Page 116 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Léon didn’t feel he was exaggerating when he told Guillotin that Henry’s arm was rotten and black, and that he was sure it would need to come off. And if Guillotin thought the man who’d charmed everyone so thoroughly the night before couldn’t have taken such a sharp turn in such a brief time, he never let on to Léon. He’d seen at once that their friendship was close, but Léon’s state of aggrievement drove the point home.
Catherine greeted them at the door, and was instantly thrown by the appearance of the renowned physician. Guillotin had been schooled, as most doctors of the time were, in not unduly worrying the ladies of any house, and as he was not particularly worried himself, it wasn’t difficult for him to appear unconcerned. Especially with Léon leading, rambling opaquely about how Guillotin had simply come to talk about execution methods for Henry’s article.
But Catherine eyed the medical bag, and Léon was aware of a ceramic statue that rumbled dangerously on a side table. He opted to take Guillotin upstairs as quickly as possible, sparing a smile for Souveraine when her hand came down on the statue to steady it.
Émile was in the bedroom with Henry when Léon arrived. When he’d come in was a mystery. He was curled up next to Henry with a book, and Henry was unconscious on the pillow, the papers, the inkstand and the quill at his fingertips, as though he’d dropped off mid-sentence. But he had not. As Léon approached, he saw the signature of Henri De Villiers large and beautiful across the bottom of the page, accompanied by a what looked like a note of direction.
“What’s this?” he asked Émile.
“He wrote something for a newspaper. He wants you to take it there.” Émile tapped the note, then leaned back against Henry and pressed his little hand to his temple. “I don’t think he’s well.”
“He’ll be okay,” said Léon, lying every bit as earnestly as Henry had lied to him. “We rode too far the last few days. He’s tired. But…” Guillotin had already removed his coat and sent a warning look to Léon. “Citizen Guillotin has come to check on him, just to make sure. But he needs some space. Can you run down to Souveraine?—”
With small and set lips, “I don’t want to go.”
“Please, Émile.” Léon felt himself on the verge of tears. He didn’t like the way Henry’s head rested. It didn’t look comfortable, like he’d fallen that way. His pallor was a washed-out green-grey. “Please go down to her.”
He held out his hand, and the boy crawled to the edge of the bed. Léon dropped to his knees to look into his eyes, and Émile asked, “Are you still mad with him?”
Léon laughed. Sadly. He was surprised he could laugh at all. “No. I’m not mad with him anymore.” Émile was smart. He could see just as well as Léon could that things weren’t right. So Léon said, “Can you do something for me? I need to ask you to be very grown up and help me.” Émile gave a nod. “Catherine’s a little bit worried about him. She doesn’t need to be, but you know she’s his sister. And she loves him, like I love you. So couldyou…” It felt so wrong to ask him to lie. He was just a boy. And the last thing Léon ever wanted was to put responsibility onto those small shoulders. “So, could you ask her to help you take Destroyer out to the yard? I think he needs more exercise. And Henry’s resting today. Because he had a late night.”
Émile saw right through him, and Léon knew he did. But Émile left, not to find Destroyer or Catherine, but to seek out the soft comfort of Souveraine.
Guillotine drew a chair up beside the bed. Henry had on a loose nightshirt, which Guillotin pulled down over his shoulder, exposing the top of Henry’s biceps. His fingers touched down on the inky skin discolouration. “How long has it been?”
“He got shot about a week ago.” Léon rushed to cover the admission. “His-his carriage was attacked by a bandit?—”
“I don’t care about the circumstances,” Guillotin responded dryly. “Only a week?”
“Yes, and then he…” After a tense moment, Léon sat down on the bed. “He was imprisoned. He has since been declared innocent and set free, but the place they held him, it was filthy, and I fear he got the infection there. And he’s been free for four days now, and when last I saw his arm unbandaged, three days ago, it looked bad. But it wasn’t black like that.”
Guillotin had begun to undo the bandage, which pulled where dried blood held it to the skin. “No treatment?”
“Vinegar, he told me. Salt.”
The pain of the movement roused a groan from Henry. His head rolled across the pillow, and “Shhh,” Léon whispered, moving close to place a hand on his burning cheek.
“Ange,” Henry whispered. “I need you.”
He instantly slipped back into his uneasy slumber, while a bolt of alarm snapped Léon’s head across to Guillotin, who muttered, “I really don’t care.” Around and around he unwoundthe bandage, then entirely failed in his prior show of good bedside manner. “Holy shit.”
Léon leaned forward, but Guillotin’s hand came up to his face. “Don’t look. You won’t sleep tonight.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” Léon replied in a wavering voice. “I’m an executioner.”
“I very much doubt you have.” Guillotin reached for the lamp by Henry’s bed. “Henri?” He lifted one eyelid, and Léon watched as his love lay perfectly unresponsive to the light. “Henri!” Guillotin repeated a little more loudly. “He’s not responding,” he mumbled under his breath, as though he needed to. He put the lamp down, pressed his hand to Henry’s forehead, then declared, “Not good.”
Wrenching Henry’s shirt up, he exposed pale skin, blotchy and mottled, Henry’s chest moving fast with rapid breaths. His hand on his heart, Guillotin felt the beats. “Not good,” he repeated. “Can you wake him?”
Léon, beside himself, took Henry’s hand. “Henri? Henri, can you hear me?”
A fast and repeated wheezing came from Henry’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. She’s going to burn. Ange…”
Léon clutched compulsively at his fingers. “No, darling. No. She’s safe. You’re safe.”
“I can’t get the blood off. I can’t. I’m sorry. Ange.” His head twitched away, and Léon looked to Guillotin for instruction. Whatever nightmare Henry was caught in, was there any need to drag it out like this?
Guillotin gave a sharp nod, then moved to his medical bag. “I’m going to put an ointment on the wound, and we’re going to try to bring his fever down. But I won’t lie to you.” He glanced at Henry’s blueish lips. “If he doesn’t improve dramatically within the next twenty-four hours, you’ll be saying goodbye.”
