And Be Thy Love by Rose Burghley Read Free Book Online Page A

when Robert de Bergerac’s car slid alongside her once more.
    “Get in,” he said, holding open the door. His dark eyes seemed to be surveying her with interest. “Even the pigeons like you!” he told her. “If Id had a camera I might have taken a snapshot of you, and called it a gentle feminine St. Francis!”
    But she was anxious to hear about Marthe.
    “How is she?” she demanded. “Did she think it very odd that I didn’t go with you?”
    “Of course not. She thought it very wise that you should avoid any undue strain at the moment.”
    But the tiny smile on his lips was a little curious, she thought, as if he was conscious of having done something he particularly wished to do without her being there to observe what it was. He had taken a huge armful of flowers to the old lady from the flower-market, as well as eggs and butter and other things from the chateau, and apparently Marthe had been pleased.
    “She was sitting up and looking very well, except that her ankle is in a kind of cage,” he explained. “She was even knitting furiously. She gave me instructions to look after you, and to see that you do not do anything rash.” He sent her a whimsical glance. “I told her that I took you for a ghost last night.”
    “Oh!”
    “And that decided her that you must be very well taken care of! No harrowing experiences just yet, such as visiting the sick. You are to get quite well yourself before you do anything of the kind.” “I am well.”
    His eyebrows elevated themselves, but he said nothing, concentrating on driving the car and avoiding the bumps in the cobbled streets and presently he brought the car to rest outside a rather modern and expensive-looking hotel.
    “This is where we will lunch,” he said. “I am sure that by this time you are very hungry.”
    She cast a swift glance up at the front of the hotel. She remembered his bookshop in the Rue de Rivoli, and the essential cheques from the Comte de Marsac—without which, apparently, he couldn’t carry on—and suggested diffidently:
    “Don’t you think it looks as if it might be a little costly? Couldn’t we go somewhere cheaper... ? I mean------------”
    “Certainly not,” he replied, his whimsical look growing even more whimsical, and he removed his ignition key and slipped it into a pocket of his admirably tailored jacket. “This is where we will lunch, and this is where you shall sample a wine such as you have never tasted on the other side of that grey strip of Channel that divides our two countries. Now!” and he slid sinuously out on to the pavement and turned to help her alight.
    The hotel was even more lush and luxurious inside than it looked on the outside, but they went through into a kind of enclosed courtyard where tables were set out beneath a canopy of vines. There was a huge tank in the centre in which goldfish disported themselves amidst gardens of coral and weed, and a string orchestra in a corner, behind a barrier of impressive pot plants, dispensed light airs that went well with the tinkling of wine in glasses, and the pleasing rattle of cutlery.
    De Bergerac deliberated over the menu with Caroline but when he discovered that she knew little or nothing about French dishes decided to order for her. He ordered hors d oeuvre such as she had never tasted before, composed of dozens of little dishes in which were included such savoury items as garlic sausages, black as well as green olives, stuffed eggs, etc. Then came some little hard-shelled, very pink fish swimming in a highly delectable sauce, and on top of that some wonderful escalopes of veal Caroline refused anything further after that apart from an icecream, thinking of the bill and the size of it when it was presented, particularly when she saw with what reverence the wine-waiter served the wine, as if he could hardly accord it enough honour. And when she tasted it, inexperienced palate though she had, she knew that it was certainty not the least expensive on the