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, erect¹ and at attention, in his dragoon uniform, he was a model of lithe² and manly³ 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, picturesque⁴ way. His teeth were as white as ever and shone now in a happy grin, while his black eyes were full of the mingled⁵ archness and softness that had distinguished⁶ 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 Sergeant⁷ 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 expressive⁸ eyes glowed.
 
“It is true, Pa—I mean, Lieutenant⁹, 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 loomed¹⁰ 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 spoke¹¹ 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 cowardice¹² 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 giggled¹³ 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 apron¹⁴ with her flaxen plait hanging down her back.”
 
“She is an extremely pretty young lady, and a great belle¹⁵ 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 stickler¹⁷ 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 doting¹⁸ 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 killing¹⁹ me.”
 
Paul listened closely. He realized, quite as fully¹⁶ 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 rascal²⁰—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 modesty²¹ 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 countenance²² fell, “she has a great fortune from America, and why should she look at a sublieutenant in a dragoon regiment²³ with two thousand francs a year and his pay?
 
“If I recollect²⁴ 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 sincerity²⁵. “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 intimacy²⁶ 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 abounding²⁷ 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 prim²⁸ 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 retinue²⁹ of horses and servants, which quite dazzled Bienville. I think Mademoiselle Lucie bullies³⁰ her grandmother shamefully³¹. And whom do you think she pays most attention to of all the people in Bienville?”
 
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 generosity³² 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 lighter³³ 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 incumbent³⁴ was not exactly to Paul’s liking³⁵ 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 determined³⁶ on pleasing the father of his beloved. No one would have recognized, in this smart, active, natty³⁷ trooper, the dirty............