The Frost of Springtime Read Online Free Page B

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