The Secret of Toni

by Molly Elliot Seawell

“This is the first time that you have ever called me by name, Paul—”

They were standing on the lawn, in full view of dozens of eyes, while this was passing. Paul looked at her in dumb admiration and despair, but there was nothing in the least despairing in the smile which presently rippled over Lucie’s face, with her eyes all fire and dew. The fact is that Mademoiselle Lucie had been very much in love with Sublieutenant Paul Verney, ever since they had been children together in the park at Bienville, and wished him to know it, and she was in love with the best part of him—his courage, his modesty, his good sense, his clean and upright life, and having the American archness in her nature, she saw the humorous side of it and could not forbear laughing at poor Paul.

“But I think,” she said, “a gentleman should keep his word. You promised me that you would call me by my first name in private, and you have only done it once, and now you speak as if you would never do it again.”

Paul secretly thought Lucie, just as he had always done, a very improper little person, but quite irresistible.

“At all events,” said Lucie airily, flicking the blossoms of a tall, blue hydrangea nodding gravely in the sun, “I intend to call you Paul, in private that is—and I don’t think I shall go to ride this afternoon.”

“And promise me,” said Paul, coming a little closer and looking at her earnestly, “that you won’t ride Comet any more—Lucie.”

“I promise then, Paul,” replied Lucie, with an affectation of a meekness which was far removed from her, and which she only used for purposes of her own. Then the horses were sent away, and the two walked together across the lawn and into the drawing-room where Madame Bernard sat in an agony.

“I shall not ride this afternoon, Grandmama,” said Lucie. “Monsieur Paul would insist on going with me, and he would look so utterly ridiculous on horseback dressed as he is that I was ashamed to be seen with him; so, instead, he will stay and have tea with us, and meanwhile we shall go and play billiards.”

This charmed Madame Bernard, who concluded that the next time Lucie was refractory she would send post-haste for Sublieutenant Verney to manage her. It is not to be supposed that Madame Bernard did not see the possibilities of the future as well as Madame Verney had done long years before, when Paul and Lucie had played together as children. But Madame Bernard, like many other women who know much of the world, was beginning dimly to reach a just estimate of things. After having seen many marriages and a considerable number of divorces she had realized that it was the man, and not the title or the estate, with which a woman must reckon. And Paul was so very attentive to Madame Bernard, picking up her ball of worsted when she was knitting, and giving her his advice, when asked, regarding the colors of her embroidery, that she had begun to wish Paul Verney had at least a family tree if not a title. Money she was not so particular about, as Lucie had plenty of that. But he was only a sublieutenant and his father was an advocate in a small way in a provincial town. Madame Bernard groaned when she thought of these last things.

When billiards was proposed, the old lady made no objection whatever, but followed the two young people into the large, cool billiard room with its parquet floor and ground glass ceiling, and embroidered industriously while the two played a merry game and Lucie beat Paul two points to one. She could beat him at billiards, at tennis, and at cards; she sang and played much better than he, and rode quite as well; and she delighted in showing her skill over him; but, having a great deal of sense in her pretty head, she realized that in all considerable things Paul stood near the top. He took his defeats so pleasantly, for he was the most modest fellow alive, that Lucie often declared there was no pleasure in beating him.