Page 125 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Yes, I would have. I’d have been killed trying to save Catherine. Or boosting a carriage. You have saved my life numerous times. And you did it again last night. And I love you. I wish I could repay you. But there’s nothing I can do. Nothing to make up for everything you’ve been through.”
“You can drink that water.”
Henry laughed, relinquishing his hold on Léon to take another sip.
“And you’ve brought us here. Me and Émile. And Souveraine. And Henri… I made you soup.”
Henry smiled wide and adoring. “Did you?”
“I did. And now I’ve probably ruined it. I should go check.”
“Not yet.” His fingers slid into Léon’s. “Please stay close to me. For a while.”
That was all too easy for Léon to do, even if he remonstrated, “You need to eat. Something healthy. I got vegetables and mutton. It will do you good.”
Henry’s stomach begged for it after so many small, hard cheese scones. But he was already dwelling on their finances, awake to the guilt of having let Léon down by getting sick. “Please don’t spend your money on me.”
Léon smiled with redoubled excitement. “I didn’t. It was your article, Henri. I didn’t get to tell you. Obviously. But I took it over there, and they loved it. It made the front page. It’s going to be on today’s paper.”
This news was stranger to Henry than everything preceding. He barely remembered writing it. Some vision of a quill, swimming in nausea. “What do you mean?”
But Léon was too exuberant with his reawakening, with being able to tell him the good news, to catch his confusion in full. “It’s going out to all of Paris this very day. And they want you to write more. You’ll have money, you'll have influence. You’ll have all the things you ever wanted. This is it, Henri. You’ve done it.”
Henry pulled Léon’s hand to his lips. He must have written it, he supposed. And if everything Léon said was true, it must have been good. Even if he didn’t remember a damn word of it. He took in Léon’s expectant, happy face, and, wanting only smiles there, threw away his caution. “I’ll have everything I ever wanted if you stay in Paris.”
“Of course I will,” he assured him. “I can’t ever be without you again. And more than that, I believe in you. I believe in all the beautiful things you say. I believe you’re going to change everything. I believe the goodness in you will seep into the hearts of every person who reads or hears your words, and this revolution… Nothing can stop it. They’ll kill the King. And then we’re going to be so happy.”
“We are, Léon,” Henry whispered, bolstered body and soul by Léon’s love for him. “This is really it. This is our happy ending.”
55
THINGS FALL APART. AGAIN.
Léon had left the soup over the fire the whole night through, but as luck would have it, he’d never used a kitchen fireplace in his life. The wood had burned away slowly, cooking the soup on the lowest possible simmer until, when the morning came, it was rich and unctuous and full of all the life-giving goodness Léon believed would make Henry better.
He relinquished the pleasure of feeding Henry himself only because Catherine was so insistent she should do it, and he didn’t want to risk her exploding the bowl of soup all over them. Also, she was his sister, and had, somewhat, saved his life.
Henry remained weak. After the effort of eating and washing, his body was shaking all over. Léon got him back into bed and stayed just as long as he could. Long enough to see Henry’s eyes close, to know he was healing.
Then he departed, slinging his axe over his shoulder before stepping out into a crisp September morning.
Léon’s purpose in finding employment had only been to pay the medical bills, and to acquire some decent sustenance for the group, specifically Henry. But now, seeing the strength the illness had sapped from Henry’s body, Léon knew a few days ofwork wouldn’t be enough. He needed food for all of them on an ongoing basis—good food—which came at a premium in the city.
He bought a newspaper on the way to work, brimming with pride to see the front page. It came with a little graphic of Louis’ head, decapitated, dripping blood. Léon’s fingers traced greedily over the black ink, searching for Henry’s name. He thought he found it. He overheard people at the newspaper stand talking about the article, and he thought he felt the distinct buzz of approval in the air.
He swung by Guillotin’s office and asked him to come see Henry as soon as possible. Guillotin was surprised to hear he’d lasted the night, then astounded to hear he’d eaten breakfast and walked around. He hastened to go to him, so Léon asked him to take the newspaper to Henry, and he walked on.
He arrived at Place de la Révolution at exactly ten a.m., as requested, and there met the eyes of his new employer, Charles-Henri Sanson.
Gripping his axe tight, he trod up the steep and creaking stairs, and once again found himself standing atop the executioner’s scaffold. A place, a week earlier, he thought he’d never set foot again.
Sanson regarded him grimly. “Have you seen the paper yet?”
Rather than admit he couldn’t read, Léon replied in the affirmative. “I bought it for him just now.”
“It was strong stuff. Radical, even.”
Sanson shook his head, but Léon smiled. That was Henry all over. Henry with his beautiful and provocative words. Henry, with his powerful beliefs and determination to fix the world for all of them. “People seem excited. Everyone appears to be talking about it.”
