paul verney was twelve years old, and had never had any affairs of the heart, like toni. but one june afternoon, in the same summer when toni had lost and recovered jacques, and had succumbed to the tender passion, fate overtook paul verney in the person of lucie bernard, the prettiest little creature imaginable, prettier even than denise and very unlike that small piece of perfection. paul, who was very fond of reading, took his book, which happened to be an english one, to the park that afternoon of fate, and was sitting on a bench, laboriously puzzling over the english language, when a beautiful little girl in blue, with a gigantic sash and large pale blue hat, with roses blushing all over it, under which her dark hair fell to her waist, came composedly up to him and said:
“let me see your book.”
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.
“i don’t know how i ever shall,” he said. “i never had a girl speak to me before, and i never played with a girl—i don’t think it’s proper. and the english governess was so cross to lucie—for so she called her. but i shall walk every day in the park, and perhaps i shall see her again.”
paul was as good as his word and the very next afternoon walked in the park by himself. he was a neat boy always, but that day his face shone with scrubbing, and he had on his best sailor suit of white linen, and his little cane in his hand. it was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and even the shady paths of the park glowed with a beautiful, mysterious, green light. as paul walked along, he heard a whisper in his ear. it was toni, who had crept up from behind a clump of shrubbery and said to him:
“there she is, just down that path, sitting with captain and madame ravenel and holding madame ravenel’s hand.”
paul, following the path, came at once on the bench where sat his divinity, as toni had described. he doubted if he would have had the courage to bow to her, but lucie called out:
“oh, that is the nice little boy who was reading the english book yesterday.”
paul, blushing up to the roots of his reddish hair, made three bows, one to madame ravenel, one to lucie, and one to captain ravenel. madame ravenel returned his bow, as did the captain, with much gravity, and paul passed on, his heart beating with rapture. he had quite often seen the ravenels and knew them by name. they were apparently the only sad-looking persons in all bienville. they lived in a small, high, gloomy, old house with a garden at the back, just around the corner from the little street in which madame marcel had her shop. captain ravenel was a retired officer, but no one ever saw him talking with any of the officers of the garrison, nor was he ever known either to enter any of their houses or to welcome any officers to his house.
madame ravenel was the most beautiful woman in bienville. she was about thirty, but so sad-looking that she seemed much older. she always wore black—not widow’s black or mourning, but black gowns which, although very simple, had an air of [pg 24]elegance that set off her rare beauty wonderfully. paul had seen her nearly every day since the ravenels first came to bienville three years before, but he did not remember ever having seen lucie until that glorious hour when she burst on his dazzled vision and took his book away from him. from the time he could first remember seeing madame ravenel he had never passed her without a feeling coming into his boyish soul like that when he saw the moon looking down on the dark water under the bridge, or heard the melancholy song of the nightingale in the evening. he had confided this feeling to toni, who answered that both he and jacques felt the same way when they saw madame ravenel. there was something sad, beautiful, touching and interesting about her. paul could not put it into words, but he felt it, as did many other people.
madame ravenel went to church every morning, and when paul was dressing himself in his little bedroom, off from his father’s and mother’s room, he could always see her returning from church. and what was most remarkable to paul, captain ravenel was always either with madame ravenel or not far behind her. he did not go into the church, but, with a book or a newspaper in his hand, walked up and down outside until madame ravenel appeared, when he would escort her home. and so it was almost always the case, when madame ravenel appeared on the street that captain ravenel was not far away. it would seem as if he kept within protecting distance. he was a soldierly-appearing man, serious-looking, his hair and mustache slightly gray.
madame ravenel was always beautiful, always sad, always gentle, and always in black. paul had noticed, in passing the church sometimes, that madame ravenel never went beyond the entrance and never sat down, even on sundays. she only went a few steps inside the church door, and paul asked his mother why this was. madame verney shut him up shortly with that well-known maxim that little boys should not ask questions. sometime after that, paul, still wondering about madame ravenel, asked his father why she looked so sad, and why captain ravenel never stopped and laughed and talked with the officers walking the streets, or dining at the cafés, or strolling in the park, and monsieur verney gave him the same reply as madame verney, which was most discouraging.
this, of course, did not cause paul’s interest in the ravenels to abate in the least. it only convinced him that they had some strange and interesting story, such as having found a pot of gold somewhere, or having had their only child stolen from them, or some of those delightfully romantic tales which a twelve-year-old boy can imagine. he was no less interested in lucie on finding that she belonged in some way to madame ravenel. he had walked on a considerable distance in the park, and was trying to screw up his courage to turn around and walk back past the bench where lucie sat, when he suddenly found her at his side. her dark eyes glowed brightly and she was tiptoeing in her delight.
“i know all about you,” she said triumphantly. “you are paul verney, the advocate’s son. i like little boys very much—very much—but i never have a chance to see anything of them. however, just now i began to chase a butterfly and my sister sophie did not call me back. but you are the butterfly,”—and at this she burst into a ripple of impish laughter.
paul was so surprised that he did not have time to be shocked at the boldness on the part of this young lady of ten years, but his heart began to thump violently and he was trembling when he said to her:
“but aren’t you afraid to leave your sister?”
“not in the least,” replied lucie airily. “i am half american, and american children are not afraid of anything, so harper, my nursery governess, says. what can happen to me? and besides that, i have always had my own way—that is, almost always—i had it about coming to see my sister sophie. would you like me to tell you about it?”
paul was only too charmed to hear anything lucie might tell him, although in a panic for fear the fierce-looking english nursery governess might appear. lucie, without further ado, seated herself with him on the ground and, sticking her little slippered feet out on the grass, began, with the air of scheherazade, when with confidence she turned her matchless power on the bridegroom who meant to murder her next morning:
“sophie, you know, is my sister, although she is much older than i am. we had the same papa, but not the same mama, but sophie was just like a mama to me after my own mama died. she was married then to another man named count delorme. how i hated him! he was so cross—cross to me and cross to sophie and cross to everybody. he had a son, too, when sophie married him, and that boy—edouard was his name—was horrid, just like count delorme. i lived with sophie then, and once a year i would go and visit my grandmother bernard. she is very tall and handsome and always wears black velvet or black satin and looks very fierce. everybody is afraid of her except me. but she isn’t really in the least fierce, and i have my own way with her much more than i have with sophie. all that grandmama can do is to scold and say, ‘oh, you little american, what am i to do with you? you need more strictness than any french child i ever knew,’ and then she lets me do as i please.”
lucie stopped here and cast a side glance at paul. she possessed the art of the story-teller and wanted to know whether paul was interested in what she was telling him. paul was so much interested in lucie that he would have listened with pleasure to anything she said, but the beginning of what she was telling him sounded like a book, and he listened with eagerness. lucie, seeing this, proceeded. like many other people, she enjoyed being the heroine of her own tale, and it lost nothing in the telling.
“well, i used to like this visit to my grandmother—she has a big château, larger than the commandant’s house, five times as large—bigger than the hotel de ville.”
lucie opened her arms and hands wide to show paul the enormous size of the château bernard.
“and then she has such beautiful things—so many servants, carriages, horses, chandeliers, and gardens—the most beautiful gardens, and a park ten times as large as this.”
paul listened to this somewhat coldly. he did not like bragging and could not understand the innocent, imaginative delight which lucie took in describing a pretty château.
“i used to love to go there and visit grandmama when i lived with sophie. we lived in another place—a great big city called châlons. but i loved being with sophie best. she was not at all like what she is now, but she was the gayest person in châlons. she wore beautiful pink gowns, and white hats, and feathers, and went to balls every night, but she always had time to look after me. [pg 30]she used to take me in the carriage with her every afternoon to drive, and before she went to a ball she always saw me undressed and in my bed and came to tell me good night. and she looked over my lessons and made me practise my music and did everything for me, just as the other little girls’ mamas did for them. then something happened—i don’t know what it was—it was something dreadful, though, and i remember the day. it rained very hard, and captain ravenel came in the afternoon and was sitting in the drawing-room with sophie, and count delorme came in, and there was a terrible noise, and the door came open, and count delorme struck sophie with his fist hard, and captain ravenel caught her in his arms. i was leaning over the baluster, and then harper ran down, and carried me off, and would not let me go near sophie, though i heard her crying outside the door, and i cried inside the door just as hard as i could. the next day harper—that is my nursery governess that takes care of me now and dragged me away yesterday—came and took me in a carriage to the railway station, without letting me say good-by to sophie, and carried me off to my grandmama’s château.”
paul was interested enough now. lucie’s story sounded more and more like a story out of a book.
“when i came to the château, my grandmother—she is sophie’s grandmama just as much as she is mine—kissed me, and hugged me, and told me i was to live there, but i was very angry because i hadn’t seen sophie to say good-by even, and i kept asking why sophie didn’t come to see me or send for me or even write me a letter. i used to write her letters myself—you see, i am ten years old and i can write very well—and i gave them to grandmama to send to sophie, but i found a whole bunch of my letters half-burned in the grate in grandmama’s room. then i saw they were deceiving me, so i wrote a letter and i stole a postage stamp, and i knew how to address it to sophie, but i got no reply. then i stole some more postage stamps, and wrote some more letters, but i never heard anything about sophie. i had a governess and music-master, but grandmama never made me study or practise my music as sophie had done. she let me do everything i wanted except to see or hear from sophie. no matter what i asked for, grandmama first refused and then she got it for me. she bought me the finest doll in paris and a little pony and wicker phaeton, and used to take me to the circus—my grandmama lives near paris, you know—and gave me five francs of my own to spend every saturday. but i wanted sophie. at night i would think about her, and cry and cry, and then grandmama would have me put in her bed and she would cry, too, but she would not let me see sophie. at last i couldn’t eat anything—not even bonbons—and they sent for the doctor, who said grandmama must take me to the sea-shore, but after we came from the sea-shore i missed sophie more and more, and i cried every night and would not eat, and at last i told grandmama if she did not let me see sophie i would starve myself to death—i would never eat anything—i would hold my breath until i died—or eat a cake of paint out of my paint-box. paint is poisonous, you know. grandmama told me of a little girl who died from eating paint out of her paint-box. at last even the doctor grew frightened, and told grandmama if i did not see my sister sophie he was afraid i would be very ill, so then—this was two summers ago—she let harper bring me here, and i stayed a whole week with sophie. captain ravenel is her husband now, and not that hateful count delorme, and i didn’t know captain ravenel before, but i love him now almost as much as i do sophie. he is so kind and good, and not a bit cross. sophie told me that i must be satisfied with my week with her, and must be good, and perhaps grandmama would let me come again, and that when i went back to the château bernard i must eat and keep well and not cry any more. i did as sophie told me, but sophie doesn’t know grandmama as well as i do. i begged her all last winter to let me come and see sophie again, and all this spring, and then this summer, but she wouldn’t let me, and then i found out how to manage grandmama.”
paul listened to this with an interest which bordered, however, on disapproval. he had never heard of small children managing their elders, but lucie had told him that she was half american, which might account for anything. paul had heard that the americans were a wild people, so perhaps even the children did as they pleased. lucie drew up her little silk-stockinged foot, and settled her skirts around her.
“and how do you suppose i did it? i didn’t eat anything for two days. grandmama was frightened to death. when i wouldn’t eat, they left cakes around, and beautiful little biscuit, but i knew what that was for and wouldn’t touch them; so after three days grandmama gave in and told me that harper might bring me to see sophie, and so i came, and i am to stay two whole weeks, and after this every time i wish to see sophie, all i will have to do is to stop eating, for that frightens grandmama and she lets me have my own way.”
paul eyed the bewitching lucie still with some disapproval.
“but do you think it is right to treat your grandmama so? isn’t she a good grandmama to you?”
“oh yes, indeed,” answered lucie. “i love her very much, but not like sophie. you love your aunts and grandmama, but not like your mother.”
that was quite true, for paul was as fond, in his quiet way, of his mother and father, as lucie, in her violent and demonstrative fashion was of sophie, or as toni was curiously fond of madame marcel.
