Doctor Raoul's Romance by Penelope Butler Page B

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.
    Nicholas was obviously puzzled by what had happened. The day after Raoul had announced their engagement, he stopped her in the hall.
    “Adrien—this is a surprise,” he began.
    “It’s a surprise for me too, Nicholas.” She smiled up at him.
    “Is it, Adrien?” His eyes narrowed anxiously.
    “I mean—” she corrected herself hastily, confused—“I mean ... it all happened so suddenly.”
    She forced herself to look him in the eyes. She ought to say, “We love each other,” but she dared not. She was sure Nicholas would sense the insincerity of the words. But she could truthfully say, “We understand each other, Nicholas.”
    “Then in that case—I wish you all happiness, Adrien.” He pressed her arm gently and turned away.
    “He isn’t pleased,” thought Adrien, “he isn’t really pleased.” For her, those few moments had been bittersweet.
    Blanche was openly envious.
    “You are lucky, Adrien—I do envy you! I never thought of trying for Raoul Dubois. I thought he was all tied up with Denise de Neuf!”
    Adrien smiled.
    “I thought you didn’t want to get married, Blanche. You told me you wanted to give your life to the theater.”
    And just now, one didn’t need to be a skilled psychiatrist to see that, in spite of her determined lightness of manner, the girl was deeply upset. Her face was pale and her eyes had an unhealthy brightness. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, as though she was in the grip of an acute nervous tension. Certainly something was boiling up inside Blanche.
    She determined to try to tackle Blanche herself. But she did not make much progress.
    “Blanche, are you ill?” she asked her.
    Blanche tossed her red hair. “Course not,” she said airily.
    “Then what is the matter?”
    “Oh, leave me alone, Adrien! I’m all churned up. Sick of life!”
    “Oh dear, oh dear,” worried Adrien. “Everyone in this house is getting so highly strung, one doesn’t know where one is.” The only exception was little Geoffrey. Once so tearful and full of tantrums in her presence, he accepted her now, and came to her freely to be read to and played with, when she had the time. But his sister, Frances, had started to sulk.
    “We don’t see much of you now, Adrien. Why don’t you look after us, instead of Aunt Blanche? You’re much nicer.”
    Adrien laughed.
    “You wouldn’t think so if you saw more of me. I can be very strict with naughty little girls. But you know I have to look after Mummy.”
    “Mummy’s getting better now, isn’t she?”
    “Yes, she’s much better now. Soon she’ll be able to look after you and Geoffrey herself. Then you won’t need me or Blanche.”
    “I suppose not,” said Frances slowly. “But Adrien, that won’t be much fun, will it, if Mummy’s as cross as she is now?”
    Nicholas arrived in time to hear the last question. He said shortly, “Frances, never let me hear you speak like that about your mother.”
    Startled, Frances colored and seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and went off murmuring that she must do her homework.
    Nicholas threw himself into a garden chair. He said