Page 56

56

PARIS REVOLUTIONS

L éon 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. Doing what 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?—”

“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 were yours, 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 no other choice. Instead, he stroked his face and whispered, “I only wish all things were as beautiful as you are, Henri.”