“At all events,” he said, “I don’t think any one regretted Delorme’s death. He was the worst sort of a rascal—a gentleman rascal. You know he was the first husband of Madame Ravenel at Bienville.”
Toni nodded.
“I have seen many women in the seven years that I have been traveling about the world,” said Toni, “but I never saw one who seemed to radiate modesty and goodness as Madame Ravenel. Do the Ravenels still live at Bienville?”
“Yes.” The color came into Paul’s face, which was pink already. “They live there as quietly as ever, but much respected. They are no longer avoided, but still live very quietly.”
Toni, looking into Paul’s eyes, saw his face grow redder and redder, and his mouth come wide open, as Toni said, with a sidelong glance and his old-time grin:
“And Mademoiselle Lucie?”
“Beautiful as a dream,” replied Paul, with a lover’s fondness for superlatives, “and charming beyond words. Only,” here his countenance fell, “she has a great fortune from America, and why should she look at a sublieutenant in a dragoon regiment with two thousand francs a year and his pay?”
“If I recollect Mademoiselle Lucie aright,” answered Toni, “and she takes a notion into her head to like you, her grandmother will give in, because you used to tell me, in the old days when we sat in the little cranny on the bridge, that Mademoiselle Lucie said her grandmother allowed her to do exactly as she pleased.”
Paul laughed at having his own words turned against him.