Page 42 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Yes, Léon,” she replied. She turned her head to look at him, and though he could see how scared she was, she smiled, and she said, “I die proud. Remember that. I’m going to my little girl now, and I’m not at all ashamed for what I’ve done.” He gave a melancholy nod, and she added, “We got one over on them, didn’t we?”
“We did.” Léon wanted to kiss her goodbye. To hold her. But he could do nothing more than softly stroke her face and say, “I wish this life had been kinder to you. But I believe you’re going to a better place.”
“I’m glad you’re the one sending me there.” Two tears dropped onto the black of Léon’s soft vest, but that was all he saw. He crossed the stage, he took up his axe, and a primal cry broke from the audience. So many wolves howling for meat, sharks with the scent of broken skin, base animals with no sympathy and no soul.
He’d had enough of their game.
Léon spun the axe and in one clean slice, he cut short the violent and defiant life of Sophie Cauchoix, who had been his friend. Her head landed gently at the top of the basket, on the cushion of Léon’s vest.
Defeated, rotting inside, Léon swallowed down the tears and the anger, gripped his axe tight, and used his remaining strength to lift it high above his head and shout, “The Queen is dead!”
It was an uproar. Such a popping of corks and swilling of drinks and clasping of arms and kissing of cheeks as though it were the real thing. Drip, drip, drip, and tick, tock, tick, and Léon counted out Sophie’s fading existence above the celebration of her demise. He closed his eyes, and let themcall to him, let them tell him how much they adored him, let them chant his name till it near deafened him. Then he lowered the axe, and made to retrieve her head, but before he did, he released the lunette from the haemorrhaging stump of her neck, grabbed a hold of the platform, slid it back and muttered to Catherine, “Hold on tight. Henri’s coming for you.”
He slammed the platform up. Sophie’s body rolled and fell five full feet to smack down on a bed of headless and bloodied corpses. A sharp tremor shook the scaffold, the ground all about Reims, and Léon stumbled back, grabbing the side of the guillotine for support. His eyes were drawn by Henry, his spooked horse rearing up, but Henry kept his seat expertly, eyes intent on the prison door, as though he expected Catherine to walk out at any moment.
Léon scrambled back to the edge of the scaffold to look down at the cart. To his great relief, he hadn’t heard a peep from Catherine. She must have held tight; Sophie’s body remained just as still as if there was no life to be found down there.
Léon knelt and said to the cart man, “They’ll be after that body if you don’t move fast. DuPont will be furious if he has to clean the mess up with the Parisians in town. Better take a quiet route.”
The man gave a sharp nod, not asking for any explanation about which Parisians, where, or why. The cart was closed, the horse was tapped, and off the bodies rolled, Catherine hidden safely away.
The cart drew some small interest from the crowd, so Léon made swiftly for Sophie’s head. Taking her by the hair, he walked to the side of the stage closest to the cart, and held her high to grab their full attention.
He was aching all over, inside and out. But his day’s work had just begun. Starting with getting Henry where he needed to be, and getting out there himself.
It should have been easy enough to slip away. He always went straight to Souveraine’s bar after an execution day. He would go there now, he would sneak out the back door, he would find Catherine before anyone else did.
He stalked back across the stage, Sophie’s head swinging in his fingers, a shower of blood falling with every step, and he glared at Henry. How was he supposed to get a message to him to tell him to be on his way? What was he supposed to do with Catherine if Henry wasn’t there? And where the hell was Émile?
The crowd wanted Sophie’s head, but Léon left the stage with an easy grace, as though he had no idea, placing it back in the basket on his way past, leaving his vest behind, taking his axe.
But of course, as soon as he hit the bottom step, he was accosted by about ten men, including DuPont, who announced, “The girl—she’s missing.”
“I know,” said Léon. He indicated the guard with a head tilt. “He told me. I thought I should just finish it. We’ll execute her tomorrow, quietly.”
“No, Léon, she’s not anywhere to be found. She’s missing entirely.”
He threw out a dubious laugh. “But that’s not possible. Girls don’t just disappear from a prison like Reims.”
“No, they don’t, do they?” Mollard muttered, a piercing accusation in his eyes levelled straight at Léon.
Léon wanted to smash his axe into his skull. Instead, he said swiftly to DuPont, “When you find her, you know where to find me. I’ll kill her in the morning.”
He set one very deliberate foot in front of the other and was amazed no one stopped him. But after all, he was just the headsman, nothing more. He had nothing to do with security or the running of the place. He was no administrator. He was simply hired help, walking away.
There was an elation that came with the flight. He had, it seemed, gotten away with it. They didn’t suspect him of any ill-doing, didn’t require him as a witness.
He wanted to run now, as much with excitement as with trepidation, but he controlled his pace, his axe wedged casually over his shoulder, maintaining his relaxed gait, one foot in front of the other, around the corner, and, with great relief, directly to the door of Souveraine’s bar.
Which didn’t move when he pushed it.
He tried the handle.
It didn’t budge.
Some primitive part of his brain shot out a signal that this was deeply wrong. He’d noted her absence at the execution. Now she was not at her inn on what would have been her biggest money-making day…
He could make no sense of it.
