The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  A tiny, trembling hand grasped onto his sleeve. Delicate fingers curled into the material in a desperate pull. When she finally spoke, the tremor in her voice overpowered any hope for obtaining sensuality. “Care to have your bed warmed on this lonely night, monsieur?”

  A rigid breath escaped Aleksender. “Mon Dieu—”

  In an attempt to flee, the young whore inhaled a strained breath and instantly pulled away. Aleksender latched onto her shoulders and realigned their bodies. Three of his gloved fingertips pushed against the curve of her chin, forcing her face up and back. He felt his eyes sharpen as they bore into her own. “Elise. What are you doing? What have you done to yourself?”

  The servant girl stared forward for several weightless moments. Aleksender gave her a firm shake and increased the pressure of his grip. “Elise?”

  Her eyes widened in horror as she appeared to see Aleksender for the first time. Then she broke down without warning, bursting into a jumble of tears and incoherent words. “No! Not for me, Monsieur le Comte! Maman has taken a t-turn for the worse. Without a proper bed, she shall die within the month! What would you have me do? I cannot lose her, monsieur! Surely you can understand?”

  Aleksender looked away and swept fingertips through his hairline. He paced in front of Elise for several moments, too shocked to speak. “You should have come to me.”

  “I didn’t wish to impose. I know you’ve been terribly troubled as of late.”

  Aleksender froze in his tracks and returned her stare; an unexpected pang of sorrow filled his heart. Eyes swollen and curls plastered to her cheeks, Elise looked remarkably like a little child.

  Deeply shamed, her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Aleksender mumbled something beneath a ragged breath and collected Elise in his arms. He held her close, offering his warmth and comfort.

  “You have always been good to me.” She sighed the words into his chest.

  Aleksender said nothing as he gently massaged her back, easing her pain in the only way he knew how.

  Elise misread the gesture.

  Both hands slid around the circumference of Aleksender’s waist in slow, caressing strokes. Trembling fingers slipped to the front of his trousers. She nuzzled deeper into his chest as her eyes fluttered shut. Nervous and clumsy hands sought passage to Aleksender’s masculinity. He inhaled a hissed breath at the explicit assault and stepped backward. His hands shot out, quick as lightning, ensnaring each of Elise’s wrists and pinning them at her sides.

  “No, child.”

  Her mouth fell open in stunned horror. Humiliation stained her cheeks. Hiding her face within the shelter of her palms, she took several steps backward and rotated out of eyesight. “Oh, God … I thought … I’m so stupid.” Her hands coiled into fists and repetitively punched either side of her head. “I cannot believe it. I—”

  “Stop. Stop harming yourself.” Aleksender grasped onto her fists and lowered them with a sigh. “It’s not safe here. You must return to the chateau at once.”

  “But—but le Vicomte—”

  “What? What of Richard?” Silence. “What did he say to you?” More silence. “Tell me, Elise.”

  She swallowed, eyes slowly rising to his. “He dismissed me. He’s been quite mad ever since I overheard … in the veranda that day …since your luncheon. He—”

  “Has no right to interfere or make decisions in my stead,” Aleksender spat. Again, he paced and back and forth, fuming from the inside out. Then he came to an abrupt stop, latched onto Elise’s shoulders, and curled his fingers around the slender blades. “Listen to me. You shall stay at Chateau de Lefèvre. You and your mother. Do you understand?”

  Elise nodded as the beginnings of a soft smile curled her lips.

  “Good.” Aleksender tore away his cloak and draped it over her body. “Go straight to the chateau and order a carriage. Fetch your mother at first light. Talk to no one. Leave now—I trust you know the way.”

  Her chin dipped into a subtle nod. Swept with emotion, a few tears tumbled down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  •

  Moonlight oozed through Bête Noire’s shattered windows. Overhead, the chandelier was as black and as grim as the surrounding night. Shadows crawled across the splintered floorboards and materialized in an array of shapes.

  Aleksender’s heavy footfall echoed in the silence. He examined the dreary atmosphere as he approached the service desk. After several steps, he pounded at the golden bell and awaited Madam Bedeau and whatever clue she might bring.

  A pistol was clutched to her breast when she finally appeared. “Stay back, monsieur! I’m not afraid to spill your blood.”

  Aleksender tore away his bowler hat and stepped closer, revealing his identity. Madam Bedeau tilted her head, lowering the firearm as she studied his features.

  She inhaled a sigh of relief and smoothed down her coiffure. “Ah, Monsieur le Comte. Forgive me. Here—” She dug a hand inside of her bodice and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “I was asked to give you this. Not to worry. I didn’t read a word of it. Even if I’d wanted to, I can’t understand the letters.”

  Madam Bedeau passed the note into Aleksender’s hands. Worry was etched into her brows. “Forgive me for saying—but you should not be here. It’s only a matter of time before you’re slaughtered like the rest of us. Perhaps by the Commune and Guardsmen, if not Versailles.”

  “I have a personal war that must first be won.”

  Aleksender unfolded the parchment to read: Faith is a passionate institution. — C.C.

  Madam Bedeau nodded as her eyes grew heavy with pain. She pressed a hand against her heart, easing an unseen ache. “Yes. I understand. I was a mother. Did you know that?” Aleksender carefully shook his head and waited for her to continue. A whimsical smile spread across her worn features. In that moment, the countless years of pain eased from her face. Aleksender saw the little girl she’d once been. “Charles was a good boy. Seventeen years, handsome as can be. He had his father’s heart. We were out looking for food when he was shot in the back—damned coward!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Madam Bedeau shrugged, dabbing away her tears with a handkerchief. “It’s a terrible time for us all. Tell me … would you like a room till morning? You’ll do better on a night’s sleep.” She gazed at him with caressing eyes and leaned across the counter. “And perhaps we can keep each other warm during this hard time.”

  Aleksender shook his head. “Just a room will be fine.”

  Madam Bedeau paused before continuing. She gestured at the parchment in Aleksender’s pocket. “He was quite mad with grief.”

  Aleksender swallowed and nodded. “I imagine he was.”

  “And what audacity! The fool threatened to close down Bête Noire … said such a place was a mockery of the law. Mockery, indeed! From the looks of it, I daresay he’s tumbled more whores than all my clientele put together.” Madam Bedeau picked up her skirts and inched forward. With a graceful wave of her hand, she signaled Aleksender to follow. “Well. That’s enough talk. Come along, then, monsieur.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  May 24, 1871

  La Semaine Sanglante, Day Four

  Beers in hand, Christophe and Elliott sat side by side as they found a moment of refuge from the war. They drained bottles and balanced cigars between their lips as a comfortable silence hung in the air.

  The catacombs, in all of its macabre and demented glory, weren’t nearly as grim as the streets of Paris. The above ground had transformed into a cemetery of awakened horrors, and it lay as a far darker realm.

  Christophe surveyed the endless wall of gawking death heads with a monotonous expression. Black and bottomless, those eye sockets were vats of dark secrets and twisted terrors. As if challenging Christophe’s tolerance for death and decay, each skull grinned wholeheartedly and without mirth.

  Would his own head join these lonely souls by the week’s end? The thought was disheartening and all too real. Despite his facial disfigure
ment, Christophe rather liked his head.

  He inhaled a swig of his cigar and drowned the smoke with a mouthful of brandy. “Once we’re all dead and buried—whether we’re a pauper, prince or whore,” Christophe said, gesturing at the skulls. “We all look the damn same.”

  Elliott nodded in agreement. “Obscenely happy, I take it?”

  Christophe surrendered to a small, rolling chuckle. “Very good. I should like to drink to that.”

  He stared into Elliott’s eyes as an unexpected pang of affection tugged at his heartstrings. Apart from Aleksender, he’d never felt such compassion for another. This protective instinct—this need to recompose the world for an orphaned soul—must have been how Aleksender had felt all those nine years ago. Alas—Sofia and Aleksender’s relationship had begun as no more than an impulse and paternal need. For the first time, Christophe understood his comrade’s affection for the little blue-eyed ballerina … and, for the first time, a chord of guilt struck his conscience.

  And now, like some sentimental fool, he was overcome with the compelling need to remap Elliott’s destiny—to order him to take the first ship out of this wretched land and sail away to America—to forget martyring himself, forget the notion of becoming just another death’s-head upon a wall. To simply live life, have painted whores by the dozens, and grow old to see the birth of his grandchildren. Once the barricades fell, he and Elliott would be forgotten. Their sacrifices would fade away with time, and their corpses would be brushed off to the side like a bad joke.

  Neither of them would be claimed by loved ones.

  Indeed—they’d merely add another layer to the catacomb’s vast tunnel. They would exist as two nameless, faceless casualties. His father had declared his patriotism back in 1848, only to die drunk as a skunk while wrapped in the arms of some decadent harlot. Christophe, in all of his brandy guzzling and wenching glory, was destined to follow in his father’s footfall.

  He ached to steer Elliott away from this doomed fate. Instead, Christophe heard himself murmur, “This week may very well be our last.”

  Elliott nodded and tapped his bottle against Christophe’s. “Then I shall count myself blessed to die at your side.”

  •

  Persistent knocking filled Chateau de Lefèvre in the mid-afternoon. Appearing pristine and righted, the first footman thrust open the massive double doors. In the same breath, Elizabeth soared down the winding stairwell, a silk shawl clasped about her shoulders. Its airy material flowed behind her, fluttering with the delicacy of wings.

  “Is it him? Is it truly Aleksender?”

  “No, madame—it’s not he.” The first footman stepped aside and allowed Paris’s vicomte to enter. Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the sight of Richard. She flew down the remaining steps at record time and soared within his reach.

  “Richard! You came!” she cried, looping both arms around his neck without thought. “Oh, thank the lord you are here!” A dashing smile formed on his lips. He returned Elizabeth’s embrace and held her close for several moments.

  Elizabeth hesitantly stepped backward and glanced into his eyes. Richard tucked a loose curl behind her ear as their gazes tentatively came together.

  “How have things been?” she asked with a slight tremble. “Very awful?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so,” he said. “But you are safe. That’s what matters most.” The shawl sagged from Elizabeth’s shoulder and nearly slipped to the floor. Richard massaged her bare flesh, rubbing life into her skin. “You’ve nothing to worry about. I shall stay with you till the end.”

  Elizabeth nodded, a small smile at her lips.

  “But it is urgent that I speak with Aleksender.” Richard turned to the first footman. “Call him down for me at once—”

  “No—he is gone,” Elizabeth interrupted.

  Richard twisted in the direction of her voice. “What? What do you mean he is gone?”

  Elizabeth nodded at the first footman, subtly dismissing him from the room. “Something happened. Something terrible.”

  Richard’s entire demeanor darkened as he humorlessly chuckled at her words. “You speak of terrible? Madame, have you even read Thiers’s latest statement?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, flushed at the cheeks and a bit shamed. Richard fished a folded newspaper from inside his coat. “It was posted several mornings ago.” He flattened out Le Figaro’s pages and read aloud. ““Citizens of Paris: The government wished that you might free yourselves independently of the tyrants who scoff at your liberty and life. Since you cannot, it has become our task. We are an army that has come not to conquer but to set you free. You outnumber the Commune sectarians. Regroup. Open the doors that they have shut on law and order. Should you not, the government will be forced to take the swiftest and surest means available to set you free.’”

  Elizabeth snatched the paper from his hands, her own trembling, eyes frantically scanning over the print. “Lord. This is worse than I ever imagined.”

  “Tell me. Where is he? Where has Aleksender gone off to?”

  Elizabeth lowered the paper. “He wasn’t exactly sure. To meet Christophe Cleef. At the cafe, I believe—”

  “God in heaven! Has Aleksender lost his damn mind? Falling straight into his trap?”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “I shall have you know that his dear comrade is heading the revolt. The Commune will kill him, I tell you—just as they killed three others in the dungeons only days ago.”

  “No! You are wrong. You know Christophe! He and Aleksender—they are close to brothers!”

  Those words wounded Richard far more than he dared admit. Of course, he’d known them to be true for some time—he and Aleksender were as opposite as day and night. But to hear them spoken aloud was a rude awakening. It shook him to the very core. He wandered farther into the foyer and leaned up against the banister. His head fell forward in a rush of pain. Massaging his temples and speaking more to himself, he rambled, “I’ll never understand him. Weeks ago, I tried to open his eyes. Why now? Aleksender has never shown the slightest interest in Paris. Why? Why the sudden change of heart?”

  A long silence passed. “The woman he loves has been taken. By Christophe, I believe.”

  Richard stared off, his mind visibly turning. “Then he is helpless.”

  “Please, you mustn’t be angry with him. He had no choice.”

  “There is always a choice. I am growing quite tired of his excuses. And how can you defend him after all the heartache he has caused you?”

  “You speak of heartache?” she teased, mimicking Richard’s tone of several minutes ago.

  As if working out some great mystery, Richard shook his head and inched toward Elizabeth. “There is just something about you so remarkable.” Two fingertips wound about her chin. He deftly lifted her face and brought their gazes together. “Yes. There’s something about you I can’t quite place my finger on … something I wish my brother could see.”

  They were mere inches apart. Elizabeth’s heart fluttered, skipping several beats.

  “Richard.” She gave a weak smile and curled her fingers around his forearm, directing him to follow. “Come with me. Come, and I shall explain everything.”

  •

  Sofia nibbled at a stale loaf of bread. Her gut ached with pains that had nothing to do with hunger. The morsel scratched at her throat and clawed like nails as she swallowed. Bile seared her insides. Forcing herself to eat was utterly useless. She’d already tried with little success. A chain of painful, dry heaves had overcome her the last time. She cringed at the recollection—tasting the acidic flavor all over again. Hours later, remnants of vomit still soured the air.

  She laid her meal aside, inhaled a deep breath, and adjusted her leg with a groan. Metallic clinking echoed across the Commune’s base as she wiggled her ankle, urging circulation back into her foot. To her relief, the cramp slowly faded into a dull ache.

  A day ago—had it only been a day?—Christophe had traded the two chai
ns for one ankle cuff, granting her the slightest cut of freedom. The chain was an impressive twenty pounds and a good twenty-five feet in length. She’d been quite content at first, cherishing her new mobility and immediately plotting some elaborate form of escape. Perhaps, she would seduce Christophe—play him for the fool he was and steal the key from his trousers. Or, should she be fortunate enough to come in reach of a rock, she could smash her way to freedom. How about one of the men’s swords or daggers? Surely it could bust through the metal?

  After dragging the dreaded chain for an hour the burn had begun to sink in. Her foot had grown numb. And, a moment later, it seemed to absorb every prickle of pain known to mankind. The realization was terrifying; what if she lost all feeling in her foot? What if it had to be amputated? What if she lost the ability to dance forever?

  Approaching footfall resounded and clipped her thoughts short. Sofia tensed and eased against the wall. She winced as the rugged stone grated her flesh. The footsteps grew louder, closer. Could it be her Alek? Had he come to rescue her?

  But it was Christophe who appeared, weary and stained with blood.

  Dieu. Had he been shot?

  “Sorry to disappoint you—but no, chérie, I have not been shot. You must be terribly devastated.”

  It was too strange for Sofia to wrap her mind around. Christophe consistently joined her during his lowest moments. Before she could further ponder the meaning of his calculated visits, he interrupted. “You would barely recognize Paris. One glance and your poor little Christian heart would freeze over.”

  Christophe dug a hand beneath the neckline of his shirt and withdrew a pair of dog tags. Transfixed and hypnotized, he dangled them midair and willed them to dance. They glimmered beneath the sconce lanterns, spinning in free-fall, tossing shards of light along the walls. Studying the lettering, he rotated a token between his thumb and forefinger:

  ALEKSENDER R. DE LEFÈVRE

  38097645

  PARIS, FRANCE

  After a moment, he dropped Aleksender’s dog tag and clasped his own in a tight fist.