A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

Korbinian shrugged and replied, “I suppose if you swing at the air enough times you are bound to hit something eventually.”

  This evoked a titter of laughter from the crowd and made Alfonse scowl.

  “The question is,” Korbinian said, “can you score another?”

  At this, Alfonse snarled and lunged with his sword. Korbinian had not expected the taunt to work so well, and he stepped sideways to avoid the attack. He brought his sword around and thrust at Alfonse’s chest. Alfonse managed to parry, but only just. Korbinian circled Alfonse’s flank and attacked again. Again it was countered, and Korbinian bounded back a pace in case of a riposte.

  But Alfonse’s parry had been late, and he had over-swung to block Korbinian’s sword.

  He’s not used to fighting without his breastplate, Korbinian realized. When he fights, he is weighed down. Now he moves with greater ease than he is familiar with.

  Korbinian recovered from the parry and lunged again, stretching out his arm to its full length and leaning in to make up the distance. He knew that if Alfonse managed to counter and attack, he would be exposed and helpless to defend himself.

  The tip of his blade stuck Alfonse in the side, drawing blood. Korbinian withdrew and spun in place with a flourish, bowing to the crowd as the ballroom thundered with applause.

  “A touch!” he proclaimed.

  “A touch indeed,” William said. “Two to the Baron, one to the Captain.”

  “We will soon see that number remedied,” Alfonse said.

  Korbinian blew a kiss to Babette and turned about to face his opponent.

  “I think not,” he said, “but you are welcome to try.”

  Alfonse came at him with even greater fury than before, something that Korbinian had not thought possible. They wove back and forth, steel sliding against steel, feet pounding on the floor as Alfonse lunged again and again, and Korbinian darted away each time with a parry and an attempted riposte. But each time the counterattack was halted by Alfonse’s blade.

  Something’s awoken in him. Korbinian was bewildered at the sudden change. He had seen men enraged before, and they always made easier targets. Now it seemed that Alfonse’s anger had empowered him, given him greater coordination and the rhythm of a proper swordsman. Gone were the almost clumsy movements of a man whose own strength was against him. Now Alfonse swung his blade faster and harder than Korbinian could see, and the harder he swung, the more coordinated the strike.

  Korbinian’s eyes nearly missed when Alfonse’s blade swept down toward his head. He caught a glint of metal and threw himself backward. He hit the ground and lay there for a moment. One cheek stung.

  He looked up at Babette and saw her covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with horror. The rest of the guests stared at him with similar expressions.

  What…?

  Korbinian touched the side of his face and felt wetness. He brought his hand away and saw blood on his fingertips. Alfonse had cut his cheek.

  He looked up and saw Alfonse standing over him, arms raised in triumph. He sneered at Korbinian before turning to William.

  “A touch, I think,” he said.

  Korbinian looked at William and saw the old man’s jaw tighten. William’s hands gripped the railing in front of him.

  “Hits to the torso only,” William finally said, emphasizing each word as if scolding a child who had broken a priceless vase.

  Korbinian bounded to his feet and smiled.

  “Let it count,” he said. He turned toward Babette and looked into her eyes. “I am unharmed,” he said, to her more than to anyone else.

  This did not seem to be the response Alfonse wanted. He turned on Korbinian and cocked his head, glaring at him.

  “Perhaps you should bandage your face,” he said, “lest it scar.”

  “Nonsense!” Korbinian laughed. “I think I ought to have a scar, you know. I am a hussar. We are known to face danger without fear. We certainly don’t hide behind breastplates and helmets like men afraid of getting a scratch.”

  He patted Alfonse on the back and added:

  “Perhaps you should give yourself a scar. It might improve your chances with the ladies.”

  Alfonse leaned toward him so that their faces were barely inches apart.

  “I will beat you,” he whispered, speaking just loud enough for Korbinian to hear him.

  “What of it?” Korbinian asked in the same tone.

  This seemed to confuse Alfonse.

  “I will win,” he said, emphasizing the word.

  What a fool.

  Korbinian smiled and said softly, “I have already won. I have Babette and you do not. And you will never have her. A swordfight does not win a woman’s heart.”

  Alfonse snarled at him. Rather like a dog, Korbinian thought. Korbinian made to step away, but Alfonse threw an arm around his shoulders and held him fast.

  “Then I will kill her,” Alfonse whispered “so that neither of us will have her.”

  Korbinian stared at him. It was a dreadful thing to jest about. But there in Alfonse’s eyes he saw a glimmer of sincerity that made his stomach turn cold and hollow.

  Alfonse turned away and took up his position. Korbinian hesitated for a moment, shaken by what Alfonse had said. When he resumed his stance, it was with a pounding heart. He glanced toward Babette and saw her smile back at him.

  Could it be true? Surely not!

  Korbinian looked back into Alfonse’s eyes and saw the horrible look there, hidden behind the man’s jovial smile.

  “Now for the final round,” William said. “And remember, torso only.”

  “Of course, Monsieur,” Alfonse said with a laugh.

  “Yes, of course,” Korbinian said.

  This time he waited for Alfonse to come at him. The bigger man obliged him without hesitation, charging in with little finesse and tremendous enthusiasm. Korbinian knew what to expect this time. He brought his weapon up, trapped Alfonse’s sword, and stepped in close until the two of them stared eye-to-eye through their crossed blades.

  “You lie,” Korbinian said before thrusting Alfonse away.

  They traded a few more blows before Alfonse brought them back into speaking distance.

  “Do I?” Alfonse asked in the same hushed tone as before. “Do you recall the beast that attacked you in the woods?”

  Korbinian broke the hold and pushed Alfonse away. He withdrew a step and waited at the defense, his mind whirring.

  How did Alfonse know about that? The sickness in Korbinian’s stomach began to grow.

  Alfonse moved it close again and again their swords crossed at the hilt.

  “I know,” Alfonse said, as if reading his mind, “because I sent it. A family pet. I gave it Babette’s scent and dispatched it after her. It would have killed her if you hadn’t interfered.”

  They broke again, and this time Korbinian made a retaliatory jab. Alfonse knocked his sword away, startled. After a moment he laughed.

  Korbinian circled Alfonse at close distance, and they continued to speak quietly:

  “What you suggest is impossible,” Korbinian said. “It was a bear.”

  “Have you seen trained bears?” Alfonse asked, tapping his sword against Korbinian’s. “They are very obedient. And hungry. But as the animal has failed me, I will use men next time.”

  So saying, Alfonse lunged for Korbinian’s chest. Korbinian knocked the sword aside, and the two of them traded back and forth with a quick series of attacks and counters.

  “If you hurt her…” Korbinian said.

  He felt his temper rising as it had never done before outside of battle. How dare the pompous inbred barbarian threaten his beloved Babette? How dare he?

  Alfonse took one long step inward and brought his sword down hard. Korbinian caught the attack with his own blade just above the guard and stood, struggling against the pressure of Alfonse’s tremendous strength that pressed downward upon him.

  “I will not merely ‘hurt’ her, boy,” Alfonse said. “I wil
l kill her. And who can say? Perhaps I’ll ravish her first. Let her experience a man instead of a boy.”

  Korbinian tried to say something, but all he could manage were snarls. The sickness in his belly had been replaced with burning rage that infected every last inch of his body. He felt hot sweat upon his brow, shivers along his back, and pounding in his head that sounded out one word over and over again:

  Kill! Kill! Kill!

  “The only way to save her,” Alfonse said, pressing down harder and harder, “is to break the engagement and flee back to your dunghill on the Rhine.”

  Kill! Kill! Kill!

  Korbinian felt his strength failing him. The force of Alfonse’s titanic body was unlike that of any opponent he had fought before. He glanced sideways and saw Babette staring at them, her fists clenched tightly before her. Their eyes met and for a moment Korbinian felt that they were alone, just the two of them together as they would be—as they must be—for all eternity.

  “I know another way,” he said.

  “What?” Alfonse asked.

  Korbinian dropped his guard and pushed hard on Alfonse’s sword, guiding it and all the strength behind it to the side. He twisted away in the opposite direction and spun around. The blood pounded in his head harder than ever. Now all he could see was the man who dared intend his beloved Babette harm.

  The man who had to die.

  Korbinian watched Alfonse stumble as his sword hit the floor. Alfonse hurriedly turned in place and raised his weapon, bellowing in rage at Korbinian’s evasion.

  In a single smooth movement, Korbinian advanced a pace and thrust his sword into Alfonse’s chest just below the ribs. Alfonse let out a gasp, stumbled, and collapsed to his knees. He dropped his sword and clutched at his bleeding belly. He looked at the blood staining his hands and slowly raised his head to meet Korbinian’s eyes.

  For the first time since he had met the man, Korbinian saw fear—genuine fear—in Alfonse’s face.

  You who would be a murderer, Korbinian thought, learn what it is to die.

  “No!” he heard Louis cry. He looked and saw the man clutching his hands, mouth agape with horror. All of the guests had similar expressions.

  Korbinian turned toward William. William’s eyes were furious but he seemed neither angry nor horrified. Instead, his mouth was set with a narrow smile, one of satisfaction.

  “A touch!” Korbinian cried, holding his bloody sword aloft. “A touch!”

  Let Alfonse please himself with scars and threats. The men of Fuchsburg did not resort to such pettiness.

  They killed.

  Giddy and lightheaded, Korbinian turned to face Babette. Her hands were clutched before her face, her mouth was agape and speechless, and tears streamed down her cheeks. But the expression on her beautiful face was so like her grandfather’s: free of horror and filled only with satisfaction.

  Korbinian kept his sword raised high in triumph, and he extended his hand toward his beloved.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck midnight.

  He had shed his enemy’s blood and saved the woman he loved, and all before Christmas.

  * * * *

  Babette was certain her heart would burst from her chest. Throughout the entire fight, she had held her breath with anticipation, which had only grown worse and worse as the fighting became more violent. Now that her champion, her beloved, her Korbinian had arisen victorious, all of the dread that had filled her turned to joy. Her heart beat harder and faster than it had ever before.

  He was hers and he was alive.

  Grandfather’s guests were all silent, and a hush had fallen over the room. What was wrong with them, Babette wondered. Did they not see how joyous this moment was? Alfonse had tried to murder her beloved, and her beloved had struck him down.

  Now was a time for celebration!

  Korbinian stood before her, hand outstretched, calling her to him. She took a step toward him, and another, and another—one step for each chime of the clock as it struck twelve. Everything felt very slow. Each step was heavy and uncertain, like in the dull haze of a dream.

  The chimes of the clock reached twelve and faded into silence. A shiver ran down Babette’s spine.

  Something was wrong.

  Babette’s eyes snapped toward where Alfonse lay on the ground in a pool of blood. She saw him roll onto his side and slowly rise.

  Impossible!

  She stared in silence, struggling to make any kind of sound as Alfonse stood and raised his sword.

  She saw Alfonse draw back his arm to strike.

  “NO!” she screamed.

  Korbinian’s face clouded in confusion. He stared at her with questioning eyes.

  A moment later, Alfonse let out a roar and thrust his sword through Korbinian’s chest. Korbinian staggered but for a moment he still stared at Babette, as if silently pleading for her to explain what had happened. He slowly looked down at the tip of Alfonse’s blade, which extended from his chest.

  Behind him, Alfonse laughed aloud, blood bubbling into his mouth as he did. He pulled his sword free, slipped on his own blood, and fell to the floor.

  Korbinian sank to his knees with a gasp. His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered against the ground.

  “Korbinian!” Babette cried, her voice finally returning to her.

  She ran to him and knelt beside him. She clutched him to her, heedless of the blood that stained her gown.

  “No, no, no, no!” she cried.

  She cradled Korbinian’s head in her lap and stroked his hair, sobbing in spite of herself. She looked up at the sea of blank faces looking down at them and shouted:

  “Someone fetch a doctor!”

  No one moved.

  Babette felt Korbinian’s hand brush her cheek. She looked down at him, gazing into his eyes.

  “Liebchen,” Korbinian said, smiling at her. There was blood upon his lips.

  Babette tried to speak, but all she could manage were stammers and sobs.

  This couldn’t be happening, not now!

  “Liebchen,” Korbinian repeated.

  “Yes?” Babette asked, tears stinging her cheeks.

  “Do not cry,” Korbinian said. He coughed and spat blood. “Why do you cry?”

  “Because I cannot lose you!” Babette cried. “Because you are my heart! My soul!” She looked up in despair and said, “Because I cannot bear to be without you.”

  Korbinian took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “But liebchen,” he said, “you will never be without me. Ours is a love that can never die. Not even God Himself can stand between us.”

  Babette looked at him from behind the tears that filled her eyes. How beautiful he was. How perfect. Even the blood—oh, God, the blood!—even it could not mar the dying Adonis.

  “Do not weep for me,” Korbinian said, his voice now little more than a hoarse whisper. “I can die well knowing that you are safe now, knowing that the fiend dies with me. And when I fall into that unending sleep, let my dreams be only of you.”

  “My love—” Babette began.

  “Kiss me, liebchen,” Korbinian said. “Let me taste your lips once more.”

  Without hesitation, Babette pressed her lips against Korbinian’s. It was a kiss more fervent, more desperate than any they had shared before. Babette clung to that kiss, praying for it all to be a terrible dream from which she could awaken.

  When I open my eyes, she told herself, Korbinian will be there at my side. And I will tell him of all this. And we will laugh.

  But it was not a dream.

  She felt Korbinian’s strength fading, and she drew back to look at him. The light in his eyes shone but weakly. Babette could see the glimmer of life fading as she gazed upon him.

  “Remember, liebchen,” Korbinian whispered, “I will always love you.”

  So saying, Korbinian fell silent and died.

  Babette clutched him to her, sobbing aloud, crying out to God, to Grandfather, to anyone to intercede and undo th
e loss of half her soul.

  But no one, neither God nor Grandfather, answered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Winter, 1862

  William took a last look at the letter in his hand and placed it gently back on his desk. He wanted to crumple it into a ball and throw it across the room, but that would accomplish nothing. Instead, he sat at his desk and folded his hands in his lap.

  Breathe.

  James, resting on the settee, looked up at him with expectant eyes.

  “News?” he asked.

  “News,” William said. He scowled for a moment before elaborating:

  “The letter is from an associate of mine in Paris. Society is filled with stories of the duel.”

  He did not mention that the stories being told were both disparaging and wildly inaccurate. Somehow they all agreed that, far from Alfonse committing murder after being stabbed, Korbinian’s death was entirely his own fault. He had, the rumors said, impaled himself upon Alfonse’s blade while attempting cold-blooded murder.

  Damning nonsense, William thought, scowling again. Louis’s reach was not surprising, but he had not anticipated the speed with which the slander spread. At least his own rumormongers had kept his family safe from the worst of the scandal. If the letter was to be believed, the name “Varanus” only arose amid words of pity for the victims of the Rhinelander’s shameful ruse.

  “What a disaster!” James cried.

  “The scandal is manageable,” William said, irritated by his son’s outburst. “We are seen as innocent.”

  “Not the scandal! The Baron’s death!”

  “I thought you disliked him,” William said.

  “I did not approve of him,” James said, “but Babette truly loved him, and now the man she loves is dead. My daughter is in pain, and there is nothing I can do to comfort her.”

  William sighed and selected pen and paper from his desk. He began writing a reply to his man in Paris.

  “It is a tragedy, yes,” he said, “but Babette will recover. Life is filled with sorrow. We know that better than anyone, James.”

  As he said this he looked at James, but his son looked away.

  “She will recover in time, once she has been allowed to grieve.”

  “Then why have you instructed the servants never to leave her alone?” James asked. “Why can’t they leave her in peace?”