Elliot seated himself next to Christophe, straightened out both suspenders, and cleared his throat. “You are quite an important man here in Paris, Christophe. We can expect great things of you, yes?”
“Ah, Elliot, Elliot, Elliott. I am no nobler than the common wretch.” Winking at the barmaid, Christophe finished with a sly afterthought, “Save your praise to swoon a maiden and lift some skirts.”
Cafe Roux resurrected. Several men wolf whistled at the rather lewd remark. Somewhere far off in the crowd, a mother gasped in horror and cupped both hands over her child’s virgin ears. Elliot merely chuckled. “You always were the charmer, eh?” All business, his tone flattened and rid itself of all humor. “No nobler than the common wretch? Now that is debatable. I daresay you’re far nobler than any of those self-righteous puppet masters.”
Christophe swallowed an impressive mouthful of brandy. “You speak of the monarchs?”
Elliot nodded and erupted into passionate speech. Christophe traced the rim of his glass in repetitive circles. He’d heard renditions of these words, time and time again. Revolutionaries were an admirable breed of people, though rather infamous for repeating the same errors and miscalculations.
This time, things could be different. With the de Lefèvres’ charity and aid, the gap between the bourgeoisie and nobility could be annihilated once and for all. But everything had changed since Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s death. Like himself, Aleksender had returned from the war as a troubled and embittered man. And he would not bend so easily, nor be eager to inspire change.
Elliot’s voice rose with a regal authority. He walked the length of Cafe Roux, speaking with pride and unbridled passion—sounding very much like a preacher in the midst of a sermon. “We speak of those rich in name and poor in soul. We speak of the religious heads, barons and comtes. The nobility and the traders have had their day. Now, the hour has come for the working man to rule.”
Choruses of hoots and hollers chimed out as a chant filled the room. “Vive la Commune! Vive la Commune! Vive la Commune!”
“Versailles is finished. Prime Minister Thiers is dead!” Elliott shouted over the roar of excitement. “Enough—enough of this wretched, rotten life. Enough, I say! We don’t earn enough to eat or feed our children! This is no way to live. We must fight, or we starve! Vive la Commune!”
Christophe studied the eager and beaming faces. They were uniformly fixed on Elliot and savoring every word—eyes swollen with renewed hope. And, when improperly yielded, Christophe knew that hope could become a dangerous force.
Grown men were placing their faith in the hands of a mere boy. Such desperation unsettled him to no end. Paris needed a true leader, not a child. She needed the guidance of her noble comte. Not Elliot Francois.
Elliott regained his seat as a rush of excited chatter flooded Cafe Roux. “Ain’t that right?”
Christophe was not listening. Instead, he found himself absorbed in a strain of nostalgia. Speaking more to himself, he muttered, “Alek was my comrade and a fine, fine soldier. A good man who might have been great.” Weighed down with a sudden sadness, his head dipped forward. “He was my friend.” He sighed, took a generous sip of brandy, and wiped his mouth dry on his sleeve’s crisp cufflink. Through an airy chuckle, he went on to say, “Indeed. Quite the fool, that Alek. Took a bullet for me, you know.”
Elliot remained in silence, his brows inquisitively drawn together.
“Aleksender de Lefèvre,” Christophe drawled. “Comte de Paris.”
The boy’s face lit up in epiphany. He grinned at the circle of men, eyes alive with emotion. “Well, well! First-name basis, are we? Why, you may have more pull than we’d ever imagined possible.”
Christophe tensed and adjusted his posture, suddenly very uneasy. “How do you mean?”
“You’ve seen and lived the bloodshed. You are the best of us.”
Christophe snorted and downed a last swallow of brandy. “Christ, boy! Would you cut the teasing and get to it?” He glanced around, seeking answers. Nothing. The surrounding faces were blank slates. Christophe met Elliot’s unreadable gaze, as empty and clueless as before. “Tell me—why have I been called here?”
An ominous silence consumed the cafe and everybody in it.
“We want to elect you as leader of the Commune.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The open field was empty and as silent as a grave. Sparse, tall leafs rustled as they were frantically parted by two men.
Christophe and Aleksender raced through the vast and untamed wilderness, panting, clutching onto their precious chassepot rifles for dear life. Thick clouds of smoke poisoned the air, mingling with heaps of dust and the bitter musk of sweat.
Had they escaped death? Or were they still being pursued?
After several critical moments they stopped to catch their breaths. Their navy coats were a stark contrast against the brittle morning light. But there was nothing frail about either soldier.
Exhausted and drained, they propped their bodies against one of the few trees. The stench of death weighed heavily in the air. Both faces were bruised a vivid purple, a thick haze of dirt obscuring their features. They looked like they’d been to hell and back. Within the lingering silence, they recalled the horrific turn of events of only moments ago.
Had they really witnessed the dismembering of half a dozen comrades? Had they truly defied death?
“Damn them! Damn ‘em all! Our entire platoon—blown to hell!” Christophe glanced above his head, abandoned his lingering adoration for Christ, and scolded heaven with humorless irony. “Now’d be a mighty fine time to shed your mercy!”
Aleksender’s gaze roamed over the field. Paranoia surged through his bones. They were being hunted. There was no doubt of that.
Christophe muttered a slew of profanity and dug a hand into his filthy pocket. Eyes falling shut, he clutched his rosary beads and clung to the faintest ray of hope.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is Jesus, the fruit of thy womb.” The vain prayer passed over Aleksender’s conscience. His attention was lost to a greater, all-consuming despair. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us at the hour of our death.”
Silence hung in the air like a bad omen. Christophe’s eyes flashed open as he muttered, “Amen.”
Aleksender shifted closer to his comrade, sensing imminent danger.
It happened in a flash. Aleksender thrust himself in front of Christophe—bang!—and threw his head back in a roar. A fountain of blood seethed from his shoulder. He instantly lost his breath and collapsed on top of the intended target. Christophe propped up Aleksender’s body, stunned silent—oblivious to the snapping twigs and approaching steps.
“Alek? Alek! Can you hear me?” Christophe rotated with a curse and scanned the dark void. A piercing wail split the air in half, jolting his eyes back to Aleksender. A curved dagger had been plunged into his upper back, blade buried to the hilt. A chilling scream resonated as the metal was swiftly withdrawn, slipping through layers upon layers of flesh, blood, and muscle. Christophe stared forward in mute horror—virtually paralyzed—unable to stir a limb. A demonic chuckle echoed the hollowness. It served as a morbid accompaniment to the sounds of guttural ripping and shallow breaths. Aleksender’s back was impaled once, twice, three times, before Christophe regained his composure.
Aleksender hissed through clenched teeth as the dagger was freed from the bloody pulp of his back. Struck by sudden realization, the Prussian soldier fled in a vain attempt to preserve his own hide.
Christophe swore an oath and carefully laid Aleksender into a reclined position. Bile seared his stomach and rose inside his throat. Degraded to nothing more than a heap of sweat and blood, his dear friend was thrashing and crying out, clutching onto his mangled body.
Detachment flushed through Christophe, empowering him with a fierce blood-lust. The rosary slipped from between his fingers and spiraled to the ground. Blood encircled the bead
s in a morbid ring, drowning the trinket in an unholy sea of red. Christophe looked away from his rosary and secured the dagger in a tight and merciless grip.
All sense of Catholic goodness was forgotten. His breaths were erratic, eyes narrowed in distaste, head pounding like a war drum. The symbol of the Prussian army—a light gray iron cross—was engraved in the sullied hilt. It seared the callused flesh of his palm, igniting an inferno deep inside his soul.
Christophe paced forward, stare harder than nails as he pursued the cowardly shadow. Their steps harmoniously quickened, each man appearing as no more than a graceful, phantasmal silhouette.
Christophe reached the Prussian soldier in a few swift strides. The nemesis spun around in a fluid movement and aimed his rifle. A dull shot rang out and pierced the night. At lightning speed, Christophe latched onto the barrel and urged it downward. A bloodcurdling scream resounded as the Prussian soldier blew off his own foot. Pitiful and on the brink of tears, he limped away—the poor excuse of his foot dragging unceremoniously behind.
Further enraged and oddly amused, a sardonic chuckle inflated Christophe lungs. “Ah, determined wretch, aren’t you?” Christophe said, speaking in a German tongue. He emitted a satisfied grunt and plunged the dagger deep into the Prussian’s neck. Flesh gobbled up the blade with fervor, swallowing it to the hilt. The grotesque ambiance of anguished cries and sputtering veins came as a welcoming sound. Alas, it was music to Christophe’s ears.
Rid of all pride, the Prussian soldier toppled to his knees and clasped his sullied hands together. They trembled in time with his falling tears. “Mercy—please! I—I heard ya! I heard your prayers! I know you are a man of God! I implore your forgiveness—”
“Such pleas would have worked wonders mere moments ago,” Christophe drawled in lazy German, lips lifting into a smile. “Unfortunately, for you, your villainy has made me godless.” Christophe sank down to the crutch of his knees.
Throbbing with pain, Aleksender observed his comrade from the grass. Christophe’s normally animated features were constricted and void—each line tightened into an unfeeling mask of apathy.
“I fear my heart has turned to stone,” Christophe mumbled. “And feeling nothing is … strangely liberating. In a way, you are a godsend.”
“Please, good monsieur,” the Prussian blubbered. “I’ve a child at home. A lil’ boy! He is but a wee babe.”
Christophe stroked the curve of his chin, absorbed in apparent contemplation. The Prussian exhaled and whispered a silent prayer of gratitude at the gesture. He’d been saved.
All hope fled as quickly as it had come.
Dislodging the dagger with a deep sigh, Christophe clucked his tongue and dryly murmured, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You disappoint me. Pitiful. Just look at yourself—beggin’ on your hands and knees, weeping like some jilted lad. In Christ’s name, will you not die with a shred of decency? You shame your family.” For all the calmness in his tone, he might have been discussing the weather rather than questioning the very legitimacy of God. And, a moment later, he did precisely that. “My, my. I do believe a chill has descended.”
Christophe tilted his head back and stared at the bruised sky. A shaft of light broke through the fortress of clouds. “Looks like rain.” Thunder growled in the distance, confirming his assumption. Christophe slapped his knee with a hooting chuckle, his voice wry. “Were I superstitious, I’d take that as an ill omen.”
Leafs crackled and twigs snapped as the Prussian attempted to crawl away. Christophe rose to his feet, dusted off his uniform, and straightened the brim of his askew cap.
When he spoke, his voice was flat and cold, free of all humanity. “An eye for an eye, indeed.”
The Prussian panted and increased his pace, slithering through the grass like a wounded snake. Christophe kept up stride with an embarrassing ease. He leaned forward and lowered the dagger in a harsh movement. Suspended in time, the blade gleamed like a beacon, brilliant and almighty, bright against the surrounding black. Vomit and blasphemous curses oozed from the Prussian’s lips as his flesh was impaled … again and again and again.
•
A chorus of chilling screams jolted Elizabeth awake. She flew from the bed and stared down in a mixture of horror and bewilderment.
The devil had been unleashed.
Trembling and murmuring a volume of incoherent nonsense, Aleksender thrashed between the bed sheets, looking every bit possessed. A thick film of sweat beaded from his forehead and trickled down his golden skin. His raven hair was damp, heavy with perspiration, and plastered to throbbing temples. The rivulets glistened like tears beneath the frail moonlight.
“Lord, have mercy!” Elizabeth crossed herself in a clumsy motion. She tentatively curled a hand around Aleksender’s rigid shoulder and gave a gentle, reassuring shake. “Aleksender, do wake up,” she carefully whispered. “It is a dream, dearest—just a dream.”
Aleksender leapt to his feet with a war cry. Both hands fastened about Elizabeth’s pale swan-neck. His grasp was lethal. Snug as the hangman’s noose. He panted between heavy intakes of air and fumed like a caged bull. Elizabeth cried out in utter horror and fought to break free. Guided by some primitive instinct, Aleksender’s hold simply constricted and cut off her desperate pleas.
His grasp was intended to kill.
“Please,” she managed to choke out. “Please no.”
Aleksender’s eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned. Quivering, he freed Elizabeth in a harsh motion.
No bombs. No gunfire. No dying men. No tortures.
But it had been so real. So painfully real.
Elizabeth breathlessly collapsed to her knees. She clutched onto her throat and massaged her half-crushed vocal chords. Her entire body shook with strangled coughs.
The powerful expanse of Aleksender’s back rose and sank, manipulated by his strained breaths. Sweat pooled inside the grotesque trenches that disfigured his flesh. Every muscle twitched. Every scar stung like a brand.
He was on fire and burning. He was in hell.
“Elizabeth! I—”
“No! Do not come any closer! Please—just … keep b-back! Stay away from me!”
The nightmares were evolving. They were becoming more and more lucid—steadily crossing the threshold of reality and dreams—no longer refrained to the realm of sleep.
They were turning deadly. Aleksender could no longer hide inside of himself. Sofia had been right; it was only a matter of time before his agony swallowed him whole. And, aboard this haunted ship, he was drowning and taking everyone down with him.
He would never heal.
Elizabeth skittered away, attempting to escape Aleksender’s madness.
“God. I harmed you.” It was not a question.
“No,” she whispered, gracelessly staggering to her feet. “I … I am quite fine.” But her eyes had already contradicted the words. “Please—I beg you, just keep away from me.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
All of Salle Le Peletier’s one-thousand seats were empty and silent. Stale remnants of perfume and whispering fans hung in the air, lingering from the previous night’s performance. And those ghosts from evening’s past seemed to amplify the auditorium’s stillness.
The stage, however, was very much alive.
Marie Taglioni stood before Sofia as the tight coils of her coiffure fell sensually across her frame. All beauty and grace, she floated across the stage, demonstrating a series of complex bends, pirouettes, soubresauts and jeté jumps with ease.
Mind racing, Sofia studied her teacher’s footwork with a detached awareness. She inwardly chastened herself, struggling to anchor her attention upon the task at hand.
But thoughts of him filled her mind, body and soul. Ever since the rooftop, she’d become a ghost, barely present, her mind constantly a million miles away.
This is how I can heal.
Had he spoken truth? Could she heal Aleksender—just as he’d healed her, all those years ago? Her heart grew heavy
at the thought of his despair. Much like herself, he was severely scarred—inside and out.
Pain is in the mind. And, in my mind, ma chérie … I was with you—
A startling thwack resonated as Madame Taglioni’s walking stick crashed onto the floorboards. “Come now, child! You really must try and focus! Now, back in position.”
Sofia blushed at the scolding and arranged her feet into first position. “Forgive me, madame. It shan’t happen again.”
Madame Taglioni arched a fine brow and circled Sofia with a hawk’s astuteness. “Rond de jambe en l’air … oui, excellent display, Mademoiselle Rose … grand rond de jambe … and finally—grand rond de jambe …”
But it was no use. Sofia’s thoughts took flight within moments. All at once, a strong awareness overcame her. She arched her chin and glanced up—up into the blackened depths of box two.
•
Salle Le Peletier was cloaked in darkness an hour later. Aleksender lounged in box two as a gnawing sorrow consumed him. In the midst of the chaos and heartache, this little corner of the world had become his sole escape over the last few weeks. Being in Sofia’s presence was cathartic and wonderfully calming. Only after seeing her face did the ghosts of his nightmares no longer haunt him. Years ago, Aleksender had found a semblance of comfort in the arms of countless whores.
But now everything had changed.
Mon Dieu, they both had changed. When she danced, he saw it—a distinct sadness weighed heavily upon Sofia’s spirit, a sadness that wasn’t so different than his own. She wore it like a morbid badge. And he ached to lift the burden from her shoulders. He yearned to replace those shadows with light.
The door knob lightly jingled and rattled. Delicate steps resounded, escalating to a steady drum roll. Somehow, someway, Sofia knew he was here, and had come for him. Aleksender tensed against the seat’s plush backing and fastened both eyes shut—confident his mind was playing him for a fool. Or that he’d finally gone mad.
Nimble fingertips whispered along the expanse of his shoulders, one and then the other. They kneaded the strain in his muscles, replacing discomfort with pleasure, melting all of his troubles away.
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