Heart Specialist (4 page)

Upstairs in the apartment, Martine was waiting for her with Fifi actually hugged in her arms.

Martine, in the past, had had little time for Fifi, but now she seemed to derive consolation from the feel of the animal
’
s curly gray fur.

“
Mademoiselle
!
”
she exclaimed when she had admitted Valentine.
“
Oh,
mademoiselle
, Monsieur Dubonnet has telephoned, and my mistress has left me a wonderful legacy!
”
She allowed Fifi to wriggle out of her arms and then covered her face with her hands.
“
It is too generous!
”
she sobbed.
“
It is much too generous!
”

Valentine soothed her and then asked in a faint voice if she could have a pot of tea.

“
It has been rather a
...
long day,
”
she said, collapsing onto a settee.

Martine instantly recovered herself.

“
But of course,
mademoiselle,
”
she said.
“
But of course.
”

She flew to make the tea, and she also cut a few sandwiches and arranged them temptingly on a plate. When she returned to the big room where Valentine was still sitting limply on the settee, she was chattering about the breast of chicken being very tender, and that if
mademoiselle
was really hungry she would serve her the main meal immediately.

“
As it is your last night, I took the liberty of ordering
...
”
she
was beginning and then broke off and set down her tray hurriedly and went to the side of the settee.

“
Ma fois
!
”
she breathed.
“
How I run on, and it is plain that the day has been very painful to you indeed! And is it any wonder?
”
She sank down onto the deep
V
cushions beside the slight figure in the plain black suit, and she was shocked by the pallor of the other
’
s face.
“
In the morning,
mademoiselle
, you should stay in bed, and I will bring you a tray.
”

But Valentine shook her head and smiled with her colorless lips.

“
In the morning, Martine, I shall be quite myself again, but today has been, well, rather more than
I
expected!
”

Martine nodded understandingly.

“
And there were many people at the funeral?
”
she wanted to know in a slight sepulchral voice.
“
Monsieur Georges Constantia was certain to be there, and Monsieur Henri
...?
All who could get there, of course, would be there!
”

Valentine gave her a few details of what had happened that day, and while Fifi scrambled up onto her lap and nibbled the sandwiches she didn
’
t touch, and Martine poured her a cup of tea, she wondered how she was going to break the news to Martine of Miss Constantia
’
s
extreme generosity to herself. Perhaps because she didn
’
t believe in it herself yet—for the impact of Miss Constantia
’
s generosity had so far passed her by because of the manner in which it had been made known to her—she even toyed with the idea of not mentioning it to Martine at all that night, as if it was something unimportant that could be delayed. But then the anxiety in the maid
’
s face when she spoke about future plans and clearly indicated that the very idea of saying goodbye
to the apartment was
“
tearing her apart,
”
as she put it, convinced Valentine that the news must not be delayed.

She began by saying,
“
Martine, when Monsieur Dubonnet telephoned, did he tell you anything else of importance? Did he, for instance mention
...
”

And she watched Martine
’
s face as she broke the news.

Martine looked, at first, uncomprehending. And then the most widely delighted smile broke over her face.

“
Then you will not after all be leaving Paris!
”
she cried. She stood up and started to flutter excitedly around the room.
“
You are a rich woman,
mam
’
selle
!
You are a woman of substance!
Ma fois,
but it is wonderful! And if
monsieur le docteur
says that you may remain here for nine months, then
I
will also remain and look after you. I will look upon you as my new mistress, and with the money in the bank that has been left to me by my dear late mistress,
I
will have, as you say, the
‘
nest egg.
’
It will be something to fall back on in my old age, and as yet I have many years of work ahead of me—I am but fifty—and
...
”

She went on and on in an excited French flood, and Valentine lay back against the cushions of the luxurious settee and felt peaceful and almost happy for the first time that day. She felt peaceful because the room, apart from the maid
’
s volubility, was a deliciously quiet room, furnished with impeccable taste—which was something Miss Constantia must have had all her life.

The carpet was like a blue gray moss, the curtains were silvery gray cascades, and the standard lamp sent a flood of serene amber light across the pearl gray damask of the settee
’
s upholstery. And in the wide white marble fireplace burned a small fire of scented pine logs.

Valentine thought,
I
am happy because Martine is happy
,
after being sunk in absolute misery, and because I can keep Fifi!

Fifi had gone to sleep on her lap.

Martine bent over and raked at the fire and then added another couple of logs to the warm rich glow. Outside, the stars in the Paris sky looked down through the gossamer haze of a spring night at the long lines of taxicabs and glittering opulent cars that were carrying people out to dine and to the theater; and in the quiet thoroughfare where the apartment was situated they looked down on towering chestnut candles gleaming pallidly in the gloom. The soft hiss of tires stole upward to the room where the girl lay on the settee, and in an adjoining apartment someone switched on a radio, and piano music drifted out into the night.

Valentine became conscious of the weight of her eyelids, and they seemed determined to come to rest on her slightly wan cheeks. Black suited her, but it also made her look very pale, rather fragile. Martine, whose voice had died into silence several seconds before, moved quietly and covered her with a blanket, and Valentine tried to murmur her thanks. But all she could think was,
he will have it all within the year. As if I would marry to keep a legacy! One that
I
never expected
...!
And he will have Chaumont. Chaumont is such a lovely house, such a very dignified house. It will suit him! I detest him
...!
He thinks of me as
...

And then she was fast asleep.

Martine tiptoed out and shook her head over the sandwiches that Fifi had nibbled.

Barely a quarter of an hour
later the apartment bell rang. It had a very discreet method of ringing and, sunk deep in slumber, Valentine never heard it.

She never heard Martine, when she opened the door and looked at her, say in a slightly reproving voice,
“
It seems a pity to wake her,
monsieur.
She came in looking exhausted. She has not even touched the tea I made her, and the dog has eaten all her sandwiches. It seems a pity that she should not be left in peace, when all she desires to do is sleep.
”

“
I won
’
t disturb her, Martine,
”
Dr. Daudet said quietly. But he crossed the room until he stood beside the settee and could look down on Valentine, with her long eyelashes resting on her cheeks and glinting golden at the tips, her flowerlike mouth pale because she had not once restored her makeup throughout the day.

Leon Daudet
’
s eyes narrowed as he stood close beside her, but the expression on his face, even if she could have seen it, would have struck Valentine as quite inscrutable.

“
I will let her sleep,
”
Martine whispered at his elbow.
“
It seems a pity to wake her,
monsieur.
Even if she sleeps throughout the night she will be all right here.
”

He nodded. Then he himself bent and arranged the blanket more closely around her.

“
She will be all right,
”
he agreed,
“
if you do not allow the fire to die down, in which case she will become chilled. And in the morning she must rest in her room.
”

“
I
will see to it,
monsieur
,
”
Martine promised him.

He stood for perhaps a minute longer looking at Valentine, and then he turned and moved with his catlike strides out into the quietness of the hall.

“
Good night, Martine,
”
he said as she held wide the front door.

“
Shall
I
tell Miss Brooke that you called, doctor?
”
she asked.

He seemed to think the matter over for a minute and then he shook his head.

“
No, Martine, there is no need for you to tell her. I only looked in to have a little conversation with her, but since she has not been disturbed it is better.
I
think, that you do not tell her
I
called.
”

CHAPTER FOUR

A
week later
Valentine had become slightly accustomed to herself as a woman with sufficient means to live as she pleased for a year—if for no longer than that.

It would be a very unusual year, for it would never be repeated, and therefore it would be unique. Everything that she did in it, everything that she bought for herself, every time she went for a walk with the peculiar thought eddying in her head that she could walk wherever she pleased, and there would be no employer to whom she need give an account of her morning
’
s exercise, or to whom she need apologize if she was a little late in returning to the apartment, was something that, when the year was out, would never happen again.

She was so sure of that that anyone who knew just how determined she was might have thought it strange. For she was, after all, only twenty-three, and at twenty-three marriage is very natural. But not marriage in order to secure the bulk of a legacy
...!
And in any case, Valentine had never even been in love. She had never even fancied herself in love, and for five years she had been working to support herself. She had worked in various offices where there were attractive young men who had sometimes produced theater tickets, or taken her to a dance, and she had stayed with old school friends who had brothers. But not one of them had so much as touched the outer fringes of her heart.

“
I like to be free,
”
she had told her great friend, Jane
Beverley, when they had discussed the matter.
“
I
like to feel that
I
shall be free to see something of life and the world before
I
settle down. The world is so wide, and there is so much
I
want to see
...!
”

That was why she had taken the job in Paris. Paris was a beginning to seeing things, and Paris itself was an experience one wouldn
’
t easily forget. Now she would never forget it under any circumstances!

“
And besides,
”
she had added to Jane,
“
I
’
m the sort of person who believes that marriage is, well, it doesn
’
t leave room for outside experiences. It
’
s something that claims you absolutely, and how can you enter into it unless you are sure
—absolutely sure
—
”
in a slightly frightened voice
“
—that you
’
re not making a mistake? My mother and father made one of the worst kinds of mistake! My father was a country doctor who was utterly content when he was in the country, jogging around seeing his patients and taking me to the pantomime once a year. My mother loved life—so they parted!
”

“
That was unfortunate,
”
Jane, who was ten years older than Valentine and worked for a firm of accountants, had to admit.
“
But it doesn
’
t prove anything. We all have to buy our own experience, and the exciting part about it is that you
can
’
t
know in advance how things are going to turn out. If you did, you
’
d remain in a rut and miss some of the finest experiences life can offer.
”
As Jane had had two short years of very happy marriage and then lost her husband in an airplane crash, she had a right to express her views.

But Valentine had shaken her head.

“
I don
’
t know
...
I don
’
t know. You didn
’
t spend most of your young life in a boarding school and have the news of the final breakup of your home conveyed to you through your head mistress! Believe me, that is an experience that is very searing, and you don
’
t get over it quickly.
And
you vow you will be very cautious about your own future life!
”

Jane had smiled at her.

“
Rubbish!
”
she had said softly but distinctly.
“
When the time is ripe you
’
ll fall head over heels, like the rest of us! And just look at yourself—
”
taking her to a mirror
“
—do you imagine that with a face like that you
’
re going to be permitted to get away with an old maid
’
s portion? I know there aren
’
t any old maids nowadays, but whatever the true designation for them is,
you
won
’
t be one of them. Somewhere in this world there is a man who
’
ll knock a lot of nonsense out of your head—one day!
”

But as she walked along the rue de Rivoli in the soft spring sunshine, Valentine was by no means certain of this. She wasn
’
t even certain that she liked men—or the men she had met so far! Dr. Leon Daudet, for instance, was a type who filled her with a feeling like prickly hostility. It was possible that his success comparatively early in life had given him a superiority complex, and if it was true—as Miss Constantia had said it was—that women made up the vast majority of his patients, then no doubt he thought he knew all there was to know about women and divided them into categories as soon as he met them.