Visions of Isabelle by William Bayer Page A

newspaper near her breast so that she could raise it if they turned around. They marched toward the Place Bourg-de-Four with Turkish cigarettes dangling from their lips. Her heart beat faster as she tracked them through narrow streets, watched them turn corners following an inevitable route to the mansion where Archivir lived. From across the street she saw them enter the house. Peering through the front door she saw them pass the consulate office and mount the stairs. She could not believe it. After they disappeared she paced about outside, arguing with herself. I've been with him every moment , she thought. He's had no chance to meet someone else. But as the minutes went by she was struck by the truth. Of course , she thought, he has an unquenchable thirst for new adventures. How stupid of me to doubt it. It's part of his nature that one woman cannot be enough .
    She suffered a difficult night at Villa Neuve, trying to work out some way to deal with his deceit. Should she share him? Had she bored him? If she avoided him could she rekindle his ardor? She was tormented by a thousand questions, but when dawn came she could think of nothing better than to confront him with what she'd seen.
    At first he was amazed. "Why didn't you just come up and say hello," he demanded, "instead of sneaking around behind us like a third-rate spy?"
    "Who the hell was she ?" she shrieked.
    "None of your goddamn business," he screamed.
    They fought for an hour, then he grabbed her, kissed her.
    "You're a maddening female creature," he said, but she would not let it go at that.
    "The thing that disturbs me most is that you'd carry on with somebody else before you were finished with me. I understand your philosophy, but to start one thing before finishing another–that I don't understand at all."
    She was the first, she told him (and he was amused since he could not forget she had just turned seventeen), not to care a whit about the stupid values of the bourgeois class. He wouldn't find her trying to trick him into a marriage, or speaking about the verities of eternal love. But there was such a thing as personal honor. One did not sneak around behind another person's back.
    "I have always believed," she said, "that a person has a right to sleep with anyone he wants. But to deceive a lover–that's a crime."
    Their argument went on until suddenly, over a most sumptuous lunch (braised herbed hare in champagne sauce; omelets filled with fish confiture), they both began to laugh. Yes, he admitted, he had committed an infidelity. But it was a momentary lapse and had no meaning. She was ridiculous to think she could ever be replaced.
    After lunch they embraced in his bed, but later she decided that things between them had subtly changed. He began to make excuses for his absences, excuses so elaborate she knew they were contrived. Then she began to suspect that this was what he wanted her to think. He was operating on some level of irony that she could sense though not fully understand. He was deliberately erecting suspicions in her mind, and this was part of some esoteric game he was playing–to give her torment in a thousand small ways. She could not resist his little thrusts which reminded her of moves in a game of chess. Suddenly everything he did became suspect. Every woman she saw was a potential rival. The secretary for instance–she thought over the way they spoke and how their eyes met, and these things added up in her mind, became irrefutable proof that they were having an affair. Within a week her life became a misery. As spring came upon the city, trees turned green, buds opened, flowers bloomed, her mood, which should have been buoyant, turned dark, and she was paralyzed by fear.
    What she feared was not some drastic scene so much as her own disillusionment with the sweetness of love. She was introspective enough to realize that she'd been experiencing emotions which, when they were over, she'd not be able to feel again. This,