The Frost of Springtime Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.”
    Scowling, Aleksender shrugged Christophe from his shoulder. “The day
France falls will be no fault of mine. I have found my peace. Damn it to hell
France shall deny me my liberty.” He stared off, mysterious emotions crossing
his features by turns. “I have served her well.”
    “Eh, you serve only yourself. Always have, always will.”
    Aleksender drew silent as a dull ache tugged at his chest. That look— the disdain in his comrade’s eyes—would follow him
well beyond the grave. In endless ways, he and Christophe were as opposite as
day and night.
    Within that moment, a strange question rose inside Aleksender’s mind:
out of the two of them—he and Christophe—who was day and who was night?
    Interrupting his thoughts, Christophe rotated in the stool and moaned
an incoherent grumble. A lovely barmaid shimmied by, trotting to the opposite
side of the room, moving with the gait of a prized pony. Christophe called out
to the chit. He whistled and snapped his fingers, battling for her attention in
the rudest ways imaginable. It was certainly no way to win a lady.
    But the proud creature was no lady.
    “Suppose I should announce we’re in the light of the great vicomte, himself?”
Christophe complained, pouting like a young tot and mumbling his unhappiness.
“Surely I’d have another brandy by now.”
    The cynicism in his comrade’s voice did not go unheard. Aleksender
shoved his glass into Christophe’s hand, wishing he could impart his noble
title with just as much grace.

CHAPTER
TWO
    It was five minutes
till striking eight AM. Salle Le Peletier, the temporary quarters of the
renowned Paris Opera, appeared regal beneath the glowing sun.
    Once completed, it was rumored that Opera Garnier
would dwarf Salle Le Peletier with its massive scale, sophisticated lighting,
and sixteen hundred seats. Such mutterings
seemed to be remnants of wishful thinking and nothing more. The opera house’s
construction had been called to a halt ever since Paris had been under siege,
and the city’s condition was far from improving. Even well before the invasion,
Opera Garnier’s progress had been painfully slow. One setback had been
encountered after another.
    As it happened, the opera house had required a much deeper basement
than most buildings. As architects and laborers had cut into the earth and
gutted the land, the groundwater level was reported suspiciously high.
    This first obstacle had led to the discovery of the vast underground
lake. Paris’s catacombs and underground waterway were found to be intimately
connected through twisting tunnels, sweeping archways and haunted sepulchers.
Grounded upon death and decay, it seemed that the fate of Opera Garnier had
been doomed from the start.
    But nearly a decade had passed since the discovery, and the new opera
house was on the brink of completion. As it stood, Opera Garnier was already
enchanting. Perched amongst the three domes and solitary pediment, the lyre of
Apollo was held high and proud as it kissed the heavens, sunlight seeping
through the instrument’s precious strings of gold. And, on the clearest of
days, the towering stone walls resembled Mount Olympus—the home of the twelve
Olympian gods. Within this edifice, the God of Music and Light reigned all.
    Aleksender stood off to the side and surveyed the glorious monument
erected before him. Granted, Salle Le Peletier didn’t have Apollo’s protection
or his godly wisdom. But the place was far from lacking.
    The building held a power of its own. Angels carved from stone graced
the columns, their