Page 34 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Henry, pinning every hope in life he had on Paris, wasn’t about to let Léon chip away at what little he had by using that tone. With a dismissive arrogance, such as men who desperately need something to be true will often adopt when they tell themselves lies, he replied, “Paris will be different. In Paris, there is revolution. Things are changing, and for the better. Nomore poverty, everyone on equal footing, bread enough for all to eat. Everyone will have a home and an education and books to read. For the first time in history, it won’t matter what you are born to, king or peasant, we’ll all have a share in the wealth and happiness. What’s happening in Paris, right now, is the highest and truest calling of all mankind, and you’re either insane or ignorant to want to be anywhere else, no matter how dangerous it is.”
The outburst was a jolt to Léon’s system, both due to the vehemence of it, but also the good-hearted sentiment behind it. It shone a new light on Henry. Léon had him pegged as a loving brother, and that was, thus far, the sole redeeming quality that allowed Léon to sit and eat his food and talk with him. He hadn’t expected to hear such idealism on those haughty lips, gorgeous as they were.
But unfortunately, those words couldn’t help but be augmented by Léon’s own harrowing experiences of the world and human nature, which made Henry appear to him, at best, a little lost, certainly naïve, perhaps a touch stupid. “I’m yet to see any proof that much is changing,” Léon replied gently.
“We’re only getting started.” Henry leaned forward on his log eagerly, speaking as though from a lectern, a compelling pink about his cheeks setting off his features with an irritating beauty. “It’s the ideals—the principles that it’s all based on. They’re infallible. The mind and the heart over monarchy and superstition, for the first time in history. They’re dragging the priests from their pulpits and turning their cathedrals into palaces of reason. Versailles will be torn apart, and the wealth redistributed. No longer will a few rich men run the entire country, looting the pockets of the poor. And women will live in Paris—in all of France—free, married to whomever they want, or not married to whom their parents choose, or not marriedat all if they don’t want to be. Free to fall in love. Free to have relationships with no expectation of marriage.”
Surprised Henry took such an extreme interest in those matters, Léon asked, “You’d be okay with Catherine living like that? Unwed, but in a relationship?”
Henry replied, quite seriously, “God, no. I’d kill the first lech who thought about it.”
Léon laughed, and Henry announced over the top of him, “The point is that shecouldif shewantedto. In theory. And men…” He waved a hand in a swift circle, voice faltering just a little, eyes askance towards the fire. “Men will be free to be with whomever they choose, too.”
“I thought men could already do that,” Léon rebuffed, eyes bright in amusement, waiting for Henry’s next hypocritical heel turn.
“No, I mean like… like…” He gave a small shrug, speaking more softly. “Say they wanted to be with other men.”
The way he raised his eyes just then brought a fast scarlet heat to Léon’s cheeks. His mouth suddenly dry, he fumbled his cup of water, knocking most of it onto the grass, but picking it up and drinking down the few remaining drops anyway, for distraction as much as anything else.
Henry watched him, taking his discomfort for distaste. “That idea’s probably never even occurred to you, has it? Probably disgusts you to even have it suggested.”
“No.” Léon had thought about it. Far too often. Most of his life. But possibly never quite as vividly—or filthily—as he’d thought about Henry the night before. And he certainly hadn’t expected Henry, of all people, to drag it out into the open right in front of him. He murmured, “I find nothing odious in that notion. That two men… might…”
“Ah. So, you… you…” That hand wafting in his direction again.
“What?” he breathed out anxiously.
“Have you…” With a too-attractive reticence, as though it were neither here nor there, “Have you kissed a man?”
Red hot panic took Léon, and he rushed out, “No! No, no, I haven’t! Of course not!”
Henry blundered in with, “You have your barmaid, I suppose,” the words flying like an accusation, driven by a jealousy that Henry noted but deliberately mistook for anger, that Léon understood as an attack. On what, he wasn’t sure, just that it was disparaging in some sense. He said nothing. Souveraine and his friendship with her were none of Henry’s business, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell this dangerous and deranged stranger about his sexual fantasies, particularly those that involved him and a sharp knife.
“So simple,” Henry goaded, low, just loud enough for Léon to hear, trying for a crumb of information about his relationship with the barmaid. He’d noted how beautiful she was, the way she’d helped herself to Léon’s person. But Henry got nothing for his provocation. He jabbed, “Peasant stuff, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Léon seethed, suddenly far too aware of the precious-looking red jewel on Henry’s finger, of the clean and trimmed nails on his hands, of the many stark differences between them that spoke of two vastly different lives and histories.
Henry, finding that his unpleasant words had led to nothing but a dead end, carried on with his proclamation, only a little more resentfully than before. “Well, for those of us who aspire to slightly higher things than boinking the first girl who comes along, there’s the revolution. When I get to Paris, we’ll draw up new laws, a new charter. We’ll make it so everyone has their say. We’ll turn Paris into the best city on the planet—if it isn’t already—and then we’ll take those laws back to England, and out to the rest of the world.”
“We?” Léon’s quizzical head tilt and mocking smile irritated Henry to no end.
“Yes, ‘we’,” he snapped. “My father is friends with Robespierre himself, I’ll have you know. Or-or he was. I’m sure they’re still in touch.” There was a slight darkening of Henry’s brow, and Léon gave nothing away about his knowledge of Henry’s parents having fled Paris. Henry’s rich and aristocratic parents. Did Henry know where they were? Off somewhere being rich, Léon supposed. He watched Henry push away whatever concerns he had with the proud raise of his chin. “And when I get there, I won’t spare a second of daylight but for the purpose of the revolution and the people.”
Léon scoffed so loudly and brutally he almost woke Émile. “‘The people.’” He ran his eyes over Henry’s fine clothes, tailored boots, soft leather pants, silk shirt that would have paid his rent for months. “And which of your circle of intellectuals are going to be the ones to clean out the chamber pots of the wealthy while you’re drawing up your glorious charter?”
“Every man can clean his own chamber pot,” Henry returned matter-of-factly.
“Oh really? And who carts away the muck in the morning?”
On an eye roll, “That’s yet to be figured out, obviously, but?—”
Léon couldn’t help but push him, the thought of Henry’s pale and untarnished hands doing any hard work whatsoever tickling him so. “And what will you do in this marvellous new world? Write pamphlets, I guess?”
“Pamphlets are important!” Henry declared loudly, eliciting a grunt from Émile. “Pamphlets are how you change things.” Outraged by Léon’s laugh and accompanying clap, Henry doubled down, caught up in his idealistic vision of a perfect Paris and a perfect world. “You’ll see. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll still be here with your dead-end life, chopping heads, drinking with your bar wench every night. But not me. I’ve gotbigger ideas than someone like you could ever comprehend. And that’s why I’m going to Paris. And that’s why I’m taking Catherine with me.”
“You are mad to drag your poor sister into that mess,” Léon muttered.
The words cut into Henry, far deeper than Léon could possibly have realised they would. He was immediately on the attack, throwing a furious finger out at Léon. “You have no vision. You’re so parochial, living your petty little life. Sleepwalking through the world, not noticing a thing that goes on around you. But what more could I have expected from a headsman? You’re the very tool of the monarchy that wishes to oppress the people.”
