Page 118 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Befuddled, he tried to repeat, “Infan?—”
“How is she supposed to grow up and come into her own if he continually treats her like a child? And I’ll tell you this, Léon. We were fine here before you two arrived. Absolutely fine with our flour and our cheese and our wine. And then you two come back, and we’re going to parties, and she’s talking toMary, and-and they are having dinner! And I like Mary, well enough, not as much as Olympe, mind you, and now… And now you’re asking me to lie to her, and how is that going to look?”
Barely able to put her string of words into any usable order given his emotional overwhelm, he said only, “It’s for her own good.”
“How is that for her own good?” Souveraine threw back. “What if he dies tomorrow, and she never got a chance to say goodbye?”
“Souveraine,” he begged, “I’m just trying to keep her calm. Look, I can’t talk to you about this right now. There’s someone I need to see, and I must make all haste. Please, will you do this for me? Please? I’m only asking that you check on him on occasion, bring him food and water, and tell Catherine he’s working on his article.” Léon stopped dead. “His article!” He bolted back up the stairs.
“We are not done!” Souveraine called after him.
“We are!” He paused long enough to call over the bannister breathlessly, “Until tonight. Please. Please. Please, please, please, please, Souveraine.”
She threw back her head, stomped a foot, then stormed off, an act he took for acquiescence.
He ran up the stairs and snatched the article from Henry’s bedside table, kissed his cheek despite Guillotin’s presence,then, with one final stroke of his finger across Henry’s precious face, ran from the house.
51
LEECHES
Léon returned home after dark, an enormous slab of mutton in one hand, a paper bag stuffed with vegetables in the other. He kicked the door to be let in. Émile gasped on sight of the food, and ripped the bag from his hands, spilling potatoes and leeks across the floor.
“Émile!” Léon breathed in exasperation.
“Where did this come from?” Catherine asked, stooping to help clean the mess.
“Henri’s article,” said Léon, shouldering the door closed behind him. “It’s going to be on the front page tomorrow. They loved it.”
“That’s wonderful!” Catherine stood with an arm full of potatoes, but her smile was short-lived. “He hasn't been down all day. Guillotin left a while ago, and?—”
“He must be working!” Léon cut her off, too-cheerily. “But I’m sure he’ll be down to celebrate his article. Unless—you know—unless he wants to write even more tonight. Or maybe he’s too tired from all the work.”
She stepped aside to let him pass. “I confess, I’m getting a little worried.”
Léon rambled on, “They gave me money. Lots of money. And I should get more tomorrow. For there was the article, but also I’ve found work.”
Souveraine, silently helping Émile balance vegetables, turned ashen. “Just like that? You took a job?”
“Just until… Um…” He nodded towards the staircase, and her face fell a little deeper, only this time with a touch of sympathy mingled amongst the confusion. She took the meat from his arms as he said, “I’ll cook us a proper meal. Soon. I want to…” He moved for the stairs. “I want to get changed.” Half way up, he called back to Souveraine, “Will you meet me in the kitchen? In just a little while? I’ll be…” He couldn’t think to finish his sentence, and no one there particularly expected him to, knowing, in one sense or another, every word was a pretence. Catherine felt bad for the news Souveraine was about to get, watching Léon run off to his lover. Souveraine felt bad for the lies they were telling Catherine about poor sick Henry. Émile was nursing a ball of worry about Henry’s condition.
Léon went through his bedroom door, closing it dramatically in the hopes those downstairs heard it, before he ran through the dividing door into Henry’s room, pulling off his coat. He stopped dead on sight of him.
Henry looked exactly like a corpse. He was laid out stiff and long, just a thin sheet covering his body, ghostly pale against the light of the fireplace.
“Darling?” Léon rounded the bed, falling down beside him, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “Henri? Can you hear me?”
No response whatsoever met him. Henry’s breath came fast in his chest, and Léon felt sick at having left him all the afternoon. “My love?” He picked Henry’s hand up, placing a kiss against his fingers. “They adored your article. You need to wake up. They’ve paid us a small fortune, though I fear most of it will go to Guillotin.” He brought a hand to Henry’s cheek, strokingit softly, horrified to feel it was just as hot as when he’d left. “You must drink something, my love. I’m making you soup. I want you to…” Tears rushed to his eyes, falling on the fingers he clutched tight. “Please, Henri. Please don’t die.”
There was some small commotion at the door behind him, and Léon jumped up, letting go of Henry’s hand and wiping his eyes before Guillotin walked in, followed closely by Souveraine, remonstrating with Catherine. “Please, let’s go. He’s so grumpy all the time. We hardly need him down at dinner in one of his moods.”
“Henry?” Catherine called.
Guillotin slammed the door on them and locked it. He said nothing as he put his bag down on the desk. He made his way directly to Henry, then placed a hand on his forehead. “No improvement?”
“No. But I haven’t been here. It’s possible that?—”
“I only left an hour ago,” he said grimly. Moving back to his bag, “I had to get something from my clinic. And… You might want to leave for this.”
