Doctor Raoul's Romance (12 page)

“We have Raoul staying with us, and he plans to marry Denise. But it’s all wrong, a great mistake. He is very ill, Adrien, desperately ill. He loves you. I know it—and you know, don’t you, Adrien, that it isn’t easy to deceive me. Whether you love him or not I don’t know, but if you care for him at all, you must come, for your sake and his. You know I wouldn’t write like this unless it was urgent. But you saved my life and love, you and Raoul, and now I want to save yours. So do please come, quickly. Don’t let pride stand in your way. I know pride is a mistake.”

One sentence in that letter stood out in Adrien’s mind.

“Raoul is desperately ill
...
”

She took out Raoul’s own letter, with its Val d’Argent postmark. Suddenly she was convinced. It wasn’t just that Raoul had been mistaken in thinking he loved her. It wasn’t just that he had suddenly discovered the truth of his feelings for Denise. There was something else here, some mystery that she did not understand.

How could she hesitate now? There was only one thing to do. She must go and see for herself.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A light snow was falling when the little suburban train brought Adrien into Val d’Argent. She had left the village in the heat and bustle of July, and now the streets once so familiar seemed strange and remote, though the shops were still open and people were hurrying up and down.

She had warned no one of her coming, and there did not seem to be a taxi available. So, despite her heavy case, she walked the short distance up the hill, past the high gates of the c
ha
teau to Nicholas’s house.

To her surprise it was Denise de Neuf who opened the front door to her.

At the sight of Adrien the color drained from her face, and a little pulse beat high in her slender throat.

Then suddenly she smiled, and stretched out her hand in greeting.

“So you are here!” she said, her high voice strangely cracked. “You have come, and I am glad. He needs you.”

Raoul appeared at the top of the stairs, and Adrien gasped at the sight of him. He was stooped and bent, his face a haggard mask.

He came slowly down the stairs like an old man, as though he found it an effort to move. But his blue eyes were bright with fever.

“Yes, he is ill,” thought Adrien, in terror. “I was right
.
Gillian was right. He is very ill.”

He had reached her now. He took her hand in his own burning one, and raised it, cool and soft, to his parched lips
.
“Welcome, Adrien!” he said, his voice cracking on the name. “Denise and I welcome you to our wedding!”

“I am being a shocking hostess,
n’est-ce pas?
”
Denise had recovered her sangfroid. “It is not altogether a surprise for us to see you, Adrien. Gillian said she had invited you, but of course we did not expect you tonight. But we are very glad, aren’t we, Raoul, as we know Gillian and Nicholas will be. They are out, just now, dining with the
moire.
It is Jeanne’s free evening, and the children are in bed. So I am afraid you have only Raoul and me to entertain you. Please sit down and I will get you some coffee.
”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

“Then come into the salon, and I’ll fetch it.”

She left them there, in the familiar room, with the round table that had Christmas roses on it now, instead of lilies-of-the-valley. Yet, irresistibly, Adrien remembered how they had stood there, one on each side of that table, and he had towered above her lecturing her on a nurse’s duties. And now
...

Raoul stood, punctiliously, till Adrien had seated herself. Then he sank onto a chair, with a sigh of relief he could not control.

Adrien said gently, “You are ill, aren’t you, Raoul? Very ill. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave a little shrug.

“But it is nothing. Just a little microbe I picked up in Africa. Nothing serious.”

“No,” said Adrien slowly, watching his face, “it isn’t like that. It’s serious, and you know it.”

He gave her a sudden look of anguish.

“Does Denise know?”

“Hush!” His imperious gesture answered her question. Denise’s light footstep had sounded in the hall. She came in now, carrying a tray with a coffee set.

“You must be tired, Adrien, after your long journey. Did you come by plane?”

“Yes, Madame de Neuf.”

“Do call me Denise. I call you Adrien.”

“Thank you, Denise.”

Her mind was racing, no longer muzzy, but full of bewilderment and pain. And yet she was conscious that every pulse and nerve in her mind and body was girding itself for a struggle, a challenge.

What did it all mean?

Raoul was indeed, as Gillian had guessed, desperately ill. The “African microbe” was nothing to joke about. And she knew, too, that he realized the seriousness of his own condition. A doctor of his eminence could not be deceived.

Why then wasn’t he in hospital, receiving treatment? And why did he plan to marry Denise, who apparently was unaware of the seriousness of the situation? Surely he was treating her most unfairly. It wasn’t like Raoul to act in this way. It was not the Raoul she knew.

Had the illness affected his brain, his character, she wondered?

But no, there was nothing of delusion or panic in his fever-haunted yet steady gaze; the gaze which, suddenly, she found fixed on her with a curious questioning intensity. But when her eyes met his, his own flickered, turned hastily to Denise.

“I must ask Nicholas and Gillian,” thought Adrien. “Perhaps they can explain this.”

But yet, in her heart, she did not really believe anyone would be able to tell her the truth. Nobody could do that except Raoul himself—or perhaps, after all, Denise.

Raoul sighed, and his coffee cup shook in his hand. Adrien sprang up, but restrained herself as Denise rose swiftly to her feet, took the cup from his hand, and helped him to his feet.

“He is very tired,” she said, with an apologetic glance at Adrien. “You will excuse us, will you not? Come,
chéri
.”

“Goodnight, Adrien.” Raoul forced a smile over his clenched teeth. He was evidently in pain. Together he and Denise walked to the door, Denise supporting his hesitant steps. “How he has changed!” thought Adrien in despair. “In such a short time!” But at the door, he suddenly looked back at he
r.
It was the old gray gaze under raised eyebrows that she knew so well. The gaze that mocked gently at pretence. But now it was wistful too. It was as though he was saying, “But
this
is the make-believe, isn’t it, Adrien? Isn’t it?” Imploring her to reassure him that his illness, his engagement to Denise, was all a dream.
Or was she just being fanciful? He had turned his gaze now, he had gone, and she was no longer sure.

Outside Raoul’s bedroom door, Denise paused.

“Goodnight, my very dear. Sleep well tonight. No bad dreams.”

He stooped—she knew it hurt him to do it, though he gave no sign of his pain—and very gently kissed her forehead.

“No dreams. Goodnight, my love. Goodnight.”

Denise walked downstairs very, very slowly. In the shaded glow from the electric light, her face was almost as pale and wan as his.

It was strange to Adrien to be back in the familiar bedroom that she had occupied last summer, with feelings so different now from those she had then experienced.

She did not sleep—she had not expected to. She lay awake, hour after hour, listening to the sounds of a winter night. The hoot of an owl, the dull thud of melting snow falling from the roof, a cock’s chilly crow.

When she heard this last, she put on her light, and got up, and washed and dressed, though she knew it was much too early. When she was ready, in a soft blue jumper and skirt, she sat by her warm radiator and tried to read, but she could not concentrate. She was glad when she heard voices and movement in the house and knew that she could go down to breakfast.

Frances and Geoffrey were already in the
salle-a-manger,
and greeted her excitedly and vociferously.

“Hello, Adrien! This is fun.”

“Hello, you two! You’ve both grown enormously.”

“Yes, haven’t we? I’m going to boarding school, in England, after Christmas.” Frances jumped up and down, her braids flying wildly.

“And I’m going next autumn, perhaps,” Geoffrey chimed in. “T
ill
then, Mummy’s teaching me herself.”

“And you’re keeping Mummy busy,” said Gillian, coming into the room with Nicholas following her. “Hello, Adrien. Have a good night?”

“Yes, thank you, Gill,” lied Adrien.

"Well, we’ve a lot to talk about today.” Gillian gave her a meaning glance.

Last night when Nicholas and Gillian had returned from the
maire,
after expressing their delight at seeing Adrien, they had talked chiefly about Blanche. They were delighted to hear that she was doing so well, and of Pierre’s arrival.

“Blanche’s going was just the spur he needed to make him give up loafing and find his place in the world,” Gillian had said, nodding her head approvingly.

Gillian knew Adrien was dying to question her about that letter. The children wanted her to go shopping with them, but their mother took pity on her, and sent them out to play in the snow.

Nicholas had to hurry to catch his train to Paris.

“
Au re voir,
Adrien,” he said, looking in her eyes and smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

He had returned, seemingly without difficulty, to their old brother-and-sister relationship. It was as though, for him, those days of hectic emotions the previous summer had never been.

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
R
aoul 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, o
n
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.