The Frost of Springtime (28 page)

Aleksender
struggled with the hilt in vain. The blade was sheathed within a shell of
ivory—encaged between two parallel ribs. They gripped onto the steel like the
devil’s own hands. Alas, the knife was the Sword in the Stone and Aleksender
was unfit to fulfill its prophecy. With an uttered cry of defeat, he turned
away from the woman’s limp form. Each passing moment it became more difficult
to breathe, more difficult to think. Tears and bile clogged his throat by
turns. His pulse pounded loudly in his ears.

Surely, he was only
dreaming. Surely Maman didn’t mean to kill his brother!

“He has your
father’s eyes,” Victoria’s monotonous voice cut through his thoughts. Still as
death and entirely composed, she stared down at the fussing child who lay
beneath her. “There’s nothing of me in him.” She looked over her shoulder and
studied Aleksender’s features with a small, sad smile. “You, sweet love, are
the both of us.”

“What are you going
to do to him?”

“He is a bastard,
born of sin and uncleansed, destined for the depths of hell.” Victoria inhaled
a shaky sigh and smoothed back her coiffure’s loose coils. “God will make him
pay for the sins of his father. Such a thing cannot do.” She nodded her head as
if reaching some inward decision. “First we must baptize him.”

“No! Don’t … don’t
hurt him! Please.”

“My child,” she
assured through her glowing smile, “have you not learned anything I’ve taught
you? We are doing nothing of the kind. We are granting him salvation.”

“You’re not well,
Maman.” Aleksender’s slender chest rose and sank with erratic breaths. His
throat had closed up minutes ago, making the tight chamber strangle each of his
words. “You’re sick.”

Victoria knelt
before Aleksender. Her touch was tentative and ironically gentle as she wiped
away his tears. “My sweet son, it pains me to see you weep.”

“Then stop. Stop
d-doin’ this.”

She shook her head.
“You must harden your heart. If not, the world shall crush your spirit one
day.”

“I will! I will do
anything, I swear it! I won’t tell anyone. I promise I won’t. Just take me back
home. I wanna go home. I wanna see Father.”

Victoria
straightened out, a scowl marring her pretty features. “Father is not here.”
She shook her head. “But you want him to be.”

“Yes,” Aleksender said,
wishing for his father’s comfort more than anything else.

“Then help me bring
him back to us.”

Everything seemed
to happen at once.

Water spilled over
the basin’s sides, sloshing within, as Victoria struggled to lift it from the
ground. Distorted laments poisoned the air. Aleksender pulled at his mother’s
skirts, sobbing—drowning in tears. Water was transferred from basin to tub.
Richard wailed out as he was slowly submerged, first his tiny bottom, both
pudgy legs, flailing arms …

The water level rose
and rose … soon inches from completely submerging him.

With every ounce of
his strength, Aleksender shoved his mother. A loud crash resounded as the basin
slipped from her grasp and drenched the smooth floorboards below her feet.
Mother and son instantly lost balance. She spun on her heels and fell to her
death, a sickening crack efficiently snapping her neck. In the same breath, the
side of Aleksender’s head collided with the tub, rendering him unconscious.

And then the
darkness descended.

•

There had never
been a carriage accident, spooked mare, or unhinged wheel. Philippe de Lefèvre
and his wife had never shared true love. All of the fluffy stories and
sparkling fairytales had been carefully woven illusions. And each thread had
existed as a sentiment of a father’s affection for his son. Indeed—the fabric
of Aleksender’s childhood had been fashioned from pretty lies.

Elizabeth knew she
could never offer Aleksender what he truly needed. And she was strangely at
peace with the realization.

She met her husband’s
eyes with a new compassion and understanding. Everything, all of his tragic
flaws and mishaps—his detached and resigned nature, his strange connection with
Sofia—suddenly fell into place. The truth had been boiling inside of him, and
now, countless years later, it had finally surfaced. As a boy, Aleksender de
Lefèvre’s youth had been spirited away. He’d lived through unbelievable trauma
and horror. And, whether he was able to remember them or not, the memories had
been planted deep within his soul.

Aleksender had been
raised on lies that had never quite fit together. Shattered remnants and torn
memories had existed inside his heart, creating an emptiness which was not all
together empty. On some level, within some plane of consciousness, he’d always
known the truth. And now, nearly twenty-six years later, the memories had
crashed down with the force of an avalanche.

A
landslide.

And what more is a
landslide than the accumulated pressure of stress and time?

Aleksender propped
a hand against the bookshelf and stabilized his body weight. His face fell
forward as he stared down the burgundy wallpapering with an unsettling
attentiveness, memorizing every small imperfection, every splintered hairline
and every faded patch.

He could not bring
himself to face the world. He was afraid to see Elizabeth’s eyes. He was afraid
of himself. For the first time in thirty-six years, he would be acquainted with
his true character.

And the truth was
painful, impossible to stomach … even more so than his emptiness. Perhaps his
father had done him a noble service after all. The greater part of his life had
been constructed from blissful oblivion, a cocoon of charming lies.

But no—everything
had not been a complete lie. His father’s stories had held a passion, a
beautiful and delicate adoration, which could not be faked. He’d been deeply in
love.
Only not with his mother.

“Marianne Moreau.”
The name pricked the roof of his mouth and tasted bitter on his tongue.
“His mistress.
Richard’s mother.
My
father had loved
her,
and all of those stories—”

“They had been
real.” The heat of Elizabeth’s body whispered against his back as she drew
near.

Aleksender shook
his face, overcome with a rush of anger, guilt, sorrow and resentment. “He
tried to protect me, to make me forget what I had seen, what I had done. And
look what he created. I’ve become a monster.
An empty
monster.”

“Listen to me. He
loved you. And he loved Marianne.” She gently draped a hand over his shoulder,
her touch tremulous and full of sympathy. “We all do what we must. Sometimes,
we hurt the ones we care about most.”

With a strangled
sound, Aleksender jerked from her reach. “Don’t. Please. Don’t touch me.”

“I’m sorry. I am so
sorry,” she said.

“Just go. I need to
be alone.”

Elizabeth collected
the volume of fairytales and Philippe’s note from the floor with a sigh. She
placed them on top of the writing desk, side by side, and absently traced the
book’s cover. “Should you need me, someone to speak with … I shall only be a
room away.”

Elizabeth picked up
her skirts and moved to the door. But she stopped in her tracks and slowly
turned toward Aleksender. She met his eyes with a small, sad smile. “If you
don’t come to me, if you must leave … I shall understand.” Aleksender stared at
her, mute and motionless. “She needs you more than I do. And you … you need her
more than I need you.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

May
23, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day Three

Filth and corpses
carpeted the walkways, collectively forming the stench of death. For the first time,
the full extent of Paris’s suffering came into focus for Aleksender. It was as
if he’d been lost to a deep slumber and was just awakening.

He rode through the
wreckage in stunned horror. Above head, the mutilated corpse of a Versailles
solider hung from one of the gas lamps. Cradled by a delicate breeze, it swayed
in a subtle motion and eerily moved from side to side. Aleksender cringed at
the makeshift gibbet and everything it represented—ultimate desperation and
despair.

Amidst his
hibernation, the world had collapsed.

Cannons thundered
as the shells of firearms buzzed through the air. The barricades were alive
with hollering men and sparks of fire as the red Commune flag glowed in all of
its crimson glory. Somewhere off to the side, a pair of gendarmes patrolled in
a miserable attempt to retain peace.

Aleksender’s flesh
crawled like a living thing and hugged his bones in a deathly embrace. Where
were the eagerly awaiting clientele? What had ever happened to the whistling
baker? Where was that hollow clapping of hooves, the creaking of carriage
wheels?

Where had those
sounds of life vanished to?

Nearly all the
shops had been abandoned since the massacre, equipping Paris with a haunting
appearance of a ghost town. Dozens of dead bodies were piled off to the side in
the hopes they might be claimed by loved ones. And the streets were literally
stained, the gutters overgrowing with blood.

Aleksender rode
alongside the fallen with a heavy ache in his heart. He tugged on Juliet’s
reins, demanding her to a halt. She obliged with a mutinous snort and pawed at
the cobblestones.

Nearby, a lone gas
lamp winked, emitting a faint ring of light. Aleksender lifted the rim of his
bowler hat as he gazed down. Down below, he stared into the face of a boy no
older than seventeen years. In a quick and decided movement, he dismounted and
lowered to his knees. Respectfully Aleksender pulled the hat from his head. His
heart stirred. With a sweep of his palm, he urged the boy’s eyes shut.

Christophe Cleef
was right; he’d been oblivious to everything but himself.

To
have so much potential for power, for change.
To throw it all
away is unforgivable.
Unredeemable …

Aleksender shook
away his comrade’s words. He wearily rose to his feet and withdrew the note.
Writing had been scrawled on each side of the parchment, its latter reading:
Join me for a
toast to Paris.

•

Aleksender tethered
Juliet to one of Cafe Roux’s wooden columns. Praying she’d not be spirited away
by some lecherous horse thief, he whispered a tender farewell before heading to
the entrance. A pair of Versailles soldiers strolled by on horseback, their
gaits slow and steady. Each man tipped his hat in a ritualistic greeting.

It was Aleksender’s
fine clothing that distinguished him from members of the Commune and working-class.
Playing the role with ease, he returned the nod, more than a bit thankful for
the hat that concealed his identity.

The first thought
to cross Aleksender’s mind was the deadness of Cafe Roux. The place was empty
and eerily still. Streams of moonlight poured through the shattered windows and
danced across the countertops. Dust motes fluttered midair like snowfall.
Broken glass crunched beneath Aleksender’s boots as he searched the length of
the room.

Where in God’s
teeth was Christophe?

Easing toward the
bar, Aleksender removed both gloves and stuffed them deep inside his satchel. A
thick film of dust covered the countertop like a blanket.

And then he saw it.

A note had been
placed on top of a stool. Aleksender unfolded the parchment, staring down at
that clumsy and familiar cursive:

Do not fear.
This is nothing more than a godsend.

If any man’s
work shall be burned, he shall suffer great loss. But he himself shall be saved
yet so as through fire. — C.C.

Aleksender crumpled
the paper in his palm and hung his face. This was no simple note. He understood
Christophe’s game. It was a clue.
A step closer to whatever
fate his comrade was plotting for him.

The hours of
fireside ramblings had thoroughly paid off. Christophe knew of Aleksender’s
stories, his hopes, his dreams and his greatest fears. And now, damn
him
, Christophe was leading Aleksender on a journey.

Alas, hand it to
his dear friend to send him on a scavenger hunt—and in the midst of a civil war
nonetheless.

•

A young whore was stationed
outside Bête Noire’s entrance. Face bowed down in shame, an abundance of curls
cascaded over her body and hid her features like some secretive curtain. The
ill fitted bodice drooped from dangerously slim shoulders in harsh and
irregular folds, flaunting her deprivation rather than sensuality. Judging by
the gawkish shape of her figure, she was clearly not a day over sixteen.
Aleksender felt the compelling desire to sweep away those curls, look into eyes
that were undoubtedly filled with sorrow, and reassure her that everything
would be all right. Instead, he hustled past the pitiful creature without a
second glance.

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.”