Sofia and Aleksender quietly stood at the center of the Tuileries Garden. In the nearby distance, the Vendôme Column towered against the sky, Napoleon’s likeness scraping at the heavens. Over a hundred of the column’s spiraling bronze plates were rumored to have been constructed from captured cannons. And each one stood as a sentiment of the military’s power and might. Elaborately dressed in Roman garb, Napoleon’s statue symbolized France’s greatness and immorality.
The Tuileries Garden had remained the city’s most popular leisure spot despite its recent torching. Vivid plant life and brimming ponds textured the premises in an array of colors.
But nothing could have alleviated the storm cloud that hovered over Sofia and Aleksender. Nearly a week had passed since their kiss. And now Aleksender could feel his doomed fate closing in on him like a palpable force. He was sinking into the blackened depths of despair. And those faceless statues reminded Aleksender that those closest to him were very much in jeopardy. Damn it to hell. He’d sooner slit his throat than bring Sofia down with him. And if things remained in their present condition, such a thing would be inevitable.
Aleksender distracted himself with a boyish fantasy. Perhaps he would purchase a ship with a generous sum of his inheritance. For sentimental reasons he would name the vessel The Nightingale—a shameless homage to a story he’d often read to Sofia. He would rule as the ship’s captain, and—if the fool played his cards right—Christophe would serve as his first mate.
And Sofia, his lovely and sweet ward, would bunk with him each night and absorb the sunrise each morning. Maybe from the crow’s nest, should he successfully rid himself of his fear of his heights. The evenings would be dedicated to ravishing the holy temple of Sofia’s body, much like the loyal servant ravishes his goddess. Aleksender would become a legendary pirate king, the ruler of the high seas, Poseidon in the flesh. From coast to coast, the three of them would sail the world in silent harmony. Naturally, they’d make a brief stop to America where Christophe could find a fiery wench to tame.
Perhaps Aleksender would deny his destiny and fate would no longer claim the upper hand.
“Alek …” The surrounding tension might have been severed with a blade. Standing mere inches apart, Sofia draped a hand over the ragged arch of Aleksender’s shoulder. He jerked from her touch as though it had burned. “Alek? What—”
“We can’t see each other anymore. Not like this. Not for a while.”
Sincere confusion crossed over her features. She tucked a loose curl behind each ear and shook her face. “What? What are you even saying?”
Aleksender inhaled a strained breath. “The other night at Voisin—it was a mistake. An impulsive mistake. We mustn’t go any farther down this road. We weren’t thinking clearly. And it’s my fault and mine alone. Sofia … I should have never come to you that night. I was lonely and—”
Sofia fought back tears as the slender expanse of her chest shook with evident shudders. Aleksender gripped onto her shoulder blades and aligned their bodies. She stared at the pavement below her heels, unable to meet his eyes.
“God, I … I’m so stupid. I thought—”
“Sofia, you did nothing wrong. Please, you must understand—I care for you. I care for you far too much.” Aching from her nearness, Aleksender reached out, attempting to stroke the smooth bend of her cheek.
Sofia flinched out of his grasp with a strange and strangled sob. “No. Just … don’t.”
The vast blue sky seemed to darken as clouds overhead swelled and dimmed. The serene backdrop had been painted over and wiped clean out of existence.
Likewise, Sofia’s lovely face mutated into a mask of agony. Aleksender felt his heart clench as various degrees of pain crept over her muddled features. The sapphire of her eyes became tarnished, abandoning their customary glow, her ivory complexion whitening to a ghostly pallor.
She fought—bless her dear heart, she fought like a true flesh and blood warrior—to hide her emotions and conceal her pain.
Aleksender searched her eyes for answers, for hidden secrets of the heart. The truth was cleanly etched in her gaze. She believed they could be together. And Aleksender could only assume that he was to blame for her skewed perception of the world. He had raised her on the enchanting romance of fairytales. Now, as Sofia stood before him, the genuine prospect of hope flickered from her blue eyes. And, much like himself, her head was bursting with fantastic thoughts and romantic ideas. Things that could never be.
Sofia trembled from head to toe, shuddering like a leaf in La Havre’s summer breeze.
Aleksender stroked her arm with an exquisite deftness as he attempted to sedate her nerves. But she found no relief in his caresses. His touch only burned. And she found that it ignited her spirit with a multitude of flares.
She freed herself from the circle of Aleksender’s arms. His fingers slid away, almost in slow motion, that green gaze alive with feeling. Destined tears pricked the corners of her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks. She summoned an inner strength, holding them back.
“Sofia? I—”
“Please—no. Just don’t touch me. It’s too much …”
A guttural sound erupted low in her throat. Sofia swallowed, cupping her heart in vain. Alas, the very source of her affection was strong and willfully determined against her palm. It thundered in a deafening roar. She inwardly cursed herself, convinced that he could hear the godforsaken drumming. “You promised. Only days ago you said I’d never lose you.”
Aleksender inched toward Sofia, both palms outstretched as if he were coaxing a spooked horse into submission. “Sofia—”
She continued to slink away.
He was closing in on her. Their fate was closing in on the both of them. A glorious landslide of possessed emotion was destined to crush their souls. And what more was a landslide than the accumulated pressure of stress and time?
Two steps later and Sofia slammed against one of the garden’s stone columns. Aleksender hovered high above her, all darkness and torn emotion, the magnificent curve of his form casting her within shadow.
“I have waited for you. In my heart, I have waited.” Her voice was nearly inaudible. “And I know it’s wrong. It is wrong and sinful in every way, but I can’t shake this feeling. And I know that you feel it, too.”
Fate had brought them together. Now fate was to keep them apart.
The epiphany, the full extent of their inability to be together, burned Sofia’s soul. The fantasy had been shattered. And now, she would forever be lost—lost with no hope of returning to the life she’d once known and loved.
And yet on the day of Aleksender’s departure, as the ship had whistled impatiently and women wept their goodbyes, he had kissed her. He had really kissed her.
He had kissed her as though he’d loved her.
“I love you as my ward,” was his soft answer to her thoughts, “nothing more.” Aleksender swallowed. “And she deserves better.” His voice was composed and smooth, yet bore a jagged edge. Sofia dropped her chin and braced herself for the inevitable. “I’ve already hurt Elizabeth far more than I can bear to live with.” Aleksender glanced elsewhere, unable to stomach the sight of her heartache.
She nodded and knotted both arms over her breasts. “I must go.”
Pinning her body against the column’s cool alabaster, Aleksender blocked her steps and prevented any hope for escape. “Please.” He rested a hand upon the slope of her neck, willing himself not to tremble. Visibly battling some inner demon, he gave in and caressed her skin. Her eyes blinked shut at the hypnotic ministrations. “I care for you. I care for you so much. And saving you that night.” Their gazes locked, souls consummating. “Was a godsend.”
“I … I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”
A fat tear rolled down her cheek and dampened Aleksender’s hand. It burned, striking him like holy water. But he was possessed with demons that could never be exorcised.
“What do you want me to say? What can I say?” S
ilence followed. Only the wind’s breath penetrated the quiet. Indeed. There was nothing left for him to say. In a single instant, their stars had realigned. And nothing could ever again be the same.
“Nothing. I understand.” Sofia tucked a chocolate curl behind her ear and smoothed down the delicate material of her skirts. “Farewell, my dear Alek.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Few things are worse than being stripped of everything you hold dearest.
Drunk out of his mind, Christophe pondered this stale sentiment as he stared down the sweltering remnants of his home. His chest clenched at the sight. Alas, the vision was uglier than any battlefield. More disturbing than any number of dismembered limbs or decapitated heads. Christophe medicated himself with a generous swig of alcohol, chased the liquid with his cigar, and swept unkempt locks from his eyes.
Mon Dieu. When had he last bathed? Days ago? A week? It was impossible to say. But one thing was vividly clear—the stench was inescapable and Godawful. He reeked of filth, sweat, sex, and brandies. Near to suffocating and disgusted within himself, Christophe unbuttoned a row of clasps on his blouse and urged the spring air to clear out the musk.
What was that ridiculous saying? Ah, yes, some English fool—the great Sir Edward Coke—had once said that “a man’s house is his castle and fortress, and each man’s home is his safest refuge.” How very ingenious were the English! Neurotically gnawing at the tip of his cigar, Christophe looked upon the tangled mass of blackened planks and fluttering debris—the half complete rosewood furnishings and whittled keepsakes, the gutted ashes of his home.
Everything was burning. And all that remained of his past was a rusted Prussian dagger and a mangy pair of dog tags.
A handful of Versailles soldiers were to blame for the destruction. Christophe was certain of it. Yes—the National Guard and France’s formal “defenders” had been exchanging bombs within yards of Christophe’s humble abode. One of the damned shells had slipped and tore through the walls. Thanks to Christophe’s patriotism—thanks to his personal collection of chassepot rifles and gunpowder kegs—the explosion had proved to be quite a spectacle. The very things that had kept him alive out on the battlefield—those precise things that had once served France’s formal military—had inevitably destroyed all he held dearest.
Aleksender’s words invaded his mind. I daresay irony at its finest.
And where was the great Comte de Paris now? Sitting up in his castle and fortress, locked away in a safe haven, a refuge—oblivious to Paris’s destruction. Comte Aleksender de Lefèvre had served “her well” and wanted nothing to do with the war. And his wish had been granted on a silver platter.
And what of his comrade, Christophe Cleef? What of himself? He’d gone bankrupt weeks ago (after all, few people purchase writing desks and wooden benches during a siege) and had hit rockbottom ever since.
What were Aleksender’s words? What were those sparkling words of wisdom? What else had Aleksender said in Cafe Roux on that fine Parisian morning?
The war has not ended. It has merely followed us home.
The war had followed Christophe home, yes—all while Paris’s noble comte blissfully hid himself away.
Alas! Had Christophe not been at the local brothel the previous night, tucked snugly between the legs of some exotic whore, he’d exist as nothing more than a pile of rubble and ashes.
And death was a welcoming thought.
His head spun out of control, drowning beneath a fiery lake of alcohol and bitter thoughts. What absurdity! What spectacular wisdom! This man’s house was a hellhole—and the only refuge to be found was at the bottom of this bottle! Irony at its finest, indeed! Christophe laughed at the fantastic turn of events until his stomach ached. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks …laughed until he retched straight into the dirt … and he continued to laugh until those tears lost all of their mirth.
•
The next afternoon Aleksender arrived at Cafe Roux fifteen minutes shy of one PM. The lunch hour was as dead and as quiet as the grave. From wall to wall, the place was empty and void of life. A small cluster of Prussian soldiers were seated along the windowpane and engaged in heated conversation. A masterfully sketched map occupied the whole table, its parchment wings fully spread. Across the top, Carte de Paris was inscribed in elegant calligraphy. At the opposite end of Cafe Roux, several National Guardsmen drained a coffee pot, the morning’s edition of Le Père Duchêne sprawled open across the tabletop. The situation at hand was almost comical. Here sat Prussians and Frenchmen in civilized silence—both of whom had spent the last year slaughtering each other.
Round-faced-jolly-bartender kept to himself as he whistled a dull tune and wiped down the bar with a faded dishrag. Heavy with sweat from his brow, the material was soggy and in need of a good wash. And that round face of his, normally flushed and beaming, was anything but jolly.
Aleksender scanned the expanse of the room for any trace of Christophe Cleef. His chest sunk at the sight. The silhouette of his comrade was tucked in the furthest corner and cloaked in darkness. And all of Paris’s shadows couldn’t hide the fact that he was stinking drunk and teetering on the edge of sanity.
Clearly in the midst of some disagreement, the Prussians’ argument escalated to a steady roar. Christophe rotated in his seat with an irritated groan. The chair creaked in defiance, manipulated by the pull of his body weight.
He interrupted the Prussians. “Sie müssen nach Rouen bahnhof fahren, von dort kommen Sie nach Versailles.” They exchanged a glance, stunned into silence by the Frenchman’s flawless German tongue. “Die Fahrt wird einige Stunden dauern.”
Aleksender’s mouth ticked at the corner. Christophe had prepared to work as a spy shortly before the war broke out, which had been one of many short-lived aspirations.
Aleksender released a long breath and crossed the room.
“Ah. So you made it. How very good of you.” Christophe said in a dry slur. Aleksender narrowed his eyes and examined his friend’s disheveled appearance from head to toe. Each thread of his coat was covered in dirt and only God knew what else. The auburn waves of his hair were unkempt and weighed down with grease. His grin, normally bright and brimming with good humor, was no longer starch white but tinted yellow. But hardest to stomach were his eyes. Rid of their customary gleam, they were cold, insipid and vacant.
The Prussians folded the map, climbed onto their feet, and stood next to the table. Christophe downed his alcohol and tossed a hand in the air, waving them off. They muttered a weak “merci” before proceeding on their ways.
“Christophe. What’d they want?”
“What do you think? Directions to Versailles, of course. Now come take a seat. We’ve much to talk about.”
Aleksender straightened out his morning coat and warily sank into a parallel chair. He folded both hands together in the form of a steeple before he spoke. “You look like hell and you smell even worse.”
Christophe barked a humorless laugh, which resembled a hollow cry, and inhaled a mouthful of brandy. With a strained chortle he swiped the dribbles from his mustache. “Charming as ever, I see. Wish I could say the same ‘bout you.” Christophe traced the rim of his glass in contemplative circles, staring into the liquid. “But you were right. We haven’t returned home. We’ve merely traded one battlefield for another.”
Aleksender tensed at his words. The shift in his friend’s attitude was alarming. Little red flags emerged inside his mind. “What did you expect? We were under siege only months ago. Give it time. You—”
“I’m not talking about that.” Christophe sobered and met Aleksender’s eyes. “I’m not talking about Sedan or Wissembourg or even the camps.”
Aleksender paralyzed. Ah, yes, those damn camps. He cleared his throat—feeling a blade buried deep inside his flesh. A chorus of cruel, mocking laughter echoed his mind—
Christophe banged his bottle against the tabletop and startled Aleksender from his trance. “Alek?”
�
�A civil war. You’re talking about the beginnings of a civil war.”
“No. No, not a civil war.” Christophe shook his head, lips hooking into a grin. “A new revolution.”
Aleksender’s eyes darkened. “What you call a revolution I call anarchy. And what you claim to be ‘justice’ Adolphe Thiers claims to be punishable by death.”
“Some things are well worth dying for. Now don’t you agree?” Christophe slid his brandy across the table and ushered it into Aleksender’s hand. “Here. I believe you may need this as much as myself.”
Aleksender nodded his gratitude and downed a mouthful. The brandy coated his throat with a soothing, slow burn. The glass skittered across the counter as he returned it to Christophe.
“I wanted to tell you … ah—” Christophe’s voice broke off mid-sentence. Unable to meet Aleksender’s eyes, he scratched at his neck and stared into the bottle. “I’m not good with these sort of things.” Christophe took a swig for courage. “Damn. I’m sorry ‘bout your father.”
“You and me both.”
“Paris could’ve used him right ‘bout now.”
“To hell with Paris. To hell with all of France. I’m finished with her. And you …” Resentment boiled inside of Aleksender. His head pounded, eyes seeing red. “You didn’t call me here to wish your condolences. That much is obvious. So I suggest you stop wasting our time. From the way of things, we may be on limited supply.”
The chair creaked as Christophe leaned against its wooden back. Unblinking, he crossed both arms across his chest and studied Aleksender. “What a fool I was, thinking you might give a damn.” Christophe smirked and shook his head once more. “Of course. Why should you care? You’ve never cared for anything. Never have had any reason to.”
His voice rose in volume with each word. The National Guardsmen halted their conversations and narrowed their gazes upon Christophe.
The Frost of Springtime Page 9
