Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
1929
When Esther rang the bell of Numéro 86 Route de Grasse, she felt withinher that pleasant sort of stage-fright—a mixture of dread andexhilaration—which one is apt to experience when venturing into theunknown. The thrill might be out of all proportion to the prosaiccharacter of her mission—for what is there exciting in applying for apost as a doctor's assistant?—yet there was no gainsaying the factthat when this door confronting her opened, anything, everything, mighthappen. That is the way Youth regards things.
"Opportunity—a door open in front of one." So in earlier years herLatin teacher had dilated on the inner meaning of the word. Esthersmiled reminiscently and congratulated herself that she was not goingtamely back to her work in America, choosing instead, when she found adoor open, to enter and explore on the other side.
Numéro 86 was a conventional and dignified villa, noncommittal inappearance, like a hundred others. Clean windows blinked in thesunshine, the doorstep was chalky white, the brass plate on the lintelglittered with the inscription, "Gregory Sartorius, M.D." Beside thegate a mimosa shook out its yellow plumage against the sky. Mimosa—inFebruary! … New York, reflected Esther, was in the clutch of ablizzard. She could picture it now, with its stark ice-ribbed streets,its towering buildings, a mausoleum of frozen stone and dirty snow. Asfor flowers—why, even a spray of that mimosa in a frosty florist'swindow would be absurdly expensive; one would pay…
"Vous désirez, mademoiselle?"
She turned with a start to find the door open, framing the squat figureof a man-servant, a brigand in appearance, French of the Midi; blackhair grew low on his forehead; his beetling brows met over sullen shinyeyes which scanned her with a hostile gaze. Diffidently she musteredher all-too-scanty French.
"Est-ce Monsieur le docteur est chez lui?" she ventured, hoping forthe best.
To her relief the brigand broke into a friendly smile.
"Mademoiselle come about job?" he replied in English. "Yes, come thisway, please."
He led the way through an entrance hall into a large salon of chill andgloomy aspect.
"Take a seat," he bade her, grinning cheerfully. "I go tell doctor."
The salon was plainly a reception-room for patients. Looking about,Esther wondered why physicians' reception-rooms were invariably souninviting, so lacking in personality. This one was particularly draband cold, though she could not say that it was shabby or in more thanusual bad taste. It was furnished in nondescript French style, amixture of periods, with heavy olive-green curtains at the windowsshutting out most of the light, and pale cotton brocade on the modernLouis Seize chairs. A plaster bust of Voltaire on the mantel-piece wasflanked by Louis Philippe candlesticks, the whole reflected in agilt-framed mirror extending to the ceiling. Across the middle of theroom stretche