After Toni had gone, Paul smoked and looked for a long time at the
pretty little note. He got one almost every day. Lucie wished him to
come to dinner, or to ride with her, or to send her a book, or to do
something which was an excuse to get Paul to the Château Bernard.
And it was impossible that Madame Bernard should not know of all this;
but Paul remembered, with a groan, that Lucie had always been able to
wrap that imposing-looking person around her little finger. And would
it be right--would it be a manly thing--for a poor sublieutenant of
dragoons to take advantage of this childish fancy? Paul, resting his
blond head in both his hands, remembered that sometimes these youthful
attachments, which begin, as it were, with one's first look at life,
last throughout the whole play until the curtain goes down at the end.
This puzzled him still more, and he suddenly thrust Lucie's letter, and
her sweet image, and Toni, and Bienville and the whole business out of
his head, and, taking up a book on Strategy, studied until midnight.
The note from Lucie was to ask him to ride with her the next afternoon
as she had a new horse and Madame Bernard was not quite willing to
trust her alone with a groom. No French girl would have sent such an
invitation, but Lucie had acquired, during her two years in America,
all the directness, the habit of command, the insight into a man's
mind of an American girl. Among the number of things which amazed but
charmed Paul was the astonishing invention Lucie displayed in bringing
Paul to her side. Of course, there was nothing for him to do but to
accept this invitation to protect Lucie's life, so the next afternoon
they were cantering gaily through the park toward the highroad, with
a groom in attendance. As they passed the place where Count Delorme's
body had been found, Lucie turned her head away with something like a
shudder.
"I always hated him," she said, "until he was killed, but you can't
hate a dead man."
"I can hate a scoundrel dead or alive," replied Paul stoutly. "He
ruined your sister's young life, he deserved to die a bad death."
"I don't think Sophie's life is quite ruined," said Lucie.
They had brought their horses down to a walk and the groom, who had
neither eyes nor ears, had fallen a little way behind.
"Sophie is married to the man she loves--I am sure she would not
change Captain Ravenel for a Marshal of France if she could get him.
She has had great sorrows, but she has had great happiness, too. I
know perfectly well what Sophie did, and it was not right, but she was
cruelly punished for it."
Paul, who was thoroughly French in his ideas of young ladies, was much
scandalized at this speech of Lucie's, but Lucie was more American
than French, and Paul knew the limpid innocence of her mind. Still he
thought that Lucie should be more guarded in her speech, and thought
that if he had the rare good fortune of marrying her, he would make her
a little more prudent.
They soon struck the highroad and presently were passing through a
forest which was intersected by many roads. A crackling of shots was
heard in the distance--the troopers were practising at the rifle butts.
Paul turned to the groom and told him to ride forward and find out
where the butts were, and just then Toni appeared. Saluting Paul, Toni
said:
"Pardon, sir, but the orders are that no one shall be allowed to cross
this road, and you will have to remain sir, if you please, on this
side."
"But this lady's groom is on the other side. He will be back
presently," urged Paul.
"Very sorry, sir," said Toni, with an air of polite determination, "but
those are the orders," and then Paul and Toni saluted gravely, and Toni
backed off.
This meant that Paul and Lucie would have to take their ride alone
through the woods. Paul turned to Lucie and said:
"You see, Mademoiselle, how it is--it can not be helped."
"And I am sure I don't wish it to be helped," responded Lucie, in that
daredevil American manner of hers which shocked and charmed Paul. "Now
we can talk freely."
There was, however, a road by which they could get back to the highway,
and along this they rode in the bright autumn afternoon. Presently they
came to a rivulet into which a little spring bubbled. They stopped
to let the horses drink, and when they were on the other side Lucie
suddenly raised up and cried:
"I want some water, too," and before Paul could say a word she had
slid off her horse and, gathering up the skirt to her habit, ran to
the spring. She pulled off her gloves, and dipping up the water in the
hollow of her little hand, pretended to drink it, while it splashed
all over her fresh, fair face. Paul swung himself off his horse, and,
leaning up against a tree, watched Lucie with adoration in his eyes.
She had the unconscious grace of a child, but Lucie was no child--she
was a woman of gentle, yet fixed resolve, of strong and tender
feelings. She was in love with Paul and had been ever since she took
his English book away from him that summer afternoon in the park at
Bienville so many years ago; and reading Paul's mind, as she had read
that English book, she saw exactly what was in it,--that he was in love
with her and withheld by pride, diffidence and generosity, all three
excellent qualities in a man's love. And Lucie, having much practical
American sense in her charming head, had realized that an heiress
has to be very prudent in the man she marries, and that of all who
professed to love her, Paul was the only one who loved her well and
would not tell her of it.
She looked at him, her face dimpling with laughter. He was such a great
goose, standing there, his eyes devouring her, and gnawing his mustache
for fear the words would come out that he wished to hold in.
"Paul," she said, in a soft little voice, and Paul, against his will,
was forced to respond, "Lucie."
"Come here," said Lucie. Paul came--he could no more have held back
than he could have stopped breathing. "Lend me your handkerchief." Paul
look his handkerchief out and Lucie wiped her hands upon it, and then,
without so much as saying, "By your leave," stuck it back in the breast
of his coat. This Paul thought delightful, but it was not propriety.
"Paul," said Lucie, "suppose war were raging now and you knew there
would be a desperate battle to-morrow, what would you say to me now, if
you thought this were the very last interview we were to have before
you went out on the firing line?"
Paul Verney was a man, after all, and his reply to this was very
obvious.
"I should say, 'Lucie, I love you,'" he replied, holding out his hand
in which Lucie put hers.
"Thank Heaven," cried Lucie, "at last! I would have proposed to you
long before if you had given me the least encouragement, for I made up
my mind to marry you just as soon as you made up your mind that you
loved me."
She was laughing, but her eyes were dark with feeling and bright with
tears.
"I have not asked you to marry me," whispered Paul, his voice trembling
a little. "I told you I loved you--no man ever loved a woman more than
I love you--but I don't think that I am any match for you, Lucie, and
it never seemed to me quite right that I should take advantage of all
the childish things you said to me when we were boy and girl, or of
your rashness and imprudence now, for Lucie, you are a very rash and
imprudent girl."
"I am the most prudent person living," whispered Lucie, sidling up to
him. "I don't wish to be married for my money and you are the only man
I know who would marry me quicker without my fortune than with it--so
Paul--"
Paul made one last hopeless and quite desperate stand.
"Oh, Lucie," he said, "what a villain I am ever to have gone near you
after I saw--"
"So you saw it, did you?" said Lucie, smiling, but still trembling.
"Everybody else saw it--the groom knows it, actually--it's quite
ridiculous"--and then Paul surrendered. A sudden revelation came to him
from Lucie's eyes that his two thousand francs a year mattered no more
than her millions--that it was not a question of francs, but of the
great master passion, which, when it enters lordly into the abode of a
man's or a woman's heart, drives out everything else and reigns supreme.
They sat on a fallen tree and talked in whispers, those echoes of the
heart, until the shadows grew long, and it was Lucie who had to remind
Paul that it was time to go home. The horses, which had stood still
meanwhile, cocked their ears knowingly at Paul when he swung Lucie
into her saddle. They never saw the belated groom at all, nor cared
what had become of him as they rode back through the dying glow of the
autumn afternoon to the Château Bernard. Lucie ran up the stone steps
of the château, followed by Paul. At the prospect of meeting Madame
Bernard, this dashing young sublieutenant of dragoons felt as hopeless
and helpless as a drenched hen. It was one thing to tell Lucie of his
love in the forest glade, to the music of the silvery rippling spring,
with the red sun making a somber glory all around them and with no
one except the horses to listen, but to tell the chatelaine of the
Château Bernard about his two thousand francs the year was almost more
than Paul could stand. Lucie led the way into Madame Bernard's little
drawing-room. A wood fire was crackling on the hearth, for the evening
had grown chilly, and Madame Bernard, stately and timid, imposing and
nervous, with her everlasting embroidery, sat by the table on which
stood candles in tall silver candlesticks. Lucie went up and, putting
her arm around the neck of the fierce-eyed and craven-hearted old lady,
and seating herself on the arm of the chair, tipped the handsome old
face up and kissed her.
"Grandmama," she said, "I have proposed and have been accepted. Paul
says he will marry me."
Paul glared at Lucie. She was such an unconscionable joker. He came
forward, however, and said in his best manner, which was a very fine
manner:
"Madame, it is I who proposed to Mademoiselle Lucie. If I did not love
her so much I should apologize for it, because I feel that she is
entitled to more of birth and of fortune and of rank than I can give
her. But I can give her more devotion and loyalty than any other man
living--of that I feel sure."
Paul fully expected Madame Bernard to box his ears and call a footman
to throw him out of the house, but Madame Bernard did nothing of the
sort. She sighed a little and looked at Paul. She would have liked a
duke, at least, for Lucie--she had got a count for Sophie, but how
wretchedly had that match turned out. The habit of obedience was
strong upon Madame Bernard, and Lucie was of a nature so willing to
take responsibility for herself that it was always difficult to take
responsibility for her. Madame Bernard knew she was helpless, but, as
Paul had done, she made a feint of resistance.
"Of course, Monsieur," she said in a voice and manner which she vainly
tried to make commanding, "in the event this marriage comes off I shall
expect you to resign from the army."
Paul turned pale. This thought had never occurred to him before. Resign
from the army! And become gentleman usher to a rich wife! Never!
"Madame," he said, "I have little to offer Mademoiselle Lucie, and the
best thing, in a worldly point of view, is the career that I hope to
make in my profession. That, I may say, if you will permit me, will not
be unworthy of Mademoiselle Lucie's acceptance, I trust."
"Good for you, Paul," cried Lucie, "what you say is quite right, and,
grandmama, you might as well make up your mind to it. When Paul and I
are married I shall have to live in all sorts of dull little towns and
poky little holes and perhaps go to Algiers. I shall have to do just
what any other sublieutenant's wife has to do, and I shall like it
above all things. It will be like a masquerade, for we shall know when
Paul is a lieutenant-colonel, then we can live handsomely and enjoy our
money."
Lucie's quick and comprehensive mind had already gone forward and
spanned the gulf between a sublieutenant and a lieutenant-colonel.
Madame Bernard sighed again. All womanly women are natural romancers
and love a lover, and she did not think less of Paul for his determined
stand. She began to see dimly that this prompt and quiet decision
in Paul's character was one of the reasons why Lucie loved him, and
it would be the most wholesome corrective possible to the faults in
Lucie's temperament.
"As to the question of my consent, Monsieur," said Madame Bernard
grimly, "that seems to have been settled in advance by Lucie and
yourself."
Lucie chased away the grimness from the old lady's face by kissing her.
"Suppose we postpone consideration of this for a short time--a week,
perhaps, you will allow me."
Paul was about to say, "Certainly, Madame," when Lucie interrupted him.
"Say yes, Paul, it will amuse grandmama and won't hurt us the least
in the world." And then she kissed Madame Bernard all over her face
and cried: "Go home, Paul, and come early to-morrow. Grandmama will be
dying to see you!"
Paul left the château in much better case than he expected and had a
rapturous ride back in the twilight with a shy young moon looking and
laughing at him.
As he rode into the barracks yard he passed Toni, carrying a big bucket
of water in either hand. As he rode past he said in a whisper:
"You brought me good fortune to-day."
"And it's all settled?" asked Toni, in another whisper.
"Quite so, I think," replied Paul, flinging himself off his horse. "I
will do a good turn by you with the sergeant to-morrow morning."
When he got back to his quarters Powder, who had spent a lonely
afternoon, rushed at him with yaps of delight. Paul, twisting the dog's
ears, whispered: "My lad, you and I have just got a new commanding
officer. Hurrah, you rascal!"
And Powder immediately gave a series of terrific yelps which he had
been taught to believe were hurrahs!
The next morning Paul had two errands which took him out very early.
One was to send a bouquet to Lucie, and the other was to have an
interview with Sergeant Duval. He caught the sergeant just coming out
of the riding-hall. Everything had gone well that day and the sergeant
was smiling.
"Well, sergeant," cried Paul, coming up to him, "so I understand that
my old friend Toni and Mademoiselle Denise are to be married."
"I had not heard the news, sir," responded Sergeant Duval, stiffening.
"I thank you for acquainting me with it."
"The fact is," said Paul, "Toni is terribly afraid of you, and he asked
me to make the communication. I thought perhaps something had passed
between your sister and Toni's mother, but, at all events, you know as
much about Toni as anybody. He is an excellent fellow, a fine soldier,
and has been in love with Mademoiselle Denise ever since he was a small
boy."
"There were more small bad boys in Bienville than any place I ever saw,
sir," was the sergeant's discouraging reply, "and Toni was about the
worst of the lot."
"Come, now, sergeant, you are too hard on Toni. He was no worse than
I was. All small boys are bad, but all of them that I have ever seen
had something good about them. Madame Marcel, you know, is well-to-do,
and when Toni's time is up he can get a place, I know, as instructor
in a riding-school at three hundred francs the month. I don't think
Mademoiselle Denise will do ill if you take Toni for a son-in-law."
The sergeant twisted his mustache reflectively.
"And beside that," continued Paul, who had become a marvel of
duplicity, "I understand that Madame Marcel is smiling on you. A
remarkably fine, handsome man you are, sergeant, and I am not surprised
that Madame Marcel likes you, but she would like you a great deal
better if you would give Denise to Toni. You see, it would be a nice,
family arrangement."
A pleased grin overspread the sergeant's face.
"Well, sir," he replied, "a man does not take a husband for his only
child without looking well about him. It is true that Madame Marcel is
well-to-do, and I could tie up Denise's dowry so that Toni couldn't
touch it, and perhaps I will think it over, sir, and let you know."