And it was impossible that Madame Bernard should not know of all this; but Paul remembered, with a groan1, that Lucie had always been able to wrap that imposing2-looking person around her little finger. And would it be right—would it be a manly3 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 attachments4, 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 groom5. 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 gaily6 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 shudder7.
“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 stoutly8. “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 perfectly9 well what Sophie did, and it was not right, but she was cruelly punished for it.”
Paul, who was thoroughly10 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 limpid11 innocence12 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 prudent13.
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 butts14. Paul turned to the groom and told him to ride forward and find out where the butts were, and just then Toni appeared. Saluting15 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 saluted16 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 rivulet17 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, gathering18 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 adoration19 in his eyes. She had the unconscious grace of a child, but Lucie was no child—she was a woman of gentle, yet fixed20 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 withheld21 by pride, diffidence and generosity22, 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 professed23 [Pg 235]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, standing24 there, his eyes devouring25 her, and gnawing26 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 delightful27, but it was not propriety28.
“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 villain29 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
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