Page 127 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
He knew better now.
56
PARIS REVOLUTIONS
Léon took a long time to go inside that evening. He fed the horses, taking stock of their dwindling grain stores. He talked to Destroyer, sure Destroyer wouldn’t understand a word from him, but curious about whether he might, all the same. The horse proved as affectionate as ever, and it was comforting, the press of his warm nuzzle, no questions, no expectations.
But he had to face it, eventually.
He took off his boots before he went anywhere near the front door, leaving the base of them in a shallow pool of water to soak off the blood of the streets. He entered quietly, but Émile greeted him immediately and exuberantly, telling him a lot about Ancient Greece, which he supposed was a nice thing. He talked some few light minutes with Catherine and Souveraine.
Guillotin had been to visit. He said Henry had made the most remarkable recovery he’d ever seen. But for all that, though it looked like he would live, Guillotin had left strict orders for Henry to rest as much as possible. Bed bound. Not to be moved.
“For how long?” Léon asked weakly.
“I don’t know,” Catherine replied. “But not anytime soon. Months, possibly.”
His eyes sought Souveraine’s, and she smiled back as pleasantly as any other person who hadn’t set foot outside their city palace that day might. “I am quite content,” she assured him.
Four words designed to set him at ease. Spoken with love and kindness and imperfect information with which to make that decision.
He would have to tell her, but something in the way Catherine smiled at her then, in their closeness, and after the great shock Catherine had endured so recently…
They would find out soon enough. With the evening correspondence, or the morning paper, which one of Henry’s or Catherine’s friends would be sure to send.
He excused himself and trudged up the broken stairs. Either Catherine or Souveraine had repaired what they could. He noted that chunks of debris had been removed from the hallway, and at the end of it, Henry’s door had been set back on its hinges.
It opened imperfectly, with a wobbling and a creaking, but it opened on a scene that was so very close to perfect.
The room had been set in as much order as was possible. Glass and broken furniture had been taken away, papers and books tidied, the bedding freshly changed, and Henry… Henry sitting up in bed, writing.
He threw the quill down at Léon’s entrance. “Where have you been? It’s dark out. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Bread line,” Léon lied.
“All day?”
“No, I, uh…” Léon climbed up onto the bed next to him. “I got lost.” He laughed bashfully—a show of feeling bashful—meant to hide the scenes that were playing out behind his eyes.
Henry took his hand. “I’m sorry. I should have been there.”
“No, you should not,” Léon said just as strongly as he could project his voice. “You should have been here. Working. Doingwhat you do best.” He looked down at the many words on the papers in front of Henry. “Another article?”
Henry’s eye lit just like Léon always wanted them to. “Guillotin brought me the paper. From you. Thank you.” Henry kissed his cheek, then picked up the paper by his side, running a hand across the front page. “It ran so well, they’ve asked me to start a regular column.” With a slight blush, “I’ll admit, I’m a little worried.”
Léon moved closer, returning the kiss to Henry’s cheek. “Why? People loved it.”
“I know. It’s just that…” He let out an oddly hollow laugh. “I honestly don’t remember writing half of this.”
“What?” Léon wrapped a hand around the edge of the paper, as though he’d be able to read it.
“I know I did. I must have. There are so many phrases here that I use regularly, things I say, or think, a lot. But it’s so…” A slight shadow fell across his brow. “It’s so ‘fevered’, and I believe I was rather ill when I wrote it. I have some memory. But…” He focused on the page, searching. “See here?” He read the quote aloud: “‘Every man unwilling to die for the republic is a traitor to the cause, and should be put to death at once.’”
Léon looked sharply across at Henry, whose cheeks bloomed a shade darker. “I don’t think that. I don’t. Obviously, there’s a place for the King’s death. We can hardly move on while he’s a threat, but… Look here. ‘The only good priest is a dead priest.’’’ He talked on, avoiding Léon’s falling face, which he took for reproach. “Even if it’s true, I never would have actually said it in print.” He found another quote. “‘If the Prussian army should reach Paris before all the traitors in our prisons are duly executed, there is no doubt those thousands of degenerates will rise up against our own people and the revolution. They must be done away with at once’. Does that sound like something I’d say?”
“It doesn’t,” said Léon. “It doesn’t at all. Remember when you called me nothing but an unthinking arm of the law, and said there would be no use for me after the revolution?”
In perfect earnest, “You know I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t know you. And I didn’t mean it?—”
