Lucie said nothing at all, but when Paul had gone off, went up, and, taking the baby out of Toni’s arms and laying her soft cheek against little Paul’s rose-leaf face, said to Toni:
“I think I can manage it.”
And she did, in a manner precisely like Lucie. She dressed herself in her prettiest gown and hat, took her white lace parasol and, getting into a carriage, went in search of the colonel of the regiment. When she found him she poured out the story of Toni and Denise and all about Bienville, including her childish love affair with Paul. And then she went on and recounted with such inimitable drollery her efforts to wring an offer out of Paul, his horror at her American ways of doing things, and the perplexity which a Frenchman always experiences in his love-affairs with an American, that the colonel burst out laughing and agreed to do anything Lucie should ask, and what she asked was one whole week of leave for Toni’s honeymoon. The colonel also promised to protect Lucie from Paul’s wrath when he should hear how Toni’s leave had been obtained. This was needed, for Paul scowled and growled that women should not meddle with such things, to which Lucie promptly agreed, except when it should be some affair in which, like this, a woman was deeply interested.
Mademoiselle Duval hankered very much to go on the honeymoon with Toni and Denise, but having heard that Paris was a very sinful place she doubted the wisdom of trusting herself there even for a visit. Toni contrived to make her understand that Paris was a great deal more sinful even than she suspected it to be, that there were few churches and the means of salvation were limited, and finally convinced Mademoiselle Duval that she would risk her soul’s salvation by venturing in that wicked town.
CHAPTER XXI
Toni and Denise had selected for their wedding day the anniversary of the marriage of Paul and Lucie two years before. The wedding was as fine as Lucie could make it, and she had great capabilities in that line. The garrison chapel was decked with flowers, the organ played, and it was much more like the wedding of a lieutenant than a corporal—Lucie paying for it all. Madame Marcel came from Bienville to the wedding and was resplendent in a purple silk gown, a lace collar and a bonnet with an aigrette in it. She looked so young and handsome that, together with the sale of her piece of land, she wholly dazzled the sergeant, who speculated on his chances of leading her to the altar sometime within a year.
Mademoiselle Duval treated herself to a new black gown and a very forbidding-looking black bonnet, but really presented an elegant though austere appearance. Denise’s white wedding gown was made with her own fingers, and, although it was only a simple muslin, never was there a daintier looking bride in the world than the sergeant’s daughter.
In the first row of seats in the church sat Paul and Lucie, the latter charmingly dressed in honor of the occasion. The chapel was filled with humbler people, friends of the bride and bridegroom. The bride, with her father, the sergeant, arrived in great state in Lucie’s victoria and pair and the same equipage—the handsomest in Beaupré—carried the newly-married pair back to the large room in one of the plain but comfortable hotels of the place, where a wedding breakfast was served.