“My dear,” said Madame Bernard, “why do you call Monsieur Verney by his first name?”
“Because,” said Lucie, quite calmly, taking Madame Bernard’s embroidery out of her hands, and looking her full in the face, “because I love him.”
CHAPTER XIV
Those pleasant days of late summer and early autumn were a halcyon time to Paul and Lucie, and to Toni and Denise. Toni was troubled with no qualms, whatever, with regard to Denise’s superiority to him, and the fact that she might justly aspire to something far beyond a private soldier. He was the Toni of old, and, like the great Napoleon, he reckoned that if he wanted a thing, it was his already; and, instead of shrinking from the idea of Denise’s impressive fortune of ten thousand francs, he was glad she had so much, and wished that it was more—not that he meant to squander it or that he loved Denise for it. He would have loved her just as well without a franc. Nor did he love her any better for having it, but he did not consider that the ten thousand francs placed any barrier between Denise and himself. And then from the first moment their eyes had met on the night of the ball in the public square, that old, sweet feeling of being cared for and protected by Denise had stolen into his heart. Toni wanted a wife to protect him from other people and from himself—that was the long and short of it. As for Denise, her nature had shaped itself to the idea of looking after Toni and she wanted to give him all the buns and good things in life. With Paul and Lucie this was exactly reversed. Lucie felt the most charming sense of protection in Paul’s strong arm and strong sense.
Denise.
Toni courted Denise assiduously, and did the same by Mademoiselle Duval and the sergeant, and succeeded, in the course of time, in winning a grudging respect from the sergeant. That stern warrior knew too much about Toni’s boyhood to accept him at his own value, but his perfect knowledge of the voltige was an irresistible recommendation to the sergeant, and moreover, there was no denying that Toni was a good soldier, attentive to his duty. He had not once been punished since he had joined; and this was a remarkable record even for the best of soldiers. Then Toni stood well with his sublieutenant. This counted for something with the sergeant; nevertheless, he remembered how, in the old days at Bienville, Toni’s black shock and Paul Verney’s blond head were often close together, and these youthful friendships have a strong hold on many men. Still, Paul Verney was not the man to overlook the sins of a conscript, and the sergeant was forced to admit that no fault could be found with Toni so far.
He had begun by suspecting Toni’s intentions toward Denise, but his suspicions had been completely lulled to sleep, chiefly by Denise herself. This young person, who rarely raised her eyes from the ground and might have posed for a statue of Simplicity, knew perfectly well how to throw dust in the sergeant’s eyes. Concerning Toni, she never allowed him to be mentioned without some disparaging remark, such as, “That ridiculous Toni,” or “That absurd creature.” She called attention to the fact, which everybody knew, that Toni’s nose was a snub. She also observed, what nobody else had, that Toni slouched when he walked and was very ugly. Toni, in truth, was the most graceful fellow in the regiment, and handsome in his black-eyed, black-browed way. Denise would scarcely admit that Toni knew how to ride, but even this did not put the sergeant on his guard. She openly complained that Toni did not know how to dance and waltzed all over her feet when he danced with her in the evenings in the public square. When in her father’s presence, and Toni was there, Denise treated him like a dog. He was the only person living to whom she had ever shown any active hostility, but the mild, the gentle Denise would take him up on the smallest provocation, yawned at his jokes, laughed when he told of his discomforts and contradicted most of his assertions.