Although dragon-like in her manner, Madame Bernard was at heart a grandmother, and that tells the tale. Lucie was her idol2, 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 instinctive3 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, reigned4 over the Château Bernard in a manner that terrified and enchanted5 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 pranks6 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 advantageous7 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 grotesque8 idea mortified9 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 cyclone10. With the rash generosity11 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 retinue12 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 curb13 her, but as well try to curb a wandering zephyr14 as [Pg 184]Lucie Bernard, with a noble and generous impulse in her heart. The people of Bienville were a kindly15 set on whom the self-respecting seclusion16 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 adorned17 with manliness18. 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 [Pg 186]bow, but Lucie, who had acquired the startling American fashion of shaking hands with any and everybody, deliberately19 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 contrive20 while he was in Bienville, cursing himself meanwhile for being a villain21 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 immediate22 neighborhood of the Château Bernard, he was the happiest and likewise the most miserable23 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 dissuade24 her from doing many rash things, sometimes innocent, sometimes dangerous. She was an accomplished25, 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 exhortations26 of the head groom27.
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 implored28 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 judicious29 for you to ride Comet.”
Lucie, who was proud of her horsemanship, resented this promptly30, and replied:
“But I wish to ride Comet. I am perfectly31 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, wringing32 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
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