The Eleventh Year by Monique Raphel High

honor, Bien. It was doubtful that Paul, the following year, would pass the dreadful test at all. But Charlotte said, her voice suddenly most Germanic in its dryness: “You missed Très bien. A Varenne must always be the best, Alexandre.” A Varenne: Then why was Paul not expected to succeed, to bear the double-edged responsibility of the ancient name?
    Alexandre thought he knew the answer, one day, when he was eighteen. He looked quietly at his mother, who was forty-four, and at his seventeen-year-old brother who resembled no one in the family. His brother who laughed at life, who took nothing seriously. And he knew what he had always suspected was true. And felt hatred for the two of them, Charlotte and that other son of hers, the one who was exempt from all the troubles. The one who was not a Varenne.
    He studied for the bar and did his military service. In spite of Charlotte’s evident disdain and lack of concern, he did well at the Sorbonne. His professors had been impressed. There was even talk of a career in politics. He had listened, interested. Maybe. But he held back, afraid that elected officials could not earn enough money to keep his mother happy.
    When he met Yvonne, Alexandre had just opened a small but distinctive office with a ready-made, choice clientele. Charlotte’s own attorney and dear friend had recently retired, and she had convinced him to recommend to her son certain important people. Alex resented her for this, because it meant that he was in debt to her, that the cord would take even longer to cut. But he also knew that her help in Parisian circles was a sine qua non. He wanted to be free of her, because he wanted to forget the shame of her adultery and wanted to erase the pain of not being loved. Yet only by work would he succeed in “buying” her out of his life for good.
    Yvonne de Larmont was not particularly beautiful. She was tall, slender, with a narrow face and attractive hazel eyes. Her father, Henri de Larmont, was a well-known surgeon whose business Alexandre had been asked to handle. The professor, as he was known to his associates, was a somewhat formidable man with a wry wit. Alexandre liked them both. For the first time in ages, he was able to relax.
    He began to invite Yvonne to the opera, to hear Caruso, and to sessions of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. He was not a ballet aficionado, and neither was she. But afterward, in the quiet little restaurant booths where he took her for a late supper, they laughed about it together. “Why have you never married?” he finally asked, blushing, one evening.
    â€œWhy? It’s very simple. On my wedding day I shall receive a great deal of money—call it a dowry, or a trust. Papa believes that an intelligent married woman needs her own funds, although until then her parents should take care of her. Right now my life is good. Marriage is a large responsibility. I don’t want to go into it lightly.”
    Later that night, without warning, it was she who kissed him. She cupped his face in her hands, rose on tiptoe, and kissed him full on the lips. Alexandre was startled. For a moment he could not respond, and then he seized her slender form and crushed her to him, driving his tongue into her mouth, tasting. Then, embarrassed, he stepped back. Yvonne smiled and said nothing.
    But the next day he was strangely restless. He cared for Yvonne. He would propose to her. By doing so he would of course be playing right into his mother’s hands. Charlotte would be thrilled by the dowry, but Yvonne would understand. They would do for Charlotte what had to be done, and then they would bar her forever more from their lives and the lives of their children. Charlotte would be rescued by Yvonne’s money. Then life would begin.
    When Alexandre went to the Cité to make his formal proposal, he was met in the entrance hall by Yvonne, her hair in disarray over her shoulders. He was surprised, but she gave a