Page 20 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
And there he cut off. A flare of fear, new and mingled with that which had already overtaken him, widened Henry’s eyes. Henry’shazeleyes. And for the first time, in that look and that look only, Léon recognised the eyes he’d seen that very morning. Eyes scared and hidden in blonde hair, nothing like Henry’s, which was dark and ragged with worry. Eyes in a face small and round, in no way the reflection of these hard and proud edges before him, that cleft chin and strong jawline. But those were the very eyes. Eyes that had drawn his empathy once, and did again now. Suddenly the toys and the cakes and the choice of a belovedlittle brother as a bargaining chip all made sense to Léon. He saw Henry, for the first time, as the man he was. “Tell me what she did.”
“Nothing. There’s nothing.” Such a vague and desperate reply. Henry tapped a finger down on the paper, trying to buy time and distraction. “Draw the prison.”
“I know her,” Léon said starkly. “I talked to her this morning.” The hopeful flame jumped back into Henry’s eyes, and though he made no reply, his gaze urged Léon to talk. Léon said, gently this time, his voice and his head low by Henry’s, “She’s to be killed tomorrow. With the rest of them.”
“What time?” Henry asked.
“It’s yet to be decided. But I am the one to decide, and I am the one to do it. And if I don’t, if someone else does, it will be far worse for her.”
Henry turned away, mechanical, just as strange and inhuman as the wind-up cat. He took up its leash with a dullness to his gait that spoke of his hopelessness. It had a finality to it. A resigned air. Léon recognised it as the same walk some men took to his chopping block, when there wasn’t anything left for them to lose.
Léon decided to reveal what little he thought he knew. “She’s your sister.”
Henry’s movement didn’t stall. He threw the rope down within reach of Émile, who stayed still, only watched Henry make for his bag, shoving things into it, packing to leave.
Léon said, “I promised I’d bring her something to eat. I thought to gather some strawberries from the forest. If you’d rather, I can take her something else. Along with a message.”
Henry paused. He paused for so long an ice chill took Léon as he eyed the gun by Henry’s still fingers. It occurred to him, now that he’d seen that isolated walk, now that he knew how close to the edge this man was, it would cost him very little to kill bothLéon and Émile. And he didn’t take another breath until Henry finally asked, “Did she talk to you?”
“No,” Léon replied. “She’s mute, is she not?”
Henry’s head bowed in a slow nod. “That’s right.”
He turned and sat down on the bed, face framed in his hands, much the way Léon had when he’d discovered his brother missing. His brother, who even now was fast by his side, his small fingers more frantic in their twists of his hair, the smooth touch of it calming him, as it always did. As it calmed Léon to feel it again. And he wondered what small affections like these Henry shared with the girl in the cell. He felt in his heart a touch of whatever Henry must be feeling, knowing she was to die in the morning, after spending the night in that cold and horrible place. His hand wrapped around Émile’s in an unconscious motion, the warmth of his skin deeply reassuring. “Tell me what she did.”
He shook his head and gave out a bitter half laugh. “She didn’t do anything.”
“They don’t put people in prison for doing nothing.”
“Oh, don’t they?”
“Not like that. Not in the condemned cells. Not without a black mark against her name. She must have done, or have been accused of, something terrible.”
Another laugh, but barely the ripple of one, ending in a lifeless, “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
“Does it matter if I believe you?”
The statement held so many conflicting emotions for Henry that he slipped back into silence.
No. In the grand scheme of things, it hardly mattered. She was to die. Any number of men had decided her fate, signed papers, transferred her, bound her wrists and locked her away, and all of them did it, and none of them cared. And the very man who was to take her life sat before him now, and he had probablytaken hundreds of lives, and why should this one matter any more than the rest?
But it did matter to Henry what Léon thought. It mattered deep inside that he should hear—that anyone should listen and hear, and know, at least one of them, that she didn’t deserve what they’d all decided to do to her. So he began, “There was an incident. On… On the ship. From England?—”
Léon cut in with a surprised, “You’re English?” The man’s accent was strange, one he didn’t recognise, but he hadn’t pegged him as a foul and duplicitous Englishman, though that would explain a lot.
His accent came back more French-sounding than before when Henry replied, “No. Of course not. But we had been overseas. For some time. Perhaps I’ve developed a small accent.” Léon studied him, and Henry added, “We’re from Toulouse.”
Having no idea what an accent from Toulouse sounded like, Léon accepted the statement for what it was. “Then you must hate the English too, given the way they’ve ravaged your city. I’m surprised you’d want to visit them.”
“It’s complicated,” Henry sighed out. “And not at all the point of my story. Now if you’ll let me continue?”
Léon shrugged in response.
Henry gave a nod, then, “There were… It was night. On the ship. And some people—well, some men—there was an accident. Six or, uh, possibly,” he scratched his chin, rushing out the word, “sixteen, perhaps, went overboard?—”
“Sixteen?” Léon repeated.
“Yes.” He threw up an irritated hand at Léon’s interruption.
