The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  A scream roared inside of her throat. Blood—Aleksender’s blood—seeped down her wrist at a leisurely pace and dripped onto the ground below.

  Sofia’s heart clenched against her ribcage as the realization sunk in. Positioned on her hands and knees, she crawled over to Aleksender and met the glassy depths of his eyes.

  “God, no. Please, no. Alek, my Alek,” she sobbed, curling against the heat of his chest. “I love you. I love you so much …”

  Aleksender ran his fingertips over Sofia’s wound with an exasperated groan. “My little fool, why would you do such a thing?”

  Sofia grasped onto Aleksender’s dress shirt and tugged him closer. Their foreheads came together as tears coated the sallow curves of her cheeks. “Because we are one. And nothing could ever change that. Always and forevermore.”

  •

  Christophe withdrew his Prussian dagger and unsheathed it from its leather cocoon. Indecisively he scanned the discarded flintlock pistol, the assortment of firearms, a chassepot rifle? No, not a rifle—a rifle was much too clean, too quick, and far too merciful.

  He emerged from the shadows and inched closer, barely able to sustain the weight of his body. Everything was spinning—physically spinning like a toy top. With each movement, gallons of brandy rolled inside his gut. And he could feel it. He was drowning, barely hanging onto this haunted precipice.

  The two Communards exchanged hushed words and eased away from Christophe. So be it. He didn’t need their help or anyone else’s.

  The bittersweet taste of vengeance was tangible—it was on his tongue, in his heart, embedded deep in his very marrow. One person and one alone was responsible for his suffering. And yes, he would pay in blood. How sweet it would feel plunging the blade deep into his chest.

  Feelings of scorn and resentment were amplified as he observed Aleksender and Sofia’s interaction. Alas, it was better than an opera, far grander than any love ballad. And damn them both. Aleksender and Sofia remained ignorant of his looming presence—completely lost in each other, within the potency of the moment.

  Aleksender groaned and lifted his hand, guiding it across the curve of Sofia’s cheek. She cupped it within the heel of her palm and held him soundly against her.

  “Sofia … you are hurt. You need to get out of here.”

  Heat from a nearby torch danced across Christophe’s features and drew sweat from his brow. No. This torment wasn’t nearly enough—not by half. He burned to unleash the full extent of his hatred and wrath. Damn it to hell—he bore so much hatred. Christophe quivered with emotion as he steadied the dagger against his palm. The blade’s toothy snarl edged into his flesh, slicing his skin with ease. The sting was a welcomed sensation, as was the sweltering liquid that welled his palm.

  Your pain reminds and warns you that you are very much alive.

  A cloud of despair shadowed what remained of his heart. This was it. This was the end. In the back of his mind, he saw the Vendôme Column crashing down, heard the people’s unified cry: “Vive la Commune! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance! Death to the Empire.” Napoleon’s lifeless stare bore deeply into his own, all-seeing and perceptive.

  Yes, Aleksender was right—it was over. And Christophe yearned to hurt the person who’d caused him so much pain, so much misery and loss.

  Snapping from his thoughts, Christophe focused his glare on the two lovers. Sofia shook her head as tears streaked her cheeks. They streamed from the brilliant blue of her eyes in a fierce storm. “I shall be perfectly fine.” Her lips curved into a weak smile. The sullied material of her nightdress strained in time with her labored intakes of air. “See?” She gasped, adjusting her bleeding shoulder. “It’s but a scratch.”

  Sofia and Aleksender’s forehead came together in a gentle and tentative touch. Struggling to breathe, she peppered kisses over every inch of his face, not daring to leave an inch of him unloved.

  No one to love you. No one to love you. No one to love you.

  The words swirled inside Christophe’s mind until he grew dizzy. And those mocking refrains continued to echo until he could perceive nothing else.

  “Alek, just don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me. Promise me. Promise you’ll fight through this.”

  “Sofia, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Holding her cheek within his palm, he drew invisible circles along her flesh, worshiping everything that was his beloved Sofia. “I fought for you, for us. For nine years I fought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s all my fault.”

  Each word was a dagger in Christophe. He muttered a curse and continued his pursuit.

  Sofia froze. He stood mere inches away, a looming eclipse of torn emotion.

  She glanced over her shoulder and leveled her stare upon his battered features. With an intake of breath, she eyed the rusted dagger cradled in his hand. The cross engraved upon its tarnished handle was anything but holy.

  Blood-lust pumped through Christophe’s veins as a cruel smile stretched his mouth. He felt his scar twist and tighten, wreathing in agony. Alas—that cross seared his flesh, branding his soul.

  “Please,” Sofia pleaded in a fleeting voice. “Please, Christophe. I beg you. Enough blood has been shed. Enough.”

  He mutely shook his head and narrowed his eyes upon the dangling crucifix. It hung against Aleksender’s chest, encircled by his comrade’s life’s blood.

  The all-consuming question rose to Christophe’s lips before he could stop it. “What have I become?”

  The dagger was thrust into the air. Torches and sconces reflected off the blade in a blinding flash of light.

  Christophe squeezed both eyes shut. Giddy anticipation, a strange sense of peace and finality, ignited his soul. In a clean swoop, he plunged the blade straight into his own chest. An unstoppable cry fell from his lips as it tore through cloth and flesh with ease. Then satisfaction inseparably mixed with pain. Yes—the vengeance was every bit as sweet as he’d fantasized it’d be. Muscle, bone and flesh devoured the metal to its hilt. Behind his eyes, a thousand gawking death-heads shared a laugh and jeered at his suffering.

  With a great grunt of effort, Christophe twisted the dagger, urging it a little deeper. He angled it snugly between his ribs …felt as an organ was impaled. It ruptured at the assault, painting his insides a brilliant red. Then he withdrew the sullied blade and stabbed himself once more—branding the exact spot where Aleksender had taken his bullet all those months ago.

  Sofia turned away with a cry and buried her face in the folds of Aleksender’s shirt.

  A resonating pang sounded out as the weapon fell from Christophe’s numb fingers and tumbled onto the stones. A second later, he weakened at the knees and collapsed face first, joining the dagger on the ground. The bridge of his nose shattered on impact and issued a choked scream from his throat.

  Side by side, Aleksender and Sofia watched the scene in pained silence.

  The Communards crossed the base, rushing to Christophe’s aid in a collective panic. “Monsieur! Mon Dieu. Monsieur Cleef!”

  Christophe’s chest rose and sank with labored, uneven breaths. He clasped onto a seething wound and rolled onto his side, barely retaining consciousness. Vats of blood welled both nostrils.

  And he could feel it below him—a dark puddle was vastly blossoming. With a muttered curse, he shoved away the hands of his men as they wrestled to inspect his injuries.

  “You’re bleeding out, monsieur,” observed the redhead as he struggled to appear calm and remotely collected.

  “Ah, is that what happens when you jam a blade in your gut, eh?” Christophe scoffed, his voice dripping with that predictable sarcasm. “I wouldn’t … wouldn’t have ever guessed.”

  The Communards ignored his remark and continued their investigation. “Please, monsieur! Let us help you. We really must—”

  “No, damn you! Let me alone! Devil take me.” They exchanged a desperate glance as their hands uniformly froze midair. “Now listen and listen close.” Christophe’s voice choked off in
to silence.

  He groped at his chest, breathing drawing more and more shallow. A ribbon of blood leaked from his jawline and curled around his thickly bearded chin. His head lolled onto its side as he stared over at Sofia and Aleksender’s embracing forms.

  “I have a last order … for the two of you fools.” He turned away from Aleksender and Sofia, unable to stomach the sight of their affection.

  Loneliness and a fierce self-hatred swelled Christophe’s gut.

  “Get them help. Now.” Trembling hands clasped onto the Communard’s collar and tugged him near. Wiry, red strands fell across his brow in a flurry. Christophe’s dusty breaths seared the youth’s sodden cheeks. “Don’t let them die. Hear me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I hear you.”

  “Good.” Christophe’s hand fell back down to the stones, leaving a bloody print in its wake. He stared at the image, strangely transfixed. He prayed—merciful God, he prayed—that religion was nothing more than an elaborate hoax. Salvation wasn’t in the stars for a man such as himself. He’d burn in hell till kingdom come.

  Shouts, cries, and pacing bodies intensified overhead. “Hurry. Sneak … sneak out through the Rue de Scribe exit … Versailles …won’t find you … those miserable dogs.” Staying true to his nature, Christophe finished with an irritated grumble and absently waved off both boys. “Now get the hell out of here and let me die with a damn shred of dignity.”

  One of the Communards began to rise to his feet—only to be steadied by Christophe’s hand once more. “Wait. One more … one more thing. Here …” With a deep groan, he lifted his neck and withdrew the dog tags. CHRISTOPHE CLEEF and ALEKSENDER DE LEFÈVRE gleamed beneath the lanterns, each one equally vivid. Wincing, he tucked them in the boy’s palm. “Want … want my comrade to have ‘em.”

  “Yes, m-monsieur.”

  The stained emblems vanished as the Communard curled his hand into a fist. He smoothed down the torn material of his coat and staggered to his feet. After a moment, he signaled his fellow comrade to follow suit. And, without exchanging so much as another nod, they tended to le Comte de Paris and his ward.

  Christophe’s death-rattle split the silence like a knife. His skin grew impossibly pale. His eyes lost their remaining sparkles. The gurgling intensified, loudened, overpowered. Blood crawled across the stones at a steady pace. Eclipsed by sounds of death, his final words were muted. Overwhelmed with a deep and undeniable ache, Aleksender met his comrade’s vacant eyes. “Christophe,” he whispered, “mon ami … You are not alone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  May 27, 1871

  La Semaine Sanglante, Final Day

  Aleksender groaned as he teetered on the brink of consciousness. He was steadily losing blood, descending into that eternal, dark emptiness.

  All around him Paris was devoured by flames. He could feel the sweltering heat flash across his face, searing his neck with the bite of a cattle brand. Sweat clotted his hairline and trickled down his temples. His lips were chaffed, overgrown with blisters, his tongue inseparable from the roof of his mouth. Both bullet wounds throbbed, twisting his body in a raw ache.

  One of the Communards secured Sofia’s limp form against his chest and cradled her bridal-style. Two others dragged Aleksender’s body. His heels slid across the pavement, each massive arm propped over their shoulders.

  Muffled snippets of conversation cut through his hazed mind:

  “Everything’s burnin’ to the ground.”

  “Nothin’ left.”

  “It’s all gone—gone.”

  Hopelessness engulfed them as the infirmary seeped into sight. The three Communards stopped dead in their tracks and marveled at the spectacle. Fire consumed the structure in a hungry blaze and tinted the horizon in crimson shades. Flames licked at the sky like the devil’s tongue, lapping up a multitude of screams and dying breaths.

  The man holding onto Sofia hung his face and searched the surroundings in growing despair. “God above, what are we to do now?”

  With a low groan, Sofia stirred in his arms and harnessed back a flash of pain. She fought for consciousness, her voice breathy and dangerously hollow. “Sacred Heart. Please—go to Sacred Heart Convent.”

  •

  Persistent knocking resounded inside of Sacred Heart’s walls. The latch surrendered to a defiant creak and was thrust aside. A second later, a pair of ancient eyes beamed from within the slit. Then the sound of a jingling knob and creaking followed.

  Sister Catherine gasped as she tossed the door open.

  “Monsieur le Comte! Sofia!” She lifted a hand to her lips, jarred by the sight of their mangled bodies. “What has happened to them?”

  The Communards briefly bowed their heads and shuffled forward. They adjusted their grasps on Aleksender, stabilizing the burden of his weight. “They’ve been shot, Sister. And with the fires there’s nowhere left for us to go. The infirmary’s burnin’ to the ground.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Sister Catherine stepped aside and ushered them across the threshold with a persistent wave of her hand. “Through the hallway and to the left. The door has been left open, messieurs.”

  An assortment of faces crowded Sacred Heart’s interior. From wall to wall, the citizens of Paris were packed tight. Men, women, and children huddled in a comforting circle. Hands clasped together, they chanted a prayer as tears of remorse fell from their eyes. Tension snaked through the shadows like a living entity. And beyond Sacred Heart, the brutal sounds of war boomed for miles around—a vast contrast to the home’s hushed din.

  Weaving in and out of the men, women and children, Sister Catherine raced through the surrounding faces, scanning each one. Indeed, many of the people had found refuge within the sanctuary of the home. Sacred Heart Convent was one of the only places that had been left untouched by Paris’s revolutionaries.

  Sister Marie-Joie stood before the hearth, the young girls of Sacred Heart gathered about her heels. She read to the children, calming them with the absolute sureness of her voice. Sister Marie-Joie instilled a wisdom well beyond her thirty years. Her eyes were whimsical and strangely omniscient—the eyes of an elder woman in a young woman’s face. Cued by Sister Catherine’s entrance, she set the book aside and scrambled to her feet.

  “Don’t move, children,” she whispered as she eased toward the head nun, her matronly skirts rustling. “Sister Catherine? The wounded gentleman—heavens, is that le Comte?”

  “And his ward,” Sister Catherine finished. “Is there anyone who can help them, I pray?”

  “Come with me this way.” Following Marie-Joie’s lead, Sister Catherine swallowed and clutched her chest.

  She exhaled a choked breath as she was brought before a handful of doctors. “Oh, gracious Lord.” All three gentlemen donned wired spectacles, whiskers and deep frowns. Had circumstances been different, Sister Catherine might have laughed. Instead, she crossed herself, murmured words of thanks to Sister Marie-Joie, and grazed one of the men’s gangly forearms. “I’m in need of your help. Please, messieurs—quickly now.”

  In a uniformed motion, they rose from their seats and followed Sister Catherine into the bedchamber. Unusually clumsy, she fumbled to the door and closed it, allowing them privacy from prying eyes.

  Aleksender shuddered, not bothering to suppress a moan as his large form was arranged across the mattress. “Non, non. Don’t elevate him,” the eldest doctor interjected, taking control of the situation. “Elevation shall only worsen the bleeding.”

  At the same time, a blanket was spread across the floorboards. The Communard hustled over and gently arranged Sofia’s body across the coarse material. “Careful now,” urged the doctor. “Stay clear of her shoulder.”

  “Sofia …” Aleksender whispered to Sister Catherine, his voice dangerously shallow. She approached the weak sound. Struggling to make out his words, she shoved the wimple from her head and leaned in close. “Where is Sofia?”

  Sister Catherine grasped onto his hand with a reassuring smile. “She is ri
ght here at your side, monsieur.” She patted the sweat from his brow and brushed away the heavy forelock. “Just relax now. You’re in God’s good hands. For the both of you—you must have faith.”

  Aleksender nodded as his eyes blinked shut. Tears formed at the corners. Deeply touched by his vulnerability and sacrifice, Sister Catherine’s chest gave a painful lurch. “Whatever happens to me, take care of my Sofia—it is all I ask.” The tragic meaning of his words sent chills down her spine. Her gaze slid from his face and descended to his bloodied, battered wrists. Thoughts of the Lord and Savior empowered her spirit.

  “Of course. She is dear to me, as well, monsieur.” And with that, Sister Catherine turned to the doctors, offering whatever aid she could provide.

  They took a moment to survey Aleksender and Sofia. The eldest man pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose, squinted, and leaned in close. He examined Aleksender and Sofia’s wounds at length, lips tightened into a thin line. The wiry tufts of his hair stuck out in every direction, gleaming beneath the faint light. “Mm. It’s urgent that we extract the bullet from his chest. Remarkably, it doesn’t appear to be very deep, but may have fragmented on impact. Tending to the girl shall be quite simple enough. A couple linens and some alcohol should clean her up nicely.” With a groan, he straightened out and addressed the other two doctors. “Have you any tools about?”

  The youngest of the three men stepped forward. He shook his balding head, eyes darting between the two wounded patients. Sweat gathered where his hairline might have been a good twenty years ago. “Non, monsieur. We haven’t our equipment, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me—what shall you be needing, monsieur?” Sister Catherine quickly interjected. “We are well supplied here.”

  The doctors exchanged a brief word before naming off a list of items.

  Sister Catherine fetched fresh linens, a pocketknife, gauze, iodine, alcohol, an assortment of sewing tools, two water basins and a candle from her vanity. A faint ring of light glowed as she struck the match and urged it to life.