Page 38 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
His hand seemed to vibrate from the press of Henry’s fingers. Even after his flight from the cabin, even here in town with Souveraine, it felt alive.
Christ, how he hated his attraction to that man. How he hated to think of his poetic turn of phrase, the fire of justice and revolution in his eyes, his… That way he slightly quirked his lips when he knew he was being ridiculously hypocritical, but when he said it, anyway.
Yes, Léon hated him. Thoroughly. Through to the marrow. The pompous imposter.
But, to his credit, Léon did believe that Émile would be both safe and happy with him that day. So Léon would discharge his duties in return, in full. And to do that, he needed to be as cool and professional as possible.
The outer gate to the prison was open, and Léon led the way in, striding confidently into the office, where Mollard had just sat down to eat his breakfast. Léon went straight for his desk drawer, pulling the jangle of keys loose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mollard protested, dropping a shower of breadcrumbs from his mouth and across the desk. “What’s she doing here?”
“Shut up!” Léon spat. He slapped some paper and the corked inkwell down on the table. “Make a list. I’ll take the political prisoners first. Writers, journalists. Then give me any priests, then traitors, followed by rapists and murderers. I want the women last. Very last of the day. Do you understand? Don’t fuck it up.”
“Fuck you, Léon,” he snarled.
“Fuck you, Mollard! Make the list.” He pulled at Souveraine’s hand and they made for the interior prison gates.
“Hey, she’s not allowed in there!” Mollard yelled after them.
Léon called back, as obnoxiously as possible, “I’ve got DuPont’s approval, so unless you want me to tell him you’re obstructing justice again?”
Mollard squinted his whole face at Léon, and Léon threw it off with the satisfaction that he’d managed to annoy him, and so early in the day, too.
Souveraine had never once been beyond those doors, and very rarely into the prison complex at all. She crept close against Léon’s back as they slipped into the dark and damp atrium. Léon put the two guards at ease with a few words, and kept Souveraine between himself and the wall as they mounted the spiral staircase, up and around, saying nothing beyond reassuring murmurings that the cell was nearby.
Without a thought for protocol or punishment, Léon opened the cell door and slipped inside with Souveraine, to a cry of surprise from Sophie and, as usual, not a sound from Catherine. Shrunk into a corner, her eyes ran nervously over the two of them, resting with marked interest on Souveraine. Souveraine met her look with a reserved but sympathetic regard, assessing the dirty skin and oily hair that sat above a very pretty face. Her gaze moved to Léon, but his hands were already in Sophie’s.
“You’ve come for us, then?” she asked.
“It’s today,” Léon replied softly. He looked over at Catherine. Sophie followed his gaze, and when their eyes met again, Léon said, “Sophie, I have a very, very,verybig favour to ask of you.”
21
FIT FOR A QUEEN
At Léon’s instigation, DuPont had started selling premium tickets for the day’s show. All the choice places—front three rows, balconies, a special stand, hastily and especially erected—were sold by ten o’clock. Vendors in the square yelled out their specials, and wine and ale flowed freely. Léon’s shining axe leaned against his grindstone up on the great scaffold, and he eyed the three bolts that kept the blade of the guillotine in place.
Once a year, it needed to be sharpened, DuPont had said.
Léon would begin to try that theory today.
He felt something was missing without his axe, but he’d prepared for that eventuality by wearing his tightest leather pants, and entirely forgoing a shirt beneath his leather vest, which he left the top of unlaced. It was cold up there, and his leather wrist-cuffs provided precious little warmth. Not for him, anyway. The crowd was enraptured by his outfit, and very few of them noticed his absent axe when he stretched his fine arm out long to slide a provocative hand up the side of the guillotine, or when he lifted the empty head basket high and pretended to unload it into the crowd.
At the opening of the prison gate, Léon held a single finger aloft, and the audience fell silent. The first prisoner was led out into the square in near-perfect silence, that tender hand held high to quiet them, in complete control. Step by step, the man’s final walk made barely a sound at all, bare feet on cold stone. Up the stairs, one by one, slowly, with no words, and Léon’s hand there all the while.
A guard whispered the crime into Léon’s ear, and Léon’s heart first sank, then shrank into the black space in his chest where it all but ceased to exist. He called out, “Jean-Michel Comtois, for the crime of sedition, you are hereby to be executed, this day, August sixteenth, seventeen seventy-two. Do you have any last words?”
The man, trodden down by his life and his cell, looked out into the crowd and said, “Better to be dead than enslaved.”
Léon pulled his quieting hand away, and at that sign, a roar went up from the audience, baying for the man’s blood, screaming for his head. Léon placed the same gentle hand on the man’s arm and brought him to the side of the guillotine. “Do you wish for a blindfold?”
“No. I can face it.”
“It will be fast,” Léon replied.
With the help of the guards, the man was settled onto the platform of the guillotine. He was arranged prone, shirtless, hands tied behind his back. Léon shoved the wooden platform forward until the man’s head slid into place. He brought the wooden lunette down to cradle the neck and guide the blade. He moved back to the front of the contraption, gripping the rope, and raised his hand once more, three fingers in the air.
The crowd fell into an anticipatory silence. Slowly, Léon curled one finger away.
