Doctor Raoul's Romance Page 12

  And Adrien realized that in a sense they had never existed for the real Nicholas. It had been a stranger, forced beyond his control to the verge of a nervous breakdown, who had held her in his arms and told her he loved her. She had been, she knew, more to blame than Nicholas. Only Raoul had understood.

  It was strange the way that kiss had been the death blow to that old love. But though the wound came then, at first she had not perceived it. Raoul had told her that her love for Nicholas was dead. If only, she thought, she had believed him in time. If only she had claimed Raoul’s love then, when he offered it to her, they might have been married by now. He might never have gone on his travels, or if he had, she would have been with him, on their honeymoon.

  She came back, startled, from her thoughts, to find Nicholas had gone, and Gillian was saying, briskly, but with sympathy in her eyes.

  “Now you want to know about Raoul and Denise?”

  “Please, Gillian. All you can tell me.”

  Gillian ran her hand through her golden hair, in a worried gesture.

  “Honestly, Adrien, I can’t tell you much. I sent you that letter, I asked you to come here, because I felt—Nicky and I both felt—that Raoul needed help and Denise wasn’t the one to give it. You see, we have both realized, for some time, that your engagement last summer, was for our sakes, Nicky’s and mine. We’ve never talked about all that, have we?” She smiled. “No, don’t look uncomfortable—we shall never need to talk about it. I know you didn’t love Raoul then. And I don’t know whether you’ve changed, though perhaps I suspect ... But I do know he loves you, and only you can help him.”

  “But, Denise?” queried Adrien.

  “He loves you, Adrien.”

  “Then why—?” She broke off.

  “Why does he intend to marry Denise? Surely you can answer that question better than I can. After all, if you never gave him any encouragement—the man’s only human, after all!”

  “But he’s ill, Gillian. You were right there. Very ill. I knew it at once, and when I challenged him, he couldn’t deny it.”

  “Then I suppose he didn’t want to saddle you with an invalid husband, and guessed you were the sort who would sacrifice yourself for him out of some noble emotion or other. I can understand his feeling that way.”

  “But what about Denise?”

  Gillian shrugged.

  “He’s known her for a long time. The French are realists; he will need nursing.”

  “But he hasn’t told her, Gillian.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. She may have guessed although I’m not certain. But I do know he hasn’t told her. That’s not like Raoul.”

  “I must admit it doesn’t seem fair of him. But one can’t judge these things. You say he is very ill ... You don’t mean he’s dying?”

  “He thinks so, Gillian.” Adrien’s voice broke. “Oh, Gill, I can’t let him die, I can’t. There must be some way to save him.”

  Gillian gave her a long look.

  “So I was right,” she said slowly. “You do love him, Adrien.”

  “More than my life,” said Adrien. “I’d die tomorrow to save him.”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “No, I haven’t. How can I now?” Adrien’s voice shook.

  Gillian put her hand on Adrien’s shoulder.

  “This is no time for the niceties of convention. His life is at stake. Go and tell him, Adrien. Go and tell him now.”

  Adrien straightened herself and tilted her chin.

  “I will,” she said. “I think you’re right, Gillian. I’ll go to him now.”

  Adrien never remembered walking up the stairs then, but she found herself outside the door of his room.

  She knocked and heard his well-known voice call, “Entrez!” She found him sitting by the window, wrapped in a gray dressing gown. His head was resting on his hand; his face, in profile to her, had a look of suffering that was more than she could bear.

  “Raoul!”

  He had not looked up at the opening of the door, but at the sound of her voice he started. Turning his head, he forced a smile. He made as if to get up, but she stepped swiftly across the room and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Raoul, you are very ill. What is it, mon chéri? Why aren’t you in hospital?”

  “I have been. But they don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Surely somewhere in the world there is a doctor who can help you? You must know someone?”

  He moved his head impatiently.

  “A doctor who would be willing to treat me? To stave off death? To give me the life of an invalid? Oh, no doubt. But I don’t want that, Adrien. Gillian would understand, if you don’t. I’d rather die.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Adrien, startled at the sharpness of her own voice, the sharpness of desperation. “You, a doctor. You, who take the Hippocratic oath to preserve life, always.”

  “Yes, I am a doctor. Do you think I should find life worth living without my work? That is, unless...” He paused.

  Had he been on the point of saying, “Unless I had your love, my little ex-mock-fiancée”? Or was she imagining she could read his thoughts?

  Then he said slowly, “I am a doctor. I understand my own case. There is nothing permanent that can be done to help me.” Then with sudden, quick emotion, “Why are you crying, my darling? Adrien, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it,” she sobbed. “It’s because you’re not fighting back, Raoul. I know it. I know you haven’t tried everything. I won’t believe it, I can’t. Once you said you loved me...”

  “Yes, Adrien?”

  There was a rising inflection in his voice.

  And he had called her “darling.”

  But she was suddenly afraid.

  And yet, as she knelt there beside him, every instinct told her that he loved her still. That his engagement to Denise was a mistake he already regretted, the last, desperate measure of a doomed man, seeking a little happiness, a little peace. For how could he have known Adrien would come to him with love? So often, so very often she had told him that could never be.

  “It’s too late,” she thought, but that wild, determined element in her heart that would not be quietened or resigned shouted, “No, no. It’s not too late. He must be cured. I would give my life for him. I will find a way...”

  “You may think I am unfair to Denise marrying her in this way?" he asked then.

  “Marrying her without love? Yes, that’s always unfair,” thought Adrien, but aloud she said nothing.

  “She loves me and I have my reasons. It will not be for long. I am not being so unfair as you may think, Adrien.”

  “But you don’t love her—you don’t love Denise de Neuf!” The words burst at last from her lips.

  She broke off, for once again, as last night, there came quick, high-heeled footsteps in the passage.

  “Denise again!” she thought, with an impatience that she realized was unfair. “She will never let him go now.” Just for the moment her courage wavered and hopelessness touched her.

  Denise came in briskly, a medicine bottle and glass in her hands.

  “Bonjour, chéri. I see your nurse is already with you. How are you this morning, my love?”

  “Better, Denise, thank you.”

  “That is well ... Don’t go, Adrien.”

  “I must. I have things to do.”

  Denise suddenly gave her a long glance, and startled momentarily out of her absorption in Raoul, Adrien realized for the first time the wild pain that those dark, vivid eyes concealed. Impulsively she said, “Denise, I...”

  “Yes,” said Denise, “yes.” She paused. Then went on brightly, “I have a message for you, Adrien.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. My little boys want you to bring Frances and Geoffrey to tea this afternoon.”

  Adrien gasped, “Me? But...” She broke off, feeling she had been unbelievably gauche
.

  Denise, however, merely smiled.

  “Gillian is unable to come,” she said evenly. “And Raoul must rest. Besides, I want to talk to you, and hear about England.”

  “Well, I...” How could she bear a téte-a-téte with Denise de Neuf?

  But then Denise’s expressive eyes flashed a message at her, over Raoul’s head. Adrien could not interpret it. But she knew she must go to the chateau.

  That afternoon, when she crossed the road with the children, the chateau looked enchanting under its covering of snow.

  The old maid, Marie, opened the door to her, grumbling gently about the cold. She found Denise in the old oak hall, in front of an enormous English-style open fire, her two little sons squabbling amicably on the rug at her feet.

  They jumped up, exclaiming joyfully in French at the sight of Frances and Geoffrey. They always greeted their friends, whom they had only parted from that morning, as though they hadn’t seen them for months.

  Denise was wearing a dress of her favorite black, a string of pearls around her long slim throat. A simple enough outfit, and yet it made Adrien feel schoolgirlish in her soft blue jumper and skirt.

  Denise rose, smiling, and came forward to greet her guest.

  “We will leave the children here, n’est-ce pas?” she said, pulling a heavy iron guard in front of the fire, “and you and I, Adrien, we will go into the petit salon, non? I will ask Marie to bring us English tea.”

  It was pleasant in the salon; the electric radiator was on and the room was warm and comfortable, the curtains drawn, against the cold outside. A big bowl of hyacinths on a tall stand gave off an almost too heavy scent. A gilt clock, with a Cupid poised on top, tinkled the hour.

  Adrien felt her knees shake under her, and sat down gratefully. The tension was too much for her, wrought up as she was. It was too much to be polite, to accept a biscuit and a cup of weak tea, to talk politely about the weather, the children, her journey. But Denise’s poise was unshakable. And one could not give way before Denise.

  And then suddenly Denise was saying, “Adrien, my dear, you must be wondering about Raoul and me.”

  Adrien faced her bravely.

  “Yes I am, rather. You see, last summer he told me he loved me, would always love me. I couldn’t respond then. So I really shouldn’t be surprised if he’s changed now, should I? Only I do want to know if he has. Because I feel...”

  Denise smiled, a trifle bitterly.

  “Yes, I understand. He hasn’t changed, Adrien. He still loves you desperately.”

  Adrien drew a deep breath. The smell of the hyacinth was no longer sickly, but blissful, heavenly.

  Denise went on, “He is gravely ill, Adrien. He thinks I do not know this, but I do. Doctors have given him only a short time to live. You had said you could never love him. Is it so surprising he should turn to me, his old friend?”

  “No,” said Adrien impulsively. “No, of course it isn’t. I understand, Denise. I should not have come to Val d’Argent But I love him so.”

  “Ah,” said the older woman, her gaze softening. “I was waiting for you to say that.”

  She paused, and sipped her tea. She seemed perfectly relaxed. Only that little pulse at her throat showed her emotion.

  “He is not a weak man, Adrien. Not one who clings to a woman for support. He is perfectly capable of facing this situation alone, stoically. One would have expected that of him, would one not, knowing him?”

  “Yes,” whispered Adrien, “perhaps.”

  “Ah, but there is a reason for his intention to marry me. I did not know it at first. But I am not a fool. I wondered—and then I discovered the truth. I will tell it to you, and then you will see what he is like, this man you love. Then you will understand his chivalry.”

  Adrien felt she should protest, say she did not want to hear Raoul’s secrets, but she could not. She sat very still, her breath coming sharply, her eyes fixed on Denise.

  “It is this way,” said the widow. “Raoul may have told you that my parents, and his, always wished us to marry; even when we were children, they were planning for our future.

  “But I was foolish. I defied them, went my own way, married Georges de Neuf. Poor Georges!” She smiled a little.

  “I had my reasons, but we will not discuss them now. I loved Raoul even then, but he was immersed in his work. I knew he did not love me.

  “But to continue. My grandmother, who died shortly before my marriage, left me quite a large sum of money, on condition I married Raoul. I was young and impulsive. Money meant little to me. I laughed at it. Naturally, when I married Georges, I imagined I had forfeited my claim.

  “However, apparently my claim can still stand. Raoul discovered that by marrying him, now I am a widow, I can still inherit my grandmother’s bequest. Only on my death will it be lost to me and go to the charitable organization chosen by my grandmother. Raoul knows my circumstances are not good financially. And I have two sons...”

  “That is why he is marrying me, Adrien, although he knows he will not live long. Do you understand?”

  “Denise, I...”

  “Wait—I have not quite finished. You can imagine that it hurt me when I found this out. I had thought—I had hoped that he was turning to me out of affection, you know.”

  “But I accepted it, his chivalry. Because I hoped that I could help him in some way ease his pain, his despair. He had such a great career before him and now it is snatched away, while he is still so young ... I am a realist, I no longer laugh at money. But compared with love, it is nothing.”

  “But, Madame de Neuf—Denise—why are you telling me all this?” asked Adrien.

  “Have I not told you I am a realist? I do not fool myself, not altogether. I know I am not capable of giving him happiness. In my heart I knew it all along, although I was stupid enough to allow myself to hope. But you have come to him, and you love him and he loves you. And somehow I hope you may save him yet. You are a nurse, a good nurse. And he loves you. For your sake he may make the effort he could not make for me.”

  “You think I—”

  “If anyone can save him it is you. Go to him, Adrien, with your love. That is all I ask.”

  Suddenly Adrien buried her face in her hands. “I can’t, Denise,” she burst out.

  “What can’t you do?” Denise asked sternly. “You will not fail him now?”

  “No, no. But I can’t go to him, can’t tell him I love him.”

  “Are words necessary?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Come,” said Denise, her hand light but authoritative on Adrien’s arm. “We will go to him, and you will make him understand you love him.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Marie will look after the children.”

  Adrien protested no more. They put on coats and went out into the falling snow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  But Gillian met them as they entered her house. She came toward them, her step halting, her face white, three envelopes in her hands.

  “Adrien—Denise—I don’t know how to tell you. Raoul’s gone!”

  “Gone?” Denise’s hand gripped Gillian’s shoulder, hard. “What do you mean? How can he have gone? He can hardly walk, he is so feeble.”

  “I tried my best to stop him, but Nicky wasn’t here and I could do nothing. He was like a man possessed. He said, ‘I am going to Paris, to the hospital. I am going to make them do something for me. I must get well for—’ But he has left these letters for you, and one for me too. Won’t you read them? They will explain.”

  Seeing her own hand trembling violently, but not feeling anything in her state of shock, Adrien tore open the envelope. The familiar writing leapt up at her.

  My dear little Adrien,

  I have seen you again, my beloved, and now I know I cannot go through with this marriage to Denise. My engagement to her was a great mistake, at last I realize it. I only entered into it, because I thought you were lost to me. I hoped to be of benefit to
Denise financially—I will explain that to you later, if you will let me—and also to comfort her a little, perhaps.

  Dear Adrien, I accepted the kind invitation of Mrs. Renton to stay here, because I felt too lazy to make any efforts for myself. I only wanted to die, to marry Denise, and to die. Can you understand that, my darling? I did not want to see you again, I felt I could not bear it. I told myself that all I hoped was that you would never realize you loved me. For still I could not doubt your love. I could never do that, my little ex-mock-fiancée. I saw it in your eyes, though you were ignorant of it.

  But then you came, and now I realized that you knew it too. That you knew you loved me. I saw the words of love trembling on your tongue. I do not know why you did not speak them—was it loyalty to Denise that kept you silent? But it is as well you did not speak, for it you had I should have clasped you in my arms and I should have begged you to marry me tomorrow, as soon as possible. And that would have been most unfair, my darling. For I am a doctor, and I know well I am not in a fit state to marry the one I love. So I am off to Paris to bully my friends, the doctors, once again. I am afraid I am going to be a most trying patient. And if they can do nothing for me then I shall go around the world again, seeking my own cure. For with your love I can do anything. I ask nothing of you, my dearest, least of all that you should wait for me. I would not have you waste your youth for me. I ask only that you follow your heart and that you pray for me and wish me well.

  Yours till eternity,

  Raoul Dubois

  The letter steadied in Adrien’s hand. She felt very calm and still.

  Raoul would get to Paris, despite his weakness, despite the snow. She was sure of it. He would get to the hospital.

  And somehow, somewhere, he would find a cure for his mysterious disease. He who had cured so many would find his own remedy. And she would help him. She would go to him now. And she would never leave his side.

  And Denise?

  She glanced at her. Denise was leaning against the wall, her whole body drooping, her eyes clinging to her own letter, as though she still hoped to find something there to alleviate her bitter pain.