Paul was so astonished at being addressed by a young lady, under the circumstances, that he promptly handed over his book, and Lucie, seating herself on the bench, proceeded to read it. Paul was surprised to see that the English book, through which he had been painfully spelling his way, seemed perfectly easy to Lucie, who, without a moment’s hesitation, read on, remarking casually to Paul:
“I can read English as well as I can read French. My mother was an American, you know, and Americans speak English.”
Paul did not know the piece of family history thus confided to him, nor, indeed, did he know anything about this little nymph, but he thought in his honest little heart that she was the most charming vision his boyish eyes had ever rested on. He admired her dainty little slippers, her silk stockings, her general air of fashion, but blushed at finding himself sitting on the same bench with her, particularly as he saw his father the gray-haired advocate, Monsieur Paul Verney, approaching. He was just about to sneak away, leaving his book in the hands of the fair brigand, when a fierce-looking English nursery governess suddenly descended upon them, and, seizing Lucie by the arm, carried her off. The governess threw Paul’s book down on the gravel path, and Paul picked it up.
Somehow, the book seemed to have a different aspect after having been held in the charming little fairy’s hands. Paul was possessed by a wholly new set of emotions. He longed to tell some one of this startling adventure—a little girl planting herself on the bench by him and taking his book from him without the least embarrassment or even apology. What very strange little girls must those be whose mothers were American! Paul had plenty of friends among the boys of his own age and class, and among his school-mates, but he had never confided in any of them as he did in Toni Marcel. So presently, wandering down by the bridge where he was certain to find Toni at this hour of the day, he saw his friend perched in the little cranny which he called his own, on the bridge above the dark and rippling water. Two small boys could be squeezed into this place and Paul Verney, climbing up, sat side by side with Toni, and, with his arm around his friend’s neck, bashfully but delightedly told Toni and Jacques, who, of course, heard everything that was told to Toni, all about this beautiful dream-like creature he had seen in the park. Then Toni said, without any bashfulness at all:
“I have got a sweetheart, too—it is Denise; some day I am going to marry her, and in the morning we will eat candy at mama’s shop, and in the afternoon we will eat cakes at Mademoiselle Duval’s shop.”
Toni’s eyes, as he said this, shone with a dark and lambent light. Paul Verney, on the contrary, had a pair of ordinary light blue eyes through which his honest, tender soul glowed. He was the most romantic boy alive, but all his romantic notions he had carefully concealed from every human being until then. A dream had come into his boyish mind, not of munching bonbons and stuffing cakes, such as Toni’s practical mind had conceived, but a dream of the beautiful Lucie grown up, dressed in a lovely white satin gown, with a tulle veil and orange blossoms, such as he had once seen a young lady wear when she was married to a dashing lieutenant in a dazzling uniform. Paul meant to be a dashing lieutenant in a dazzling uniform some day, and then the vision of Lucie, stealing instantly into his mind, seemed to fill a place already prepared for her there. The two lads sat, Paul’s closely-cropped, reddish hair resting upon Toni’s disheveled black shock, and felt very near together indeed.
“But how will you ever see mademoiselle again?” said Toni to Paul.
Paul’s face grew sad.