Amandine (42 page)

It is perhaps half an hour before they are due to arrive in Paris when a man and a woman shepherding four children are ushered through the car where Amandine and Catulle sit, a conductor leading the way. Two people—likely servants—carry baggage and coats and follow close behind.

“Where are they going?”

“I would think to some more private place in the train.”

“She’s beautiful, don’t you think? That woman.”

“I didn’t notice her.”

“And what do you think of that woman across the way? Third row ahead on the left.”

“I can see only her chignon, which is nice enough but—”

“Do you think Madame de Bazin is beautiful?”

“She is of a certain type of beauty, I’ll say that. Yes, I think she is beautiful.”

“And Madame Isolde?”

“Yet another sort of beauty, but a beauty nevertheless.”

“As much as I am fond of Madame de Bazin, if you were to ask me who I thought you should marry, I would choose Madame Isolde.”

“Why must I marry at all? I want only for the children to come home and to be of some help to them as they resume their lives. I want that you and I and Madame Isolde live as we have lived and that—”

“But if you love her—”

“I never said that I loved her. Yet I suppose I do.”

“Well, then …?”

“Let us wait until the boys come home. And Dominique, you know she will be changed. I think more changed even than I.”

They are quiet then until Amandine says, “Do you know why I like trains, monsieur?”

“Have you had so much traffic in your life with trains?”

“When I was little, Solange would take me to the station in Montpellier so that I could watch the trains arriving and departing, and I loved that more than the ballet. I remember that when we boarded the train in Montpellier at the beginning of our journey to Avise, I never wanted that ride to end. I like trains for different reasons now.”

“Such as?”

“Into a dark tunnel, back out into the light. The cornfields slipping by—”

“Cornfields slipping by fast as life does? Is that it? I know how old I have grown …”

Amandine looks at him, shakes her head and smiles, turns to look out the window. Still looking away from him, she asks, “Where were
you all the time when you were away? Are you ever going to tell me about that?”

“I don’t know if I can. Certainly I cannot now.”

Catulle wants a change of subject. “Your necklace, let me look at it more closely. Yes, it’s lovely.” He reaches to touch the pendant, runs his finger across the stone.

“It’s old, it looks to be very old. The one that Solange had kept for you?”

“Yes. The only other time I’ve worn it was on the day when I came to you.”

“And that jacket, what did you call it?”

“A
kontusz
. Madame de Bazin says the word differently, but it’s something like that.”

Catulle studies her. Under her coat of many colors, Amandine wears a black wool skirt and sweater, thick black stockings and ankle boots, black fingerless gloves. Her plait Isolde has tied with a black velvet ribbon like the one around her neck.

“I fear your
mise
is far too elegant for a day to be spent in the Gare du Nord but—”

“I wore the necklace and the coat for good luck.”

A long, piercing whistle sounds their approach to the station.

“Here we are then. Let me wrap the rest of the bread. Stay close so we are not separated.”

As the train slows Amandine stands, watches their entry into the station from the window of the empty seat across the aisle. She notices a tall man in chauffeur’s livery who walks along beside the slowing train. The man stops flush with one of its farther doors as the train shudders into its berth. The conductor heaves open that door, leaps to the ground, pulls down the metal steps, greets the chauffeur. The man and the woman and the children whom Amandine had seen escorted earlier through their car wait at that door to descend. The man, holding the hands of two young boys, is first in line, while an older boy, who looks to be about twelve or thirteen, stands behind him. Carrying
a baby girl in her arms, the woman stands third in the family line. The chauffeur moves closer to the steps, bows smartly, offers his hand.

“Good evening, milord. And my young lords.”

“Ah, good evening, Vadim. Thank you, thank you.… Now you two, please stay right here with your brother while I help Mummy …”

Once on the ground and having settled his sons, the man turns to give his hand to the woman. “Watch your step now, darling. There we are.”

The woman stands at the top of the metal steps, moves her right wrist to and fro, adjusting the position of the cord of a black satin pouch. Wearing a short silver fox jacket, the sleeves of which seem rather too short on her long white arms—as though the jacket had been meant for a woman more petite than she—she looks down at the sleeping baby held in the crook of her other arm, kisses her. She raises her head then, pauses a half moment. Her smile is wide and sweet and directed somewhere beyond the man and the chauffeur and the others who await her on the ground. As though she has forgotten what to do next, she, looking out at the platform, hesitates. She looks down then, extends her hand to the waiting chauffeur. “Vadim, good evening.”

The chauffeur removes his hat. His bow is deep and slow. He rises to take her waiting hand, bends to brush his lips a centimeter above it, then guides her down the metal stairs, “Welcome home, Princess Andzelika.”

EPILOGUE

A
S AMANDINE AND CATULLE PASS BY THE TRAIN DOOR FROM
which the woman holding the sleeping baby girl is descending, Amandine looks up at the woman, smiles. Holding Catulle’s hand, Amandine lags so she might look longer at the woman. She lets go of Catulle’s hand and, turning so she nearly faces the woman, Amandine smiles again, and the woman smiles back. Amandine moves faster then to catch up with Catulle’s pace and, as she passes through a glint of morning sun, the stone in her necklace catches fire. The woman’s eyes are drawn to the bauble that swings about Amandine’s throat as she runs by.