that in a few days they were to be executed. Henry looked at her blankly for a while and then asked slowly why Leonie should suddenly say such a thing.
“It was the way Louis looked at me and spoke to me yesterday,” Leonie replied. “Papa, we must escape or we will die.”
“I, not you, my love,” Henry answered soothingly, letting his eyes drift away from his daughter’s face. “I must die. It would be better for you if I were dead. Perhaps your friend would find a way to free you. Perhaps Marot would let you go. No one could believe that you were an enemy of the state, and—I am the one he hates.”
Leonie shook her head violently. She did not know how much her father guessed about her relationship with Louis, but he must not be permitted to convince himself that it could save her. Perhaps her father knew she was Louis’ whore. Perhaps he had accepted the knowledge for the sake of the few glasses of wine, the few saline draughts, the apple or two that Leonie had smuggled down to her sick mother and brother. Leonie had hoped, however, that her father had been too shaken up with his wife’s and son’s illness and with his own sad reflections to think much about the matter. Hopefully, he thought Louis as innocent as his sweet face looked. If he did, it would save a lot of trouble.
“You know it is not so,” Leonie protested. “Would Jean-Paul let me go to cry aloud the horrors he has committed? And as far as Louis, you know he could not let me go. That would mean his death as well as mine. He could not even run away with me. Where could we go that Jean-Paul would not find us? I know I must die,” Leonie’s voice shook, “but do not condemn me to live alone until then—and then die alone.”
To Leonie’s relief her father looked at her again much more alertly. His mind had been jerked out of the deadly rut it was traveling by his daughter’s statement. Dull despair was thrust aside by rage. Leonie die too? Not without a struggle to prevent it! Henry had not considered escape previously. All four of them could never have managed, and no one would consent to leave the others, who would surely be tormented even more in punishment. Now however, there was only one to escape. No one would be left behind, because Henry fully intended to die to free his daughter.
This noble resolve had to reconsidered a moment later. Leonie had put her finger on the problem when she asked where she could go. Worse than that, how could a seventeen-year-old girl without family or friends survive in the France that his “noble” ideas had created? In the past… Henry wrenched his mind away from the past. It was dead…like François…like Marie… The numbness of despair began to drift over him again. He wished to die. At least if he died here, there was a chance he would be buried in the same grave with Marie. Henry shuddered. It was not he alone who would die. Leonie was right. Jean-Paul would never let her go, and the young guard was nothing but a child. In any case, it was a father’s duty to take care of his daughter. That was more important than his wish to die. It would be his punishment for not sending his wife and children to safety that he should be separated from Marie even in death.
“No,” he said strongly, startling and delighting Leonie. “You will not die.”
“Oh, Papa—” she began.
“No, no, listen,” Henry urged, switching to English to avoid any chance of being overheard and understood. “Let’s set aside the question of how you will escape for the moment. I have some ideas, but what you must know is where to go and what to do if we should become—separated.”
Although the implications of that word were ugly, Leonie could not help smiling. The impetuous tone, always more pronounced when her father spoke English, carried her back to the days when Papa rode the high horse of his dreams and his wife mischievously unhorsed him from time to time with practical observations. Not that Henry came
“It was the way Louis looked at me and spoke to me yesterday,” Leonie replied. “Papa, we must escape or we will die.”
“I, not you, my love,” Henry answered soothingly, letting his eyes drift away from his daughter’s face. “I must die. It would be better for you if I were dead. Perhaps your friend would find a way to free you. Perhaps Marot would let you go. No one could believe that you were an enemy of the state, and—I am the one he hates.”
Leonie shook her head violently. She did not know how much her father guessed about her relationship with Louis, but he must not be permitted to convince himself that it could save her. Perhaps her father knew she was Louis’ whore. Perhaps he had accepted the knowledge for the sake of the few glasses of wine, the few saline draughts, the apple or two that Leonie had smuggled down to her sick mother and brother. Leonie had hoped, however, that her father had been too shaken up with his wife’s and son’s illness and with his own sad reflections to think much about the matter. Hopefully, he thought Louis as innocent as his sweet face looked. If he did, it would save a lot of trouble.
“You know it is not so,” Leonie protested. “Would Jean-Paul let me go to cry aloud the horrors he has committed? And as far as Louis, you know he could not let me go. That would mean his death as well as mine. He could not even run away with me. Where could we go that Jean-Paul would not find us? I know I must die,” Leonie’s voice shook, “but do not condemn me to live alone until then—and then die alone.”
To Leonie’s relief her father looked at her again much more alertly. His mind had been jerked out of the deadly rut it was traveling by his daughter’s statement. Dull despair was thrust aside by rage. Leonie die too? Not without a struggle to prevent it! Henry had not considered escape previously. All four of them could never have managed, and no one would consent to leave the others, who would surely be tormented even more in punishment. Now however, there was only one to escape. No one would be left behind, because Henry fully intended to die to free his daughter.
This noble resolve had to reconsidered a moment later. Leonie had put her finger on the problem when she asked where she could go. Worse than that, how could a seventeen-year-old girl without family or friends survive in the France that his “noble” ideas had created? In the past… Henry wrenched his mind away from the past. It was dead…like François…like Marie… The numbness of despair began to drift over him again. He wished to die. At least if he died here, there was a chance he would be buried in the same grave with Marie. Henry shuddered. It was not he alone who would die. Leonie was right. Jean-Paul would never let her go, and the young guard was nothing but a child. In any case, it was a father’s duty to take care of his daughter. That was more important than his wish to die. It would be his punishment for not sending his wife and children to safety that he should be separated from Marie even in death.
“No,” he said strongly, startling and delighting Leonie. “You will not die.”
“Oh, Papa—” she began.
“No, no, listen,” Henry urged, switching to English to avoid any chance of being overheard and understood. “Let’s set aside the question of how you will escape for the moment. I have some ideas, but what you must know is where to go and what to do if we should become—separated.”
Although the implications of that word were ugly, Leonie could not help smiling. The impetuous tone, always more pronounced when her father spoke English, carried her back to the days when Papa rode the high horse of his dreams and his wife mischievously unhorsed him from time to time with practical observations. Not that Henry came
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