Page 128 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“No, that’s not my point. You’ve been against the death penalty from the start. That article goes against everything you believe in. Why would you have written that?”
“Delirium, I suppose. I had… Well, many and fevered dreams.”
“None that would make you go against your principles. I know that much of you, Henri. That’s who you are, all the way to your core. That’s what makes you Henri, your beautiful ideals. Your perfect vision. You are not the man who calls for others to die, certainly not summarily with no fair trial. Not your countrymen. Not…” Horror on horror piled on top of Léon as he spoke. People holding Henry’s paper that morning, people roused by his ‘radical’ ideas. The assembly speeches that called for the very things his article did, right after the release of it. The brutality and the death he’d seen in the streets.
Henry’s hand slid beneath Léon’s jaw. “What’s wrong?”
Léon searched his expression, trying not to expose the depth of his own fear. “Did you write that?”
Henry’s eyes fell back to the paper, the lines around them etched with worry. “They have an editor. And I suppose they do embellish a little on what one writes sometimes… But… Well…” He tried to laugh it off, for Léon’s sake, though it sat heavier and heavier on his chest with every passing second. “No harm done,” he said softly.
Léon shook his head. “I should never have taken that in. Not without you approving it when you were well. When you would have remembered, and been sure which of these words wereyours, and which were not. If only I could have read it.” Tears started to Léon’s eyes as the enormity of the mistake hit him.
“Oh, Ange.” Henry tsked his tongue, then shifted a little closer, “It doesn’t matter. This is normal. It’s what editors do. So what if it’s a little dramatic? It paid the bills, didn’t it?”
“It does matter,” Léon said, turning his head down, hair hiding his face. “I saw something today.”
“What?” Henry was all concern, but Léon became aware then of the tremble of his muscles. It was the effort of sitting up for so long. The effort of holding himself steady, after having written. But he stayed there, his breath coming ragged, trying to be strong for Léon.
Léon rearranged a pillow behind him. “Lie down.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Lie down.” Léon pulled the little table Henry had been using to write on away from him, throwing the newspaper on the floor. Henry grumbled out weak protests, and Léon pushed him gently back onto his pillow. He lay down by his side, taking a hand across his waist. Léon stared long into the depths of Henry’s gold-flecked eyes.
Henry couldn’t raise a hand to his cheek like he wanted; the pain of his arm was too much. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Henri… If we weren’t in Paris, where would we go?”
He saw the immediate disappointment on Henry’s face. The desolation of a dream crushed with so few words. It was a question he couldn't possibly answer. It was Paris or die for Henry. There wasn’t a world outside his dream. It simply didn’t exist.
With a rare tear forming at the corner of his eye, Henry asked, “Are you leaving me?”
Léon made himself smile. “No.” He kissed Henry. “I could never leave you. You’re the world. You brought me back to life, and should I leave you, I will die once again.”
“Ange, why are you talking like that? What happened today?”
The blood and the screams, the grins and the weapons, and the heads. Léon blinked it away behind long lashes. “I think sometimes all the good in the world is here in this house. I think it is in your heart. And you take it wherever you go. I don’t ever want that to change.”
“Why would it?”
“Good hearts are so easily let down by bad people,” Léon whispered, moving his hand to Henry’s chest, a teardrop wetting the pillow. “I want to protect you from that. And when I can’t protect you…” His lips trembled, his hazy vision of Henry melting before his wet eyes. “I feel so useless. I feel like I’m back on the scaffold. I would like it to all to stop now.”
“Ange…”
Léon pulled Henry’s good arm beneath his neck, wrapping both arms around him. “Please, just hold me. Tonight. And tell me it’s us. And that…” His breath caught in his throat, choked off by tears. “Would you always love me? Henri, do you think you could love me as much as you love…” But how could he compete with a dream? A man of flesh and blood that offered none of the promise of Henry’s revolution.
“I love you more than all the world,” Henry said. “I would choose you every time, and it doesn’t matter if it’s Paris or London, or anywhere else. It doesn’t matter to me. If I’m with you, I promise, I’ll be happy. If you want to leave, tell me. We’ll go tomorrow.”
But they couldn’t. Not with Henry ill and all the violence outside. And in the morning, Henry would hear the news. That his article had resulted in the deaths of perhaps two dozen priests. Maybe even more.
Léon kissed him again. He couldn’t stand to be the one to break his heart. Not until the morning, when he would have noother choice. Instead, he stroked his face and whispered, “I only wish all things were as beautiful as you are, Henri.”
57
THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST
As was his habit, Léon woke before dawn. And as he had predicted, it was to a barrage of letters and three newspapers, sent by friends, delivered through the slot in the front gate.
