The Frost of Springtime (29 page)

Madam Bedeau paused
before continuing. She gestured at the parchment in Aleksender’s pocket. “He
was quite mad with grief.”

Aleksender
swallowed and nodded. “I imagine he was.”

“And
what audacity!
The fool threatened to close down Bête Noire … said
such a place was a mockery of the law. Mockery, indeed! From the looks of it, I
daresay he’s tumbled more whores than all my clientele put together.” Madam
Bedeau picked up her skirts and inched forward. With a graceful wave of her
hand, she signaled Aleksender to follow. “Well. That’s enough talk. Come along,
then, monsieur.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

May
24, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day Four

Beers in hand,
Christophe and Elliott sat side by side as they found a moment of refuge from
the war. They drained bottles and balanced cigars between their lips as a
comfortable silence hung in the air.

The catacombs, in all of its macabre and demented glory, weren’t nearly
as grim as the streets of Paris. The above ground had transformed into a
cemetery of awakened horrors, and it lay as a far darker realm.

Christophe surveyed the endless wall of gawking death heads with a monotonous
expression. Black and bottomless, those eye sockets were vats of dark secrets
and twisted terrors. As if challenging Christophe’s tolerance for death and
decay, each skull grinned wholeheartedly and without mirth.

Would
his own
head join these lonely souls by
the week’s end? The thought was disheartening and all too real. Despite his
facial disfigurement, Christophe rather liked his head.

He inhaled a swig of his cigar and drowned the smoke with a mouthful of
brandy. “Once we’re all dead and buried—whether we’re a pauper, prince or
whore,” Christophe said, gesturing at the skulls. “We all look the damn same.”

Elliott nodded in agreement. “Obscenely happy, I take it?”

Christophe surrendered to a small, rolling chuckle.
“Very
good.
I should like to drink to that.”

He stared into Elliott’s eyes as an unexpected pang of affection tugged
at his heartstrings. Apart from Aleksender, he’d never felt such compassion for
another. This protective instinct—this need to recompose the world for an
orphaned soul—must have been how Aleksender had felt all those nine years ago.
Alas—Sofia and Aleksender’s relationship had begun as no more than an impulse
and paternal need. For the first time, Christophe understood his comrade’s
affection for the little blue-eyed ballerina … and, for the first time, a chord
of guilt struck his conscience.

And now, like some sentimental fool, he was overcome with the
compelling need to remap Elliott’s destiny—to order him to take the first ship
out of this wretched land and sail away to America—to forget martyring himself,
forget the notion of becoming just another death’s-head upon a wall. To simply
live life, have painted whores by the dozens, and grow old to see the birth of
his grandchildren. Once the barricades fell, he and Elliott would be forgotten.
Their sacrifices would fade away with time, and their corpses would be brushed
off to the side like a bad joke.

Neither of them would be claimed by loved ones.

Indeed—they’d merely add another layer to the catacomb’s vast tunnel. They
would exist as two nameless, faceless casualties. His father had declared his
patriotism back in 1848, only to die drunk as a skunk while wrapped in the arms
of some decadent harlot. Christophe, in all of his brandy guzzling and wenching
glory, was destined to follow in his father’s footfall.

He ached to steer Elliott away from this doomed fate. Instead,
Christophe heard himself murmur, “This week may very well be our last.”

Elliott nodded and tapped his bottle against Christophe’s. “Then I
shall count myself blessed to die at your side.”

•

Persistent knocking filled Chateau de Lefèvre in the mid-afternoon.
Appearing pristine and righted, the first footman
thrust open
the massive double doors. In the same breath, Elizabeth soared down the winding
stairwell, a silk shawl clasped about her shoulders. Its airy material flowed
behind her, fluttering with the delicacy of wings.

“Is it him? Is it truly Aleksender?”

“No, madame—it’s not he.” The first footman stepped aside and allowed
Paris’s vicomte to enter. Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the sight of Richard. She
flew down the remaining steps at record time and soared within his reach.

“Richard! You came!” she cried, looping both arms around his neck
without thought. “Oh, thank the lord you are here!” A dashing smile formed on
his lips. He returned Elizabeth’s embrace and held her close for several
moments.

Elizabeth hesitantly stepped backward and glanced into his eyes.
Richard tucked a loose curl behind her ear as their gazes tentatively came
together.

“How have things been?” she asked with a slight tremble.
“Very awful?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so,” he said. “But you are safe. That’s what matters
most.” The shawl sagged from Elizabeth’s shoulder and nearly slipped to the
floor. Richard massaged her bare flesh, rubbing life into her skin. “You’ve
nothing to worry about. I shall stay with you till the end.”

Elizabeth
nodded,
a small smile at her lips.

“But it is urgent that I speak with Aleksender.” Richard turned to the
first footman. “Call him down for me at once—”

“No—he is gone,” Elizabeth interrupted.

Richard twisted in the direction of her voice. “What? What do you mean
he is gone?”

Elizabeth nodded at the first footman, subtly dismissing him from the
room. “Something happened.
Something terrible.”

Richard’s entire demeanor darkened as he humorlessly chuckled at her
words. “You speak of terrible? Madame, have you even read Thiers’s latest
statement?”

Elizabeth shook her head, flushed at the cheeks and a bit shamed.
Richard fished a folded newspaper from inside his coat. “It was posted several
mornings ago.” He flattened out
Le Figaro’s
pages and read
aloud. ““Citizens of Paris: The government wished that you might free
yourselves independently of the tyrants who scoff at your liberty and life.
Since you cannot, it has become our task. We are an army that has come not to
conquer but to set you free. You outnumber the Commune sectarians. Regroup.
Open the doors that they have shut on law and order. Should you not, the
government will be forced to take the swiftest and surest means available to
set you free.’”

Elizabeth snatched the paper from his hands, her own trembling, eyes
frantically scanning over the print. “Lord. This is worse than I ever
imagined.”

“Tell me. Where is he? Where has Aleksender gone off to?”

Elizabeth lowered the paper. “He wasn’t exactly sure.
To meet Christophe Cleef.
At the cafe, I believe—”

“God in heaven!
Has Aleksender
lost his damn mind? Falling straight into his trap?”

“I don’t understand?”

“I shall have you know that his dear comrade is heading the revolt. The
Commune will kill him, I tell you—just as they killed three others in the
dungeons only days ago.”

“No! You are wrong. You know Christophe! He and Aleksender—they are
close to brothers!”

Those words wounded Richard far more than he dared admit. Of course,
he’d known them to be true for some time—he and Aleksender were as opposite as
day and night. But to hear them spoken aloud was a rude awakening. It shook him
to the very core. He wandered farther into the foyer and leaned up against the
banister. His head fell forward in a rush of pain. Massaging his temples and
speaking more to himself, he rambled, “I’ll never understand him. Weeks ago, I
tried to open his eyes. Why now? Aleksender has never shown the slightest
interest in Paris. Why? Why the sudden change of heart?”

A long silence passed. “The woman he loves has been taken. By
Christophe, I believe.”

Richard stared off, his mind visibly turning. “Then he is helpless.”

“Please, you mustn’t be angry with him. He had no choice.”

“There is always a choice. I am growing quite tired of his excuses. And
how can you defend him after all the heartache he has caused you?”

“You speak of heartache?” she teased, mimicking Richard’s tone of
several minutes ago.

As if working out some great mystery, Richard shook his head and inched
toward Elizabeth. “There is just something about you so remarkable.” Two
fingertips wound about her chin. He deftly lifted her face and brought their
gazes together. “Yes. There’s something about you I can’t quite place my finger
on … something I wish my brother could see.”

They were mere inches apart. Elizabeth’s heart fluttered, skipping
several beats.

“Richard.” She gave a weak smile and curled her fingers around his
forearm, directing him to follow. “Come with me.
Come,
and I shall explain everything.”

•

Sofia nibbled at a stale loaf of bread. Her gut ached with pains that
had nothing to do with hunger. The morsel scratched at her throat and clawed like
nails as she swallowed. Bile seared her insides. Forcing herself to eat was
utterly useless. She’d already tried with little success. A chain of painful,
dry heaves had overcome her the last time. She cringed at the
recollection—tasting the acidic flavor all over again. Hours later, remnants of
vomit still soured the air.

She laid her meal aside, inhaled a deep breath, and adjusted her leg
with a groan. Metallic clinking echoed across the Commune’s base as she wiggled
her ankle, urging circulation back into her foot. To her relief, the cramp
slowly faded into a dull ache.

A day ago—had it only been a day?—Christophe had traded the two chains
for one ankle cuff, granting her the slightest cut of freedom. The chain was an
impressive twenty pounds and a good twenty-five feet in length. She’d been
quite content at first, cherishing her new mobility and immediately plotting
some elaborate form of escape. Perhaps, she would seduce Christophe—play him
for the fool he was and steal the key from his trousers. Or, should she be
fortunate enough to come in reach of a rock, she could smash her way to
freedom. How about one of the men’s swords or daggers? Surely it could bust
through the metal?

After dragging the dreaded chain for an hour the burn had begun to sink
in. Her foot had grown numb. And, a moment later, it seemed to absorb every
prickle of pain known to mankind. The realization was terrifying; what if she
lost all feeling in her foot? What if it had to be amputated? What if she lost
the ability to dance forever?

Approaching footfall resounded and clipped her thoughts short. Sofia
tensed and eased against the wall. She winced as the rugged stone grated her
flesh. The footsteps grew louder, closer. Could it be her Alek? Had he come to
rescue her?

But it was Christophe who appeared, weary and stained with blood.

Dieu.
Had he been shot?

“Sorry to disappoint you—but no, chérie, I have not been shot. You must
be terribly devastated.”

It was too strange for Sofia to wrap her mind around. Christophe
consistently joined her during his lowest moments. Before she could further
ponder the meaning of his calculated visits, he interrupted. “You would barely
recognize Paris. One glance and your poor little Christian heart would freeze
over.”

Christophe dug a hand beneath the neckline of his shirt and withdrew a
pair of dog tags. Transfixed and hypnotized, he dangled them midair and willed
them to dance. They glimmered beneath the sconce lanterns, spinning in
free-fall, tossing shards of light along the walls. Studying the lettering, he
rotated a token between his thumb and forefinger:

ALEKSENDER
R. DE LEFÈVRE

38097645

PARIS,
FRANCE

After a moment, he dropped Aleksender’s dog tag and clasped his own in
a tight fist.

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.