The Frost of Springtime (26 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

May
21, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day One

“The
Blood Week”

Sounds of war shook
Aleksender awake. He leapt from beneath the thick coverlet, panting and
drenched in buckets of sweat. But alas—for the first time, the booming cannons
and roaring firearms were not mere sentiments of his nightmares. He was not
trapped within that twisted, internal limbo—that purgatory in which all
soldiers go to die. These sounds of war were real.

Very real.

The army of Versailles was upon them. Civil war had finally claimed
Paris.

Aleksender stared off at the billowing drapes as he fought to catch his
breath. Beside him, Elizabeth continued to sleep in peaceful oblivion.

No, his mind confirmed. The rolling cannons didn’t inspire images of
dismembered comrades, nor did they take command of his mind, tricking him to believe
he was back in those bloodstained battlefields.

No, it wasn’t war that claimed his thoughts. It was something much
worse and inconceivably more disheartening.

Bile seared Aleksender’s lungs and rose inside his throat. He could
feel it. He felt it within his very bones. She was in terrible danger.

•

A resonating knock filled the chateau hours later. The sound was
jarring within the silence. The first footman, who was presently disheveled and
in his nightgown, greeted the horse
messenger
. Visibly
jumping at the occasional explosion, he bristled to the front door with an
uncharacteristic clumsiness.

“Bonsoir,” the rough-looking messenger drawled, speaking before the
footman could offer any greetings. “I hope
le Comte may
forgive me for bargin’ in at such an ungodly hour.” One of his hands vanished
beneath the riding coat and withdrew a bundled piece of parchment. The footman
glanced at both the messenger and his horse—absorbing the fact that neither was
adorned with a proper delivery satchel.

“Who sends you, monsieur?” the footman hesitantly asked.

The man merely cleared his throat and continued with his objective.
“I’ve a letter here.”

Brows drawn together, the footman nodded and accepted the parchment
from the messenger’s callused fingers.
“Very well.
I
shall deliver it to him personally.”

“See that you do.
Tonight.”
An unsettling grin
stretched the messenger’s swarthy complexion as he mounted his horse. “I am
told it’s of great importance.” He kicked the creature’s flank with a booted
heel and tugged on the leather reins.
“Dire importance.”

•

Aleksender hovered above his writing desk, the magnificent curve of his
back slumped into a tight arch. Both hands were propped onto the counter,
stabilizing his languid bodyweight.

Alas, the world had tipped off its very axis. Tears he refused to shed
stung his eyes and blurred his vision. The crinkled parchment was unfurled like
two gaping wings, its unholy contents unveiled. Aleksender’s gaze ran across
the familiar and nearly illegible writing for the hundredth time:
Feel nothing? —
C.C.

Sofia’s red handkerchief had been pinned to the words. And the
sentiment was drenched in blood.

“Something told me I would find you here.” Elizabeth’s voice broke the
silent din and startled Aleksender from his haze. “The letter—”

“Is of no concern to you.”

“On the contrary,” she spouted in quick reply. “It takes you from our
bed.” Elizabeth fastened her nightgown’s sash and shuffled closer, careful and
cautious. “What does it inquire?” She raised her hand, readying to sweep the
raven locks from his eyes.

Aleksender averted his face from her touch, every muscle tense and
aching. “Let me alone.”

“Why, Aleksender!” she gasped in disbelief. “You are crying!”

He heaved a sardonic chuckle that made her skin crawl. “I keep convincing
myself,” he absently rambled, speaking to no one, “that it is not my fault.”

“What? What are you—
”

“ …
cannot stop …
replaying our parting words. Indeed. Those words shall follow me everywhere …
into the grave … beyond the grave …”

He laughed a terribly sinister laugh—the laugh of a true madman—and
groped onto his chest in agony.
“Far, far beyond the grave.”

Elizabeth’s spine stiffened, chilled from the coarseness of his voice,
the strange and animalistic detachment of his stare. “Please! I beg you. Stop
this—”

“Death is no escape,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “No! There is
no escaping.” Aleksender proceeded to pace back and forth. He groaned like a
wild, caged beast and neurotically speared fingertips through his sweaty
hairline. “I shall have you know, it is far better to know nothing than to be
nothing.”

“Stop this!”

“Feel nothing.”

“Listen to yourself!”

“Yes. The fool was right in that. I feel nothing.
Nothing.”

Aleksender’s body sagged against the wall as he exhaled a strained breath.
Struggling to shut out the world around him, he pinched away the tears that
burned his eyes.

“The nightingale pressed closer to the thorn … closer … closer till it
pierced his bleeding heart.” Aleksender raked his fingertips through the vast
waves of his unkempt hair. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, tugging at
his scalp with an escalating madness and desperation. Black threads were
plucked with each little pull—as if he was testing his very ability to feel.

“Bitter, bitter was the pain … wilder and wilder grew her song, for she
sang of the love that dies not in the tomb … a love perfected by death.”

“You are mad.”

His hands fell away and descended down to his sides. They curled into
two clenched fists. Elizabeth eyed his predatory stance with a jolt of renowned
fear. A flash of white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled wide.

Elizabeth knew that he was far from amused.

“Ah, I am afraid madness is one luxury I’ve been denied.”

A stream of blood ran down his cheek as it seeped from a cut on his
forehead … a cut he’d inflicted upon himself only minutes ago. Aleksender
turned to stone, exhausted from his self-mutilation.

Elizabeth’s pulse raced as he stared blankly forward, unblinking and
unmoving.

She struck Aleksender across the face in an attempt to reel him back
into reality. The beginnings of a thick beard stung her palm. The sickening
crack of flesh against flesh resonated within the silence.

Aleksender didn’t stir a limb.

“Only one person could draw such agony from you.
Your
little whore!”
Aleksender caught her wrists midair as Elizabeth made for
another strike. His long fingers coiled around her skin like twin serpents,
eyes seething.

Her voice was perfectly calm, a grim and knowing smile tugging at her
lips. “I will scream. I shall gladly wake every servant.”

She gasped as a low growl reverberated against her. His hold
intensified, strangling her very blood flow. Heavy breaths fanned against her
flushed cheek, branding her forever.

“I defy you to say her name.” The tone of Aleksender’s threat mirrored
the serenity of her voice. But his words bore a jagged edge.

Aleksender enveloped her wrist impossibly tighter; Elizabeth flinched
free with a cry. Her eyes fell to her trembling hand. She absently fondled her
wedding finger and caressed the cold trinket.

“How I had tormented myself! So many nights I’d lie awake, imagining
you with all those whores … wondering where I went wrong.”

“And now?”
His voice was a
deep, tentative whisper.

“I pitied you then.
Always distant, never complete.
I pity you now … an old fool in love.” Aleksender tensed as she recited the
very words from his letter.

She shook her head. “But even more I pity myself for believing you
might have changed.” Elizabeth collected the note from the writing desk’s sleek
surface.

He shook his head as a rush of guilt overcame him. “I wish I could
change. For fifteen years, I’ve wished for it every day. Even more, I wish I
could be the husband you deserve.”

“Yes, well, more often than not, I fear wishes are wasted breaths.”
Fingering the sullied material, Elizabeth laughed beneath a strained breath.
“Sofia’s handkerchief?
She truly was made to dance. I would
often watch her from our box, completely taken away.
Beautiful.
Strangely incomplete.”
She set down the note and gazed
into the haunted depths of Aleksender’s eyes. There, she found the remains of a
long-suffering soul. After a moment, she took his hand with a weak smile. “I
see now. You are both equally trapped. And
I wish
it were in my
power to free you.”

•

Aleksender returned to his study, brandy in hand. Memories bombarded
his consciousness as he slowly slipped into a blissful, drunken stupor.

But he found no peace. There was no sleep. No dreams. There were only
nightmares. Within himself, a symphony of soul shattering screams and bombs
exploded behind his shut eyes,
a wailing babe,
the hum of a distorted prayer … the seductive glint of a knife.

Then he simply descended into black oblivion. Tucked inside that darkly
comforting void he was silent and complete.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

May
22, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day Two

Countless bones and
skulls were piled on top of each other, collectively forming a gruesome wall
endless in length. Composed of winding tunnels built entirely from death, such
a hell was not for the faint of heart. The underground catacombs were an
astonishing and grotesque work of art—constructed from over six million human
skeletons—residing as a labyrinth of ultimate despair. A warning to ward off
trespassers was engraved across one of the low archways:
Beware the Empire
of Death!

The drone of
repetitive dripping echoed, chilling and naturally amplified. Clutched within
the grasp of a bloated hand, a lantern swayed midair, highlighting each of the
grinning skulls.

Heavy steps
resonated as the man entered a makeshift holding cell. The illumination came to
an abrupt stop and glowed like a diva’s spotlight; it encircled a prisoner who
was cloaked in shadow and slumped against a far wall. At the sound of steps,
the man’s face lolled forward and eyes squeezed shut. The bruised line of his
jaw seethed blood. A formal cassock robe fluttered around his form, the
abundance of drapery falling in lush white folds. Accenting the fatal severity
of his condition, they hung from his beaten body like loose skin.

Even a blind man
could see he was on the threshold of death. Both hands were cuffed and
suspended midair. Resembling the sacrifice of Christ with uncanny precision,
his limbs were outstretched and fastened tight—both arms embracing his dark
fate.

Two chained corpses
rested on either side of him. Each one stared forward, seeing nothing. Indeed,
their decapitated heads laid at his heels, strewn carelessly about, the stumps
of their necks clotted with blood.

The prisoner’s head
collided with the stone wall as it fell back in a rush of despair. Blood leaked
from the corners of his eyes, cascading down his sallow cheeks. They looked
remarkably like crimson tears. And he was not alone. The Marquis de Boury was
seated across the cell waiting for his fate to be sealed.

The captor knelt on
the ground and tore the prisoner’s robe aside. His flesh glistened, fresh
punctures marring his body from head to toe. A pectoral crucifix dangled
against the thin expanse of his chest. The gold was dingy and stained with
blood, the beauty of its sovereign likeness tarnished beyond recognition.

The captor clamped
onto the pendant and lifted it to his eyes. The prisoner breathlessly
struggled, groaning and battling his chains.

A diabolical
chuckle swelled the darkness. “Where is your God now, my good archbishop?” The
captor heaved a melodramatic sigh, released the crucifix, and rose to his feet.
He appeared as no more than a demonic silhouette, the hilt of his blade alive
with a sparkle.

Keys jangled as he
crossed the cell. He unlocked the marquis’s cuffs, grabbed onto the scruff of
his collar, and shoved him to the floor. Marquis de Boury was old—well into his
seventies—and nearly unconscious. Unsheathing the weapon, the captor aligned it
to his neck and held it beneath the arch of his chin. He slowly drew it away,
engraving a faint line of blood in the sweat-lined skin.

The archbishop shut
his eyes and bowed his face in silent prayer. He murmured incoherent words of
salvation for Marquis de Boury.

The captor raised
his blade in a majestic gesture and positioned it adjacent to the Marquis de
Boury’s neck. After a brief moment of silence, he pulled his arm up and
back—swinging the blade, full force, like a bat …

•

Deep rumbling and
the roar of cannons echoed overhead like thunder. A blood-curdling scream shook
the Commune’s base. Just as quickly, the sounds choked off and faded into dead
silence.

Sofia cringed at
the familiar refrains and tugged at her restraints. Trembling, she cried out as
the rusted cuff sliced her wrist. A stream of blood trickled down the slope of
her elevated arm. Her curls were severely tangled and heavy with mud, her
hairline clotted. The material of her chemise was stained, drenched in a
mixture of blood, sweat and dirt.

Sofia parted her
chapped lips with a groan. Despite a few of the men’s half-hearted persuading,
she had continually refused a drink of water. Disoriented, clearly drugged, and
zoning in and out of consciousness, Sofia had proceeded to tell each man
precisely what she thought of his pestering—a nasty charade that had earned her
two ice-cold splashes to the face.

But she regretted
all of that now. Why had she been so very stubborn?

Her tongue seemed
to have grown to the roof of her mouth. Coated by a thick white film, it felt
impossibly swollen and bone-dry. She had awakened in this hell a few hours
ago—chained to the wall, shivering, and beyond nauseated.

A thousand
questions bombarded her thoughts, each one more desperate than the one before.
What was the last thing she could bring to memory? Where was she?
For what purpose?
Who were those gruff brutes? Was she to be
raped? And what, pray, had been the cause of all that terrible screaming? Was
she to suffer the same fate?

Was Alek in harm?
She felt herself begin to panic. The music of bombs resounded every so
often,
causing all of Paris’s underground to tremble.

“Monsieur?”
The deep voice
snapped Sofia from her whirlwind of thoughts. She inhaled a sharp breath and
searched her surroundings.

No one was in
sight.

With a tinge of
fear and ache in her gut, she studied the wide selection of weapons that were
ceremoniously arranged before her. Guns, daggers, and the like had been propped
up against a parallel wall. They stood as the one proof she had not been
abandoned and left down here to rot and die, only the sewer rats for company.
Above the weapons, a crimson flag hung like a mural.
Vive la Commune!
was
printed across its
canvas, each letter prouder than the one before it.

The rhythmic clink
of approaching boots anchored her attention. “Monsieur?”
came
the rugged voice once more—now sufficiently closer. “Is all well?”

“Daft
idiot!
I have been absent little more than two hours. In
Christ’s name, what have you done?” Sofia’s ears pricked and eyes widened. That
voice! She knew that voice …

“Carried
out the orders, monsieur.”

“Orders?
Whose
orders?”

“Maurice—Maurice
Lupont.
He—”

“Maurice Lupont?
Fool! You answer to me and only me!”

“Yes. Yes, ‘course,
Monsieur Cleef.”

Cleef—Christophe
Cleef.
Her dark stranger.
A veteran of war and Aleksender’s dearest friend.

A dozen or so men
surrounded Christophe, enveloping him within a loyal ring of followers. Tan,
gruff, and clearly members of the working class, they appeared ready for
anything. It seemed that the Dark Ages had returned to Europe, and lawlessness
was king. Only through the embrace of death and decay would things again be
righted. Only after conditions worsened would they be allowed to heal.

Regardless, Sofia’s
heart sang in swift relief. Surely, he meant to aid her from this mess!

Surely, the noble
Christophe Cleef was not the enemy?

•

“You did this to
me.”

Brimming with a
devil-may care attitude, Christophe eased toward the small and helpless voice.
His lost humanity resurrected as he was struck with the faintest trace of pity.
Chained and defenseless, the chit resembled a virgin sacrifice, entombed within
a crypt and strapped to the altar. But no—he knew this girl was no blushing
virgin. Chastened by the thought and returning to his sardonic nature,
Christophe exhaled a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. Grinning wide,
he knelt beside her and thoughtfully cocked his head.

“Well. Not
entirely.” Blue eyes pierced the dark as Sofia peered up at him. She was
emotionally and physically drained, half- drugged, and weaker than a baby fawn.
There was little to no fight left in her. “Could not have done it without
Monsieur le Comte’s cooperation … or, shall I say, lack of …”

Sofia revived with
a bolt of energy. Blood crept down each wrist as she tugged on her restraints.
“N-No! What have you done! That screaming—was that him? Where is he? Where is
Alek? Answer me! Answer me now!”

Christophe lowered
himself to his knees, almost in slow motion, eyes softening. He pressed his
index finger to Sofia’s lips, demanding silence. She jerked away and inhaled a
strangled gasp. The back of her head collided with the wall in an attempt to
escape his touch. Her breaths grew shallower as Christophe cradled her cheek in
his palm.

“No, please. Don’t
touch me. Just leave me alone.” Her voice sounded far away, distant and
surreal, spoken through the filter of some lucid nightmare.

“Shh. There is
nothing to be afraid of. You are under my protection now, my little Sofia.”

My
little Sofia.

He withdrew a cigar
and matches from his coat and lit a smoke. Sofia eyed the blazing tip with an
unnatural fear and shrank against the wall. Sweeping away the tangle of curls,
Christophe clenched the cigar between his teeth and laid a hand upon her
shoulder. The countless burns were painful to behold. He gave a dull grunt as
he snuffed the cigar with his heel.

“Christophe …”
Their eyes joined together at the whispered sound of his name. “I know you. I
know you are a good man. I know you have a soldier’s heart.” A dull silence
weighed heavily in the air. Burned by her words and rendered speechless,
Christophe swallowed deeply as his hand fell from her skin.

“Please … Why are
you doing this?”

“I was left no
other choice.”

His words were no
more than a tragic sigh. For an iridescent moment, Sofia believed it had been
the wind weeping.

And it was weeping
for the three of them.

•

Aleksender lay in
bed, sleepless and still. His mind and body felt numb and detached. He was
soulless … far more dead than alive.

A tentative touch whispered
across the unfertile terrain of his back, stroking the various crevices and
scars. After a moment Elizabeth’s voice broke the silence. “What happened to
you?” The words were soft, serene and empathetic. How could they be any
different? He was broken.

What dark secret
was locked in his heart? What was eating away at his mind and body—consuming
her husband from the inside out?

The questions were
a conundrum and the answers a paradox. And Aleksender found that all his
frustration, guilt, love and sadness could be eloquently expressed through a
single word: “Defeat.”

•

A shaft of light
split the floor as Aleksender eased into his father’s study. He turned the knob
of a kerosene lamp and flooded the room with a warm glow. Nostalgia filled the
darkest and most delicate crevices of his heart.

This had been his
father’s most treasured room. The smell of brandy and whiskey still hung in the
air. Aleksender inhaled his father’s memory with a heavy heart. He hadn’t dared
step foot inside Philippe’s domain since his return from the war. The memories,
the resentment for his loss, had simply been too great.

Now he felt only
contentment within his father’s presence among his belongings and precious
keepsakes. Philippe de Lefèvre had been a connoisseur of knowledge and the
arts. Telescopes, globes and other worldly trinkets filled his study like toys
fill a nursery.

Aleksender wandered
over to a towering bookshelf. Stroking his father’s memory, he ran a fingertip
across the dusty bindings, leaving railroad tracks wherever he touched …
Descartes’
Mediations on First Philosophy
.
Novels of all genres.
The Happy Prince
and Other Tales.

Oscar Wilde’s
masterpiece protruded farther than the others; it seemed to beckon Aleksender’s
attention. He obliged as he breathlessly slid the slender book from its home in
the shelf. Dust clouded the air as he tossed it open. A folded piece of
parchment was tucked inside, bookmarking page thirteen—the beginning of
The Nightingale
and the Rose.