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.
“Saw that they were playing another game far more interesting.”
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.
“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.”