So at half-past nine Toni presented himself at Paul’s quarters. It never seemed to them to be at all strange that Paul should be sitting at his ease, smoking, in the chair before his writing-desk, while Toni stood stiffly at attention. The sympathy which bound them was too close for those trifling distinctions to count, and between the officer sitting and the soldier standing it was still Paul and Toni in private. Paul was smoking now, and on his desk, under the green-shaded lamp, lay a pretty little note. He was composing an answer to it with as much care and precision as if it were a report to the Minister of War. The light of the lamp fell on his blond head and fairish complexion.
As Paul looked at Toni, he could not but think how Toni was improved by being made into a soldier. He was certainly the best looking young fellow in Paul’s troop.
“Well, Toni,” said Paul, “out with it. I saw you on the tram to-day with Denise.”
Toni turned red under his tan and sunburn. His mouth came open in a delighted grin, showing every one of the large, white teeth. He brought his straight, black brows together and said, in that tone of intimacy which carried the officer and the soldier back to the days when they belonged to the great democracy of boys and huddled together in the nook on the old bridge at Bienville:
“Denise loves me.” He did not think it necessary to say how much he loved Denise. Paul rose, and, putting both hands on Toni’s shoulders, gave him a vigorous shake of affection.
“I am deuced glad to hear it,” he said. “If you don’t behave yourself to that sweet girl after you are married I promise you the handsomest drubbing you ever had in your life. What do you think the sergeant will say?”
“God knows!” said Toni, dolefully shaking his head. “I think he wants to marry my mother, or marry the shop, that is. You see his term is up, sir, next year. But I don’t think my mother wants to marry him or anybody else.”
“But would it be a good thing if the sergeant thought it would help his chances with your mother if he agreed to let you have Denise?” asked Paul, who was usually the soul of candor, but who, like all men, was Machiavellian in love matters.
“That it would, sir,” answered Toni.
“Very well,” said Paul, grinning sympathetically at Toni, “I shall speak to the sergeant myself about you. Unluckily the sergeant knows us both too well—he used to see us when we were boys together at Bienville. Still, you have been a good soldier, Toni, and I don’t think anything can be said against you.”