Doctor Raoul's Romance (2 page)

“No!” he burst out. “He didn’t tell me any such thing. If he had, I wouldn’t have believed him. I will never accept a verdict like that for you. But it wasn’t anything like that. It’s just that he wants to bring another doctor to see you. A young specialist. I didn’t tell you because I know how tired you are of new doctors.”

“Oh well, if this one’s young, he may be more interesting. Let’s hope he knows some English. I get tongue-tied, trying to answer medical questions in French. I’m sure I sometimes describe most contradictory symptoms, trying to make the most of my very limited vocabulary.”

“I think this one will speak English all right. I believe he is half English.”

“Well, one must be thankful for small mercies. Let’s hope he can prescribe a rapid and miraculous cure. Ah, here comes Beauty!”

The door was pushed open by a small brown Corgi dog that flung itself violently on the bed. Nicholas muttered something like, “Adrien won’t allow this sort of thing, and a good thing too!”

Gillian paid no attention to his comment. She stroked the little dog who licked her face fervently. The door opened again. Blanche thrust her head in.

“Nicky, do you know it’s half-past five? Are you going to Paris, to the station, or do you want Pierre and me to go?”

Nicholas glanced at his watch, sprang to his feet.

“I’d no idea it was so late. Excuse me, won’t you, darling? I must see to things.” He kissed his wife and hurried from the room. The door closed, with Blanche’s typical bang.

Gillian lay back on her pink pillows, caressing the little dog, curled up quietly by her side.

“Beauty,” she said, “oh, Beauty, darling. This new doctor is my last chance. I know it. My very last chance
...
”

She pulled at the soft ears, rubbed her nose between the large, limpid eyes that gazed at her so devotedly, and felt the small, pink tongue licking away her tears.

The Customs official had come by and passed Adrien’s cases with a smile. It was wonderful, Adrien thought—the French way of doing all this on the Paris express, instead of making you hang about when you got off the boat. The passport official had come too and stamped her passport “Paris, Gare du Nord.”

She was nearly at her destination. In a few minutes, if he came to the station as he had said he might, she would see Nicholas again. Nicholas
...

She tried hard to still the frantic, exultant beating of her heart.

To calm herself, she took her little mirror from her handbag and considered her appearance. Yes, blue suited her, there was no doubt of that. Especially with the violet scarf accentuating the unusual color of her eyes.

It was nice to be out of uniform. Tomorrow she would have to wear it again, she supposed, unless Nicholas—and Gillian, of course—preferred something less formal. She had brought several summer frocks with her just in case.

It would be great fun to shop in Paris. She wondered if everything would be terribly expensive. She opened her wallet and surveyed the large, unfamiliar banknotes that her bank had procured for her.

Paris! Everyone she had told had been thrilled to hear she was going there, though some had tried to hide their envy by making disparaging remarks about the great city. Even Mrs. Jonas had become excited and voluble.

“Gay Paree! Ah, you’ll have a good time there, miss, what with all them nightclubs and the Eiffel Tower. But you be careful with them there Frenchies. Fascinating, they are—I’ve seen them on the telly. But you can’t trust them. Don’t forget that, will you, miss? You can’t trust them.”

“A charming, handsome Frenchman,” thought Adrien, by no means prepared to accept Mrs. Jonas’s pessimistic view of the French character. “I might do worse.”

They were passing through the outskirts of Paris. She couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower anywhere, but presently she realized they were drawing into the station.

She got to her feet, stiffly, reached up for her suitcase and climbed down the steps from the high train on to the low platform.

“By the engine,” Nicholas had promised in his letter. She made her way quickly down the platform, her eyes peering eagerly ahead of her. No, there was no sign of him.

She paused, disappointment making her hesitant and anxious, wondering what to do.

She pulled herself together and shrugged her shoulders. Something had prevented his coming, had prevented him from sending someone to meet her. She hoped it didn’t mean Gillian was worse. Oh well, she would know soon. The first thing was to find a taxi.

But before she could move forward again, there was a stir ahead of her. A red-haired girl, in a vivid scarlet skirt, pushed her way through the crowd of people leaving the platform, followed by a large-eyed, thin young man.

“My Frenchman!” thought Adrien, laughing inwardly in relief that, even if Nicholas hadn’t been able to come himself, he had at least sent someone to meet her. He hadn’t forgotten all about her.

“Adrien! It is Adrien, isn’t it?” The girl threw her arms around Adrien’s neck, in a demonstrative hug. “This is Pierre Valentin, our odd-job man. Pierre, Adrien Grey.”

Adrien held out her hand to the young man, wondering whether he would kiss it. But he only shook it more vehemently than an Englishman would, bowed over it, and murmured “Mam’selle.” Then he let it go, and picked up her suitcase.

Blanche announced, “This way. The car’s over here.” Adrien followed meekly.

Normally, she would have been thrilled by the drive through Paris. She was in the front of the car—a Renault, they told her—next to the young chauffeur. Blanche, kneeling on the floor behind and hanging over the seat between them, eagerly gave a running commentary:

“This is Montmartre. That’s the Place Pigalle. There’s the Moulin Rouge—it’s a cinema now. Down that way is the Arc de Triomphe—you can just see it. Now we’re coming to the Bois—the Bois de Boulogne, that is.”

“It’s like a forest,” remarked Adrien, surprised.

“It is a forest,” said Blanche proudly, as if she owned it.

Yes, normally Adrien would have enjoyed the drive, would have been thrilled to see the many famous places she had read about.

Surely it was Pierre’s driving, that caused this queer, sick feeling in her heart and in her stomach. Yes, it must be Pierre’s driving.

It couldn’t be the thought of seeing Nicholas, Why should the thought of seeing Nicholas, at last, make her ill with nerves?

She had screwed herself up to the ordeal on the train, and the delay, the continued suspense, was making it worse. But it was ridiculous. He was a friend, a brother—nothing more than that. And she was going to nurse his wife.

They were out of Paris now, passing through woods into what seemed to be country. It struck her that the Paris suburbs were much less towny than those of London.

“We’re nearly there,” Blanche announced. And then, a few minutes later, “this is Val d’Argent.”

“Au Clair de la Lu
ne
,
”
thought Adrien, suddenly remembering, vividly, the pictures in a book of old French nursery rhymes she had had as a child. Her father used to play the tunes on a rather rickety piano. Yes, here were the houses with white shutters pressed back against gray stone walls, the lime trees, the wrought-iron gates, the chateau with its round gray towers outlined against a vivid blue sky. There was the
boulangerie
and the cafe with the tables outside and people drinking coffee and wine and smiling at the passing car.

Suddenly the car stopped with a jerk. Blanche reached over Pierre’s shoulder and sounded the horn. The tall wrought-iron gates swung open, and Nicholas was standing there, smiling at her.

She saw the familiar face, etched with new lines of worry, and ached to comfort him. She got out of the car as he took her hand. And she knew that this man was no ordinary friend, no brother, but the man she loved. The man she would give anything to have for her own. But also the man for whose happiness she would give her life.

She forced a smile to her trembling lips.

“Hello, Nicholas,” she said.

CHAPTER TWO

Adrien awoke the next morning to the crowing of cocks and the singing of birds.

She lay in bed, feeling the soft air blowing in on her through the open window—she had flung back the shutters before going
to bed, in defiance of French custom—and thought about last night.

Nicholas, Blanche, Pierre and herself had gathered around the supper table. Pierre, thought Adrien, was rather an enigma. Chauffeur, secretary, odd-job man and gardener, he seemed to be treated as one of the family just as she was.

The supper was served in the French manner, potatoes and vegetables following the meat instead of with it. Jeanne, the little
bonne a tout faire,
moved untiringly around the table to the left of each person in turn, proffering the dishes. After the
salade
—lettuce with oil and vinegar dressing—Jeanne changed the plates and brought cheese and fruit. The cheese fascinated Adrien. It was in little rolls and was eaten with sugar, on a spoon.

They had Beaujolais at the beginning of the meal, and Porto from Malaga with the cheese. It was an excellent supper, and Adrien, hungry after her journey found herself enjoying it.

The wine relaxed her. When the meal was over, she went with Nicholas into the salon and lay back in her chair, smiling away the cigarette he offered her. “Wouldn’t Gillian like to see me tonight?” she asked.

He hesitated and said, “She’s very tired. She’s asleep now. I think we’ll wait till tomorrow, Adrien.”

Adrien was rather surprised. She understood that the French nurse had left that morning, which was a pity. It would have been better to have had a consultation. But it couldn’t be helped now.

“Oughtn’t I to settle her for the night? Give her her tablets, and so on?” she inquired.

“I’ve done that,” answered Nicholas.

A finger of disquiet touched Adrien’s heart. She hoped Gillian really wanted to have her. Would Gillian have preferred a stranger—an impersonal nurse? Adrien hoped it was not entirely Nicholas’s idea that she come to nurse Gillian.

She calmed herself. It was too late to worry about that now. As a nurse, she should be able to make the patient like her, or at least have confidence in her.

“When shall I see the doctor?” She felt things would be easier when she had discussed this illness of Nicholas’s wife with a professional. It would then seem more like an ordinary case.

Nicholas frowned, and once again she felt a deep shudder of pain at the lines of anguish in his face.

“He’s coming tomorrow, with another doctor. A heart specialist. A consultation ... Gillian does so hate that sort of thing.”

Adrien’s interest quickened.

“Oh, that’s hopeful, Nicholas. The specialist will probably be able to suggest a new treatment.”

Nicholas smiled faintly.

“I suppose so. One must always hope. But we’ve had so many of them, Adrien. And they do no good. Ever since I wrote that first letter to you, Gillian has grown weaker. Now all they do is shake their heads, and say something like ‘six months, perhaps a year.’
” His voice broke off in a sob he couldn’t control and he buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, Nicholas
...
” Adrien found her hand on his arm. She didn’t take it away, and he let it stay there. She had the impression he did not notice it.

The room was very quiet. Through the open window came the sound of voice—Pierre’s and Blanche’s—laughing, talking
...

Nicholas sighed and with an effort, pulled himself together, forcing a smile.

“We mustn’t be so depressing on your first evening here. Perhaps, as you say, this new specialist may be able to suggest something. Would you like to join Blanche and Pierre in the garden? It’s looking rather pretty just now, I believe. It’s chiefly their work—I don’t have much time for it. But we’ve planted a lot of roses. I hope their scent will drift up to Gillian’s room.
”

“He thinks of her all the time,” thought Adrien.

They found Blanche and Pierre kneeling on the path industriously weeding. Adrien noticed their hands were very close together, and every time their fingers touched their eyes met and their lips drew nearer. They didn’t notice that she and Nicholas had joined them until Nicholas’s shadow fell across them, and they looked up startled.

“Hello,” said Blanche, scrambling to her feet. “We’re weeding.”

“So I see,” said Nicholas, a trifle dryly.

“Doesn’t he approve?” wondered Adrien. “If not, why does he let them be thrown together so much?”

But the answer to that came readily to her mind. He did not really care. He was too engrossed with his wife to care about anybody else. Adrien wondered if his work had also become mechanical, or whether work at the office helped him to forget.

They strolled about the garden for a while. Then Jeanne opened the kitchen door and called out something, and Nicholas smiled saying, “The
tisane
is ready.”

“What’s that?” Adrien asked.

“A drink—a sort of tea—usually made with herbs, lime or menthe,” Blanche told her. “It’s supposed to calm your nerves and make you sleep well. Jeanne insists we have it. She’s most hurt if we don’t live the French way. Often Gill and I used to long to pile everything on our plates at mealtime, and eat the English way, but Jeanne was horrified at the idea of such a
mélange
,
as she called it. We could see she was terribly shocked, and Nicholas said we’d better give way, or she’d be convinced English people were completely uncivilized.”

Adrien laughed, a laugh that broke off into a yawn. She felt suddenly very tired. Perhaps it was because she was thinking of the happy, laughing family party that Blanche’s words had conjured up in her mind, and the tragedy that had overtaken them.

Nicholas looked at her with understanding.

“You’re dead tired, aren’t you, Adrien? I should go to bed, if I were you.”

She acquiesced readily. She had to admit she was glad she didn’t have to see Gillian tonight. She was not sorry to slip between the fresh white sheets and drift off immediately into a sleep. Her sleep was light—she had trained herself not to sleep heavily, in case a patient needed her—but dreamless.

At last Adrien threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.

She stepped out of the window, to stand for a moment on the little iron balcony, breathing the fresh morning air. Everything was very green. Young leaves swung lightly in the gentle breeze. Beneath her window, a lilac was just coming into bloom.

“It’s beautiful here,” thought Adrien. “What a perfect home for a young married couple and their children, if
...
”

She wondered what the children were like. Blanche had told her they had gone to stay with friends. Were they like their father? she wondered. Had they his gentle gravity, spiced with the unexpected humor she loved? Did they have his hair, his eyes, his mouth, his smile?

Determinedly she turned her thoughts away from Nicholas. She forced herself to think about Gillian, her patient, and the specialist, who was to come this morning for a consultation. Would he, perhaps, want Gillian to go into hospital? If so, Adrien’s task would be over before it began.

Would she be glad of that? she wondered. It would certainly make things easier. And yet she hated the thought of leaving Nicholas alone with his misery. She did not think Blanche would be much help. She had already summed up that young woman as being well-meaning but tactless, and probably engrossed completely in her own affairs. The children were unknown to her as yet, but at seven and five they were she felt, too young to be much comfort. No, she decided she wanted to stay, however painful or difficult the situation might be.

She washed and dressed in her severe nurse’s uniform, gray dress, white apron, white cap, stiff white collar and cuffs. She went down to the
salle a manger
and found Nicholas crumbling a
croissant.
Jeanne apparently relaxed her prejudices sufficiently to give him the English breakfast of a boiled egg, but he had hardly touched it. His morning paper,
Figaro,
lay unfolded beside his coffee cup, but she could see he wasn’t reading it.

Blanche evidently didn’t bother to come down to the
petit dejeuner.
There was no sign of Pierre.

“Good morning, Nicholas.”

“Good morning, Adrien. I hope you slept well?”

Then he looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Must you?” he asked.

“Must I what?”

“Must you wear that uniform?”

“Well, I’m a nurse.”

“Gillian gets so tired of medical formality. I’d hoped that
you
—
”

“Would you rather I changed?”

“Much rather, and I’m sure Gillian would also. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. A summer dress would be much cooler. It’s very warm for April, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, I hadn’t noticed. Oh, have some coffee and a
croissant.
I’m being neglectful. Would you like an egg?”

She shook her head, poured herself some coffee, and bit into a
croissant.

“No, thank you. This is delicious. Jeanne will approve of me. I’m only too anxious to live the French way, for a little. I know I’ll find it fascinating. But Nicholas, tell me—how is Gillian this morning?”

“Much the same. Her condition doesn’t seem to change much from day to day. Sometimes she’s a little more tired, that’s all. I’ll take you to her when you’ve finished your coffee. That is, after you’ve changed your dress, if you really don’t mind doing that.”

Half an hour later Adrien was being shown into Gillian’s room. A little brown dog jumped down from the bed and approached Adrien gingerly, sniffing at her cautiously. When she offered it her hand to sniff, and stroked its nose gently, it came to the conclusion that she was a friend. It leaped up at her, barking happily, then jumped back to the nest it had made for itself on its mistress’s bed.

Adrien was a little shocked at the idea of an animal being given the freedom of a sickroom, but she said nothing.

Gillian raised herself on her pillows, and smiled.

“Hello, Adrien. It
is
nice of you to come. I’ll try to be a good patient. Oh, I do like that dress!”

“Nicholas was right,” thought Adrien, with an almost proprietorial thrill of pride in his discernment. But that was all right, she thought. One might feel that way with an elder brother. She looked down at her crisp lemon-colored linen dress and smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I do so love to see pretty clothes,” sighed Gillian, “and really, I don’t get much chance to. Blanche’s taste is bizarre, to say the least, and I’m horribly afraid my daughter Frances is going to take after her. Nurse Claudel was good and efficient, but I never dared ask her to change out of uniform. The only person in the house who has pretty things is Jeanne—up till now, that is. But do sit down, Adrien, and tell me about your journey. And how is everyone in England? It seems ages since we were last there.”

“Really,” thought Adrien, “this is more like a hostess greeting a visitor than a patient with a nurse.” She sat down obediently, and while she chatted easily, she observed her patient from both a personal and professional angle.

Gillian’s face was thinner than it had been when she saw her last, though it had more character. There was a jut about the angle of the chin and a firmness in the corners of the mouth that had not been there before. There were, Adrien realized, depths in Gillian’s character that had not been disclosed when she had led the apparently superficial life of a spoiled d
e
butante. Only love could have given her features that sweetness.

Suddenly Adrien felt almost faint with envy, even though she noticed only too clearly the flush in Gillian’s cheeks, the shadows under her eyes, and the emaciation of the hand lying, a little restlessly, on the turned-down sheet. Even though she saw the febrile, quivering beat of the pulse in the little white throat, and sensed, as a nurse can do, without examining her, that her patient was desperately ill.

Then the emotion faded, changed to compassion for Gillian and for Nicholas.

It seemed that Nicholas’s wife was going to die, and there was nothing that Adrien, or anyone else, could do about it. Suddenly anguish filled Adrien, mixed with angry resentment at the injustice of fate, that Nicholas, kind, gentle Nicholas, should have to suffer like this.

The April sunlight flooding into the room seemed a mockery as it shone on the flowers and books on Gillian’s bedside table, and on the gilt triangles and little beads of the various childish “patience” puzzles her husband or children had brought her.

But Adrien
was a trained nurse. She knew, as she chatted gaily, that nothing of what she was feeling showed on her face.

Suddenly the little brown dog became excited. It jumped off the bed, and rushed over to the window, barking loudly. Sure enough, there was the sound of a car drawing up in the road outside the gate, followed by footsteps on the gravel path, and the ringing of the doorbell.

Nicholas got heavily to his feet. He had been sitting on the windowsill.