“Oh, Toni!” he cried, “we are a couple of poor devils who love above our stations, both of us.”
“Not you,” replied Toni with perfect sincerity. “The greatest lady that ever lived might be proud and glad to marry you.” And as this was said by a person who had known Paul ever since he could walk, in an intimacy closer than that of a brother, it meant something. “I have seen Mademoiselle Lucie,” continued Toni. “I saw her one morning about two months ago, when you and she were riding together. She rides beautifully—I could not teach her anything in that line.”
“She does a great many things beautifully, and she is the most generous, warm-hearted creature in the world.”
“And just the sort of a young lady to fall in love with a poor sublieutenant and throw herself and her money into his arms.”
“But if the poor lieutenant had the feelings of a gentleman he could not accept such a sacrifice. He would run away to escape it.” Paul grew quite gloomy as he said this, and stroked his blond mustache thoughtfully. But it is not natural at twenty-two, with youth and health and a good conscience and abounding spirits, to despair. It was all very difficult, but Paul did not, on that account, cease loving Lucie.
“And does she still go to Bienville every year to visit Madame Ravenel?” asked Toni.
“Yes, every year, except two years that she spent in America. She is just home now, and very—very—American.”
Paul shook his head mournfully as he said this. He had all the prim French ideas, and the dash of American in Lucie frightened him, brave as he was.
Lucie.