The Eleventh Year (39 page)

“My dear boy, you're a damn fool,” the old man replied. “A lazy, stupid fool.”

The two men stared at each other, and then, rapidly, head down, Paul walked out of the room. Bertrand watched after him, shaking his head. The pain. Exhausted, Bertrand put his head in his hands.

A
lexandre's offices
stood on the lovely rue Pierre Premier de Serbie, to the west of the Champs Elysées, in the quiet area of the Eighth
Arrondissement.
Tall, almost bare plane trees rose to the tops of the building, drawing intricate shadowed patterns across the thick Persian carpet in his private office. An enormous mahogany desk stood in front of the large window, and he sat behind it in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs removed along with the collar, and the fine oxford stained from perspiration. There was a light tap on the door, and his secretary peeked in shyly.

“Does Monsieur le Marquis need me to stay late tonight?” she asked.

He looked up, distracted. She was in her early twenties, a pretty girl. He'd never bothered to give her demure presence a second glance. He did so now, thinking absently that those with whom one worked most intimately, year in and year out, were often taken for granted. He wasn't even sure he remembered her first name. He asked her suddenly: “Tell me, Mademoiselle Prandot, you're called…Michelle?”

“Micheline, Monsieur.” She was looking at him with surprise. The question from such a reserved, courteous, formal boss—a question out of the clear blue sky—startled her. He was amused. He liked her because of her quiet, disciplined, unobtrusive manner, which went perfectly with the office and its reputation as a conservative firm handling only the best of clients in matters of the utmost good taste. Her little suit of dark-blue wool, with matching pumps, was modest. Certainly it was a
prêt á porter,
but one that went with an office that catered to the Baron Georges Brincard, of the Credit Lyonnais. Now he was thirty-eight…middle-aged, and still struggling. Only the struggles had changed. And his face was more lined, at the eyes and around his mouth, and on his forehead. He touched his hair, silver at both temples, and remembered how early his mother's had whitened. She'd been young and already gray, and had let it grow in that way, to startling effect.

The girl in front of him was hardly a beauty. But her oval face was smooth and white, her pale-blue eyes were a pleasant almond shape, and her nose, though too long, was straight and pure. Her lips were thin, and she didn't use rouge. He liked that too. Glorious painted women like Elena scared him. This girl reminded him of someone. It would eventually come to mind, he was sure. She had dark hair pinned into a modest Psyche's knot at the nape of her neck.

“Yes, that's right,” he repeated, kindly. “Micheline. Well, Mademoiselle Micheline, it's been a hard day. You deserve to go home.” He smiled, and she responded. “Do you live with your parents?” he suddenly asked. He felt filled with new curiosity about this person who had been working around him now for three years, and something made him not wish to be alone. The tiny buds on the large limbs of the tree outside made the shadowed patterns look almost Japanese. Spring was approaching. He'd become engaged in the spring, nine years ago. He'd taken Lesley to bed then, discovered her yielding body. How long it had been since that body had yielded now to him.…What had happened to put such a distance between them? He knew, of course: He didn't trust her anymore. Because she'd changed, and he hadn't understood why. She'd become a materialist and a liar, like his mother.

He was aware that the secretary's presence underscored his loathness to go home. He realized that he was staying there later and later, to avoid Lesley, or to avoid her
not
being there when he entered the house. The notion filled him with discomfort and unhappiness.

Mademoiselle Prandot said: “I live with my cousin, Monsieur. She works in an office too.”

Her quiet words jolted him out of his reverie. Young girls didn't live with their families anymore. He asked: “And…your mother and father?”

“My father is dead, sir. My mother has a small property in the Tourraine.”

“Ah,” he commented. “So that's why you don't live with her. And it also explains your good accent. You do excellent work, Mademoiselle. Have I ever thought to compliment you on it before?”

She blushed. “Well, sir, I know. You never reprimand me.”

“That isn't the point. One gets reprimanded for errors and sloppiness. But your work is exceptionally well done. Do you enjoy working in this office?”

“Why, sir, yes. I mean…it's a great honor. I'm a simple girl, from the provinces. I never dreamed I'd be lucky enough to be hired by an ex-deputy.”

He tightened his jaw with a grimace. “Ex-deputy.” Has-been. “I'm going to be changing that soon,” he said brightly. “I think this time, when the Legislative Elections take place in April, that I'll regain my seat.”

“I think so too. Monsieur has been trying so hard—”

He asked: “How did you know?”

“Because of the activity around here. And all the talk. From the clients, and the girls in the office.”

“And tell me…do they seem to think I'm going to win?”

She looked at him fully, and he saw himself reflected in those pale-blue eyes, a handsome, tense man nearing forty, a man eager to hear the slightest word of encouragement even from his secretary. He was instantly shamed by this vision. He wished he could retract his question, but she was already responding, her face coming beautifully alive. “Yes, everyone thinks so! Do you doubt it, sir?”

He shrugged, trying to appear casual. “Everyone has doubts in life.”

“You're
bound
to win!” she cried suddenly.

He smiled. “And why is that?”

“Because you're the best man running. And so you deserve to win.”

He was oddly touched. “My dear Mademoiselle—Micheline, may I?—if the world were made to turn according to what people ‘deserved,' there would be no wars, no crime, no poverty. You would be driving my Bugatti, and others I know who are now driving around in Rolls-Royces would be walking the streets. You are naïve, but that's a quality. Don't change it.”

“Thank you, sir.” She was looking at the carpet, confused by so much unexpected attention.

“The world, and human beings, will change you soon enough.” He rose, rolled down his sleeves, reached for his cuffs. She was suddenly at his side, handing them to him. He said, eyes level with hers: “Thank you.”

She remained glued in place, her oval face wide open. And then it came to him: She reminded him of Yvonne, before the war. Yvonne, his Lost Illusion. But Yvonne hadn't been as naïve nor as kindhearted as this girl. She'd been tough, and sophisticated, beneath her appearance of demureness and simplicity. He found himself staring at the girl to the point where again she dropped her eyes from embarrassment. He touched the top of her hand on his desk and murmured: “I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I was just thinking you reminded me of someone I once knew.”

“Oh.”

“My first wife.”

“Monsieur le Marquis was married before?”

“For the length of an afternoon. It's best forgotten. I'm glad most people have forgotten it too.”

They were both ill at ease from his revelation. Alexandre cleared his throat, then realized that his hand still lay on Micheline's. She had made no move to retrieve her own, nor he to remove his. He stared at their hands and then looked at her. It was a moment filled with stillness. Finally she said: “I'm sorry that I've caused you painful memories.”

“Oh, no,” he demurred. “The memory was only of the outer person, which was lovely. Lovely, I assure you.” He said again: “Lovely.” Then, plunging in and not knowing why, his heart suddenly beginning to race: “You're a lovely girl, Micheline Prandot. May I take you to dinner?”

“Oh, Monsieur . . .”

Then he removed his hand, but to touch her chin, very lightly. A gentle soul. He cupped the soft chin in his hand and bent over the desk to brush his lips against hers. She responded. He kissed her. When he moved back she wasn't looking at him anymore, but her cheeks were red. “Let's go to dinner,” he said abruptly, fastening his cuff on.

She didn't reply, but he knew that she had been expecting this, that she was happy. He hadn't made somebody happy in a long, long time. Tonight, with spring approaching, he didn't feel like going home. He felt like making somebody happy and basking in the joy of her happiness. Maybe, he thought, it was his Last Illusion. To prove he wasn't really a has-been, not really middle-aged, and not just another disillusioned husband.

He was simply a man.

I
t was
the first time that this had happened, and Lesley felt distinctly uneasy. She reread the note that the maid had left on her breakfast tray, from Alex: “Please see me in my bedroom before you go out.” Such a succinct message. Years ago he would have come to
her,
and there would have been love in his eyes, tenderness in his tone of voice. She buttoned her Japanese bathrobe and slipped into satin slippers. Passing by her vanity, she turned and seized the packet of cigarettes and her small gold lighter. The palms of her hands were moist.

She paused on the threshold of his bedroom. The massive four poster was still unmade, and he was sitting on the edge, pulling on his socks. He heard her and turned his head. His face seemed tired. “Good morning, Lesley.”

“Good morning, darling.” Wary politeness as each tested the waters.

“Did you sleep well?”

She wondered what this was leading to, and also how she looked. Although tired, he appeared calmer than he had for a long time. The lines around his mouth seemed softer. She thought, on the other hand, that she was thinner, more nervous, more brittle. “I never sleep well,” she answered, lighting a cigarette. Her fingers were trembling.

“And why is that?”

“Why the questions?” She inhaled smoke, walked around the room, picked up a photograph of Cassandra Stewart, abruptly laid it back down on his dresser. He had a photograph of Cassie in his room. The fact hit her with something like jealousy. His niece. He must love her deeply. There were so many hidden aspects to Alex's feelings that she no longer could guess at—or gauge their intensity. He was lacing his shoes, standing up, avoiding her eyes as he fastened on his stiff collar.

“Look, Lesley,” he said, selecting a tie pin from his jewelry box. “The elections are seven weeks away. I can't handle our personal problems as well as the office problems and the elections all at once. I've honestly stopped caring
why
you're buying clothes every two days, or who's going to provide us with yet another antique we don't need for the living room. I simply can't afford to pay any more of the bills.
We
can't afford it. Your father speaks about the people spending and spending, buying on margins, in the United States…and I don't like it. We have to watch out for our money. You're my wife, but I'm not going to allow your frivolity to ruin us.”

Her lips parted, and she could feel the stillness in the room. He turned around, looked at her. She could read nothing behind the cool gray of his eyes—and this scared her. The lack of emotion. She said hoarsely: “But Alex—”

“Darling, it just can't continue. You realize I'm right.”

His eyes took on a deeper, more pensive expression. He sighed. “Lesley,” he murmured, “there are so many ways a wife can tell her husband that she loves him. I haven't felt your telling me for years. We drift in and out of the same house and speak courteously to each other like well-mannered puppets. I wish I'd never married rather than to have married like this, for display purposes. Alexandre and Lesley de Varenne, the perfect couple. I was deeply hurt when I first felt the rift. But now I'm numbed. So don't talk to me about the way I treat you, about the way I look at you. You never bother to look me in the face yourself.”

She sat down, stunned. The cigarette had burned down to a stub in her fingers. She ground it out. “Come on,” he said again. “You never loved me. From the beginning you resisted me. You didn't want me. I don't know what the story is, or why you really married me. But that isn't loving a man. Where are the children you brought to me?”

“Love between a man and a woman isn't measured by children,” she countered, stumbling over her words. She felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach. “If so, then think how well suited your brother was to Jamie!”

“He was one hell of a lot better suited to her than to Elena.”

“So just because a woman gets pregnant, that makes their union workable?”

He lifted his shoulders one fraction of an inch, dropped them. “I only meant that when a man wants as desperately to be a father as I did, and his wife has no physiological reason not to bear a child, the only reason she would refuse is if she weren't certain of her love for the man—of the permanence of the home.”

“Is there somebody else, Alex?”

She'd asked it mechanically. She'd known he'd give her an outraged denial. When he didn't, it startled her, hit her anew. He was slipping on a gold watch and then he regarded her warily. Again, the basilisk eyes, unreadable—like agates. “Lesley,” he stated calmly. “You're the one who did the odd things. The one who didn't want to have a baby. Who runs off in a thousand directions, spending money that isn't explained in the bills I receive. I should ask
you:
Is there another man?”