Doctor Raoul's Romance Page 5

  He said quietly, “Nurse Grey—cannot we be friends, you and I?”

  “Why yes, of course. I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. I like you, Nurse Grey. We are going to work together, you and I, so I thought I would tell you that. I had a feeling that you thought I was unfriendly to you, prejudiced against you for some reason. I just wanted you to know that wasn’t so. I hope that now you will cease to feel antagonistic toward me.”

  “Doctor, I—”

  “Let’s leave it at that, shall we? And let’s forget our patient for one night, if that is possible.”

  He smiled now, the little hollow deepening at the corner of his mouth. Adrien smiled back. She couldn’t help it. And after all, why not? He was right. It was better to be friendly with a doctor you worked with, especially in a case like this. And she couldn’t deny his charm.

  “Will you have a glass of wine, mademoiselle? And then I have an idea that Madame de Neuf is going to make us dance to the phonogram. Will you excuse my fumbling steps?”

  Actually, he danced very well. Adrien was surprised to find herself waltzing dreamily in his arms.

  But suddenly she noticed her hostess watching her very enigmatically. Surely that wasn’t jealousy in the dark eyes? She smiled inwardly, a little bitterly.

  “You don’t need to worry, Denise de Neuf. He’s much nicer than I thought he was. I have to admit that. But he doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m in love with Nicholas ... always...”

  “Another glass of cognac? Do, Raoul.”

  Raoul Dubois laughed up at his hostess, admiring the gleam of her auburn hair in the soft, shaded light, and her white shoulders shining against her black shealthlike dress. A diamond on a velvet band around her neck sparkled in a quick prism of colors as she flung herself quickly and gracefully on a cushion at his feet.

  Raoul lounged back in his chair.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” he asked. “Soon I shan’t be in a fit state for driving.”

  “You’ve got a head for anything, chéri. I’ve never known you intoxicated.”

  “Denise, my darling, how can you say that? You know I am always intoxicated in your presence.”

  “Don’t tease!” She rose and perched on his knee, her face puckered like a child’s. She knew that, despite her thirty years, she was still able to pout charmingly. “Raoul, why can’t you ever be serious with me? Is it because we have known each other so long?”

  “Life is serious enough, darling. Let us be happy, when we can.”

  Her face brightened.

  “ ‘Cueillez, des aujourd’hui, les roses de la vie!’ Darling, why don’t we get married?”

  He laughed. “Cherie—what will you say next?”

  “I’m serious, Raoul.” She got up and stood, just out of his reach, swaying slightly, provocative and tantalizing. “We thought of it once—at least, our parents did.”

  “And you disobeyed them, and eloped with Georges de Neuf.”

  She sighed, not without pleasure.

  “So you still hold that against me? You are still jealous of poor Georges, although he is dead?”

  “My darling, of course I don’t hold it against you. How can you blame a woman for following her heart?”

  “But I didn’t follow my heart. Not really. But you were so exasperating. So immersed in your work. You took me so for granted, Raoul. I was there to be kissed when you felt like it. The rest of the time you forgot me. And Georges was ardent and eager and swore he loved me. And I thought I loved him. It was only after we were married that I realized my heart was yours. He was unfaithful to me, Raoul, you know that. And now he has died and I have been a widow three years. A widow with three small children. It is lonely, Raoul.”

  He got up from his chair, put his hands one on each side of her neck and looked down into her eyes.

  “Denise ... Denise, chérie. I—” He released her gently. “I must go now.”

  “Have I offended you, Raoul?” she asked, outwardly wistful, inwardly gloating, sure she had him in her power.

  He looked at her, poised and glamorous, very beautiful, very desirable, his for the taking.

  Why did he hesitate? he wondered. Why not take her in his arms, tell her he loved her, and that he longed to be her husband?

  Because it wasn’t true. He desired her, yes, loved her after a fashion. But he did not want to marry her. He did not want to marry anyone, unless...

  An image passed through his mind. The picture of a girl in white and silver, a girl with dark hair and violet eyes, lips slightly parted as though for a kiss, as she listened dreamily to a serenade.

  He said, “Denise, you are all a man could desire in a wife.” He took her hand and kissed it. “But you know I don’t want to marry. I’ve told you that so often. I have my career to consider.”

  “Now it is you who are being ridiculous!” They had been using the familiar tu of families and lovers, but cold now, she went back to the formal vous. “You know as well as I do that it is an advantage for a doctor to be married.”

  “Yes, if he is in general practice, I agree. But it is different for me. For me there will be always much study, much research. I must go around the world, visit backward countries, compare the tempo of their people’s lives with ours, see how it affects their cardiac conditions. I must—”

  “Yes,” she broke in bitterly, “a heart to you is a ‘cardiac condition.’ That’s all. You have no time for emotions. No time for love.”

  “Don’t be angry, Denise, my dear.”

  “You’re laughing again. But Raoul, my darling, who could be angry with you? Toi, toi, mon amour! Only you’d better go now before you break my heart. Even if you don’t believe in it. Except biologically.”

  They kissed goodbye. A lover’s kiss.

  But for the first time in many years Raoul Dubois, as he drove back to Paris, was not thinking of his patients. Not even about Mrs. Renton, or the little boy for whose life he had been striving that afternoon—a battle he had won. He was considering the condition of his own heart—an organ that, according to most women he’d known did not exist. And he was finding the condition of his heart very puzzling, not to say disquieting.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two weeks passed, and Adrien began to feel herself part of the life at Val d’Argent.

  Frances seemed to have taken a fancy to her. Whenever Adrien was free and Frances not at school, the little girl suggested they should go for another walk around the village where Adrien soon began to know all the shop people.

  On Thursday—a holiday for all French schoolchildren—they went to the market, held every Thursday and Sunday.

  The market fascinated Adrien most of all. She wandered delightedly from stall to stall, admiring the piles of fruit, the meat “tender as my heart” according to the label pinned to it by the jovial stallkeeper, the sandals, the skirts and blouses, the flowers, ridiculously cheap, the plates and cups and saucers, the cakes and many different kinds of bread. She would have liked to talk to the men and women behind the counters, asking them about their lives and whether they found their job very cold in winter, but her French wasn’t yet good enough for that.

  Yes, Frances was friendly enough, but Adrien was still unable to make any progress with little Geoffrey. Despite all her efforts, he still shouted, “I hate you!” and turned and ran, whenever he saw her. Exasperated, she was inclined to agree with Blanche that he really was a difficult child. But she was determined not to give up her attempts to win his confidence. She knew there must be some reason for his attitude, and she wished she could get to the root of the matter.

  She believed Frances knew the cause and tried to question her, but the little girl was evasive. Adrien did not agree with Blanche that Frances was deceitful, but she certainly knew how to keep her own counsel extremely well for a seven-year-old.

  For the time being Blanche seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. She flirted with Pierre, and kept the children tolerably quiet. And s
he made no more complaints to Adrien.

  On Sunday afternoon, to Adrien’s surprise, Nicholas asked her to go with him for a drive in his car.

  “It’s a lovely day. We could go to the forest and get some muguets.”

  Adrien was beginning to realize that in France everyone went mad about lilies-of-the-valley, at the beginning of May. But this did not lessen her astonishment at Nicholas’s suggestion.

  “But, Nicholas, don’t you want to be with Gillian? It’s awfully good of you to suggest this drive, but—”

  “Gillian said you were going to give her a sedative.”

  “Well, yes, I am. Dr. Dubois wants her to sleep as much as possible to get her strength up.”

  “Jeanne can keep an eye on her. Gillian wants us to go, Adrien. She’s worried, because she says you aren’t getting out enough. According to her, you’re getting hollow-eyed and pale, though I can’t say I notice it myself. But she’s very keen on you having this break. And I want to talk to you badly. I don’t seem to have seen much of you, since you came.”

  After that, Adrien felt it would be foolish to protest any more. She decided to make the most of this afternoon without any qualms of conscience. It would be bittersweet.

  They set out, after dejeuner. It was a beautiful spring day. The cuckoo was singing. Adrien remembered how, as a wistful, romantic teenager, she used to ask the bird the age-old question,

  ‘“ Cuckoo, cuckoo, tell me clear

  Shall I be married within the year?”’

  And had counted the responses: “Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes!” “Yes,” the bird had answered, but it had lied, as she supposed might be expected of such a mocking bird. It was Nicholas, of course, she had had in mind as a husband, when she asked that question. In those days she had still had hope of the perfect romance. How long ago it seemed.

  “Nicholas,” she asked suddenly, “do you remember that first little sports car of yours?”

  Then she could have bitten her tongue. Whatever had impelled her to ask a question like that?

  They had spent whole days together, with that little red sports car, she and Nicholas. Taking it down to quiet little coves, steering it precariously down dangerous cliff-paths, leaving it on the sand while they bathed, pushing it up again, heaving with all their strength, panting and laughing, when the slope was too steep for the engine.

  Nicholas had kissed her often then, on the forehead or cheek as one would a child. She had tried hard to make him realize she was grown up. She had had her hair done a new grown-up way—she had longed for a perm, but the hairdresser said it would be ridiculous with hair that was so naturally curly. She put on lipstick and mascara and rouge—much too much—and made her fingernails red and long. She did exercises to improve her long, skinny, boyish figure. He noticed nothing. For him, she was still a child. He did not realize the change in her.

  And then, one day, he had realized it.

  They had taken the little red car out for an evening picnic and were driving home by moonlight. Suddenly she had cried.

  “Stop the car, Nicholas, please! Just for a moment. It’s so beautiful here.”

  So they had stopped and looked over the cliff at the sea in the moonlight. She had turned to him, and laid her head on his shoulder, and said, “Oh, Nicholas ... Nicholas...” And then, at last, he must have seen the new magic in her eyes.

  For he had pushed her away, gently but firmly, and started the car again, and driven quickly home. And there had been no more moonlight picnics.

  It was soon after that episode that Nicholas had met Gillian. But what, oh what—Adrien asked herself—had induced her to mention that little red sports car today?

  But evidently the question meant nothing sentimental or embarrassing to Nicholas. He said, “It was fun, wasn’t it? Those were good old days.” But he did not sound as though he regretted their passing.

  She asked again about the lilies-of-the-valley.

  “Do all French people give them to their friends at the beginning of May?”

  “It’s rather a pretty custom, don’t you think? They’re supposed to bring good luck. There are nice little cards on sale, too, rather like birthday cards. May the first is a holiday, of course, the ‘Feast of Workers.’ Anyone who likes can go and pick the muguets in the woods and sell them. That’s why Gillian thought it would be a good idea to dig up some roots today, before the rush starts.”

  So there was a definite purpose behind this outing—to get roots for Gillian’s garden. Adrien tried hard not to feel disappointed.

  They had brought sandwiches with them, and they sat on the muguet-carpeted turf and ate them, and drank lemonade out of one glass. That was painfully like the old days. There was nobody about. A little way back they had passed, in the car, whole groups of family picnickers. But here there was nobody.

  When they had finished—neither of them had eaten much—Adrien had packed the remains of what Jeanne had provided back in the bag. Nicholas, who had been silent for some minutes, lost in thought, his face shadowed, asked quickly,

  “Adrien, please, may I have your opinion as a nurse?”

  “Of course,” Adrien answered steadily. All illusions that this was a picnic from the old days vanished in an instant. Her heart was ashamed and cold as ice. “What did you want to ask me, Nicholas?”

  “What’s your opinion, your real, honest opinion, of this Dr. Dubois? Forget professional etiquette, won’t you, Adrien, and tell me as a friend, as well as a nurse.”

  Her opinion of Dr. Dubois? It was extraordinarily difficult to answer that question, Adrien found.

  “He’s a very clever doctor. I’m sure of that. You can trust him, Nicholas.”

  “And as a man?”

  “I like him. I like him very much.” Adrien was surprised to find herself saying that, still more surprised to realize it was the truth.

  “Then you think there’s a chance, a faint chance, that this treatment may work? I can’t bear Gillian to suffer for nothing.”

  Adrien shivered at the tremble in his voice he couldn’t control. She ached to comfort him.

  She said earnestly, laying her hand on his, “Dr. Dubois thinks there is more than a faint chance, and I’m sure, I’m sure he is right.”

  Nicholas sighed dispiritedly, leaning back against the moss. “If only he could be right... Oh, Adrien! Gillian has been ill so long, it seems. All these lovely spring days—she always loved the spring so. And she can’t enjoy them. She just lies there. Sometimes I think she would be better dead. But how could I live without her?”

  “Oh, Nicholas!” Compassion swamped all Adrien’s other feelings. “You mustn’t say that. She has you, and your love.” And to herself she added, “That’s enough for anybody.”

  Nicholas said brokenly, “There’s so little I can do for her. It seems I have to leave everything to you and Dubois. Not that I don’t appreciate all you do, but—” He stumbled awkwardly to his feet. “If you don’t mind, Adrien, I think I’d like to get home.”

  They didn’t talk much on the journey home. They were held up by a bicycle race, and afterward they found themselves part of the procession of gaily decorated cars and vans following the competitors. Tradesmen advertised their wares through loudspeakers, and threw out pink, blue and yellow pamphlets from the vans. All the householders and their children had come out to watch. Everybody was happy and smiling.

  Nicholas gritted his teeth, curbing his impatience.

  They got home at last. They were surprised to see Dr. Dubois on the threshold, talking to Dr. Lerouge and Jeanne. He was not expected, because he had said he wouldn’t call today.

  He looked at them ironically. Once again Adrien felt his disapproval.

  “Now why?” she asked herself, irritated. “What have I done wrong now? We’ve got on quite well this week. Surely he knows me well enough by now to realize I wouldn’t leave my patient unless I was quite sure it was safe?”

  She raised her chin and went to meet him. Really, in his own way, she
thought, he was almost as difficult as little Geoffrey. He greeted them curtly.

  “Good evening, Nurse Grey, Mr. Renton. I have decided to start Mrs. Renton’s special treatment tomorrow. Nurse, please have everything ready. I shall be here at eleven o’clock.”

  Adrien could not sleep that night. She tossed and turned restlessly, hearing the clock strike hour after hour. Clocks, rather. First the solemn grandfather that had belonged to Gillian’s family and she had brought to France with her. Then the gay, frivolous French clock on the landing, and finally, faintly, Frances’s cuckoo clock.

  She could not make out at all how the children could sleep with its constant half-hourly call. She had suggested to Blanche that the clock should be removed at night, but at the suggestion Frances had protested so vehemently that no more was said.

  “I expect they find it company,” said Blanche, with unexpected understanding.

  Adrien turned once again from her right side to her left. The mattress felt hard, the pillow wet.

  Her thoughts went around and around; really, she told herself, a trained nurse should have more control. She should not lie awake at night imagining all the things that might go wrong with her patient. She should will herself to sleep so that she might be rested and prepared for all contingencies.

  She wondered if Gillian was sleeping. Ought she to have given her a sedative? She had meant to, but when she peeped in on her, last thing, her patient had been sleeping peacefully, and Adrien had decided not to disturb her.

  Actually, Gillian was dreaming of her wedding day, of the light shining through the stained-glass window over the altar, covering Nicky’s face with a fiery glow, as he made his vows. She had had all sorts of random thoughts, “This dress is too tight for me, I ought to have taken off another pound or two. Nicky is sweet. So earnest and solemn. And tonight... tomorrow ... I’m glad we waited. He’s my husband now, till death us do part.” And she had felt the coolness of the ring on her finger. And they had smiled at each other, as though they were alone in the flower-filled church.