The Frost of Springtime (34 page)

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
right 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.

Willing her hands not to shake, she arranged the items across the
nightstand. The doctors nodded their gratitude and softly conversed amongst
themselves. Sister Catherine held the candlestick over them as they
collectivity labored. Aleksender’s dress shirt was unclasped from throat to
stomach, exposing his seething wound. The flame quivered, shaking in time with
Sister Catherine’s movements.

Sinking in and out of consciousness, Sofia groaned from her spot on the
floor. Sister Catherine knelt at her side and dabbed her brow with a wet cloth,
washing away the dirt and grime. The sight of Sofia’s battered appearance was
difficult to endure. “Shh, petit, relax. You are in good care.”

“Alek?”
Sofia strained,
attempting to lift her head from the blanket. “Is he all right? Where—”

“He is here with you,” Sister Catherine consoled. She gently pressed on
Sofia’s chest, coaxing her back into a reclined position. “You mustn’t exert
yourself, my dear, brave girl.” Brushing away a swarm of curls, voice heavy
with emotion, “You, Sofia Rose, are the daughter I never could have.” Clearly
touched by those words, Sofia nodded and managed a weak smile.

“If I may see to her now,” the youngest doctor interrupted. As he came
to Sofia’s care, Sister Catherine nodded and rose from the floor. Nerves dancing,
she warily approached the bed. “Are the wounds fatal?” Her voice was little
more than a whisper.

“The girl shall be quite fine,” one of the men answered.

“And what of him?”
Sister Catherine
demanded, her skin turning impossibly paler. “What of le Comte?”

“He’s already lost a lot of blood and is suffering from not one but two
injuries.” The doctor mutely hung his face. The spectacles slid down his nose,
wired frame glittering in the candlelight. “I’m afraid that only daybreak shall
tell.” Aleksender’s dress shirt was completely stripped away. Sister
Catherine’s heart lunched, jarred by the sight of his scars. Where was the
mercy? It seemed that Aleksender had suffered far more than his own share of
original sin.

Her thoughts were cropped short. “You may want to look away, Sister.”

Pocketknife in hand, the doctor angled the blade, heating it with the
candle’s flame. “Some assistance, if you would, messieurs.”

The other men held Aleksender still as the point was lowered to the
chest wound. Alcohol was poured inside the marred flesh in a blistering
inferno. Probing for bullet fragments, the tip dug into the gaping hole …
raking … searching … scraping the raw and painfully tender skin. The wound
instantly gushed at contact, blossoming in a burst of scarlet. Executing
decades of medical knowledge, the doctor maneuvered the knife with precise and
graceful movements.

Aleksender trembled and cried out, teeth chattering with the audacity
of tin cymbals. The men increased the pressure of their holds and steadied his
flailing body. Unable to stomach his pain, Sister Catherine whispered a prayer
and fixed her gaze upon the dangling crucifix.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

A week after the
horrors of La Semaine Sanglante, the following announcement was published in
the
Époque
:

Only a week ago, power was seized from our provisional government. The
National Guard, recruited from the honorable men and women of Paris, had
replaced Thiers’s army of Versailles. A new day had finally dawned.

But the liberty had been short-lived.

On the twenty-first of May at two PM, over sixty thousand troops were
inside Paris by nightfall.

No one was spared from the brutal massacres. The barricades fell
quickly and the defenders were summarily executed. The dead littered our
streets and homes. Every crevice of Paris overflowed with corpses and dying
men, women, and children.

The killing continued for eight days and nights straight. Every
Parisian pavement was a battlefield and every home a fort. On the twenty-eighth
of May, the Communards were driven to a last stand at Père Lachaise cemetery
where they were executed against the ancient wall.

With heavy hearts, we include amongst
the deceased the
archbishop, le Comte de Paris, and his beloved and talented ward, Sofia Rose.

•

Sister Catherine arrived at Chateau de Lefèvre almost two months after
the announcement was posted. Dusk had broken fifteen minutes earlier, drenching
the horizon in various shades of orange and pink. The sun was swallowed up by
the skyline and the first stars had begun to creep into sight.

Sister Catherine smoothed a palm over the coarse material of her habit,
mentally confirming the note’s placement. Indeed—it was nestled safely against
her breast, just as it’d been for the past four and a half weeks. Nerves
dancing, she eased toward the enormous double-doors and collected the brass
lion head within her palm. The metal felt unbearably cool—as hard and as
relentless as steel. She tapped lion against wood, stepped backward, and waited
in mounting suspense.

Several moments passed without any sort of answer. Sister Catherine turned
away,
head hung in defeat, and began her descent. On
the third step she paralyzed in her tracks. The door thrust open with a
resounding creak. Flooded with relief, she turned on her heels and ascended the
steps once more.

Regarding her with a curious expression and arched brow, the first
footman returned her leveled gaze.
“Yes, Sister?
How
may I be of service?”

“Is the madame of the house able to receive company?”

His head sank into a curt nod as he stepped aside, welcoming Sister
Catherine across the threshold.
“Of course.
Just allow
me a moment to fetch her.”

“Please—take your time, monsieur. I’m in no rush.”

The chateau was as beautiful as she’d imagined it might be. Sister
Catherine felt infinitely small as she entered the foyer. Columns lined the
walls and swept at the domed ceiling. The de Lefèvre coat of arms was engraved
in the stonework more than four and a half dozen times.

With a courteous bow the first footman took his leave. Sister Catherine
idly wandered the length of the foyer, studying the countless hanging
portraits. One picture stole her breath.

The man was dressed in military garb. His hair was black as the night,
body strong, lips curved into a knowing grin. And those eyes—those emerald eyes
appeared jarringly alive, alert, wise and calculating. No matter where Sister
Catherine positioned herself, Aleksender’s gaze seemed to trace her every step.

“Sister Catherine? Is that really you?” Elizabeth’s voice jolted her
from her thoughts. Richard de Lefèvre stood mere inches behind, appearing proud
and wonderfully aristocratic. The sureness of his posture shouted authority and
commanded obedience. A small, secretive smile tugged at Sister Catherine’s
lips. His likeness to a nearby portrait of Comte Philippe de Lefèvre was
startling to behold.

Sister Catherine took a moment to observe Elizabeth and Richard’s
closeness—the way his hand rested upon the arch of her shoulder, his
protective, all-seeing stare—something not unlike his father’s portrait. After
a moment, she bowed her face and withdrew the folded parchment from inside her
habit.

Bewildered, Elizabeth’s hand froze midair. “I don’t understand?”

“He wanted to be sure you received it. Read it well.
The
both of you.”
Sister Catherine glanced from Elizabeth to Richard,
then
studied them together.

Elizabeth slid the parchment from Sister Catherine’s fingers and held
it against her breast. She nodded, tears swelling her almond eyes. “Thank you.
Thank you for everything.”

Wrinkles appeared at the corner of Sister Catherine’s eyes as she
surrendered to a faint smile. She reached for Elizabeth’s face and caressed her
cheek with a reassuring and gentle touch. “May happiness follow the both of
you.
Good luck.”

With a last glance, Sister Catherine was gone.

Hands trembling, Elizabeth unfolded the note and rotated in Richard’s
arms. She swallowed, willing herself not to shake. He steadied Elizabeth’s
hands with his palms and gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. I am here
with you.”

Elizabeth inclined her chin and smoothed down the parchment. Basking in
each other’s warmth, she and Richard read the familiar cursive.

Dearest Elizabeth,

No amount of words can undo the pain I’ve caused you over the past
years. But I am not a coward—and I refuse to become a mere casualty.

The first stirrings of daybreak have begun to pour through Sacred
Heart’s windows. I lay here shot but far from defeated. I am very much alive.
In rescuing Sofia I have rescued a part of myself. And in Christophe Cleef’s
death, a part of my soul has resurrected. If I survive this day—which I’m
confident that I shall—I have vowed to reinvent my destiny, to start anew, to
leave Paris.

As hollow as the words sound, as inferior as they appear scrawled upon
this scrap of paper, I care for you, Elizabeth. I have always cared for you,
and at times, I’d cared for you as much as I was capable of caring for anyone.
I know it is wrong to request anything of you, but I ask that you do likewise.

Do the same as myself. Free yourself and start a new life free from
binds. In a way, is this not the very message our martyrs bled for?

I have witnessed Richard’s affection for you throughout the years. He
can care for you in ways I cannot. He can love you fully, as you deserve to be
loved.

I shall write to you and Richard within the next few months. I trust
that Sister Catherine will ensure my words have reached you.

Always yours, Aleksender De Lefèvre