“Yes,” he said, “we are both very happy, or would be except for those wretches. But, Toni, you must keep every hint of this from Denise and I shall certainly keep it from my wife.”
“You may be able to,” replied poor Toni, “because you are brave and self-possessed, but you know how I am. I am likely to let it out any time.”
“If you do,” said Paul sternly, “you may look to hear from me. Toni, have you no shame at being such a coward?”
“Not a bit,” replied Toni. “As you say, I was born that way. I am not afraid of horses nor of guns nor of anything that other people are afraid of.”
Paul inspected Toni in wrath and sorrow. He was the identical Toni that had enjoyed a ride on the runaway horse, and was cowed and terrified by the laughs and jeers of a couple of the tailor Clery’s boys, either of whom he was perfectly well able to thrash if he had wished. Paul Verney was not, physically, half the man that Toni was, but not all the five Clery boys, with their father at their head, could have frightened him when he was a very small boy himself. Paul would have taken a thrashing from them one day and be ready to repeat it the next, but the mere thought of a thrashing frightened Toni out of his wits.
How much more, then, did the thought of being murdered scare him! Yet if Toni had been driven into the forlorn hope—“the last children” as the French picturesquely put it—he would have behaved as well as any man in it.
Paul Verney looked around him at the smiling, peaceful landscape basking in the afternoon light, and thought of Lucie at the château. She was probably practising her music at that hour, and then she would go for her afternoon ride with only a groom to accompany her. He would be absent from her for two whole days, and Lucie had spent a week in devising schemes for getting rid of the time. Paul was as much in love with her as she was with him, but it never occurred to him that there was any difficulty in getting rid of the time during his absence from her—he had his work to do and he meant to do it well, nor did he let the thought of Lucie interfere in the least with his duty. He had cheerfully given that promise demanded of all lovers, that he would tell Lucie everything. As he had nothing to tell her of the least harm, or of the least consequence, he had laughingly made the promise. But now there was something he must conceal from her; something, the mere thought of which would blight that merry, beautiful, rose-in-bloom life that Lucie was leading; something which, if it ever came to pass, would blight it altogether.
Paul pulled himself together and turned his mind, as he had the power to do, resolutely away from the grisly probability presented to him.
“Toni,” said he, “don’t think about this thing. I believe I can get those two scoundrels out of the way, and I will; so take another pull out of this brandy flask and get on your horse and follow me.”
Toni did as he was told and was soon galloping at Paul Verney’s heels. The thought of Denise was before him. He knew that sometime he should tell her—he could not keep it from her—and what would Denise say, and what would she do?—be scared as he was? Presently they found themselves in the cloud of dust which enveloped the regiment and Toni made his way to his place at the end of the file, Paul Verney cantering past. As Toni reined up he looked around the file and saw the red mustache and ferret-like eyes of Nicolas peering out along the line of mustached and helmeted heads. Nicolas gave him an indescribable look—a look with murder in it. Toni had had his chance, and Paul Verney had come back unharmed. That night in the bivouac Nicolas and Pierre came up to Toni and Nicolas whispered in his ear: