better than he, and rode quite as well;
and she delighted in showing her skill over him; but, having a great
deal of sense in her pretty head, she realized that in all considerable
things Paul stood near the top. He took his defeats so pleasantly, for
he was the most modest fellow alive, that Lucie often declared there
was no pleasure in beating him.
This particular afternoon Lucie beat him most shamefully, but Paul had
his reward in the enjoyment of her exquisite grace in playing the most
graceful game in the world. Madame Bernard, apparently absorbed in her
embroidery, was watching every tone and motion and saw that they were
playing another game far more interesting and with much greater stakes
than any game of billiards. And, as she had a presentiment that Lucie
would have her own way in the matter of a husband, Madame Bernard,
with calm resignation, was quite reconciled to Paul, and was glad in
the present instance it was no worse. They played through the whole
afternoon, and Madame Bernard asked Paul to stay to dinner, but this
he was obliged to decline, much to his vexation. A sublieutenant of
dragoons is not master of his own time, so Paul went away reluctantly,
and was followed by the vision of a charming figure, showing the most
beautiful hand and arm in the world, and dealing the most deadly shots
to her antagonist.
When dinner was over, Lucie came and sat by Madame Bernard in her own
small drawing-room as the old lady stitched at her embroidery under
the evening lamp.
[Illustration: "Saw that they were playing another game far more
interesting."]
"Grandmama," she said quietly, after a long pause, "what do you think
of Paul Verney?"
"A most estimable young man," replied Madame Bernard.
"His family are not at all rich or distinguished," said Lucie, "but
they are very dear. I wish you could see his father, so kind, so
pleasant, so gallant toward Madame Verney, and like an older brother
to Paul. And Madame Verney is sweet--I love to see them together, Paul
and his father and mother. And then they are so kind to poor Sophie and
Captain Ravenel."
Whenever Sophie Ravenel's name was mentioned, it was like a knife to
Madame Bernard's proud, weak, sensitive heart. It was not only that
Sophie's conduct had been sinful, but, what was worse, it was such bad
form. Lucie meditated a while, and then added:
"And Paul is a poor man even for a sublieutenant, and he will not have
an easy time of it. He has no family influence or powerful friends to
push him forward, and he will only get on by his own merits. But that
always tells in the long run. When Paul is forty, all his superiors
will know what a fine man and what a fine officer he is. He will be
given things for the asking, that other men strive and struggle for.
And he is not at all handsome, though he looks well in uniform, and on
horseback."
Then a silence fell in the drawing-room. There was not a sound, except
the ticking of the gilt clock. Lucie was sitting by the table, her
elbows upon it, her rounded chin in her hands.
"My dear," said Madame Bernard, "why do you call Monsieur Verney by his
first name?"
"Because," said Lucie, quite calmly, taking Madame Bernard's embroidery
out of her hands, and looking her full in the face, "because I love
him."