Page 96 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“Léon…” She kissed his cheek.
Henry’s voice came sharply, “Did you want to see the house, Léon?”
Souveraine’s head snapped across, but her ruby lips made no more response than an almost-sneer.
Émile’s two hands were on Léon’s cheeks, his nose pushing hard into Léon’s. “I want to show you.”
Léon wiped a tear onto his sleeve, smiling widely. “All right. You show me.”
Émile squiggled to the ground, but rather than go straight inside, he dashed to Henry, who caught him up in a bear hug. Émile let Henry get one kiss on each cheek before his excitement overcame him and he was back at Léon’s side, clasping his hand. He pulled him fast, while Souveraine took the other hand. Léon threw a happy look back at Henry, who trailed in behind him, a tight smile plastered on his face.
Yes, he was happy,thrilled, to see Émile back with Léon. But just where was he supposed to fit into this family reunion?
But Léon’s mind was on the next thing. Nothing could have prepared him for the opulence of Henry’s father’s house. He didn’t know ceilings outside of cathedrals could be so high, and that he only knew from peeking in dark doorways when he walked past, the eyes of bishops scowling him away from the entrance. But none of this design was heavy with the weight of religious reverence. This was all light. Like floating into a room. The scale of space was dreamlike, and it felt… All at once, it felt ludicrously empty, but achingly beautiful. Melancholy. Asthough something were missing, but also like there was all the space in the world to fill it up with. Space and cleanliness.
Léon felt filthy when he walked in there, physically and mentally. A lifetime of being the killer or the killer’s son came back on him. He sought Henry’s eyes, all of Émile’s chatter, a sharp and fragmentary pounding in his head.
Henry wanted to go to him, take his hand and ease him in to what wasn’t really his home either. But those two beloved tokens of Léon’s life before Henry held him tight, and Henry could only say, “What’s mine is yours. I’ll find you some clothes, and anything else you need.” Catherine came in just then, pulling the door closed, locking it up tight, and throwing the room into darkness. “Is that really necessary?” Henry asked, moving for the candelabra.
“Don’t light it,” she said, placing a hand over his. “We’re saving candles. Father’s taken everything of value and we can’t afford to buy more. So yes, very necessary, all of it.” She forced a smile for Léon’s sake. “My father’s bedroom has been kept spare for you, but I’m afraid it’s a little austere. I’ve put Souveraine in mother’s room, and Émile has the best guest bedroom, but if you’d prefer a different room, just say the word.”
The whole concept of a ‘bedroom’ was something Léon hadn’t once in his life had to think about. The idea of all these rooms felt like it was sinking him into the floor, making him smaller and smaller as he imagined what must lie above in that strange and hidden townhouse.
“He’ll be next to me.” Henry’s statement was exactly that—not a question or suggestion—it was fact. It provoked a wary flash of Souveraine’s eyes, not due to the content but the tone.
“Come, Léon!” Émile strained at his hand so hard Léon was pulled a step forward.
“Just let me…” He didn’t want to walk on the polished floors with his dirty boots. But he didn’t want to take them off and havethem all see his ragged socks, not that Henry hadn’t already seen them. But it felt so different now.
Henry scrunched his fingers lest he reach out for Léon. Already they were separated, not the men of the day before, alone and in each other’s arms. The charade had begun, and Henry despised every second of it.
Then Catherine placed a hand on his forearm. “We need to talk.” She turned to the boy. “Émile, can you please show Léon around?”
“But I want to show him around,” Henry whined, sounding rather like a child himself. Catherine levelled dark eyes at him, which drew a curt, “Fine,” from taut lips.
Thus, Henry was drawn away to the boarded-up living room for a chat, while Léon was dragged up the stairs to bear witness to the excesses of clan De Villiers.
43
TÊTE-À-TÊTE
Léon couldn’t have known that morning was the gloomiest Henry had ever seen his father’s house. During their absence, Catherine had been busy knocking nails into every wall, barricading windows with planks from unused beds, ripping cupboards apart for supplies. But even in that state, the place was ten thousand times brighter and more homely than Léon’s shack had ever been. He imagined the roof never leaked, and that mice would be too embarrassed to try to sneak in. Everything had been gathering dust for months, but Léon didn’t notice a patch of it on ascension of the remarkably wide staircase.
He arrived in a long and wide hallway. Down the end was a beautiful oasis of gold and maroon. There wasn’t a speck of furniture in sight from his vantage point, but the mouldings along the boarded-up windows in that room looked gorgeous to his keen eyes.
Émile eagerly led him past two other doorways that peeked into more bedrooms, dark and mysterious, and then they were on their way up to the next level. The boy, of course, hadn’t stopped talking, and it was soothing to Léon, even if he was too tired and bewildered to provide much in the way of meaningfulfeedback. Émile didn’t need it. He was just happy to have his brother, and Souveraine kept up all the little ‘mmm’ and ‘aha’ sounds necessary, looking a world away herself, waiting for a moment to talk to Léon in private. He was desperate to talk to her too, in part, but also scared to death of the conversation that might ensue.
Émile broke into a run on reaching the second landing, forcing Léon into a tripping jog behind him. Halfway down the hall, he flung a partially ajar door wide with such enthusiasm the handle banged into the wall, making Léon jump as though he were about to be marched straight to the guillotine to pay his debt for the offence of vandalising a rich man’s house. But Émile only sprinted into the middle of the huge bedroom and turned, his face so delighted it just about broke Léon’s heart.
White walls, sparkling white. A bed as large as the one he’d shared with Henry at the inn, but just for Émile. A thick rug underfoot on perfectly polished wood, lanterns and dressers, a toy horse and carriage, balls, books, a space that was all completely his. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Émile breathed.
“It is!” Léon said, far too cheerfully. “It’s great. You’ve got everything.”
“You should see mine,” Souveraine replied, a disparaging lilt in her voice beneath a top note of admiration. Her tone said what Léon wouldn’t say in front of Émile: it wasn’t for them; they were about to return to the struggle of Reims.
The concern on her face was real. Her inn was much nicer than Léon’s hovel, and she pitied the boy. Léon’s refusal to move in with her had always added a sort of insult to injury, the fact Léon would put them both through that life when her wide and warm bed was waiting for him.
If only she knew he was doing it for her as much as himself.
