Doctor Raoul's Romance Page 8

  She looked at Nicholas, but he avoided her eyes. Then he buried his face in Gillian’s hair, murmuring incoherent words.

  “Adrien, please!”

  Gillian was becoming very excited. Adrien knew that if she refused to accede to her request, Gillian might work herself into a dangerous frenzy. But, in humoring her, Adrien might take from her the will to live, and that would be far worse.

  Suddenly Raoul Dubois stepped forward.

  “Mrs. Renton,” he said, “calm yourself.”

  “Doctor, you don’t understand.”

  “On the contrary, I understand very well. But it is impossible for Adrien to make you the promise you ask. You see, she has promised to be my wife.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “But what on earth induced you,” Denise de Neuf asked, in exasperation, “to do a thing like that?”

  Raoul laughed at her indignation.

  “I know it was foolish. But what could one do, Denise? It was a difficult situation. My patient’s life was at stake.”

  Denise’s smooth white forehead creased daintily.

  “Surely a doctor does not normally have to become engaged to his patient’s rival in love to save her life? I must admit it makes the medical profession sound much more exciting! No wonder my little Michel is determined to enter it. But I really think I shall have to try to dissuade him.”

  Raoul laughed again, to hide the embarrassment he was determined not to admit he was feeling. Actually he was as puzzled as Denise was by his own action. What on earth had impelled him to do a thing like that? He could not understand the sudden impulse that had moved him. But Adrien had looked at him so pleadingly, her eyes dewy as wood violets in her white face. She seemed to have confidence in him, to be certain that he would somehow save the situation. He could think of no other way. He knew he could not let her down.

  He couldn’t help feeling amused when he remembered how he had startled them all. Nicholas had stared at him as though he had gone mad, which, thought Raoul perhaps wasn’t far from, the truth. Gillian, in startled disbelief, had looked from him to Adrien. Then her face had cleared, magically, and she had nodded slowly.

  “I see,” she had said. “That alters things quite a lot. Then I’ll have to get well, won’t I? It seems, Nicky darling, as though I was wrong. As though you’re going to need me after all.” Nicholas had answered something, in a hurt, protesting voice, but Raoul hadn’t paid attention to that. He had been watching Adrien. She had stood there, as though stunned, gripping the bedpost, her face a mask.

  It was only afterward, when for a few minutes, they were alone, that the frozen face had melted, and she had slipped her hand into his and whispered, “Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, Dr. Dubois. I shall never forget this.” It was only then that he had been sure that she was grateful to him for his intervention, and not offended as he realized, she might well have been.

  She said, coloring, “I can’t think where Gillian got that silly notion about Nicholas and me. But even when she was well it wasn’t easy to make her give up an idea, however silly, once she believed it. And now she’s ill...”

  “Don’t worry, Adrien. Things will come out all right.” She started at his use of her Christian name, but he said gently, “It’ll have to be Adrien now, won’t it? And you’ll have to learn to call me Raoul. Quite a nice name, don’t you think? Though I believe it’s a bit hard for an English mouth to pronounce.”

  “It’s a very nice name. I’ll practise it.”

  Her tone was much lighter, and he dared to say, “You might find chéri easier.”

  She dimpled through the tears that had started to stream down her cheeks, despite her efforts to check them. He got out his handkerchief and wiped them away as he might have done for a child.

  “I think,” he said, “that you are going to be a very nice little fiancée.”

  “Well!” Gillian said when Adrien, her face freshly made up, returned to the bedroom. “This is a surprise! Why on earth didn’t you tell Nicky and me? You know we’d have been delighted.” Nicholas had helped her to put on a new, richly embroidered bedjacket. She looked happier and more animated than she had done for days.

  “To think you let me flirt with your Raoul,” she teased. “And all the while you were engaged to him. You are a dark horse, Adrien! You know, when he first made that announcement that you had promised to be his wife, I didn’t really believe him. You see—I can tell you now, I’d got it into my head that you were in love with my Nicky. Very silly of me, but then invalids do get silly fancies.

  “And then I looked at you and Raoul, and suddenly I knew in a flash that it was true that you do love each other. And I won’t deny now, Adrien, that I was terribly relieved as well as glad.”

  “I did almost love him at that moment,” Adrien thought. “I was so grateful. Embarrassed, of course. But so grateful.”

  She just smiled at Gillian.

  “Yes, I love him,” she said simply, and was glad to hear that the words sounded sincere.

  “I realize that now. Oh, Adrien, I’ve been imagining such silly things. But that’s all over. Now I must get well quickly, so that I can come to your wedding. When is it to be? Or haven’t you decided yet?”

  “Not yet.” Adrien managed to laugh quite naturally. She was, indeed, beginning to feel lightheaded, to find it difficult to distinguish between dreams and reality. Everything was becoming so fantastic.

  “We haven’t known each other very long,” she went on. That at least was true.

  “No, only about a month,” said Gillian. “It must have been love at first sight. You hadn’t met before in England by any chance? No? Well, I won't pry into your secrets, Adrien. Just tell you I’m very glad for you and Raoul. And I hope you’ll be as happy as my Nicky and me. I can’t wish you better than that.”

  Dressing next morning in her uniform, Adrien found her hands were trembling and clumsy. Her whole body was damp with perspiration.

  Yesterday she had been so grateful to Raoul for saving the situation that she hadn’t really stopped to consider what his avowal would mean. And last night she had been so tired that she had slept dreamlessly, all anxieties and embarrassments forgotten. But today they were lined up to face her.

  “How on earth are we going through with this?” she wondered. Up till now, presumably, their engagement was supposed to have been secret. But now they would have to try to behave like people in love.

  An engaged girl would go out with her fiancé. An engaged girl would have a ring.

  Adrien buried her face in her hands.

  “I can’t go through with it,” she thought. “I can’t. It’s such a mockery when I love Nicholas. I must go away.”

  But if she went away, announcing that the engagement was broken off, that she had changed her mind—what would Gillian think then? Surely she would go back to her old belief about Nicholas? The belief that had truth in it. Raoul’s efforts would be wasted.

  Suddenly Raoul’s face rose in her mind, strong, kind and comforting. It was a face you could trust. A face most women wouldn’t find it at all difficult to love.

  If they didn’t already love Nicholas...

  “Raoul will manage things,” she thought. “He’ll arrange everything—after all, he started this. He must have some plan for carrying it through. I’ll leave it to him. It’s the only way.”

  When she went downstairs there was no sign of Nicholas. She had not seen him alone since Raoul’s statement. She wondered what he thought about it. Had he believed it? It would, she told herself firmly be much better for them both if he did. Then he would no longer believe Blanche’s gossip, and he would think he had imagined he’d seen a look of love on her face. He would think she had been dreaming, at that never-to-be-forgotten moment, of Raoul.

  For once, Blanche was down to petit dejeuner. Lately she had avoided Adrien, but today everything was forgotten in her excitement and curiosity.

  “Adrien, what is all this? Gillian tells me you’re engaged to
the fascinating Dr. Dubois. Is it really true? But I thought...” Her voice trailed off. She put a hand to her mouth, childishly.

  “Well, never mind what I thought. This is most exciting, isn’t it, Pierre?”

  Pierre, who was also at breakfast, but who seemed deep in some gloomy reverie of his own, roused himself sufficiently to rise from his chair, bow over Adrien’s hand, and murmur, “My felicitations, mam’selle.”

  Adrien listened to them chattering, forced herself to smile, to answer mechanically, to swallow croissant and coffee. All the time she was listening for two sounds—Nicholas’s feet on the stairs and Raoul’s car in the drive.

  She heard Nicholas first, but he did not come into the salle-a-manger. He went straight into the garden.

  Then she heard the doctor’s car.

  Her heart turned over. She felt she could not possibly go out and meet him, but she knew it would be expected of her.

  “Darling,” Raoul greeted her, as he got out of the car, and bending down, he kissed her lips.

  “I’m sorry you don’t like it,” he whispered, as she drew back, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it for a while, my petit chou.”

  He was in a new mood this morning, an exuberant mood she had not seen him in before; merry devil danced in his eyes.

  Adrien was intrigued, in spite of herself. A fictitious engagement with this man would be even more complicated than she had imagined. And yet she could not help being curious and fascinated.

  What on earth would he do next?

  He drew her arm through his and led her toward the house.

  I have a ring for you, my love, but I will not give it to you here. That would be playing to the gallery a little too much, I think. Will you dine with me in Paris tonight? I would like to put my diamond on your finger down by the river. Rivers are always so romantic, I think, don’t you? And the Seine especially so.”

  “Oh, Raoul, why do you tease like this? It’s ridiculous. When you know that in a few weeks we shall have to tell everybody that our engagement is broken off.”

  “Excellent. You pronounced my name well, chérie.”

  “I wish you’d answer my question.”

  “Certainly. I am not teasing, Adrien. Never in my life did I feel less like teasing.”

  Startled, she looked up at him.

  “Then I don’t understand your attitude. I realize you must take my arm and bend over me in an—an affectionate way, because people may be watching from windows and we are expected to behave like an engaged couple. And now we have started these things, it is important to go through with them. I know I must go out to dinner with you.”

  “Is this such a penance?” he teased.

  “Now you are laughing at me. You can’t deny it.”

  “A little, perhaps.”

  “But I’m serious. I realize, perhaps, I must even wear a ring. But when we are alone together, there is surely no need to keep up the pretense?”

  “What pretense, chérie?”

  “The pretense that we—we’re in love.”

  “Ah, but there is, mignonne. Surely you see it will be impossible for us to play our little comedy well enough to deceive the sharp eyes of Mrs. Renton, unless we put our hearts and souls into it? Unless, just for a short while, we almost believe in it ourselves.”

  “But, Raoul...” she protested.

  “Tell me, sweetheart—” he stopped on the doorstep, and putting his finger under her chin, raised her face to his—“is it really so difficult for you to pretend for a fortnight—a month, perhaps, that you are in love with me?”

  “Dr. Dubois, I—”

  “Raoul, please! You really must remember, Adrien.”

  “Raoul, then.” She forced her eyes to meet his, bravely. “This is an impossible situation.”

  “Quite so. Let us enjoy it, then. Impossible situations are always the most amusing, don’t you think? Trust me, little Adrien. I won’t do anything to hurt you. We won’t discuss things any more now. But tonight we can make plans. I will fetch you here at eight o’clock. D’accord?”

  “Very well. Tonight at eight—darling.”

  She forced the last word out, for they had been mounting the stairs, and now they were entering Gillian’s room. Gillian heard it and smiled, but, as she watched them together, her eyes were puzzled.

  That night Adrien dressed in the white and silver she had worn for Denise’s party. The party at which Raoul had played the Schubert Serenade, and she had learned his character possessed subtlety. That he had another side to him apart from that of the young, ambitious doctor, compassionate to his patients, ruthless with anyone who got in his way or did not measure up to his standards.

  She was afraid the dress might not be suitable. She had no idea, really, what were Raoul’s plans for tonight. But she remembered he had admired her in it, and that gave her confidence. Made her feel beautiful, desirable, competent to deal with a difficult “mock fiancé,” give as good as she got.

  She heard the honk of his car horn, and ran downstairs swiftly, gracefully, her white silk cloak over her arm. Jeanne had admitted him, and he stood in the hall and watched her approaching. Just for a moment it seemed as though little flames, soft as a candle’s glow, gleamed deep in his eyes.

  “Adrien my love,” he said, “you are so beautiful.” He took her hand and kissed the palm, as a lover might do.

  “Excuse me just a moment, Raoul. I must just say goodnight to Gillian, and make sure Nurse Roger has everything she wants.”

  “Nurse Roger? The night nurse? Yes, of course.”

  He spoke patiently, and she got the feeling he was a little rebuffed. That was just as well, she thought. He might plead, as his excuse, that he was doing all this for her sake and Gillian’s, but even so she had no intention of allowing him to have everything his own way. After all, who knew what he might have in mind as suitable for an engaged couple?

  Her landlady’s warning flashed into her mind. “Frenchmen are fascinating, but you can’t trust them.” Adrien had laughed then. She laughed now, but she wasn’t sure the advice wasn’t warranted. And yet a little voice in her heart told her that she could trust Raoul Dubois, trust him utterly.

  They talked little, sitting side by side in the intimacy of the little car, flashing first along the wide auto-route, and then through the brightly lit outskirts of the capital. Raoul was humming something. Presently she recognized the tune—it was Schubert’s Serenade.

  She did not know whether he had made his plans for the evening before, or whether he made them now in deference to her dress. But he took her to Maxim’s, in the Rue Royale—shades of The Merry Widow, thought Adrien, enraptured.

  He smiled at her enthusiasm, finding it young and curiously touching. One couldn’t deny that though Denise was a glamorous person to take out, she was somewhat blasée. But Adrien had a spontaneity that detracted in no way from her poise, but indeed added to it. He was intrigued by her. She was so beautiful, so efficient, yet deep in her personality there was a well of gaiety that kept bubbling out, in spite of her attempts to repress it, making her eyes sparkle, and a little pulse dance at her throat.

  He checked himself abruptly. His thoughts were, he knew, rushing ahead much too fast. One would have to go very slowly and carefully. The English were notoriously difficult.

  Adrien would have liked to linger at Maxim’s, but Raoul had other plans.

  As soon as the meal was finished, he marched her through the glittering globes of light of the Place de la Concorde, down to the river.

  They strolled along the right bank, past the great shadowy mass of the Louvre, down on to the lower walk at the water’s edge, which led under the bridges. And here he slipped the glowing diamond ring on her finger, as he had promised.

  Adrien gasped.

  “But, Raoul, I don’t understand. Why should you give me a ring like this when we’re only pretending?” Her eyes were deep violet shadows in her pale face. He bent his head and kissed the little space b
etween Adrien’s eyes, where puzzled lines of worry were forming.

  “Don’t try, sweetheart. There’s nothing to understand. Just play this little comedy with me. It gives me pleasure, and I promise it shall bring you no pain.”

  He smiled down at her, his eyebrows arched, tantalizingly. Adrien felt the muscles of his arm tighten across her back, drawing her to him.

  Adrien felt as if she was in a dream. Why not enjoy this unreal intimacy, the fun of a make-believe romance, which had come to her out of the shadows of illness and misplaced love?

  She knew he was going to kiss her, and she made no attempt to draw away.

  His lips on hers were gentle, careful as the hands of a connoisseur holding an unfolded rose.

  Little ripples of feeling, stabs of starlight, ran through her body.

  He let her go and smiled at her.

  “Come, my little love. I’m going to take you home.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next few weeks passed as Adrien led her strange double life. Dreams contrasted strangely with reality. In Raoul’s company, she stepped into a make-believe world, which sometimes seemed to be on the brink of becoming dangerously real, but never quite slipped past the mark.

  She was discovering all the different facets to Raoul’s complex character. Really, it was impossible to avoid being intrigued by him.

  Strolling along the left bank of the Seine, with Notre Dame across the water towering above them among the trees, they would pause to look at the bookstalls. Raoul’s eyes would light up suddenly, as he discovered a rare volume going “for a song.” He took her to concerts, to the Opera, to theaters, to nightclubs. But she could see he was equally happy strolling around the Louvre.

  Yes, she could not honestly deny that when their “little comedy,” as he called it, was over, she would miss his company.

  After that first day he had not kissed her, except ceremoniously, when he knew people were watching. She told herself she was glad of this. After all, who would want kisses from a man she did not love? It was odd that the nerves of her body should tingle with disappointment when he said goodnight and turned away without even taking her hand.