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
“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
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