The Frost of Springtime (3 page)

The bronze military decoration glittered like a beacon, reminding
Christophe that France had not suffered true defeat. No—there was still much to
be won. And he’d never been one to stand idly by.

Distant chatter filled the alleyway and anchored his attention. He
trailed after the faint rolling of drums and muffled voices—drawing closer to
the sounds, closer …

Soon the melodies climaxed and blossomed into a brilliant crescendo.
Just as quickly silence took hold. Only the repetitive clicking of his boots
shattered the quiet. Christophe veered down one of the sharp corners and eased
into the long, dank alleyway.

A rather impressive and unexpected sight greeted him. Christophe laid
down his belongings, knotted both arms across his chest, and observed the
action with a rekindled patriotism inside his heart.

Several rows of uniformed men stood single-file, bodies erect and
rifles propped over their shoulders. All eyes were staring forward and fixed on
the Captain of the Guard. Representing everything that a good captain should
be, the figure was stationed front and center, hands tucked behind his dark
coat. Almost comically, a coal-black mustache twitched in time with each of his
words.
“Citizens of Paris!
Our National Guard has
become a federation—a federation that challenges a government that has betrayed
us!”

A chorus of hoots and applause sounded out. Christophe felt his pulse
quicken in anticipation. He leaned in closer so as not to miss a word. “Prime
Minister Thiers violates our rights! We must unite against this tyranny and
exploitation. Long live brotherhood and solidarity!”

Christophe collected his belongings from the pavement and headed back
to the boulevard. With each step, the cheers dissolved into an empty and sullen
silence. And yet, inside his mind, the message remained loud and clear.

•

Pacing back and forth, Aleksender waited as his comrade sated his
curiosity. He felt himself grow increasingly impatient and uneasy. A mounting
detachment was steadily forming between him and what was left of his home. Not
for the first time, his eyes ran across a placard that was tacked onto the shop’s
door:

French Republic

Liberty—equality—fraternity

The Commune de Paris decrees all citizens

as
a part of the
National Guard.

Aleksender scoffed at Paris’s insolence and stupidity. It was as though
the people longed to suffer. There could be no other explanation for this
foolish burst of patriotism.

The war had come and gone, leaving a window of opportunity for the city
to rise from its ashes. But no—the people were far too proud to accept defeat.

Wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Christophe came into
step beside Aleksender. “I believe that’s twenty francs to you, ol’ friend.” He
paused, allowing Aleksender a moment to recall their latest wager: whether
horrors of the battlefield were preferable to the horrors of polite society.
And then that smile successfully reached his eyes—as if he’d convinced himself
of his own blatant lie. “It’s a fine thing to be home.”

Christophe inhaled the musky sea air and curiously looked about. “Yes,”
he repeated with a new confidence, “it is quite good to be home again. A little
time and care and she’ll be good as new.” He and Aleksender crossed the street,
mindful of the omnibuses and horse-drawn carriages rolling by. “Am I right, ami?”

“One would have hoped,” Aleksender muttered beneath a stale drawl. He
passed a hand over his hair in a slick motion—an overused habit that often
marked his distress. “But even a blind man can see the truth. This is the
beginning of the end.
Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Is that right? That how you see it?”

Christophe froze in the middle of the street. People momentarily
stopped whatever they were doing and watched the veterans with blank
expressions and sideways glances.

An omnibus screamed to a halt, nearly running Aleksender and Christophe
into the ground. “Take care, messieurs!” the driver hollered from his spot on
the wooden bench. And then he coaxed the two geldings into a steady gait and
moved on with his day; the clapping of hooves against pavement resounded once
more. With a detached awareness, Aleksender’s gaze followed the large block
lettering that rimmed the vehicle’s upper floor:
RUE DE LA PAIX.

Christophe slammed his satchel onto the ground and glared at Aleksender
with bitterly cold eyes. Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence,
quiet as the grave.

“I may pity you more than I pity Paris.” Without sparing another word,
Christophe collected his satchel from the pavement, whistled down the omnibus,
and climbed onto its platform. Aleksender shook his face and joined Christophe
with a dejected sigh.

The vehicle harshly lurched into motion. Aleksender and Christophe
leaned against the railing, exhausted and spent, chassepot rifles dangling from
their shoulders.

•

Established along the Right Bank of the River Seine, Cafe Roux was a
true diamond in the rough. By day, it was a charming and quaint restaurant
located conveniently on Rue de le Paix—one of Paris’s most fashionable
boulevards. It stood as a bit of a sanctuary, offering the leisurely ways of
the easy life: relaxing for hours on end, catching up on the latest scandals,
all while watching the world pass by.

By night, however, the cafe transformed into a
watering hole for gentlemen of all pedigrees.
It attracted the
upper class, the lower class, and those sorry wretches who were squandered
somewhere between the two worlds. Due to its close proximity to the
up-and-coming Opera Garnier—and the fact it had been designed by none other
than Charles Garnier himself—Cafe Roux had earned its reputation as a unique
and revered attraction. Within its walls, it was not so uncommon for a pauper
to rub shoulders with a prince.

The little dwelling was a wonderful kingdom of idiosyncrasies. The
selection of ladies was always most satisfying while the brandies never
disappointed. Even well past the wee hours of morning, it remained a rather
risqué drinking bar and wenching ground. While it was far from the finest of
bars, from nine PM to eight AM, Cafe Roux offered a nice escape from the
clutches of one’s mistress or madame.

It was within this decadent time frame that Aleksender and Christophe
paced inside. Aleksender studied Christophe as his friend’s roguish nature took
hold. Welcoming the crude atmosphere and stale scents with an open heart,
Christophe’s grin grew lopsided, steps eager, and tongue heavy with wit.

Arms crossed over his chest, Christophe scanned the room from wall to
wall. The place was a damn madhouse. “Dawn has yet to break and the better half
of Paris is already drunk out of their wits? Fine thing to see nothin’ has
changed in the least.”

A heated game of commerce occupied the cafe’s sole card table. Rowdy
jeers and handfuls of sous were traded amongst the men. Reckless wages
overlapped in a flurry of excitement, each battling to be heard. Cigar smoke
obscured the air in collective white clouds. Seductive barmaids served drinks
to loyal patrons, not minding the obscene fondling of their backsides. Between
the cinched bodices and wicked smiles, they beamed with the charms of a good
whore. And it had been ages since either Christophe or Aleksender had reaped
the pleasures of a good whore.

The two veterans seated themselves before Cafe Roux’s endless counter.

At once, a strong sense of not belonging overcame Aleksender. Finding
no comfort, he settled into the stool and fished a wedding band from his
trousers. The trinket was caked with grime and severely tarnished. Christophe
scoffed, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“Mmm. Speak of the devil. I see you haven’t changed so much yourself.
You might’ve forgotten Elizabeth entirely.”

Offering no words of denial, Aleksender rubbed the golden band against
his cuff till it came to life with a weak sparkle. “Ah, come now. What in God’s
teeth are you doin’ here with me?” Christophe roared a humorless laugh and
shook his face. “For all I know, this wretched pisshole is the closest thing I
got to a home. You, on the other hand—you have a warm bed awaitin’ your return,
a pretty wife to properly tumble.” A tense silence passed between Aleksender
and Christophe. “Eh, I suppose I could do the job for you?”

Aleksender slid the ring onto his wedding finger, movements lethargic
and lifeless, a withheld sigh caught in his chest. “It’s not so simple.”

Christophe laughed once more, this time feigning no humor. “That’s
Paris’s ol’ vicomte for you. Takes a blessin’ and shoves it up the ass.”

Indeed, Aleksender de Lefèvre was none other than Paris’s vicomte. And
the very thought disturbed him greatly and to no end. He had no interest in handling
the mundane affairs bestowed upon a
comte—
affairs that
had become steadily more mundane over the last decades. Despite the abolishment
of aristocratic rights, an unspoken hierarchy still existed. The prerogative of
the nobility was as strong as ever, forging a social barrier between titled
peers, common citizens, and the bourgeoisie class. And that insufferable gap
that separated rich from the poor, fortunate from the unfortunate—was widening
with each season.

Devil take
it. Aleksender
wanted no part in the fate of Paris. He only prayed that his dear father might
live to see one-thousand years. Since boyhood, he and his father had been
impossibly close. His death would have imparted far more than the curse of a
noble title. The death of Comte Philippe de Lefèvre would have devastated
Aleksender beyond reason.

Christophe
slumped
both shoulders in defeat
and drew a beaten case of cigars from his coat. Aleksender waved a declining
gesture as he was offered a smoke. Nine years ago, he’d quit the habit.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. No cigars for dear Alek. Slipped my mind, I
suppose …” After an uneasy silence, Christophe balled his fist and slammed it
on the countertop. Aleksender tensed at the sound, startled by the jarring
crack of flesh against wood. “Holy hell, what damned horrific service this is.”

Cafe Roux’s round-faced-jolly-bartender buzzed about, pouring drinks
this way and that, his bloated face grinning wide. The prospect of wealth kept
his attention at bay as tips were passed into his pudgy hands by the dozens.
Tossing a wave in the wretch’s general direction, Christophe scoffed and
gestured the aloof bartender. “Correct me if I’m mistaken … but the fool once
knew our preference of drink, oui?”

How many nights had Aleksender and Christophe spent in this very
establishment, listening to Round-face-jolly-bartender’s outlandish
conspiracies—both of their faces plastered with feigned amazement?

A particular rambling came to Aleksender’s mind: “I tell you, the
Revolution was a ploy!” Purely for dramatic emphasis,
Round-face-jolly-bartender had tossed a dishrag over his shoulder, propped both
hands on the counter, and leaned in close. White whiskers sprouting from his
jowls twitched along with the words. In the same breath, his English accent
thickened to the point of incoherency. “A ploy to overthrow the crown and
church, it was. Good riddance I say to the crown. But as for the church—ah, our
Lord and savior ain’t so easily duped like them knaves.”

Shrugging his sturdy shoulders, Aleksender offered Christophe no direct
comment. The tone of his voice was thick and hauntingly composed—much like the
calm before a storm. “It is not so great a mystery. A year of war tends to have
that retrograde effect. No good comes of it.”

“Ha! Imagine that—we bled our souls for these, uh, broken fellows,
womanizers, wretches … and yet, here I sit dry as a bone! Where’s the good ol’
show of patriotic hospitality, eh?”

“Still blind are you?” Aleksender shot in quick reply. “Paris could not
care less. Our sacrifice was moot. The war has not ended. It has merely
followed us home.”

Christophe heaved a sigh and stroked the curve of his chin. “Splendid.
There’s a bit of irony for you.”

Two glasses were finally passed down the counter and into their hands.
Christophe raised his drink to Round-face-jolly-bartender in a mock toast.

Inhaling a generous swig of alcohol, Aleksender closed the topic. “I
daresay irony at its finest.”

Minutes later Christophe finished off his drink in a single swallow.
“Alek, Alek, Alek …” he said through a constricted chuckle, already more than a
bit tipsy. He draped a muscular arm over his friend’s shoulder and clenched the
cigar between barred teeth. The faint and fair mustache dusting his upper lip
strained in triumph. “I must say, you’re quite likely to be the Third Empire’s
downfall. Either that or the Third Empire shall be your downfall.”