CHRISTOPHE G. CLEEF
38010729
PARIS, FRANCE
“Your God has abandoned you.”
Sofia’s blood drew cold at his words, though her face remained flat and expressionless. A man with nothing left to lose—nothing left to believe in—was a dangerous man, indeed.
“Will you return to the barricade soon?” she asked.
“No. Not now. Not till he arrives.”
Keep calm, Sofia’s mind warned, you must keep calm. If you wish to see Alek’s face again, you must remain calm and collected.
With each passing day, it was becoming more evident that earning Christophe’s trust was her one hope for escape. In all of his power and clever scheming, the man was painfully transparent.
In the end, his vulnerabilities would inevitably be his downfall. Christophe Cleef was in obvious need of comfort and companionship. And, much like an avalanche, his façade was gradually crumbling away and revealing the damaged soul beneath. It was only a matter of time before he caved. Something that felt remarkably like pity slammed against Sofia’s conscience. Surely she was going mad. He was a murdering monster—nothing more!
Wasn’t he?
“So what are you going to do? When you see him, I mean?” Her voice was perfectly casual, perfectly conversational.
The chain slipped through Christophe’s fingers as his brows knotted together. The dog tags swung like twin pendulums. Shaking his head, he bellowed an eerie laugh. “Strange. Truth be told I haven’t even thought on it.” Two of his fingertips pinched the necklace and glided down the cool metal in a tentative caress. “I suppose it shall depend on him.” He sighed and stared off, eyes settling on Sofia’s ankle cuff. A twisted smile curved his lips—a smile that took Sofia back to that afternoon in Père Lachaise.
For a fleeting moment her dark stranger had returned.
“It seems we’re both imprisoned by chains,” Christophe said. He cupped the dog tags within his palm and held them tight. “Except mine are harder to break.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
May 25, 1871
La Semaine Sanglante, Day Five
Paris was burning. In a mad fit of revolutionary fervor, the rebels had set fire to the Palace of Tuileries, Hotel de Ville and the Council of State. Debris rained onto Paris and monuments exploded as they were gutted from the inside out. Black smoke, swollen and sinister, ascended, clashing against a paisley spring sky. Ashes of all forms littered the ground and fluttered through the air like snowflakes. A murky, yellowish haze poisoned the atmosphere and swallowed up the city. In the midst of this apocalyptic despair, the Commune’s red freedom flag flew high and proud.
A small secretary’s desk was arranged on one of the far ends of Rue de la Paix’s alleyways. Versailles soldiers stood by, rifles cocked and ready, as they questioned handfuls of Parisians by the dozens. The citizens had been rounded up like herds of cattle—and each “insurgent” was to be systematically butchered and thrown into the gutter. Men, women and children were lined up against the stone wall and tied at the wrists. Two soldiers patrolled the rebels. They walked the length of the alleyway, maintaining a semblance of order.
Speaking in a unified voice, the citizens of Paris chanted a war cry: “Vive la Commune! Vive la Commune! Vive la Commune!”
“Shut your filthy mouths!” The hollers only intensified. One of the soldiers slammed the butt of his pistol across a man’s face. Blood erupted from his mouth and curled around the slope of his jaw.
“Never! We will never be quiet!” cried a young woman of nineteen years. She stood several feet away, frail body defiantly erect. A little boy clutched onto the hem of her skirts and hid his face within the filth-ridden folds. “Wretched sod!” she said. “You are scum! Scum!”
The Versailles soldier grasped onto her shoulder with a muttered curse. In response, the little boy cried and leapt forward. The other soldier restrained him, shoving him flush against the wall. The crowd went wild at the show of villainy.
“Maman! Maman! Where you takin’ my Maman?” he shouted as his mother was dragged away without mercy.
Hands tied at the wrists, she lost balance and fell face first into the cobblestones. Blood clotted her hairline and streamed down her cheeks like scarlet tears. The soldier latched onto the scruff of her dress and yanked her onto her feet. “Up with you!” The rifle’s nozzle came down against her back—a nasty trick that sent her straggling forward. “Come along, whore.”
The woman—who, indeed, was a whore—spun on her heels and spat in the soldier’s eye.
“Try that trick again, putain,” he sneered, “and I shall personally take care of your son.”
“Monster! Murdering monsters, the lot of you!”
And with that, she was brought in front of the secretary desk to undergo a mockery of a trial. “This one’s worse than the whole of them,” the soldier said. “Got the rest all riled up. You can hear ‘em now.”
Nearby the drone of angry cries and lewd obscenities filled the alleyway. Not seeming to hear them, the seated gentleman nodded. Eyes fixed on the parchment before him, he drawled, “Name?”
The rifle was shoved into the small of her back when she refused to speak. “My name is Clarice Rochelle—you pathetic filth!”
“What did you do for the Commune?” he asked in a monotonous and painfully flat tone.
“Everything! And I shall die for the Commune!”
“Very well.”
The seated man signaled to his fellow soldier with a magical wave of his hand. On cue, the woman was pushed against a nearby wall in a ritualistic fashion. The soldier raised his rifle, leveling it to her chest. “I shall enjoy this. But not half as much as I’ll relish killing that bastard of yours.”
•
The sun was swallowed up by a crimson sky as nighttime came to Paris. Over the course of a single week, night and day, dark and light, had become entirely indistinguishable from one another. Everything had been bruised and branded with the mark of despair. Even the most devout atheists could no longer deny the truth. The Day of Judgment had arrived and there was no escaping its wrath.
The walls of chateau de Lefèvre shook with the force of the civil war. Richard and Elizabeth stood on the balcony as red clouds of smoke cloaked the sky. The sunset, normally so beautiful and vivid, was lost to shooting flames and echoed cries. Elizabeth shuddered at the morbid spectacle. “I wonder if he is all right, if he is safe.”
Richard swallowed before allowing himself to speak. “Aleksender is a survivor. He has a way of detaching himself from everything, from everyone … a way of seeing only what’s in front of him and shutting out the world. Both a blessing and a curse, I’ve always thought.”
Elizabeth shook her head and inhaled a shaky breath. “Not Sofia. He has never been able to separate himself from her. And Christophe knew—he knew his weakness. He knew how to break through his barrier and reach his heart.” She sighed. “I still can’t understand. They were great friends. Why is he doing this? Why would he be so … so cruel? What does Christophe want from him?”
“If I were to guess, I suppose he wants his friend back.”
Elizabeth smiled at that. She pressed her folded arms against the railing and glanced at Richard. How very handsome he was. His features were gently chiseled, those eyes carved from a rich mahogany. Days ago, Elizabeth had delicately explained all that she knew to Richard—Victoria’s insane outburst, Aleksender’s loss of memory, and everything in between. Afterward, Elizabeth had taken Richard within her arms and offered whatever semblance of comfort she could provide. Since that time, a soothing calm and new understanding had washed over Richard.
He reflected her smile. Moonlight lightened the auburn waves of his hair. Rotating on his boots, he aligned his body with Elizabeth’s. “Fate is a strange thing. Imagine the possibilities if things had been different.” Richard lifted his hand in a deft movement and grazed the slope of her cheek. Unspoken words and withheld confessions transpired between t
hem … words as concrete as they very breaths they shared. “It makes me wonder,” he tentatively resumed. “What we could have been.”
Time stood still as he leaned into her warmth. He cupped her face with his other hand, tilted her head onto its side. Elizabeth’s lashes grew heavy and fluttered shut. The heat of Richard’s breath swirled against her skin. Ever so carefully, his lips brushed across her cheek. The caress as soft and sure as a butterfly’s wings. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears pricked the corner of her eyes and slid down her face.
Richard pulled away and returned to the banister. In his absence, the chill returned to her bones. Glancing into the crimson night sky, he shook his face and murmured, “Damn our fate. And damn the stars.”
•
Sacred Heart was the last thing that remained of Paris’s innocence. Aleksender held his breath as the storybook structure crept into sight. A breeze stirred, tickling the flowers of May and infusing the pond’s glassy surface with life.
In contrast to this sliver of serenity, cannons sounded in the distance and roared like caged beasts. Gunshots peppered the ambiance every now and then—and each one shook Aleksender to the very core.
He tied Juliet to the weeping willow and made way for the convent. Aleksender rapped at the little wooden door and awaited Sister Catherine’s greeting. A groan of wood and metal resounded as she unhinged the latch—something she’d never bothered with during his past visits. Her eyes and the black hood of her habit were visible through the slate. After a moment of recognition, the door was unlocked and thrust open.
Aleksender’s heart constricted. She appeared to have aged a good twenty years. Maybe more. “Monsieur le Comte,” Sister Catherine said. A tinge of panic made her voice quaver. “You have seen no trace of her?”
Aleksender swallowed and shook his head.
A cluster of beaming faces crowded around Sister Catherine’s skirts before she was able to respond. A chorus of overlapping girlish chatter filled the air.
“I tell you it’s him! Sofia’s black knight.”
“Nu-uh! Impossible! See—he’s riding a white horse, not a black one!”
“He’s so very handsome!”
Sister Catherine blushed like a young schoolgirl as she struggled to hold the children back. “Ladies! That’s quite enough! Back to your prayers. Right away.” She turned to Aleksender and exhaled a dejected sigh. “You must forgive them, monsieur. They are not accustomed to receiving gentlemen and haven’t been allowed outside the walls for days. I’m afraid their terribly restless.”
His lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “No worries. They are quite charming.”
Miriam pushed to the front, cradling her dolly, cheeks rosy and stained with tears. She sniffled and swiped at her nose before speaking. “Is Miss Sofia c-comin’ back-k?”
Aleksender playfully ruffled her golden locks with a gloved hand. “Not to worry, ma petit. She’ll be here before you know it.”
“Oh, yay!” Miriam giggled and swiped at her nose once more. Her voice dropped to a secretive whisper as she motioned Aleksender close. He was forced to kneel in order to hear the words. “Are you really, truly magical?”
“Hm. You tell me,” Aleksender said as he reached behind Miriam’s ear. When he withdrew, a yellow rose—that had been carefully tucked beside his heart—was balancing between his fingertips.
Miraculously it hadn’t wilted since the evening on the rooftop.
“Oh, wow!” Miriam squealed, clasping her hands together with delight. Then, a second later, “Oh, look! A horsey!” Miriam raced out the door, heading straight for Juliet. Aleksender scooped the little one into his arms. “Whoa, there, chérie. Let’s be more careful.” He set Miriam down and ruffled her hair once more. “I suppose that someday I should take you out riding. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
Aleksender peered at Sister Catherine. The slightest grin had settled into her lips. “Very good. Go back inside now and mind Sister Catherine. Can you do that for me?”
Miriam nodded, pecked a kiss onto Aleksender’s cheek, and waltzed past Sister Catherine’s skirts. Aleksender came to his feet. He tracked a gloved hand over his lapels and smoothed down the fine material. “You have enough food, Sister? And fresh water?”
“Some of the Communards delivered a fresh supply days ago. Food, water, and an assortment of medical equipment.”
A silence whisked by.
“You have something for me? A note, I reckon?”
“Dear me and my old mind. I nearly forgot. A moment, monsieur …” Sister Catherine vanished inside of Sacred Heart and returned with the note. It was predictably folded, Comte de Paris inscribed across the front.
“Tell me … the man who delivered this—did you recognize him? Or did he have any distinguishing marks.” Aleksender traced an invisible line from ear to cheek. “A scar, perhaps?”
“Sister Marie-Joie received it, monsieur. I can fetch her for you if—”
Aleksender gracefully raised a hand and ordered Sister Catherine’s words to a halt. “That won’t be necessary. I haven’t the time.”
Sister Catherine stared into his eyes for several moments. Then she did the unexpected. She unclasped the crucifix and fastened it around Aleksender’s neck. Blessing him with a wave of her hand, “In the name of the Father, of the Son, and the Holy Spirit …” Sister Catherine continued with a serene smile, “The love I have witnessed between you and Sofia has often brought me to tears. The night Elizabeth had her stillborn, I found Sofia out in the garden, weeping into her palms.” Aleksender paralyzed at her words, complexion paling. “Should I live to be a hundred years, I shall never forget her words. When I asked what was troubling her, she said that you and Elizabeth had just lost your child. I inquired how she could possibly know such a thing. Sofia shook her head and whispered, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know for certain. I just feel it.’”
Aleksender swallowed and managed a weak nod, head spinning and unable to speak.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you or open old wounds,” Sister Catherine said in a slow voice. “I only wished to reassure you. You and Sofia share a connection that is not easily broken. I have faith you will bring her home.” Sister Catherine closed her eyes in prayer. “I feel it.”
•
Père Lachaise was as silent as the grave that night. The wind blew in all directions, rushing through the mausoleums, tombstones and statues in a ghostly breath. Stone crosses appeared as silhouettes against the bleeding skyline. And a decapitated angel stood off to the side, withered and infected with moss.
Chilled to the bone, Aleksender held his breath and gazed down at Christophe’s next clue: For the Love that is perfected by Death. For the Love that dies not in the TOMB. —C.C.
Crumpling the words, Aleksender’s nails dug into his flesh as he curled his hand into a fist. Crescent moons formed from the pressure and stained the parchment an unforgiving red.
Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s mausoleum towered before Aleksender, impressive and almighty, a fortress of stone ascending into infinity. An oversized crucifix decorated the building’s facade like some Christmas tree ornament. Jesus hung from the cross, head lolled onto its side, those eyes expressing all of humanity’s sorrow. Situated above the archway, DE LEFÈVRE was printed in bold and proud lettering, each one engraved below Jesus’s heels. Aleksender’s heart roared against his ribcage as he drew closer to his beloved father’s resting place. With each step he took, a whirlwind of memories raced through his mind.
Father’s countless love stories. How he and mother met. Their first kiss, stolen beside the River Seine on a warm summer’s night. In their younger years, how’d they observe the sunrise each morning from the garden. The way in which they’d read stories before the blazing hearth, wrapped solely in the warmth of each other.
Entwined within those stories was a web of lies.
Even now, it was difficult to distinguish truth from illusion, deception fro
m actuality.
Aleksender ran his fingers over the mausoleum’s smooth stone walls and stroked his father’s memory. As he’d expected, the door was firmly sealed shut. He glanced in every direction, ensuring that he was alone, and headed around the structure. Stained glass windows were situated on each side. He stared up at a remarkable depiction of the Virgin Mary. Alas—it was as though she could see the truth, as though she could see into his heart’s secrets.
And they both knew what had to be done. Aleksender had no choice but to continue on this journey—this carefully constructed and haunting journey—no matter where it might lead.
There was no turning back. He’d come too far, and there was far too much at stake.
Aleksender balled both hands into fists and struck at the glass—once, twice, three times—smashing away Mary’s eternal features. He swept away the remaining shards and climbed through the portal, dropping inside of the mausoleum.
Aleksender rose to his feet in breathless wonderment. Blood from his knuckles dripped onto the flooring below, the sound unnaturally loud within the silence. Two shafts of moonlight poured through parallel broken windows. Aleksender’s inclination was correct. Christophe had been here.
The separate illuminations mingled together like a diva’s spotlight, highlighting Philippe De Lefèvre’s casket.
The sight was too much to bear. Bile rose inside Aleksender’s throat, hot and churning. His legs failed as he crumpled at his seams and fell to his hands and feet. Body positioned in a mock bow, he laid a foot away from his father’s resting spot.
Like a tangible force, he could sense his father’s spirit all around him. And, a moment later, a haunting but not altogether unpleasant calm washed over him. Aleksender held his breath and crawled toward the casket. He knelt before the monument and clutched his chest, head sunken forward, eyes stinging with a wave of unshed tears. Trembling hands rose from his sides and rested on top of the meticulously carved slate. When he at last spoke, the tone of his voice was strained and impossibly heavy—each word weighed down with years of inner torment and heartache.
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