A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  “You…what?”

  “I do not agree,” Korbinian repeated. “About war. I think that it is most suitable for young ladies. After all, a young lady will become a bride. Then she will become a mother. She may become the mother of a son. And then one day her son may become a soldier and go off to war. And is it not terrible that the only time a woman may think upon war is when she fears that her son will die in it?” Korbinian shook his head. “Most dreadful, I think.”

  “I did not ask your opinion, Monsier,” Alfonse said, drawing himself up. Tall as Korbinian was, Alfonse still managed to tower over him.

  “Baron,” Korbinian said.

  “What?” Alfonse demanded.

  “I am a baron, Monsieur.” Korbinian’s polite smile was a devious contrast to his commanding tone, which made Babette almost giggle with delight. “You should address me properly.”

  “Very well, Baron,” Alfonse growled. “But I am no monsieur either. I am the son of the Count des Louveteaux.”

  “Ah!” Korbinian cried, clapping his hands in delight. “And is your father yet living?”

  “He is!” Alfonse said proudly, his tone indicating that he thought he had evaded some impending comment about his heritage.

  “Wunderbar!” Korbinian said. “Then one day you will outrank me.” He smiled. “But not today.”

  “Hmph!” Alfonse snorted. “The son of a count—”

  “Is still not a baron,” Babette finished.

  Alfonse turned his eyes upon her, and Babette merely looked back with a smile. She fluttered her eyelashes as innocently as she could manage.

  “But you wear the uniform of an officer,” Korbinian said, as if trying to make amends for the slight.

  “Yes,” Alfonse said. “I am a captain in His Imperial Majesty’s cavalry.”

  “That is wonderful,” Korbinian said. “You see, I also am a military man.”

  “Yes, I see,” Alfonse said, eyeing Korbinian’s uniform. “A lieutenant I presume.”

  “Colonel,” Korbinian corrected.

  “What?” Alfonse’s eyes fairly bulged out of his head.

  “As Baron of Fuchsburg, I command the Fuchsburg Regiment of the Prussian Army. I am, of course, a hussar. I find that all brave men are either hussars or dragoons. Which are you?”

  Alfonse growled again.

  “I am a cuirassier,” he said.

  “Fine men, the cuirassiers,” Korbinian said. “Then again,” he added, “wearing that armor does seem rather cautious, don’t you find?”

  Alfonse was in the process of turning bright red. Babette wondered whether he would try to strike Korbinian. That would be an interesting thing to see. Far better than the opera, surely.

  “I didn’t know they had horses in Fuchsburg,” Alfonse said, speaking slowly as he struggled to reign in his temper. “From what I have heard, it is a very wooded land. With mountains.”

  “Yes,” Korbinian said. “And while we are discussing geography, you mustn’t forget that rather large river running through it.”

  “Quite. I only ever hear of your infantry. Your riflemen.”

  Alfonse clearly thought this was an insult. Korbinian seemed not to share his view.

  “Yes, the jägers,” he said proudly. “The finest light infantry in all of Europe. They killed a great many Frenchmen during the Wars of Liberation. Of course, that was during my grandfather’s time. And did you know, he once shot an officer of the cuirassiers dead in mid-charge?”

  “Really?” Babette asked, intrigued. Her excitement at the statement only made Alfonse look angrier, as she had intended.

  “Yes,” Korbinian said. “With a windbüchse—a wind rifle.”

  “A wind rifle?”

  “Ja,” Korbinian said proudly. “It used compressed air to fire a ball without smoke or noise. When our jägers set upon the French from the woods, the Frenchmen could not understand what was happening. They thought that it was witchcraft or the hand of God!”

  Alfonse grunted.

  “It sounds far-fetched to me,” he said. “But if you are an officer of cavalry and your regiment is nothing but infantry—”

  “We maintain a squadron of cavalry, of course,” Korbinian said. “How else could I be in the hussars? No, you see there is a major in command of the Fuchsburger infantry.”

  “Your younger brother, no doubt,” Alfonse said derisively. “Or a cousin.”

  “The gamekeeper, actually,” Korbinian said. “A fine man with a very good head for tactics. You would enjoy serving under him, Captain.”

  “Better a captain of noble birth than a peasant major,” Alfonse snarled. “And better a common soldier in the Empire of France than master of a third-rate state among the Germans.” He turned to Babette and bared his teeth at her. “Mademoiselle Varanus, I will take my leave. We will speak properly soon, and in better company.”

  With that, the big man turned and left.

  Babette looked up at Korbinian, who looked back at her.

  “What a peculiar person,” Korbinian said. “I did not say anything improper, did I? My French, you understand…”

  Babette smiled at him.

  “Not at all, Baron,” she said. “It was perfect.”

  * * * *

  Normandy, France

  Though the meeting with Korbinian that night was a welcome relief from the tedium of Society, it was to be a single island amid a sea of boredom. As the month progressed, she saw less and less of him. He called at their rooms of course, only to be politely refused by Father. And while he did make an appearance at other engagements, they were few. In the meantime, Alfonse redoubled his efforts to corner Babette and impose his company upon her in Korbinian’s absence. At first the challenge of politely rebuffing Alfonse was amusing, but it soon grew wearisome. Above all, Babette longed for intelligent conversation, and there was little of that to be had.

  At the end of the month, at Grandfather’s insistence, they departed for a brief respite back in the country, though Father spent the entire trip reminding Babette that their stay at home was only temporary. He phrased his words in the manner of reassurances, when they did quite the opposite. Without Korbinian at hand, Paris was simply intolerable.

  Babette felt a sense of calm come over her when the towers of the house came into view over the trees. She leaned out of the coach window and felt the warm sun on her face. She heard birds chirping and the scurrying of small animals in the brush as the driver turned onto the path leading up to the house. Even the clop-clop of the horses soothed her. Home was home: it would always comfort her.

  As they neared the house, Babette saw a figure dressed in a riding coat, standing in front of the fountain at the center of the circular drive, waiting for them. Her heart leapt. Even at a distance, she knew it was Korbinian.

  The coach had scarcely come to a stop before she flung open the door and leaped out. She was grateful that Grandfather had allowed her to change into the simpler, straighter garments she wore at home before they departed. In one of the new dresses, with their wide skirts and heaps of lace, she might have stumbled or even broken her neck on landing.

  But she kept her grace as she alighted, and she approached Korbinian with as much poise as she could muster in the excitement. He in turn beamed down at her, making no effort to conceal his delight. He bowed and she curtseyed in reply, and for a little while, they simply stood there enjoying their reunion.

  “Good day, Baron,” Babette said at length. “What brings you here? I thought you would be in Paris.”

  “I find Paris to be rather tedious,” Korbinian replied. “I found some relief in the company of scholars during my visit, but a young man is often looked at oddly when he prefers the company of books and bookworms to that of fashionable young ladies. I thought the country air would do me good. I see that you have had much the same revelation.”

  “My grandfather’s idea,” Babette said. “He considers it unhealthy to spend all of summer in a metropolis. Apparently, we shall be dividin
g our time between the country and the city.”

  “He is a wise man, your grandfather. A very wise man indeed.”

  Babette smiled and tilted her head, regarding Korbinian with great suspicion. She knew that he was up to something.

  “You still have not told me why you are here,” she said.

  “Did your grandfather not tell you?” Korbinian asked.

  Grandfather? What did he have to do with all of this?

  “No,” Babette said, “he most certainly did not.”

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Father and Grandfather standing by the carriage, deep in conversation. Father did not seem at all pleased, while Grandfather had the look of the cat that stole the cream.

  “What didn’t he tell me?” she asked, turning back to Korbinian.

  The Baron flashed a devious smile and said, “Your grandfather has engaged me as your tutor for the summer.”

  Babette raised her head and stared at him, astonished. A tutor? For what reason? She didn’t need a tutor, certainly not after the last one they had tried to impose upon her. Although it did have the felicitous coincidence of allowing her and Korbinian to spend a great deal of time—

  Oh I see… she thought. She looked over her shoulder at Grandfather. She could have sworn that he winked at her.

  “Well then, Baron,” she said, “it seems we shall be spending a great deal of time together. For my studies.”

  “We shall indeed,” Korbinian said. “I know all the things that a young lady ought to learn. Art, history, mathematics, the Classics, Latin and Greek, natural philosophy, riding, shooting.…”

  “I already know how to ride, Baron,” Babette said, “and to shoot.”

  “Then I shall teach you to do both together,” Korbinian said.

  “What a curious view you have regarding the things a young lady ought to learn.”

  “I am from Fuchsburg,” Korbinian said. “We are more enlightened there.”

  “I’m certain you are, Baron,” Babette said.

  “Now then,” Korbinian said, “I am your tutor, not a baron. Call me Korbinian if it pleases you.”

  Babette resisted the temptation of the offer. Instead, she drew herself up and fixed him with an admonishing look.

  “I most certainly shall not,” she said. “Your Christian name is far too familiar. I shall call you Master von Fuchsburg.”

  “Meister von Fuchsburg,” Korbinian said, rendering the title in German. “Yes, I like that. If only it were true.”

  “If I can call you neither baron nor master, how are you to be addressed, Monsieur? Colonel, perhaps?”

  Korbinian laughed and replied, “I hardly think that colonels are qualified to teach anyone anything, much less Latin and Greek to young ladies.”

  Babette thought for a moment.

  “Then I shall call you Monsieur von Fuchsburg,” she said with great finality. “And you shall address me as Mademoiselle Varanus.”

  “I think that is most suitable,” Korbinian said. “And now, I have taken the liberty of asking the servants to prepare a luncheon basket. You must be very hungry after your journey.”

  “I am slightly peckish, yes,” Babette admitted.

  “Sehr gut!” Korbinian clapped his hands. “Then we shall eat, begin your first lesson, and enjoy this beautiful weather all at the same time.”

  “Monsieur von Fuchsburg,” Babette said, “that strikes me as an excellent idea.”

  * * * *

  William had known that James would be cross to learn of the plan, but his son’s reaction was more comical than anything else. As they stood and watched Babette and the Baron von Fuchsburg converse, he quietly explained the details to James, working hard to conceal a smile as James’s expression clouded with indignation.

  “You never said that he would be the tutor!”

  “It seemed unnecessary at the time,” William replied, his voice soothing. He knew how to manage his son when this sort of foolishness took him. James simply lacked his father’s broadness of vision, or indeed, any sense of vision at all.

  “Is he even qualified?” James asked, his tone indicating that he expected an answer in the contrary.

  “He is very well educated, yes,” William said. “It will allow me to test just how he and Babette get along, and what they have in common to speak about.”

  “Why…?” James asked.

  “Because,” William said, as he watched Babette and Korbinian retire into the house, “I have given the Baron von Fuchsburg leave to court her.”

  Three, two, one… he counted silently.

  “Father!” James cried as if on cue. “How can you do such a thing? He is completely unsuitable!”

  “We don’t know that yet, James,” William said. “Indeed, he is so far the single most suitable man who has ever shown an interest in your daughter. That is something to be thankful for.”

  “Suitable? He’s not even French! Good God, he’s not even English!”

  William growled a little and replied, “Do not mention your heritage with such distain, my son. And do not think less of a man because he comes from east of the Rhine. I have made inquiries. The Baron von Fuchsburg comes from an old and distinguished line of nobility. His father was Spanish, also of good family. The Baron is a hussar and commands a regiment of mixed infantry, cavalry, and artillery for the Prussian Army.”

  “That speaks little of him,” James said. “His rank is inherited! I doubt that his gallantry has ever been tried!”

  “Inherited it may be,” William said, “but from what I understand, he gave a very good account of himself during the recent war in Italy. Very noble and brave. The equal of any man on either side, I have heard it said.”

  James quickly changed the subject, as he often did when William countered a poorly-argued point:

  “Alfonse des Louveteaux has also served. In Italy, and in the Crimea before that.”

  “Alfonse des Louveteaux has no sincere interest in Babette,” William said. “None at all.”

  “His father suggests otherwise—” James began.

  “His father suggests a great many things,” William interrupted, “very little of which is of any consequence. I am well acquainted with the family, James, as you will recall. I have known them since before you were born, and I have watched Alfonse grow from a child to a…man. There is only one woman for whom Alfonse des Louveteaux has any honest affection, and that is Claire de Mirabeau. Not Babette. Anyone else will be a possession to him, at best. And if you believe otherwise, James, you are a fool.”

  James looked at him in anger but held his tongue. Finally, he said, “If people learn that Babette is being courted by a stranger, by a German and a hussar, there will be talk!”

  “You needn’t put so much concern in idle gossip,” William said.

  After all, like any good Scion he knew that the best way to stop wagging tongues was to snap the necks they were attached to. William had arranged such things in the past to ebb the power of his own scandal. If Society took it upon itself to speak ill of Babette, he would attend to that as well. It was not at all unthinkable for a talkative noblewoman to be found murdered for her jewels, and scandals quickly changed their focus when the gentlemen whispering them turned up dead in the beds of harlots.

  But James did not—could not—understand such things, and that made reassuring him tiresome.

  “Idle gossip?” he demanded. “Father, this is Babette’s reputation we are speaking of!”

  “I would rather they talk about Babette being courted by a well-bred German than about her being courted by no one at all!” William snapped. He took a breath to regain his composure and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “James,” he said, “I know that you want what is best for Babette. But you must understand, I do as well. And I know how to do that. Have I not always steered this family on the best course?”

  James slowly nodded, and said, “You have, Father. You have.”

  “Then trust me, James. Babette is not her
mother. She is by nature a difficult girl to find a match for. Be happy that we seem to have found one and see where the summer takes us. At worst, there is always the good Captain des Louveteaux. His interest will never wane, so long as his father lives. I can assure you of that.”

  “If you say so, Father,” James said, smiling hopefully. He seemed overly pleased at the possibility of that contingency.

  William smiled back, but it was a lie. He would never allow his flesh and blood to be mated with the likes of a des Louveteaux.

  Never.

  Chapter Six

  Summer, 1861

  Babette flew across the park, past the line of trees, astride her chestnut horse as it galloped onward, obeying her direction without hesitation. Caught in the wind, her hair streamed out behind her. She had lost her hat amid the chase and cared too much for the thrill of pursuit to stop to retrieve it.

  Her vision had gone crimson like the color of her riding habit. She might have thought it was odd, but in the thrill of the moment, it seemed perfectly natural. The deer was no longer in sight, though she swore she could both hear and smell it. It was afraid. Elegantly afraid. It had fled for the trees in the first minutes of the chase and now lurked there—if a fleeing thing could be said to lurk—seeking an escape that would not come.

  It was already dead and she knew it.

  That realization formed a warm tingling on Babette’s tongue. It made her hungry. Eager.

  In a rush of leaves and brush, the deer burst from the trees and tried to cut across Babette’s path. Korbinian emerged a moment later atop his dappled gray, driving the deer into her path.

  “Shoot!” Korbinian shouted.

  Babette reached for the carbine in the scabbard in front of her saddle. It did not come free. She pulled harder, growling in frustration. Ahead of her, the deer continued running. Babette nudged her horse after it as she continued to tug on the carbine. She leaned forward, pulling with all her might. The back of the horse struck her in the chest twice, knocking the breath from her.

  The wind was too fast, too hot for her to breathe. Suddenly she was suffocating.

  No matter. Either the deer would die or she would die. She would not give up her prey.