Free Doctor Raoul's Romance by Penelope Butler

few minutes.”
    A little while ago he had been only too anxious to get away from her without further embarrassment for either of them. Now he only wanted to stay here with her. To rest in the peace of her presence—the peace and strength which, always even as a child, she had been able to give him.
    Had she realized, he wondered, that in their relationship, their friendship, it was always she who had been the strong one?
    Now the drug was relaxing his conscience, his inhibitions. What if she did love him? He was sorry for her, of course, but it did not make her less comforting to be with.
    Adrien was saying, “Nicholas, I wonder if you’ve ever thought of sending the children to boarding-school, while Gillian is ill?”
    “Yes, I have thought about it. We’ve talked about it, as a matter of fact. But Gillian couldn’t bear the thought of parting with them.”
    “When she’s convalescent, she probably won’t mind so much. It would be good for them, I think. And it would free Blanche. I think that’s important, Nicholas.”
    Nicholas was feeling muzzy. He had to force himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
    “Blanche is a selfish little toad,” he said idly.
    “Not really. She’s foolish, Nicholas. And she gets strange fancies. But I have an idea she’s really rather brilliant. I think she gets so frustrated here, when she’s longing to be out in the world, that she starts making up all sorts of silly little romances, to pass the time.”
    “Oh, you’re clever, Adrien,” thought Nicholas, half asleep. “But it’s no good now trying to deny that you love me, trying to make me believe that all children have strange fancies and that Blanche loves to make up romances. All that may be true enough. But it’s too late now. I saw that look on your face, Adrien, and I know ... I know ... ”
    But soothed as he was, with half his faculties dulled by the sedative, it was by no means disagreeable to him to think that this pretty girl, his old friend, loved him. On the contrary, it was pleasant. It is always flattering to be loved, if one will admit it.
    He smiled at her, his eyes half closed.
    “You’re sweet, Adrien,” he murmured.
    He should have guessed the pain his words caused her.
    She passed her hand over his forehead, but with a nurse’s, not a lover’s, touch.
    “Go to bed, Nicholas, please. You’re half asleep already. You’re dreaming, I think. Here, take my arm. And don’t worry about tomorrow. Everything’s going to be all right. I know it, somehow. I know it.”
    It was a good thing for Adrien that, next morning, she was too busy to think. The rest of the night had been terrible for her. She had sat at the window, watching the coming of the early dawn, asking herself, “Did I give myself away to Nicholas? Does he know I love him?”
    The two questions repeated themselves ceaselessly, like the buzzing of mosquitoes on a hot summer night. She fell asleep, her head against the window frame.
    She woke to the singing of birds, the cuckoo, brisk and mocking, dominating the rest. She felt stiff and unrefreshed.
    She took a cold bath and dressed quickly in uniform. Then she went to prepare her patient.
    She knew that she, the nurse, looked pale and hollow-eyed, and she knew, too, that Raoul Dubois noticed it. But he made no comment. Today there was only one point of concentration—the patient, Gillian Renton.
    “Is everything ready, Nurse?”
    “Yes, Doctor. Quite ready.”
    “Good! Then we’ll set to work.”
    That first day, the treatment itself did not take long. Dr. Dubois talked cheerfully, almost facetiously, in the way he knew by now Gillian preferred—he was always careful to adapt his manner to suit his patients’ characters, and could be solemn and portentous if he felt that gave more confidence. He prepared his syringe. Adrien drew back the loose blue sleeve of Gillian’s nightgown. The syringe pierced gently, firmly, into the vein. Dr. Dubois took the patient’s wrist and