Page 70 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
A VILE MAN
Léon had followed Mollard carefully the night before as he made his way home from the prison. He’d discovered the man lived in a low neighbourhood, slanted houses and uncobbled lanes full of dirty puddles and rotting scraps.
That night, it was approaching midnight when Léon knocked softly on his door, hoping to avoid any neighbours seeing him. But Mollard soon answered. Léon’s welcome was nothing like that of DuPont, yet not nearly as belligerent as he had expected it would be.
Mollard searched over Léon’s shoulder, beady eyes scanning up and down the street, then he stood back and motioned for Léon to enter. There was no, ‘what do you want,’ or ‘this is a surprise,’ or even ‘fuck off, you prick’. There was only Léon alone with Mollard in the dark and dank little house, Mollard grinning wide, then his disconcerting, “I’ve been expecting you.”
The comment took Léon’s breath away. Whatever could he mean? Léon and no one else knew of his plan. He hadn’t said a word. He’d played his role to a tee. What was the meaning?
Mollard, either through tiredness or keenness, wasn’t playing games. He picked his coat up off the table where he’d thrown it an hour earlier, rifled through the pockets, andplucked out a set of keys. Not those same formerly coveted keys to Reims Prison. It was a smaller loop, housing four different keys. These, he threw onto the table between them with a clatter.
“What’s that?” asked Léon, though he already knew.
“Keys to the Witches’ Tower,” Mollard confirmed. “That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it?”
How could he know? How? What crumb had Léon dropped along the way—what clue to allow this man to step ahead of him? Léon couldn't decide whether to confirm or deny it. It was the very thing he wanted, and it seemed so easy, but it felt exactly like a trap. “I need to bring him out to the square tomorrow. To kill him,” Léon said pathetically.
Mollard let him suffer in tense silence while he pulled the cork from an already-open bottle of wine and filled his cup. “I saw you,” he said finally. He took a long drink, a wet, red line above his lip pulling into a smile. “You and him. I saw you kissing him.”
The horror of it. That he had been caught. He had told his tale, convinced everyone, and all the while, Mollard was watching, waiting. How naked Léon felt. That night, that kiss that was supposed to be their goodbye. That one kiss out in the open. And this whole time, not a single word from Mollard, until now.
“Whatever you think you saw—” Léon tried, voice breaking with the pulse raging in his neck.
“You and him, I know, you have a thing. You’re one ofthem, aren’t you?” Despite the contempt on his face, his dirty fingers slid the keys towards Léon. “Take them.”
Léon reached for them, in spite of whatever implication or pit he was about to fall into.
But Mollard’s hand snapped closed on his. “On one condition.” The feeling of Mollard’s fingers on his skin senta shudder down Léon’s spine, especially when Mollard leaned close and said, “That little girl of yours…”
“Little girl?” He was speaking of Souveraine, and Léon knew it.
Mollard didn’t have to make his meaning any more clear, except with the words, “You send her around here, no questions asked, and I won’t tell anyone what I saw.”
Léon’s blood curdled.
“You don’t want her. And now I know why.” He shook his head slowly. “Should have guessed. But there’s no use letting a woman like that go to waste. So unless you want everyone to know…”
His eyelids trembled with the nausea that flooded his system. Trapped again and again and always stuck and trapped.
He could send Henry on the run, with a head start in the night, and tell him to go directly back to England. Anywhere. But where was Léon to go? Where was he to outrun this? He had no friends in Paris. He had no Robespierre on his side. He had Souveraine and Émile to protect, and all he had in the world to do it was his reputation.
“Mud sticks,” Mollard threatened, as though he needed to. “You bring her around here, you give me an hour with her, or I’ll tell them all it was you that set him free. That it was you, sleeping with him.”
“I did not,” Léon whispered.
“They won’t believe it, any more than I do. How long have you kept that pretty girl waiting? Do you think it would be hard to convince anyone? Do you think she’d like to know?”
Staring into nothing, glassy eyed, Léon replied, “I love her.”
“Then give me back those keys.” By instinct, Léon’s hand scrunched around them. He was so close. So close to freedom, so close to escape, and this—this hideous man was the only thing that stood in his way. This man who had spent years making hislife hard. This cruel and disgusting excuse for a human who had stumbled upon the single most beautiful moment of Léon’s life, and turned it against him.
“No,” Léon heard himself say.
“I’ll walk straight over and tell DuPont.” Mollard’s hand slithered off Léon’s to take another sip of his cheap wine. “I’ll tell him to watch that tower all night. I’ll tell him you’re coming for him. I’ll march him out into the square in the morning, and I’ll drop the torch myself.”
“Fine,” Léon muttered, unable to bear another moment with him. “I’ll tell her,” he lied. “I’ll make that deal with her.”
He turned to go, but Mollard’s hand was on his arm. “Empty your pockets.”
