Free Visions of Isabelle by William Bayer Page A

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