Sofia felt her chest sink. Worry was cleanly etched in Sister Catherine’s brow. “Sister Catherine? What is it? What is wrong?”
“His heart must have broken when he learned of his father’s passing.”
Sofia nodded as she watched the last embers disintegrate into ashes. “I can only imagine his pain,” she whispered, mind elsewhere. “Losing someone you love is one of life’s greatest tragedies.”
Sister Catherine cleared her throat, rose to her feet and smoothed down the hem of her skirts. With a soft smile, she reached out and cradled Sofia’s cheek in her palm. “You’re truly a dear girl, Sofia. And there’s something magical between you and your Aleksender. Something remarkable. Something I can’t quite place my finger on.” She sighed, shoulders arching into a defeated shrug. “Heaven knows—I have tried.”
And, without another word, Sister Catherine departed from the room and left Sofia alone with her thoughts.
•
The morning air was crisp and cool, seasoned by the bittersweet blooms of the coming springtime. From the premature flower buds, up to the noisy nest of sparrows that was cradled upon a tree’s bough, the world whispered of birth and new beginnings. Golden rays oozed between shuddering branches, while shafts of light illuminated their dew-covered leafs. A sea of tall grass swayed in the wind’s breath, moving to and fro, lolling like the ocean’s tide.
Aleksender surveyed his home as he acquainted himself with the second Parisian morning since his return from the war.
Quiet and tranquil, the veranda was a peaceful sanctuary, far from the city’s chaos and disorder. Perched upon a slope, it overlooked the lush and endless gardens that had belonged to the de Lefèvre family for hundreds of years.
Aleksender’s thoughts drew ice-cold as he recalled the blood and tears of war. Shattering screams haunted the darkest caverns of his mind … the screams of death and despair. Those cries had changed him forever. As both a person and citizen of Paris, he would never again be the same man. Out on that battlefield, and along with his father’s uncalled death, he’d sacrificed a critical part of his soul. Aleksender’s hands were clean, true, but his heart was longtime stained.
Then there was that dark and silent corner of his consciousness, that mysterious, faded moment during his boyhood, a moment that had altered him ever since—a moment that his mind had completely washed away.
Just what was that moment? It was always lodged inside his thoughts like a raw canker sore, irritating and inescapable, reminding him of the emptiness. And only Sofia soothed away the pain.
Aleksender was jolted from his distressed thoughts as Elise, the pretty servant girl, shyly approached him. At only fifteen years, she’d proven herself as one of the chateau’s finest caretakers. Aleksender paid her a rather hefty salary—perhaps, one that was a bit too generous—well aware that she was nursing her bedridden mother during her “leisure time.” As expected, golden curls were fastened in a customary bun like an old spinster might wear—yet her eyes were wide and brimming with innocence.
“Monsieur le Vicomte shall be arriving quite soon.”
Successfully departing from the family nest, his little brother had purchased an estate off the outskirts of Loire Valley months before the war. Aleksender envied his freedom greatly. He was bound to Chateau de Lefèvre by his inheritance. And without the warmth of his father, the halls felt colder, vaster and infinitely more empty.
Elise set down a brunch tray that was near to overflowing. Red wine and a plethora of elegant treats were laid out beautifully, presenting a feast for a king. Aleksender glared down at the food and swallowed his gut. He had no appetite.
“Yes, Elise,” he murmured, “that should do just fine.”
Elise reached inside her starch white apron and withdrew several newspapers: Le Figaro, La Gazette, and several publications of Le Père Duchêne were arranged in front of Aleksender, ordered by date.
“Shall you be requiring anything else, monsieur?”
“No, no,” he said, throwing a nonchalant wave in her general direction. “You are dismissed.” Before departing to the side, Elise curtsied, blushed once more, and straightened out the conservative material of her uniform. For reasons she couldn’t begin to comprehend, she refused to meet his gaze.
Aleksender’s eyes ran across the blackened words that jumped out at him. His heartbeat quickened as he thumbed through the various newspaper headlines:
Vive la Commune! Citizens fight for a free and social republic
Latest decree of the Commune: any and all places that favor gambling and prostitution shall immediately be closed down and rendered illegal
AFTER THE SIEGE
Reclaiming liberty beneath the Commune’s red flag
Mind spinning with the ferocity of a toy top, Aleksender flipped through the most recent edition of Le Père Duchêne. His fingers were numb, unusually stiff. Blood rushed into his ears as he stared down at a remarkably familiar caricature.
Parade of the pretenders was centered above a single-file line of six rather absurd looking characters. Prime Minister Thiers headed them at the front, a stupid grin plastered to an even stupider face. Comte de Chambord was squatted at the farthest end and depicted as nothing more than a ball of shriveled flesh. Then came several notable monarchists: Marquees Boury, Baron Rieu and Le Pere Bandigue. But it was the soldier standing directly before Adolphe Thiers who defined the caricature. Muscled arms were crossed over a puffed out chest, an arrogant nose pointing straight to the heavens. And Comte de Paris? was inscribed just below his heels.
Aleksender scraped the picture aside with a sharp intake of air. A stinging fear crept into his bones. The newsprint might as well been written in blood. And he could already feel the guillotine’s crisp blade slicing through his neck. It would be the Reign of Terror all over again. He stretched against the chair with a groan and downed a generous swig of red wine.
Aleksender couldn’t say how much time passed before the playful voice interrupted his concentration: “Frère ainé! You look positively terrible!”
“Richard.”
“Monsieur le Comte,” Aleksender’s brother greeted with a small grin.
Richard de Lefèvre really was a spitting image of their father. The resemblance was a difficult thing for Aleksender to stomach. Much like the late comte, Richard was tall with a gentle attraction and kind eyes. A pale mustache peppered his upper lip, awarding him a distinguished and noble presence.
Aleksender came to his feet and outstretched a weathered hand.
“Really—a handshake, Alek? Such formality!” Richard reeled Aleksender into an embrace and patted his shoulder with rough affection. “I see war has stifled you.” He stood away and nodded, examining Aleksender from head to toe. “Good to have you returned to us.”
The two brothers claimed parallel seats. For several minutes, they engaged themselves in harmless conversation, reminiscing on memories of their father, observing each other with an unmistakable and nostalgic fondness. Elise came forth and placed a brunch tray in front of Richard, filling his glass with red wine. Then she eased back into the shadows, granting Aleksender and Richard privacy.
The tender moment passed by too soon. There was no time for sentiment. Paris had lost that luxury long ago. Richard cleared his throat and gestured to the collection of newspapers. “Conditions in Paris are unfortunate. Worse now than they’ve ever been.”
“This commune—”
“Is expanding as we speak,” Richard finished in a pained tone. “Expanding in both size and power. At present, the group is rather unorganized—spread throughout the city. But they are steadily gaining influence. I estimate a matter of weeks before they have all of Paris eating from their palms.”
“And their demands?”
“Ah, mostly fancy ideas and radical reforms. The majority of these so-called Communards do seem harmless enough … even good-natured. But you mustn’t be fooled. Many are turning to violence. See, they’re in the process of trying to pass
a law that requires every person between nineteen and thirty-five years to join the National Guard.” Richard suggestively arched a brow, signaling himself. “Present company included.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I shall try not to take offense to that.” Between a heavy sigh and exhaled breath, Richard went on to say, “My advice? Remain on exceedingly pleasant terms with Prime Minister Thiers. The wretch has no conscience and full control of the military. He’d wipe away the Communards without second thought. A hundred or so already have been killed.”
“They are really so troublesome? Troublesome enough for Thiers to risk further revolt?”
“Well,” Richard began, chuckling beneath his breath, “the Commune damn well drove him from Paris.”
Aleksender’s mind felt ambushed. He gave a sharp nod as he struggled to absorb the startling information. “I understand the military is stationed in Versailles now.”
“Indeed. They’ve been relocated to Chateau de Versailles.” Richard pressed the glass to his lips and downed a mouthful of wine. Then he dug a hand into his pocket and withdrew a case of cigars. He absently toyed with the tortoiseshell casing as he spoke. “The Communards have already taken Baron Rieu and Marquis de Boury into custody. And just this week they threatened to kidnap the archbishop … or whomever might be of value. Poor fellow would be a ‘hostage of the Parisian people.’ Or so they passionately say. Look here—” Richard fetched one of the newspapers and directed Aleksender’s attention to a particular passage:
The government of Versailles tramples the rights of humanity. All persons accused of complicity with the government shall be decreed accused and imprisoned. All the accused shall be hostages of the people of Paris. For every death of a prisoner of war, or a partisan of the Commune, the execution of three hostages shall follow.
Aleksender stared forward, mute and motionless. For the life of him he couldn’t find his voice. Richard lit a cigar and slipped it between the seam of his lips, inhaling a long and tasty drag. He exhaled the pasty cloud of smoke and lazily crossed a leg knee-high.
“After our surrender, Paris lives in a state of constant fear. Fear of poverty. Fear of the monarchy resurrecting and seizing all control. Fear of losing all liberty. Fear of another revolution … of Prussia invading our homes and streets once more.” Tense silence hung in the air. “Dark times such as these call for a certain measure of diplomacy, so to speak. You ought to make haste to Versailles. I’ve no doubt you would win Thiers’s favor.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve no desire to meet with him.”
“Even so, at least you would be safe—”
“I’ve even less of a desire to run away.”
“Then you are making a deadly mistake.”
Aleksender scoffed in disgust and shoved a handful of fingers through his hairline. “What would you have me do? Flee to the palace like a damn mongrel, tail tucked beneath my legs? I’ve already surrendered once,” Aleksender spat, referring to the shameful defeat in Sedan—the battle that had inevitably earned Prussia its overwhelming victory. “Mark my words. I refuse to do so again.”
“Then your arrogance shall be your downfall.” Richard hesitated. “Look at me, Aleksender.” Unblinking and unmoving, he leaned forward and locked Aleksender’s gaze. “I am asking as your brother, as someone who cares for you deeply. Whether you wish to admit it or not, you’re a sure pawn for these men. You’ve held the title less than a month. They shall expect your protection.” Richard hesitated, lowering his tone to a careful whisper. “And Father would have never denied them such a thing. You know this better than myself.” Victim to an ominous undercurrent, his voice held a slight tremble. Richard’s hands shook as he fisted the tablecloth between strong fingers. “Lives are being threatened. Go to Versailles.” His next words were recited with the gravity of a death sentence. “If not, you could be named next.”
The meaning was explicit. A fierce chill overcame Aleksender.
“I’ll say nothing more on the matter.” Richard heaved a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Stay here in Paris if you please. Lord knows—this wretched town could use some tender care. Just this afternoon I saw a child’s corpse laying in the gutter, thin as bones.” Aleksender said nothing, at a total loss for words. “I do hope you come to your senses. In the end, it’s your choice and yours alone. I only pray you choose wisely.”
“Damnable. Year of war, now this.” Then, beneath a hushed breath, “This comes as no surprise.”
Richard’s eyes ignited. His voice contained a triumphant edge, almost infantile in its glee. “Ah, but you are no longer so inferior nor unarmed. Can’t you see? You have the power to restore us. You can clean our streets, regain our people’s trust. As comte—”
“And you are beginning to sound as mad and delusional as Christophe,” Aleksender scoffed, waving him off. Richard’s sudden rush of excitement did nothing for his amusement. Even so—according to this Commune, his “loyal people” desired his head on a pike. Certainly not his guidance or interference.
“Well, I must thank you, then. I’ve always fancied Monsieur Cleef. A fine gentleman and soldier, if I may say so.”
“Well. I advise that you not get too attached,” Aleksender dryly said. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his strong limbs with a feline’s grace. “Between his outrageous schemes and wagging tongue, the fool is bound to get himself killed. Perhaps worse.”
“Yes. Though, his intentions are as honest as they come.” Aleksender gave a look. Richard shrugged, defeated. “I suppose his methods are a bit … err, unorthodox.”
“To put it mildly.”
“Good to see you haven’t abandoned that terrible sense of humor of yours. Paris would have been quite lost without it.”
Aleksender betrayed himself and surrendered to a small chuckle.
A considerable silence pressed between the two of them.
“How is Elizabeth faring?”
“Cannot say. Like anything else, I suppose time shall tell.”
Richard nodded, cleared his throat, and glanced down. “A lovely creature.”
Aleksender paused for a moment, absorbing any possible sentiment of Richard’s words.
A breeze stirred, catching the de Lefèvre brothers by surprise. Aleksender watched as the trees swayed back and forth, manipulated by nature’s gentler element.
“I should have been at his deathbed.” Aleksender’s voice was detached and heavy with emotion.
“Father never questioned your love.” Richard shook his head and sighed whole-heartedly. “You are an honorable man.”
“On and off the front lines, I’m quite finished being noble. Or honorable.”
“Ah, come, come—”
“I am done. Finished. Finis.”
“Oh, are you now?” Richard shifted his body weight to one side and studied Aleksender with an unwavering stare. “And what, pray, do you plan to make of yourself? Please—humor me.”
“Sail away, I suppose,” Aleksender said with a small and rather harmless shrug. “I understand America is quite pleasant this time of year.”
Richard remained quiet.
“The title is yours, Richard. I am through.”
The world stood still. Richard’s eyes darkened as he met Aleksender’s unblinking stare. Aleksender didn’t recognize his brother’s voice when he spoke. The tone was deadly and ominous, its timbre equipped with a venomous edge.
“Not another word of that. You hear?”
Aleksender looked away—a harmless gesture that only seemed to infuriate his brother further. “Come now, Richard. It is not so uncommon … a younger heir claiming the family name. And besides—nobility is dead. The title is an item of vanity. Nothing else.”
“Need I remind you—our situation is far from common.”
“What of our situation? No one needs to know anything. Let it be put to rest with Father.”
Tension filled the air in the following silence.
Aleksender could see it. Ric
hard was on the verge of losing himself. Even worse, he was on the verge of losing his pride. And, if nothing else, Richard de Lefèvre was a man of dignified pride and nobility.
“You are a fool. A damn fool to even think I’d put the sanctity of our name at risk—and for your self-righteousness, nonetheless! A fool to think I would risk so much at a time like this! In Father’s name, I shall not spit on France’s dignity!”
In an even and sinfully smooth tone, Aleksender retorted, “I assure you, her dignity is in far greater peril with me as comte.”
“Can you truly think of no one but yourself? Father would turn in his very grave.”
“I daresay he is turning as we speak,” Aleksender snapped in quick reply, “and, need I remind you, he is your father as much as my own.”
“Not a day passes by that I don’t wish that were true.” Richard massaged his forehead, nursing a migraine. A pang of guilt swelled Aleksender as he witnessed his brother’s personal demons materialize.
“Why the need to condemn me to your misery?” Richard’s fingertips joined together in the form of a steeple. Shudders raking low in his chest, he convulsed, skittering on the edge of something terrible. “Up for opening all wounds, eh?”
“Richard, I never—”
And then for the first time in over twenty-six years, Paris’s Vicomte abandoned his composure.
Richard balled his hands into fists and punched the charming breakfast table with a violent degree of energy. The luxurious tray of food flew to the ground and spilled in a royal mess. Unmovable as stone, Aleksender neither blinked nor stirred a limb.
“Insolent, selfish fool! You are a damn fool—a damn fool and nothing more!”
Cued by the grand crash, Elise rushed over and bent at Richard’s heels. She dabbed at the red wine, which looked remarkably like blood, and proceeded to collect the shattered stemware.
“Fool! A year of war does not save Father any more than it makes me a legitimate heir.” Richard looked down and took notice of Elise’s presence. Not the least bit pleased, he jumped to his feet and towered over the poor child. “Stupid chit. How dare you eavesdrop? You ought to be thrashed from the inside out!”
The Frost of Springtime Page 5