Page 97 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
He looked at her then, properly, and realised the clothes she wore, of course, were not her own. A simple skirt and blouse,not the fantastical dress-up Catherine seemed to want to play. But how radiant she looked in every part of her person except her expression. Émile talked on about what he’d been doing the whole time Léon had been gone, dragging Léon to sit on the bed with him, his fingers curling in Léon’s hair, pulling at the threads as he chattered. All while Souveraine leaned against the wall looking like she wanted to cry, her face so serene Léon knew it as a mask.
“Do you want to show him my room?” she eventually asked Émile. “You run in and light the lamp so he can get a good look.”
Émile acquiesced and was successfully ejected from the room, leaving the two of them alone. She waited for him to start. But he didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t going to be what she wanted to hear.
Meanwhile, downstairs, locked in the dining room and out of earshot, Catherine’s face was the very double of Souveraine’s.
Her many questions about what exactly had happened to Henry were answered in whatever manner Henry could employ to ease her troubles while making Léon look good. No, it wasn’t Léon’s fault that he got arrested. Yes, he’d been recognised as the Black Baron. Probably shouldn’t have boosted that last carriage, eh? Yes, he was perfectly well, but only because Léon broke him out of prison.
“So what happens now?” Catherine asked. “What are we supposed to do with him?”
“With him?” Henry replied. “I don’t understand what you mean. He’ll stay here?—”
“I want to leave, Henry. I want to go.” She flicked her fingers open and closed as she spoke, a sign Henry knew well as building stress. She began to pace, her voice ramping up. “Paris isn’t what we thought. Everything’s?—”
“Calm down, Cathy.”
“I won’t calm down!”
A similar conversation had begun upstairs, only Léon was having a much harder time painting Henry as anything but a villain, with good reason. Yes, he’d gone back for him. Yes, he’d helped him escape. No, he wasn’t afraid of him, or acting under any sort of duress.
“After everything he did to you?” Souveraine asked, eyes wide in disbelief.
“If it was Émile in Catherine’s place, I would have done the same thing,” he returned, all too flippantly.
“No, Léon.” Her head shaking, voice coming on a scared laugh, “You never would have done that.”
“Do you think I’d have let him go to his death? How is that any better than what Henry did?”
Souveraine stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and perhaps he had. “Do you remember yourself when he took him? Do you remember how scared you were? That you came to me for help over and over, that I committed a crime to save Cathy, that he kidnapped me!”
“Souveraine, I’m sorry. I?—”
“And you left us, and it’s terrifying here!” A hand flung out in frightened anger. “Do you have any idea what’s been happening in Paris?”
“He kept me very busy,” Henry replied to a similar question from his sister. “He’s very needy, but in a good way.”
Running a hand across her brow in frustrated embarrassment, Catherine returned, “I’m glad you had fun. Meanwhile, we’ve been busy trying not to die.”
Henry scoffed. “Come on. It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“It’s worse,” Souveraine advised Léon upstairs. “They’re arresting everyone. Everyone they think might be a traitor to their cause—a monarchist in the loosest sense of the word. Journalists, priests, people standing in bread lines who complain about standing in breadlines!”
“The prisons are overflowing,” Catherine went on. “Full to the point they can’t take anyone else.”
“Except they didn’t do anything wrong,” said Souveraine. “They didn’t do a thing but exist and have their own thoughts. And they’re the lucky ones, those that get arrested. I’ve seen people dragged through the streets and murdered.” Léon took Souveraine into his arms as she began to cry. “This woman, I don’t know what she did, hacked to pieces in front of me.”
“It’s mob violence,” said Catherine. “They’ve burned people alive. Others, they drown in the river.”
“And I’m sure you heard about the incursion at the Palace,” Souveraine continued.
“Hundreds dead,” said Catherine. “They’re still counting.”
Léon recalled his ride past the Tuileries Palace, the priest swinging. “I’m so sorry. I wish you’d never seen any of it. It’s awful.”
While Henry railed, “Where do you get your information? There must be some mistake. That sort of thing goes against the very principles of the revolution.”
“Exactly!” Catherine hissed. “If you go outside, and you’re not wearing a cockade, you’re likely to end up in pieces strewn across the city. All because you forgot to wear a pin!”
