Authors: Gemma Holden
“None of what you’ve heard is true,” he replied, hoping they would go away.
“
I don’t believe you,” the first girl said, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “I heard that without your bravery France would have lost the battle.”
Their praise made him uncomfortable. He remembered another girl looking up at him, violet eyes shining with devotion.
He was saved by General Ducasse who appeared through the throng and made his way to his side. “Ladies,” the General said as he bowed. “You will have to excuse us. I need to speak to the prince privately.”
They protested as Ducasse led him away. Christian followed him with relief.
“Thank you,” he said once they were out of hearing.
“
You looked like you were about to flee.”
“
I was considering it.”
Ducasse chuckled. He clapped Christian on the back.
“They all want to dance with you. The great hero of Austerlitz. The entire city is talking about you. The prince who joined the army as a common soldier, who worked his way up the ranks and was then shot and injured fighting in battle.”
“
I’m not a hero,” Christian said.
The General shrugged.
“All that matters is that they think you are. You should enjoy it while you can. They will move on to someone else next week.”
The defeat of the Austrians at Austerlitz, the battle that had nearly cost Christian his leg and his life, had led to the Treaty of Pressburg being signed. Francis II had abdicated his throne and the Holy Roman Empire was no more. The war between France and Austria was over; at least for now. But war still raged across Europe and France still had many other enemies to fight.
“The Emperor summoned me when he arrived in Paris,” Ducasse continued as he accepted a glass of champagne from a footman. “He’s impressed with you. He wants to give you your own company to command.”
“He’s very generous,” Christian said.
Ducasse raised a thick eyebrow. “You’re not going to accept?”
Christian shifted uneasily.
“I’m not sure I can. My leg is still healing.”
It was a poor excuse. He owed Ducasse his life. After he left St Goarshausen, he had signed up and joined the French army at the first recruiting station he had come across. At first, he had tried to remain unseen, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but the fact he was fluent in several languages immediately set him apart from the other men. He had been a fool not to realise his education would give him away. He remembered the day of his fateful meeting with Ducasse. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant by then. Ducasse had been coming out of a tent, his company having joined Christian’s company temporarily. He had stopped and stared at Christian long and hard and then given him a curt nod. Their paths had crossed occasionally in the following months, but Ducasse had never given him away. And then Austerlitz happened.
He tried not to think of the battle, but it was burned into his mind. He only had to close his eyes and he was advancing through the smoke as cannon fire tore into the lines, blowing the men either side of him into pieces. He had been trying to reload his musket before the cavalry could reach him and cut him down. He didn’t realise at first he’d been shot. His leg suddenly gave way and he fell to one knee. He put his hand to his thigh and was surprised to see blood pumping out. Frantically, he’d tried to load his musket, blood making his hands slippery, and then a soldier stabbed him in the shoulder with his bayonet. He must have fallen back, because he remembered staring up at the sky. Another body had fallen on top of him, pinning him to the ground, and then another fell next to him and then he remembered nothing.
He had lain in a tent for over a month, hovering between life and death as fever gripped him. The surgeons had been ready to remove his leg. Just as they were raising the saw, Ducasse had burst into the tent and commanded them to stop. He had ordered Christian moved to his own tent where he had his personal physician attend him. The decision had saved Christian
’s life. Once he was well enough to travel, the General had brought him to Paris and got him presented at court where he was hailed a hero. The Emperor himself had congratulated him. In the end, he had lost nothing. Not physically anyway.
“Nonsense. You can sit a horse,” Ducasse scoffed, jolting him back to the present. “But you don’
t have to give me an answer now. You should make the most of this while you can. Go and enjoy yourself. There are many beautiful women here tonight. I’m sure there must be one that catches your eye.”
“I will think about the Emperor’
s offer,” Christian said, ignoring Ducasse’s remarks.
Ducasse shook his head in exasperation.
“Well, if you won’t dance with them, someone has to.” He made his way over to the group of young women who had approached Christian earlier.
Christian took a glass of wine from a footman and drank it down. The other guests nodded to him and raised their glasses. The younger women blushed and giggled when they looked at him, while the older ones sent him bolder, more appraising looks. He had received more than one offer since he had arrived at court from a lady wanting to show the hero of Austerlitz just how grateful she was for his bravery, but he had refused them all. He couldn
’t bring himself to talk to them, remembering another girl, tears falling down her face as she stepped back off the cliff. It might provide him with some brief release from the dreams that plagued him, but he doubted it would stop the nightmares. Only alcohol seemed to help.
He winced as a painful spasm went through his leg. A group of people crowded in around him, congratulating him on his heroism. He did his best to smile but suddenly, he couldn
’t breathe. He was there on the battlefield again with a body on top of him, the weight pressing him down and the dead all around him. He felt like he was drowning. He made his excuses and pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the doors leading to the gardens. Once he was outside, he breathed raggedly and took some steadying breaths. His heart was pounding and his shirt damp with sweat. He was an idiot, he told himself. It was just a ball.
He turned to go back inside, but stopped, unable to face it. He couldn
’t pretend tonight. He walked away, plunging into the grounds of the palace. He didn’t know where he was going. A carriage was waiting to take him back to his lodgings, but he carried on past the soldiers and guards. He tore off his stock and tossed it into the refuse that littered the street. He found a tavern and sank down and threw a handful of coins onto the table. The innkeeper brought him over a glass. He left the bottle when Christian threw another handful of coins down. Christian poured himself a drink and drank it down. The spirits burned his throat and clouded his head. He poured himself another.
At another table, two roughly-dressed men watched him discreetly, casting him sly looks. They had seen the cane and the coins he had thrown at the innkeeper. He hoped they would follow him when he left. He was in no state to fight them off. He deserved to suffer. He hadn
’t suffered enough.
He had been in Paris now for several weeks. The days had blurred into one another. When he had first arrived, he had been welcomed at court and hailed a hero. Lavish balls and dinners with endless courses had been thrown in his honour. But he couldn
’t stand it anymore. It was all a lie. He wasn’t a hero. He could no longer bear to be at court and watch the artifice and falseness of it all. Once, he had belonged among them, but he was older and wearier now. He had seen things. He had watched men die. He had no patience anymore for their games or their petty intrigues.
He moved his leg, hitting the table. Pain shot through him. He closed his eyes and welcomed the pain. A chair scrapped back and then moved back against the table as someone sat down across from him. He was in no mood to talk to anyone.
“It’s been a long time, my friend,” said a familiar voice.
Christian knew that voice. He raised his head. He hadn
’t realised he had been slumped over the table. His vision was blurry and he had trouble focusing. “Gaspard?” It couldn’t be him. Christian would have known if he was in Paris. He must be hallucinating. Maybe Gaspard had come to haunt him as well.
Gradually, his vision focused on Gaspard; although this Gaspard was dressed plainly and wore a coarse jacket buttoned up tightly over his stomach, while the Gaspard Christian had known had always prided himself on being well dressed.
“You look like a farmer.” Christian’s words were slurred and he had trouble sitting upright.
Gaspard chuckled.
“You don’t look any better, my friend.” His face sobered. “You joined the army then.” His gaze lingered on Christian’s rumpled uniform.
“
Yes.” He could see the disappointment in Gaspard’s face. Anger flared inside him. Gaspard shouldn’t be able to make him feel that way. He was his tutor, nothing more. He had no right to expect anything of him. “It was my decision. I’m not a boy anymore.” His tone was harsh and he regretted his words as soon as he had spoken them. He had to try and explain. He wanted his approval so badly. Gaspard was like a father to him. “I had to try and make it right somehow. I kept seeing her. Every time I closed my eyes, she was there.”
Gaspard didn
’t need to ask who he was referring to. “Do you still see her?”
Christian smiled bitterly and sloshed some more drink into his glass.
“I see them all, every night: Lorelei, the men I served with, the men I’ve killed.”
“
And you think drinking yourself to death will bring them back?”
“
You’re not my father.”
“
No, I’m not. If you want to drink your life away that’s your choice. But I thought more of you, my friend. Perhaps I was wrong.”
The words hurt. They hurt more than his leg. He had thought he was beyond hurting.
“What are you doing here?” Christian asked. “Did my mother send you?”
“
I was here on other business when I heard your name mentioned at a dinner party. They talked of a German prince who had lied about who he was and enlisted in the French army. He had worked his way up through the ranks and done remarkable things. He had saved many men with his courage and bravery.”
“
None of the stories are true.” Christian drank down the last of his drink. “They’re all dead. All my men. I should have died with them. I should have died that day when my boat sank and that night when I jumped in after Lorelei. I’m beginning to think I’m cursed, Gaspard, with living when everyone else dies.” He couldn’t keep the bleakness out of his voice.
Gaspard pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Let’s get you out of here and sobered up.”
“
I don’t need your help. You’re not my tutor anymore.”
“
I know.” Gaspard sounded weary. He slung his arm around Christian’s shoulder and heaved him up and steered him out of the tavern. Christian was too drunk to fight him. Gaspard was the only thing keeping him upright.
“
You don’t know where I’m staying,” Christian said, leaning on Gaspard.
“
I know where you’re lodging. I went there tonight, but you had had already left to go to the palace. Your valet gave me a list of taverns where I could find you.”
He didn
’t remember how Gaspard got him home or how he managed to drag him up the stairs. After much searching, Christian finally managed to produce the key from his pocket, but he couldn’t quite get it into the door. In the end, Gaspard took it from him and unlocked it. He carried Christian inside and let him fall onto the couch.
“
I thought better of you, my friend,” Gaspard said.
“
You don’t know what I’ve been through, the things I’ve seen,” Christian said.
“
You forget I lived through the revolution.”
“
Are you going to make me go home?”
“
You’re not a boy anymore, Christian. I can’t force you to go anywhere. It has to be your choice.”
“
You didn’t come here to find me did you?” The knowledge that he was not Gaspard’s main concern hurt.
“
I’m looking for Adrianna,” Gaspard said as he began collecting the empty bottles that lay scattered around the room.
Gaspard was chasing a phantom.
“She’s dead, Gaspard. Let her go.”
“Do you remember that day when we saw the ship on the Rhine?
There was a French Captain in command called Fournier. I’ve been trying to trace him, but I’ve heard he’s finally returning to Paris.”
“
Why would the French want her? She’s just a girl from the town.”
Gaspard was silent for a moment as he placed the bottles on a side table, lining them neatly up. “
There’s a ball a week from today at the Tuileries. The Emperor himself is returning for it. ”
“I know.
The whole city is talking about it.”
“
I think she will be there.”
Christian shook his head. And he had thought he was crazy.
Gaspard picked up a book from under the table. “You still have it,” Gaspard said as he turned it over. In his hands was the now battered and worn copy of Don Quixote that he had given to him.