The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “Ah, come now. Look alive, mon ami.” His comrade’s voice sounded surreal, impossibly distant.

  Moments from departure, the locomotive puffed out ribbons of smoke and blared its horn in warning. Aleksender and Christophe muttered a unified curse and picked up their strides.

  Anywhere was better than this limbo.

  Alas, Aleksender had half-expected to be greeted by Charon, Hades’ personal ferryman—the infamous seaman who escorted the souls of the dead into the Underworld. And instead of paying passage with coins of gold, they’d offer two clammy pieces of parchment.

  Aleksender blinked away the beads of sweat. Upside-down words, Chermin de Fer de Rouen—Voiture, were slightly smudged and damp with perspiration marks. He and Christophe beelined through the maze of swishing skirts and worn helmets, hearts madly pounding, those one-way tickets balanced between their fingertips.

  Overhead the silhouette of an eagle emerged from a black haze of smoke. Mindless of his friend’s glower, Aleksender stopped dead in his tracks, brushed away his forelock, and marveled at the vision. Colossal wings were curved into two elegant arches as if preparing to take flight. But the creature remained unnaturally still. It was a shadow kissed by coils of smoke, a sinister force that had come with the tenth plague of Egypt, hovering high above the station like the Angel of Death.

  Wearing a scowl that could only be described as weary, Christophe socked Aleksender’s shoulder and urged him into motion. A set of dog tags dangled from his neck and clashed against the uniform’s navy hue. The tags tinkled with the delicacy of tin cymbals, manipulated by each shift in his body weight. The sound irritated Aleksender. It reminded him of nails on a chalkboard. Or, more appropriately, like nails raking against the inside of a coffin—

  “Stand there like that and I reckon we’ll never see Paris again.” The train whistled another warning and pumped out furls of smoke. Christophe scoffed, massaging the arch of his chin in a nervous gesture. “What in the devil has gotten into you? Would you—”

  Aleksender silently shoved past Christophe and claimed the lead. He half-expected the eagle to descend from the rafters at any given moment. But the illusion faded away with each of his steps—unveiling that bird of prey for what it truly was. “The Imperial War flag.”

  Or rather, the symbol of the Imperial War flag.

  Christophe rotated in the direction of Aleksender’s voice with a grin and arched brow. Murmuring a pained grunt, he adjusted the satchel’s strap. The leather was pliable and soft with age, though fully capable of leaving a solid welt in its wake. “Ah. So it is …” A chuckle rumbled low in Christophe’s throat. “Bit of an ugly thing, eh?”

  Aleksender said nothing. Firmly rooted in place, he held his breath and surveyed the station in its entirety. For the first time, he really drank in his surroundings.

  And the truth was a knife to his throat.

  An overall sense of discontentment tainted the air. Hordes of Prussian soldiers infested nearly every square foot, outnumbering members of the French military three-to-one. Aleksender felt strangely out of his element—as if he was intruding upon his own home. He cursed and blotted away beads of sweat with the side of his cufflink. “What horror have we returned to?”

  His words were lost to the surrounding din. From wall to wall, a wave of excitement had flooded the station. Men, women and children eagerly huddled about as they contended for a proper viewing spot of the building action. A little boy was lifted onto his father’s shoulders, granting him a bird’s-eye view as the scene unfolded. The competition was ruthless. In a single instant, Aleksender had returned to the damn battlefield.

  Laying down the rifle and satchel, he extended each limb and inhaled a deep groan. He was more than a bit grateful for the delay. As he’d expected, his comrade flocked to the drama, behaving like some petty spinster rather than a veteran of war.

  And what spectacular drama it was. Within moments, the surrounding madness escalated to a full-blown riot. A handsome, young couple was hustled from the train in order to make room for two Prussians. A tangle of protests and empty threats filled the station as France’s citizens flocked to the couple’s defense.

  “My sincerest apologies, madame, monsieur,” the guard mumbled without an inkling of sympathy in his voice. He led them down the three wooden steps and onto the platform.

  The lady twisted on her fine heels. Her fair complexion flushed deeply, gloved hands strangling the parasol like twin manacles. “You dare turn us out for those savages!? Those … those common Visigoths!”

  “Don’t fret, darling,” crooned the husband as he caressed her arm with calculated strokes. “We shall catch the next one without delay.”

  She jerked free of his touch, lips hooked into a fierce scowl and pretty eyes blazing. An arm was propped on either side of her hip as she hotly spoke. “Why, I never took you for a coward till this moment! I suppose Father was right about you, after all.”

  The faintest blush singed the gentleman’s cheekbones. Leaning on his walking stick like an old man, he cleared his throat and shrunk two full sizes. “Now, see here, darling, I simply—”

  “How can you be so shameless? Why, I’ve half a mind to board the first ship out of this wretched place and never look back!”

  Suspended above this melodrama was Prussia’s black and white flag. Fluttering amongst a smoky sea of ashes, it hung in the midst of France’s greatest railway station without a trace of honor.

  A true angel of death, Aleksender inwardly mused.

  And that blackened eagle had confirmed his deepest, darkest premonition: the war was far from over.

  The bloodshed had only just begun.

  •

  Dawn was almost fully broken an hour later. Flittering street lamps cast rings of light that were lost to sunrays. The long streams oozed through Paris’s ancient buildings and monuments, awarding the city with an unworldly quality.

  Aleksender and Christophe wandered the cobblestone walkways in uniformed silence. All around them society was waking for the day. The town baker rolled his cart, whistling a merry tune, the bread rolls still warm and steaming. Men and women opened up shop and greeted awaiting clientele. This spectacular show of normalcy was contradicted by countless barricades—a handful of which clogged alleyways and blocked store entrances.

  Together, Aleksender and Christophe observed Paris like it was a foreign land. And in a most strange way, it was.

  Indeed, a black plague had consumed every inch of Paris since she’d been under siege only months before. The war had left the city isolated from the rest of France and in a state of purgatory. Monarchy was dead, the government virtually useless, and citizens overcome with poverty and despair. Cries of revolution had spawned as the National Guard took charge, enlisting persons of all ages and social classes to stand at Paris’s defense. It was a militia created and sustained by the people—and a force that opposed France’s formal army.

  Early stirrings of civil war had broken out between Parisians and the military of Versailles. And this so-called peace, a sentiment that comes with the ending of war, was nothing less than a mockery of Paris’s former elegance.

  Blaring signs of chaos were everywhere—the beggars, abandoned buildings, rundown whores, starving children, filthy sidewalks.

  Christophe’s voice finally broke the pressing quiet. “My shop better be alive and well. I got no chit awaitin’ my return. Only a couple knives, saws, an’ clamps to keep me warm at night. Be a damn pity to lose the one thing I can rightfully call my own.”

  A tight and poignant chuckle inflated Aleksender’s lungs. “I doubt such a thing matters with the whole of Paris good and dead.”

  Aleksender drew toward one of the wrecked shops and studied its emaciated and skeletal frame. The windows had been shattered, exposing lightless and gutted insides. Out-of-doors, the red freedom flag hung from the structure’s aged planks like a bloody omen. Christophe fondled the scarlet linen, scanning the various nooks and crannies that lay bey
ond the battered walls.

  Observing his friend’s silent awe, Aleksender stepped back and adjusted his satchel. Christophe Cleef was thirty-five years old, though a bit of a child himself. Blessed with boyish good looks and the devil’s charm, he did not see France’s swift surrender as defeat; he rather saw it as an opportunity to inspire much-needed change within his beloved home. Like so many before him, he was blinded by idealistic thoughts and would stop at nothing to see them carried out.

  Aleksender certainly did not see eye-to-eye with his comrade’s whimsical perspective of the world. He rather thought Christophe’s grand ideas were downright ridiculous—the ambitious musings of a deluded idiot. Such passion was both a blessing and curse.

  “What a pity,” Aleksender mumbled, his voice icy and void of remorse. “The people insist on bringing about their own destruction.”

  •

  Christophe shot Aleksender a look and hastened his steps. As usual, he remained mute and turned a deaf ear to his friend’s cynicism. He shook his face and rounded the maimed structure, an all-too-familiar resentment thrumming through his veins. He desperately needed space—a breath of fresh air. The temptation to lash out at his comrade was just too great. And that was one territory he didn’t wish to revisit any time soon.

  As Christophe continued his investigation of Paris, the street narrowed, enclosing his body between wood and stone. Steam from a nearby workshop fogged his vision and curled around his limbs, urging him forward. His hair grew heavy with condensation as he waded through the dense cloud.

  All around him, sunrays speared through splintered planks and illuminated the ornaments that decorated his military coat. The assortment of bronze and silver shone in the early morning light and contrasted against the uniform’s deep hue. Lost within a strain of thought, Christophe paused in his tracks and inclined his chin. A burst of pride instantly overcame him.

  The bronze military decoration glittered like a beacon, reminding Christophe that France had not suffered true defeat. No—there was still much to be won. And he’d never been one to stand idly by.

  Distant chatter filled the alleyway and anchored his attention. He trailed after the faint rolling of drums and muffled voices—drawing closer to the sounds, closer …

  Soon the melodies climaxed and blossomed into a brilliant crescendo. Just as quickly silence took hold. Only the repetitive clicking of his boots shattered the quiet. Christophe veered down one of the sharp corners and eased into the long, dank alleyway.

  A rather impressive and unexpected sight greeted him. Christophe laid down his belongings, knotted both arms across his chest, and observed the action with a rekindled patriotism inside his heart.

  Several rows of uniformed men stood single-file, bodies erect and rifles propped over their shoulders. All eyes were staring forward and fixed on the Captain of the Guard. Representing everything that a good captain should be, the figure was stationed front and center, hands tucked behind his dark coat. Almost comically, a coal-black mustache twitched in time with each of his words. “Citizens of Paris! Our National Guard has become a federation—a federation that challenges a government that has betrayed us!”

  A chorus of hoots and applause sounded out. Christophe felt his pulse quicken in anticipation. He leaned in closer so as not to miss a word. “Prime Minister Thiers violates our rights! We must unite against this tyranny and exploitation. Long live brotherhood and solidarity!”

  Christophe collected his belongings from the pavement and headed back to the boulevard. With each step, the cheers dissolved into an empty and sullen silence. And yet, inside his mind, the message remained loud and clear.

  •

  Pacing back and forth, Aleksender waited as his comrade sated his curiosity. He felt himself grow increasingly impatient and uneasy. A mounting detachment was steadily forming between him and what was left of his home. Not for the first time, his eyes ran across a placard that was tacked onto the shop’s door:

  French Republic

  Liberty—equality—fraternity

  The Commune de Paris decrees all citizens

  as a part of the National Guard.

  Aleksender scoffed at Paris’s insolence and stupidity. It was as though the people longed to suffer. There could be no other explanation for this foolish burst of patriotism.

  The war had come and gone, leaving a window of opportunity for the city to rise from its ashes. But no—the people were far too proud to accept defeat.

  Wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Christophe came into step beside Aleksender. “I believe that’s twenty francs to you, ol’ friend.” He paused, allowing Aleksender a moment to recall their latest wager: whether horrors of the battlefield were preferable to the horrors of polite society. And then that smile successfully reached his eyes—as if he’d convinced himself of his own blatant lie. “It’s a fine thing to be home.”

  Christophe inhaled the musky sea air and curiously looked about. “Yes,” he repeated with a new confidence, “it is quite good to be home again. A little time and care and she’ll be good as new.” He and Aleksender crossed the street, mindful of the omnibuses and horse-drawn carriages rolling by. “Am I right, ami?”

  “One would have hoped,” Aleksender muttered beneath a stale drawl. He passed a hand over his hair in a slick motion—an overused habit that often marked his distress. “But even a blind man can see the truth. This is the beginning of the end. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Is that right? That how you see it?”

  Christophe froze in the middle of the street. People momentarily stopped whatever they were doing and watched the veterans with blank expressions and sideways glances.

  An omnibus screamed to a halt, nearly running Aleksender and Christophe into the ground. “Take care, messieurs!” the driver hollered from his spot on the wooden bench. And then he coaxed the two geldings into a steady gait and moved on with his day; the clapping of hooves against pavement resounded once more. With a detached awareness, Aleksender’s gaze followed the large block lettering that rimmed the vehicle’s upper floor: RUE DE LA PAIX.

  Christophe slammed his satchel onto the ground and glared at Aleksender with bitterly cold eyes. Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence, quiet as the grave.

  “I may pity you more than I pity Paris.” Without sparing another word, Christophe collected his satchel from the pavement, whistled down the omnibus, and climbed onto its platform. Aleksender shook his face and joined Christophe with a dejected sigh.

  The vehicle harshly lurched into motion. Aleksender and Christophe leaned against the railing, exhausted and spent, chassepot rifles dangling from their shoulders.

  •

  Established along the Right Bank of the River Seine, Cafe Roux was a true diamond in the rough. By day, it was a charming and quaint restaurant located conveniently on Rue de le Paix—one of Paris’s most fashionable boulevards. It stood as a bit of a sanctuary, offering the leisurely ways of the easy life: relaxing for hours on end, catching up on the latest scandals, all while watching the world pass by.

  By night, however, the cafe transformed into a watering hole for gentlemen of all pedigrees. It attracted the upper class, the lower class, and those sorry wretches who were squandered somewhere between the two worlds. Due to its close proximity to the up-and-coming Opera Garnier—and the fact it had been designed by none other than Charles Garnier himself—Cafe Roux had earned its reputation as a unique and revered attraction. Within its walls, it was not so uncommon for a pauper to rub shoulders with a prince.

  The little dwelling was a wonderful kingdom of idiosyncrasies. The selection of ladies was always most satisfying while the brandies never disappointed. Even well past the wee hours of morning, it remained a rather risqué drinking bar and wenching ground. While it was far from the finest of bars, from nine PM to eight AM, Cafe Roux offered a nice escape from the clutches of one’s mistress or madame.

  It was within this decadent time frame that Alekse
nder and Christophe paced inside. Aleksender studied Christophe as his friend’s roguish nature took hold. Welcoming the crude atmosphere and stale scents with an open heart, Christophe’s grin grew lopsided, steps eager, and tongue heavy with wit.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Christophe scanned the room from wall to wall. The place was a damn madhouse. “Dawn has yet to break and the better half of Paris is already drunk out of their wits? Fine thing to see nothin’ has changed in the least.”

  A heated game of commerce occupied the cafe’s sole card table. Rowdy jeers and handfuls of sous were traded amongst the men. Reckless wages overlapped in a flurry of excitement, each battling to be heard. Cigar smoke obscured the air in collective white clouds. Seductive barmaids served drinks to loyal patrons, not minding the obscene fondling of their backsides. Between the cinched bodices and wicked smiles, they beamed with the charms of a good whore. And it had been ages since either Christophe or Aleksender had reaped the pleasures of a good whore.

  The two veterans seated themselves before Cafe Roux’s endless counter.

  At once, a strong sense of not belonging overcame Aleksender. Finding no comfort, he settled into the stool and fished a wedding band from his trousers. The trinket was caked with grime and severely tarnished. Christophe scoffed, not bothering to hide his disgust.

  “Mmm. Speak of the devil. I see you haven’t changed so much yourself. You might’ve forgotten Elizabeth entirely.”

  Offering no words of denial, Aleksender rubbed the golden band against his cuff till it came to life with a weak sparkle. “Ah, come now. What in God’s teeth are you doin’ here with me?” Christophe roared a humorless laugh and shook his face. “For all I know, this wretched pisshole is the closest thing I got to a home. You, on the other hand—you have a warm bed awaitin’ your return, a pretty wife to properly tumble.” A tense silence passed between Aleksender and Christophe. “Eh, I suppose I could do the job for you?”