And Be Thy Love by Rose Burghley Read Free Book Online

her.”
    “Will she?” But he sounded distinctly doubtful. “Marthe was expecting to look after you, and she won’t think a hospital the right kind of background for you just now—not as a convalescent patient. She’d prefer to think of you as being taken care of here, and resting after your journey. At least, knowing Marthe, that’s what I’m certain she’d prefer!” looking across the table at her as if the matter was settled.
    “But that’s another thing!” she protested. “How can I
    possibly remain here when--------”
    He lifted a hand into the air.
    “All that is settled. You remain here, and arrangements will be made. I will attend to them myself...!” He smiled at her. “And in the meantime you will be a good little Mademoiselle Carol, and I will tell Marthe that that is what you are, and she will be happy to know how good and unobstructive you can be when the occasion demands. And perhaps another time when I am visiting at the hospital.”
    “You will take me with you?”
    “We will see.” His smile teased her gently. “And to-day, I will take you as far as Le Fontaine, and you can amuse yourself in the flower-market, or in a study of the local architecture, while I convey your good wishes to Marthe. And believe me Marthe will applaud, for she is very sensible—that one! And we do not wish her to be overanxious while she is so unfortunately laid low.”
    But whether Marthe was capable of applauding or not, Caroline had a very guilty conscience as she wandered in the flower-market in Le Fontaine, and waited for the reappearance of Robert de Bergerac’s long cream car.
    In spite of his easy, amiable, smiling manner, he was capable of taking a very firm stand, she had decided, but she thought that she ought to have taken a firmer stand, and insisted on seeing Marthe, if it was only for a few minutes.
    The flower-market at Le Fontaine was very much like the flower-market in many small French country towns. The flower sellers were elderly women protected by large, gay umbrellas from the concentrated warmth of the midmorning sun, and the scent of the blooms they offered filled every corner of the space wherein they traded them. There was the rich, spicy odour of clove pinks and carnations, the ever-present perfume of roses— gorgeous, mauvish-red roses that seemed to abound in that area— the penetrating perfume of lilies, and the quieter scent of a few bunches of very late violets. Caroline began to feel as if all this weight of perfume was getting up into her head and making her senses swim a little, and she moved away to examine some of the buildings that de Bergerac had pointed out to her from the car.
    There were some splendid old houses, with graceful facades, dating back into a past that would never really become the past in Le Fontaine, because modernity was but a cloak it wore carelessly, and therefore capable of slipping constantly. There was a fine town hall, and a restful church, a covered fruit-market where the shadows were welcoming and the strawberries tempting, and a vegetable-market adjoining where Caroline watched French housewives haggling over the prices of lettuces, and every conceivable vegetable from onions to artichokes. She could not help but admire the business-like efficiency of these women, who were not to be put off either by extortionate prices or inferior produce, and knew that she herself could never develop such a bold front. Which meant that it was fortunate she was not likely to become the wife of a middle-class Frenchman— for middle-class Frenchmen, she understood, expected their wives to be that way, and to conduct the affairs of their home life without flinching from unpleasing contacts, and to put both feet down firmly whenever it was necessary—to save money, that is.
    She wandered up and down the shopping streets, and looked into inviting shop windows, and was standing in the middle of the big central square, with some pigeons parading about her feet,