Prologue
«La vie, en général, n’en finit pas de faire des promesses qu’elle prend plaisir, ensuite, à ne pas tenir.»
— Amanda Sthers, Les Promesses [1]
PARIS, FRANCE
A young woman sat behind a massive mahogany writing desk, a letter trembling in her hands.
A letter—or, more precisely, an official notice of a soldier’s death, delivered only a few hours earlier by a postman named Dubois.
She stared blankly at the envelope, unable to bring herself to open it and face the terrible sentence it contained.
One breath.
Then another.
With a sudden movement, she slit the envelope open with a letter opener and pulled out a small sheet of paper. Her eyes raced over the words, though somewhere deep inside, she already knew what they would say.
It is with deepest regret that we inform you of the death of Lieutenant Daniel de Labeau of the French Army. A letter and a locket were found among the deceased’s personal effects. Both are enclosed with this notice.
Captain François Martin3rd Division, VI Corps
Elena squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears that had come unbidden. A few escaped nonetheless, falling onto the desk and staining a second folded sheet that had slipped from the envelope.
As if suddenly remembering it was there, she snatched it up and unfolded it.
She recognized the handwriting at once.
My dearest Elena…
A sob tore from her chest.
“No. No. No.”
This could not be real.
For several days now, our corps, stationed not far from Metz, has been awaiting the order to engage. We are all suspended in that dreadful anticipation of a battle that will inevitably claim lives. Every man among us hopes that, once again, he will be fortunate enough to emerge alive.
But I do not hope.
I know.
Elena, we spent only a few weeks together, and we have now been apart for half a year, yet I feel as though I have known you all my life. You are the only person who has ever managed to break through my armour. You breathed life into what had merely been my existence, and for that I shall remain grateful until the end of my days.
This war will not take me from you. Do not doubt me, not even for a moment.
We shall always be together.
It is with thoughts of you that I will enter tomorrow’s battle, and it is those same thoughts that will bring me home.
How I regret not telling you this sooner.
I love you, Elena.
As I write these words, I am looking at your portrait in the locket you gave me before I left for the front.
I will come back.
I promise.
Yours, Daniel
“But you did not come back to me,” she whispered. “You did not come back…”
Elena rose from the desk.
Tears blurred her vision, streaming in burning trails down her pale cheeks. Half-blind, she felt her way towards the balcony doors and flung them open.
She did not care that her fair, wavy hair had not been arranged as propriety demanded, nor that she wore nothing but a white petticoat and a beige corset.
She could not breathe.
Her knees struck the hard floor, but she scarcely felt the pain.
Elena stared out into the street without truly seeing it. Below, passers-by strolled along the narrow lane, some occasionally glancing up at the wretched young woman mourning on the balcony.
No one stopped.
No one asked what had happened or whether she needed help.
But what help could there be for someone whose entire life had just been shattered?
Whether an hour passed or an entire day, Elena could not have said.
At last, she rose from the floor and stepped back into the study of the small Paris apartment that had belonged to Daniel.
She looked around.
Despite the abundance of furniture, the room seemed unbearably empty.
Against the far wall stood the writing desk where Daniel used to spend his evenings, sipping bourbon as he sorted through his correspondence. To the left were several bookcases filled with an impressive collection of volumes. To the right stood a spacious sofa where, only days before they had been separated, she and Daniel had sat together readingThe Count of Monte Cristo.
Near the sofa, almost beside the balcony doors, stood an easel and a small table crowded with paints, brushes, and palettes.
Those belonged to her.
To Elena.
From the moment she had come to live with Daniel, he had carved out a place for her within his small, cold world—and allowed her to fill it with colour.
Her gaze settled on the untouched white canvas resting on the easel.
“Why would you never let me paint your portrait?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Your face will remain in my memory forever. I love you so much.”
She faltered.
“No… No. I cannot simply accept this, my love. I will preserve you for eternity.”
Her voice betrayed her once more.
Elena brushed away the last tear and seized her palette with sudden, almost furious determination.
For days, she remained before the canvas.
She neither slept nor ate. Feverish, barely aware of the world around her, she painted every line of the man she loved from memory, capturing each beloved feature as though sheer devotion could keep death from taking him away.
When at last the portrait was finished, Elena stood before it, exhausted and hollowed by grief.
Slowly, she reached out and ran her fingertips over the painted image of her beloved.
“We shall always be together…” she murmured.
Then her strength deserted her.
Darkness closed in, and Elena slipped into oblivion.
[1]“Life never stops making promises it later takes pleasure in breaking.” — Amanda Sthers, Les Promesses
