The Frost of Springtime Read Online Free Page A

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