Visions of Isabelle (9 page)

The autumn was going well, it seemed to Isabelle, until one night, angry with Augustin for refusing to explain to her his even more frequent and mysterious absences from the house, she rifled his drawers and discovered that he was carrying on a secret correspondence with someone else. The man's name was Vivicorsi, he lived in Trieste, and as she read his letters she realized with horror that with him Augustin was plotting an escape of his own.

T
he evening of October 12 Augustin is dressing in his room. A knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Isabelle."

"Just a minute."

Quickly he gathers up all the incriminating materials that cover his bed: roll of money, packets of opium, bundle of letters from Madeleine Joliet. He stuffs them into a musette bag, then heaves the bag into his wardrobe.

"What's going on in there?"

"A minute, damnit!"

He pulls on a pair of trousers, then, when she knocks again, turns his back and rapidly buttons his fly.

"I'm getting dressed. I
am
entitled to some privacy, you know."

"There's something we must discuss."

He opens the door.

"This is serious, Augustin."

"Oh! Should I sit down?"

"Why don't you just put on your shirt."

Isabelle sits on the bed, watches Augustin thrust his arms through sleeves.

"I've been upset," he says.

"What's the matter?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"I don't want you to get involved. It's my own problem and I have to solve it myself."

"What is it?"

He ignores her question, gathers up loose change and his watch, stuffs them into his pockets.

"Read this." She hands him a piece of paper. He glances at it.

"Oh!
That!"

"Yes.
That!"

"Well, what about it?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Isabelle, please don't bother me with that sort of thing tonight. I'm nervous. I've got lots to do."

"Then this isn't serious?" She waves the paper about in front of his face.

"Child's play."

"I was afraid you'd say something like that."

"Well, what do you expect? Some silly contract–some silly pledge. We're too old for that sort of thing now."

"Read the date–September 21, 1894. About a year ago. Were we really so much younger then?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I can't think about it now."

"Listen, Augustin–I have premonitions. I feel something. I feel you're about to go away. And if that's true–if you're going to break the pledges we made–then all right. But at least tell me why. And tell me where you're going."

He sits down beside her on the bed.

"Things are very bad now."

"What's happened? Why all the mystery? Why can't you trust me?"

Silence.

"What's happened to Nicolas?"

"That's what everyone wants to know."

"Where is he?"

"I don't think he's coming back."

"Where did he go?"

"You know how he's always talked about going back to `Holy Russia'? Well–that's where I think he is now."

She gasps. "He escaped!"

"Yes. But ask yourself, Isabelle, how could he do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did he get there? Where did he find the money?"

"Yes. Well, where did he?"

"He has a list of names and I think he sold them to the police."

"What are you talking about?"

"Names of people here–students, activists–you know. His
friends."
His eyes meet hers, then turn away. "I think he sold us out–his friends, Vladimir, me, everyone."

"I still don't..."

"You want to know? All right. The three of us were up to our necks in the terrorist groups. We knew everybody. We went to all the meetings. We saw people off–people who went back to Russia to
kill.
We were the financial committee. We got them money–not very much really, a few francs here and there–not much at all until last winter. Then they began to really look at us, and suddenly they got suspicious. It never occurred to them that we were only dilettantes. They told us we'd better come up with some money fast, or be considered traitors and take the consequences for that."

She is stunned. Terrorist groups. Killers. Nicolas selling out his friends. She can't believe it.

"But how could you get money? None of you ever has a cent."

"It was hard." Augustin begins to pace around the bedroom. Every so often he dashes a fist against his head. "Of course we had nothing. But it was a question of producing money or ending up at the bottom of Lake Geneva. We borrowed from everybody. And when that wasn't enough, we bought things on credit and sold them, new, at half their value. Nicolas, you know, is a marvelous mimic. He goes into a shop and very grandly orders all the most expensive things in sight. Then he flings down some preposterous card–
Prince Pomeroy, Grand Duke Stavrogin
. 'Send everything over to my hotel,' he commands, telling them he's in the `Royal Suite' at the D'Angleterre. He grabs up a few trifles–some watches, a pocket telescope, a diamond bauble or so, and tells them to wrap these lavishly as gifts, he will take them with him, they can send over the rest, but he needs these little things at once. Then I step in assuring them, as the grand duke's
homme de confiance
, which His Highness always pays in gold. Their eyes begin to glitter, and we end up with several thousand francs."

"Unbelievable!"

"Wait! There's more!" As anguished as Augustin wants to seem, it is clear to her he relishes the story. "We could only manage that particular trick three times. The stores, of course, had notified the police, and we were afraid to go anywhere near Place de la Fusterie. It was then, around April, that we started with opium."

"What?"

"The drug..."

"Yes, yes, I know. I've tried it with Archivir. But go on–how did you get involved with that?"

"Vladimir loves gardening–you know that. He's the only one of us who's ever cared a damn about Vava's garden. Well, a few years ago he made friends with an Indochinese boy who cultivated opium in Paris. He got in touch with him, got hold of some seedlings and planted them in the garden late in spring. A few weeks later we had poppies. We set up a little laboratory in town equipped with things we stole from Vava, and Vladimir, who's been working with Vava for years on the perfumes, knew all about distillation and was able to get oil out of the seeds. We tried it. It was good, and we managed to sell quite a bit."

"I don't believe any of this!"

"It's true, Isabelle. Those gray plants with purple flowers down near the moat–they
were
poppies. Vava, of course, didn't know what was going on. As far as he was concerned Vladimir was just experimenting with some new exotics."

"All right, all right, but what happened next?"

"Things got difficult. The Russians saw all this money coming in and they got greedy. No matter how much we brought them, they immediately demanded more. So we needed to expand our market, and that meant recruiting smokers. Nicolas and I concentrated on that, visiting the student cafés and selling the stuff wherever we could. It had to end, of course. We ran out of flowers, and then the police got onto us because some of the students talked. These last weeks have been dangerous. We've been afraid to go around Bourg de Four, and meantime the Russians have been clamoring for money. A couple of weeks ago the question came up–what were we going to do?"

"What could you do?"

"We decided that Vladimir was safe. The Russians didn't know much about him and he wasn't involved in the selling. But Nicolas and I were cornered–it was clear we'd have to pull out. Nicolas wanted to go to Russia and he came up with a scheme. We'd go directly to Count Prozov–the man at the Russian legation who's been sent here to get rid of the terror rings. We'd give him all the information we had, and in return we'd ask for transport back to Russia and some position there so we could be safe. But for me this was impossible. I didn't give a damn about Russia, and I didn't trust Prozov. He's got his thugs here stalking the terrorists, and he's killed a few of them already. What was to prevent him from killing us, too, after we talked? Then there's something else."

"What?"

"Haven't you had enough?"

"I want to know it all."

"Well, all right, it concerns a girl. You know her. Madeleine Joliet."

"Yes, of course I know her. But you're not serious?"

"Very serious. We're engaged."

"If Vava ever heard..."

"But he hasn't. Nobody knows. It's a secret engagement. I didn't want to be thrown out of here just because he doesn't approve of her social position or some nonsense like that."

''So..."

"So I couldn't go to Russia and leave her behind. Nicolas and I argued, and we decided to go our separate ways. The three of us made an agreement. Vladimir would stay on here, working in the garden, never leaving the house. Madeleine and I would slip into France, and then make our way south where I would join the French Navy. And Nicolas would go to Prozov with his list of cadres–he had everything down in code copied from its reflection in a mirror. That was the plan."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. The whole point, you see, was that the two of us would act on the same day. Well, when Nicolas disappeared a few days ago, I just assumed he'd lost his nerve–or something. It never occurred to me that he'd break his word. So I just went ahead with my own plans to leave on Monday night. But this afternoon I heard that ten or fifteen of the Russians have vanished suddenly, without a trace. I thought of Prozov, and then of Nicolas who's been gone, and then I thought that maybe Nicolas sold us out. I don't know. Maybe he had this in mind all along. He kept his little notebook for years. He always thought of himself as a patriot, and he's always wanted to go back and be the son of General De Moerder and be an officer in the Imperial army. I think he only started with the terrorists so he could get their names and then trade them off for a good position–show his patriotism and be honored in Russia as a savior of the czar. Anyway, whatever the reasons, I have to leave right away. I'm meeting Madeleine in an hour and we're off tonight for good."

"But this is mad, mad–absolutely mad!"

"Yes. That's exactly what it is." He sits down, exhausted. He is panting and she is dazed. For several seconds they stare out into space.

"So, you will finally get away."

"Yes..."

"The navy."

"Yes."

"With Vivicorsi?"

"So you know about that, too."

She nods. Though he must realize she's been through his desk, he doesn't seem to care. It's as if nothing matters to him anymore.

"And Madeleine–do you really think you'll be happy with her?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I suppose I shall."

Another silence.

"When do you go?"

"In a few minutes, I suppose."

"No good-byes?"

"No. Impossible. I shall have to write Mama later."

"And you'll come back for me."

"Of course."

"Oh, Augustin!" She throws her arms around him, holds him as he begins to sob. "Who could ever have guessed it would end like this?"

"It's all such an awful mess."

"Yes," she says, "but at least you'll finally have escaped. Your life begins now, you know. You're so lucky to be a man. You have the whole world."

"Yes, yes..." He smiles at her. "I'm glad I told you everything."

"But you've been so stupid, Augustin."

"I know. That's why I couldn't tell you before. I couldn't bear to face your cool judging eyes."

"Promise me you won't be stupid again."

"Yes. I promise."

She holds him for a while. Then, he gets up slowly. She watches while he puts on his coat, retrieves his bag from the wardrobe. He turns to her, is about to speak.

"No. Not here. I'll come with you to the door."

The house is silent as they pass through the halls. Downstairs it is dark. Vava, Vladimir, Old Nathalie–they've all disappeared. Augustin opens the front door. They both step out. The cool wind that blows down from the Alps shakes the limbs of the trees, blows colored leaves to the ground. They stand in silence on the steps, inhaling the damp pungency of this garden they know so well. Augustin carefully places his bag upon the stones. Isabelle opens her arms and they embrace.

Their kiss is long, tender, then slowly turns another way. Without realizing what is happening or why, their mouths begin to open, their tongues begin to dart, and Isabelle flings back her head. Suddenly they feel warmth, heat, fire. All the forbidden lust that has been stored inside them for years rushes out as they cling to one another and begin to sob. Their bodies press and twitch, they pant and moan, but it is too late for them. They have no time to consummate their love.