Sergeant Duval then recognized Toni, and with severe disapproval.
“So you have turned up at last!” he said sternly, “while your poor mother has been breaking her heart in Bienville these seven years about you. Well, I will talk with you later. I don’t suppose you learned any good in the circus except how to ride.”
But this could not crush Toni. He had felt all his perplexities and miseries dwindle since he had spoken to Paul Verney. Paul always had such a sensible, level head, and knew well that plain, straight path out of difficulties—telling the truth and standing by the consequences.
CHAPTER XII
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, erect and at attention, in his dragoon uniform, he was a model of lithe and manly 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, picturesque way. His teeth were as white as ever and shone now in a happy grin, while his black eyes were full of the mingled archness and softness that had distinguished 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 Sergeant 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 expressive eyes glowed.