After that Paul was with Lucie every moment he could contrive while he was in Bienville, cursing himself meanwhile for being a villain in forcing his company on that radiant creature with her millions of francs. He had, however, the best excuse in the world—he could not help it. And when he found that he would shortly be sent to Beaupré, in the immediate neighborhood of the Château Bernard, he was the happiest and likewise the most miserable creature alive. Lucie was unblushingly happy and demanded that as soon as he arrived at Beaupré he should present himself at the château and pay his respects to Madame Bernard. Of course, he did it, wicked as he knew it to be, with the result that he was the only man whom Lucie really encouraged. And in a little while, as natures quickly adjust themselves to each other, Paul acquired a species of control over Lucie, a thing which no one but Sophie Ravenel had ever done before.
She generally wished to do what was right, but on the occasions when she wished to do what was wrong, Madame Bernard saw that the sandy-haired young sublieutenant could turn Lucie from her way. In particular, he could dissuade her from doing many rash things, sometimes innocent, sometimes dangerous. She was an accomplished, though reckless rider and when she would have ridden a horse which, rightly named Comet, had run away once, and might be depended on to do so again, Paul Verney had managed to do more with her by a few words than all of Madame Bernard’s prayers and the exhortations of the head groom.
Paul often came over to the Château Bernard and, on one special afternoon he found Comet saddled and waiting, and when he went into the drawing-room, Madame Bernard implored him to try to persuade Lucie not to ride Comet. Presently Lucie tripped in, looking charming in her riding-habit, and with the light of contradiction in her eyes. Paul, she knew, objected to her riding the horse, and she was prepared to defy him.
“I think, Mademoiselle,” said Paul quietly, “it would scarcely be judicious for you to ride Comet.”
Lucie, who was proud of her horsemanship, resented this promptly, and replied:
“But I wish to ride Comet. I am perfectly capable of managing him, and besides, he is not really vicious.”
“The last may be true, Mademoiselle, but I think you are mistaken in the former. You have no more real control over Comet than a butterfly has.”
For answer, Lucie tapped her whip smartly on the mantelpiece, and said:
“Thank you very much, Monsieur Verney—I must beg you to excuse me—good afternoon,” and was going out of the room when Paul, who had walked over from his quarters, asked of Madame Bernard:
“Madame, may I have one of your horses saddled, and follow Mademoiselle Lucie on her dangerous ride?”