The Eleventh Year by Monique Raphel High Read Free Book Online Page A

such a nice, friendly man, and even his mother wasn’t yelling anymore. She didn’t want to argue with the nice man, was perhaps afraid her tantrums would send him away. And he was such a nice, handsome man that Alex could well understand her. He too wanted him to stay in the house.
    And so, for two hours, little Alexandre was permitted to lie beneath the satin sheets and the great quilt, and the gentleman held him close. Alex’s mother remained quiet. The child wished that she too would hold him, but this was the nicest thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. He wanted to remain there all night, breathing his mother’s perfume and the scent of the brandy and cigar on the gentleman’s breath.
    Later, when he was nine years old, he was leaving the Lycée Condorcet, when he saw that same gentleman again, riding across the avenue on a fine black stallion, a gold-studded riding crop in his hand. The current governess was not a mademoiselle, but a German fräulein, and Alex, tugging at her sleeve, said to her: “Who is he? I know him!”
    â€œYes, who is he, who is he?” Paul took up as a refrain. “He looks like the King of England!”
    The governess laughed. “No, he’s not British,” she answered. “He’s a friend of your parents, I believe. All of Paris knows him. He collects beautiful paintings, and they say his apartments are a thing of wonder. His name is the Chevalier Bertrand de la Paume. I’ve never actually met him, but—”
    â€œ I have!” Alex suddenly cried, the blood rushing to his cheeks. “When I was little,” he broke out excitedly, his eyes shining like Charlotte’s, “he took me into bed with him and my mama!”
    All color drained from Fräulein’s face, and at once Alex realized that he had committed a grave error. He didn’t understand what he had said that was so wrong, but knew only that it was an irreparable gaffe. Fräulein was bending down, taking his shoulders in her firm hands and whispering, “Alexandre, you must never, never repeat this story. To anyone, do you hear? The honor of your family is at stake. Your mother’s—your father’s!”
    â€œWhat has any of this to do with Father?” Alex asked.
    â€œEverything!” Fräulein retorted, and now her cheeks were bright red. She hustled the children along and refused to exchange another word on the subject. Alex felt deeply ashamed. Somehow he had threatened the honor of his mother—and he had promised her, and God, that he would always take care of her. What had he done?
    From that moment on Alexandre was careful never to talk before he’d thought everything through. He saw the gentleman again, but never dared to look him in the eye. He knew, somehow, that this man, whom he had thought so kind and friendly, was in reality a danger to his mother, to his whole family. Later Alex grew to hate the Chevalier de la Paume, who had brought such pleasant laughter to his mother. He grew to hate him and also to be a little afraid to talk openly to anyone about anything. If the family could be hurt through one innocent phrase….
    As he entered adulthood and the pieces of the puzzle became clear to him, he became afraid to look at his mother, for what she had done had been very wrong, a cardinal sin. But still, she was his mother, and try as he might, he could not abandon her.
    A short time later, in 1902, it was eleven-year-old Paul who stumbled into Robert-Achille’s study and found him dead, his head bleeding upon the desk, the blood seeping into the Aubusson carpet. It was Paul who stood clutching the wall, vomiting; it was Paul whom everyone pitied for years to come, who described the revolver on the desk, who saw the letter but could not read it for the blood. Charlotte read it. While the scandal erupted, she wore black and kept her eyes downcast. Robert-Achille’s suicide was a