The Collector of Dying Breaths (29 page)

Chapter 35

THE PRESENT

MONDAY, MARCH 24

BARBIZON, FRANCE

Jac woke up in the laboratory, feeling drugged and groggy. Looking at her mother’s wristwatch, she calculated that she’d been sleeping there, at René’s work space, for over three hours. The dream—but it wasn’t a dream—wasn’t blurred and ephemeral. The memories were as fresh as if she’d lived them the day before. As she relived what she’d experienced, sadness overwhelmed her, and she sat there and wept.

After a few minutes Jac roused herself. The solution needed to macerate for twenty-four hours, and it had already begun without one important ingredient. She needed the lemons.

Serge was in the kitchen. He was wearing maroon silk pajamas and a silk robe, with distinctive paisley velvet slippers from a store Jac knew on the Right Bank in Paris. Despite all the accoutrements he looked tired. His skin looked gray.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Hi. Can’t sleep?”

He nodded. “The last twenty-four hours have left me shaken.”

“Me too.”

“Would you like a cup of chocolate? I made enough for an army.”

“Yes, that would be great,” she said.

As he stood, he seemed to take note of her clothes. “At least I tried to go to sleep,” he said.

“I’ve been downstairs all night. I started mixing the formula. I didn’t think I was going to but . . .”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? How far did you get?”

“I’ve done everything but add the lemons.”

“And after the lemons—what next?”

“We wait twenty-four hours before the next step.”

“What does it smell like so far?”

“A very aromatic liqueur. The brandy is overwhelming everything else.” She thought about René and his personal oak moss and musk scent.

“I’m relieved that you have everything you need . . .”

“Except the lemons.” She smiled. “By far the easiest ingredient.”

He smiled back at her, but it was halfhearted. Serge turned off the burner and poured out the dark shiny chocolate. After putting a steaming cup in front of her, he returned to his seat.

“You did everything you could to save that man’s life,” Jac said.

Serge picked up a spoon and stirred the liquid in his cup, but he remained quiet.

“I watched you. You gave him your own breath.” Jac lifted the cup and took a sip. “This is delicious. My grandmother used to make it just like this with real melted chocolate, not powdered cocoa.”

“It takes more time to melt the chocolate, but it’s an effort that more than pays off.” He took a sip but then shook his head as if the taste had been so good he felt guilty.

Or was that Jac’s imagination?

“It’s very difficult to watch someone die,” Jac said.

“Yes. It is. And I’ve seen too many people lose their battle . . .”

She interrupted. “Serge, how could Melinoe have gone back and taken the ingredients from Bruge’s laboratory? In that moment—with all that was going on—how could she have been so merciless?”

“She’s not someone who is easy to understand.”

“No one is easy to understand . . . but how can you watch someone dying and think to use that moment to steal something from them?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Serge turned away. Looked at the stove. At the sink. Anywhere but at Jac’s eyes.

“It didn’t happen exactly the way you think it did . . .” he whispered.

Jac had to lean in to hear him.

“What didn’t?”

“Bruge’s accident . . . it
was
an accident . . . but . . .”

“But what?” Jac was certain that Serge, despite his one weakness for Melinoe, was not a cold-blooded killer.

His face was collapsing. His features softening into misery. His eyes filled with tears that remained unshed. His voice was barely even a whisper now. “Melinoe had wanted me to create some kind of accident so he’d be hurt and then to help him . . . save him . . . so that he’d feel so grateful that he’d sell her the ingredients.”

“Did you somehow make that branch fall?”

“No, it just happened. The branch broke off and knocked him down.”

“And then?”

Serge was quiet. Had Bruge really cracked his head on the stone, or had Melinoe bashed his head in with the rock?

Jac didn’t bother to ask. Even if Serge knew, which she doubted, she was certain he’d never turn his stepsister in.

“When Melinoe realized that Bruge had been mortally wounded, she took advantage of that fact to go back and take what she wanted?” Jac asked.

Again, Serge didn’t respond. But someone else did.

“No!”

In reaction to the single word, Serge closed his eyes.

Jac turned. Melinoe stood in the doorway. Her hair was wild with Medusa-like curls. Her eyes blazed with anger. The skin around her mouth was white with rage. She was wearing a long silk black robe edged with silver lace. Her large diamond earrings sparkled in the dim light. She looked like one of the furies.

“Discuss our business with a stranger? Serge, how could you?”

Even though she’d voiced it as a question, Jac knew it was an accusation. There would be consequences for Serge for having broken a confidence. And for her too, she feared. For she’d been the one to hear his confession, and that might have been the greater sin.

Chapter 36

MARCH 25, 1573

BARBIZON, FRANCE

The following week there was a crisis at court.

For months Catherine had been carefully planning to marry off her daughter Margaret, a Catholic, to the Protestant Henry of Navarre in order to quiet the religious uprisings. In exchange for giving Henry strongholds throughout France and the potential of his son being heir to the throne, Catherine expected he would agree to marry inside our cathedral and accept his wife’s religion. Catherine believed such a wedding might bring peace to France and end the violent wars that pitted citizen against citizen.

I always wondered about a God who wanted his flock killing one another over the ways that he was worshipped. But men are monsters all, and something in them wants to force others to see the world the same way they see it. More people had been killed in my lifetime over that eternal need to be right than any other battle.

Over the years, I’d had clients purchase poisoned garments or tinctures to add to food to exact revenge because they had been cuckolded or deceived. Those were reasons I could understand for taking action. Stealing your wife, your gold, your land, your belongings. Promising fealty and then taking it away. Yes, anger. Yes, revenge. But kill because my church has pomp and yours does not?

No, I was not that naive—it was really kill because you want power over me. Well, power or no, the queen had come up with what she thought was a reasonable way to quell the mobs.

Margaret, though, had other plans. The willful princess was carrying on a dalliance with Henry de Guise, whose family was at the heart of the anti-Protestant sentiment.

One afternoon she’d come to my shop and asked for a special fragrance. “Something that will make me unforgettable, René,” she’d said. And then whispered, “Unforgettable to a lover.”

Although she hadn’t used his name, I’d known who the lover was. Margaret was careful, but the court was rife with gossip. I’d even seen her, in the Tuileries, with de Guise when Catherine was not at court.

I concocted a blend of honey and lilacs and tuberose with a hint of cinnamon. She wasn’t a fair, fragile woman but a bold one with thick dark hair and blazing eyes.
The scent worked well for her,
I’d thought.

Henry de Guise must have thought so too because Margaret sent her lady back for refills every other week for a month. I’d been pleased that my handiwork was successful.

Isabeau had told me that she, along with other ladies of the court, sometimes spied on Margaret through a crack in the floorboards. I was hardly shocked. Hadn’t my queen done such a thing? Spied on her own husband with his mistress?

“Margaret is wild with her lover,” Isabeau told me. “Their lovemaking sessions last sometimes three or four hours. She’s willing to do anything he wants, and apparently he wants quite a lot. He likes her to dress up for him in costumes.”

The stories circulating court were quite explicit. One night she had dressed like a nun, and he took her while she wore her habit. Another time she’d dressed like a soldier. Yet another like a poor milkmaid. And his appetite, Isabeau said, was equally matched by hers.

“She is obsessed with him and his attentions, and sometimes she asks him to walk back and forth, naked, while she sketches his body.” Isabeau blushed. “One of the ladies found one of those drawings. It must have slipped under the bed. It was of de Guise naked and fully erect. Can you imagine what a prize that drawing is? She will be able to blackmail the princess Margaret for whatever she wants with it.”

On that fateful day that changed our lives, Margaret had invited de Guise to her rooms, and they were once again playacting. She had taken a crown from the royal vault and was wearing it with an ermine cape that belonged to the queen. Underneath the fur, she was naked. They were in the midst of their theatrics, enacting a scene where he played a nobleman come to beg for the court’s help.

De Guise was naked, kneeling in front of her, and she was teasing his cock with a gold bejeweled scepter when the door burst open, and Catherine and Charles IX burst in along with a retinue of guards. De Guise was grabbed, ushered out of the princess’s room, out of the Louvre and thrown onto the street, his clothes following.

Meanwhile Margaret’s screams, it was said, could be heard throughout the palace. She kept shrieking the duke’s name, over and over, as they took him away. Catherine slapped her daughter and called her a whore. Told her to be quiet, but still Margaret screamed. Charles took over for his mother and beat his sister, cursing her all the while.

It wasn’t moral outrage that inflamed Catherine and her son. Margaret was interfering with their political campaign. The queen’s plan required her daughter be a virgin princess, so the affair was putting the Navarre union in jeopardy. Even now I cannot blame Catherine for her fury. She wasn’t an evil potentate. My lady just wanted peace in France and an end to the fighting. It was a noble wish.

“Your selfish ways are putting my efforts at risk. You cannot give in to base, fleeting desires,” Catherine shouted at her weeping, naked daughter. “You are a princess who will one day be the queen of Navarre. Your behavior is not befitting the Crown.”

As Catherine lectured, the king flogged Margaret with a leather whip, lashing her cowering form. One of the ladies said that Charles was flushed and appeared excited by the thrashing, until, finally the queen ended the beating.

“Margaret is being kept locked in her room for several days and nights,” Isabeau said when she related the tale to me. “It may be weeks.”

“Why are you crying, Isabeau? Is the princess that badly hurt?” I asked.

“She has deep welts that could scar. Her women are applying oils to them.”

I nodded. “They came to buy them this morning. I prepared them not knowing what they were for. Now I know why they seemed so subdued.

“Her skin will repair itself. Don’t worry,” I said to Isabeau. “I didn’t know you were so close to Margaret, but she will be all right. A princess can’t fall in love with whomever she sees fit. Surely you understand that.”

“I didn’t think they would beat her.”

“I’m surprised about that too, but she’ll recover.”

“But they’ve imprisoned the princess for falling in love with the wrong man. For doing what I have done, don’t you see?”

I didn’t, not really. “No, why is this distressing you so?”

“Because it’s my fault.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Your fault? How on earth can this have anything to do with you?”

“I told the queen about the assignation. I bribed Margaret’s ladies to tell me as soon as Henry de Guise next came to the palace and they were together. Once I got word, I went to the queen, and offered her the information in exchange for permission to marry you.”

I was stunned by Isabeau’s confession. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

“You would have talked me out of it.”

“Yes, I would have. Guilt and deception are terrible things to live with. Now you are burdened.”

“I did it out of love for you. So we can be together. So we can marry and I can bear you a legitimate son.”

She had turned on a young girl who was in love out of love for me. The irony of it stung.

“I don’t need to marry you in order to love you. We can be together here at court until you become free.”

“But you are so unhappy at what I do for the queen. I see your face when Catherine has need for me. I can’t bear what it does to you.”

Had my jealousy made Isabeau do this? Was the blame mine? Why had I been so weak as to let her glimpse into my soul? Why hadn’t I been able to control my feelings?

“And for all this what did the queen say? What is to be your reward?”

“She said the information was indeed important and should be rewarded, and she would give us permission to wed as soon as she has resolved the debacle with Margaret and has her married to Navarre.”

I took Isabeau in my arms and let her cry herself out. Her emotions were a tangle of contradictions. Guilt and concern over Margaret’s condition. Excitement that we might soon be free to marry. Relief that she might be done entertaining and spying on men for the queen. For the first time since we had met she had confided in me what a burden it was to cajole Catherine’s enemies into bed, to lure them into telling her their secrets, to read their letters when they were sleeping, to be frightened that at any moment she’d be found out.

Isabeau often panicked when she thought about being discovered, so Catherine had given her a script in case it occurred. The queen had even coached her on how to deliver it. But Isabeau worried what would happen if she wasn’t a good enough actress. If the man in question became suspicious. She was a spy, and spies were killed and their killers went free.

I was not so sure of myself that I didn’t wonder sometimes how much of Isabeau’s attraction to me was a means to an end. If we married, she could leave the palace and Catherine’s flying squadron. Many a man might have done the job, but I was the one she met. That I was a favorite of the queen, a perfumer with wealth, was convenient, wasn’t it?

But none of my doubts matter now. The question of how much of what Isabeau did she did for love and how much she did because she was a savvy political operator doesn’t change how I feel.

That night, I held my love in my arms, and every tear that dropped from her cheek to my chest smelled like lilies of the valley so fresh they still trembled on their stems in the breeze. I let Isabeau cry so I could inhale those fresh, impossibly blooming flowers. The princess was locked in the Louvre, in pain, with welts on her back caused by this woman I loved. Isabeau had taken a terrible chance, but it appeared as if she had succeeded and soon we might be together. No fleeing to Germany or Spain. We could remain in Paris and Barbizon. I could continue my work, and the queen would shower us with her blessings. For the queen had said that Isabeau had saved France.

“She’s right,” I said. “You very possibly have saved France. If the queen does wed her daughter to Navarre, you will have helped assure that union. Now, we just need to be patient,” I said. “Catherine’s word is as good as gold.”

About ten days after Margaret’s incident, a member of the queen’s retinue visited me in my shop on the Pont Saint-Michel. I didn’t recognize her, but I paid that no mind. There were over three hundred and eighty-five members of the palace staff. At least one third were ladies who waited on the royals.

This woman had lovely red hair and was very pale. She said her name was Bernadette de La Longe and asked for lotion for her own skin, which she said was unusually dry. I showed her my best creams, made with olive oil from the recipes I’d learned in Santa Maria Novella. Nothing new I’d ever concocted bested those formulas.

Bernadette rubbed some into her skin, liked how the milk felt and said she would take a bottle. Next, she asked for a fragrance, requesting a lemon scent similar to the one the queen wore. I presented her with a light citrus-based perfume that had heliotrope and lavender in it. After trying it, she said it was exactly what she wanted. And then she hesitated.

“Is there something else you need?”

For a moment she didn’t answer, just perused the array of bottles and jars on my shelves as if she were searching for one in particular. Then she stepped closer to me and, in a whisper, said she’d heard I sold other things.

“I do, my lady. There are creams that heat your skin and make you more receptive to a lover, others that warm his parts and give him pleasure. There are scents that can be used as aphrodisiacs and others that are repellants. Just tell me what you are looking for.”

Still, she hesitated.

“I’ve heard every kind of request, so there is no reason to be modest.”

“It’s not for me but for the lady I wait on.”

She was being careful not to mention the queen,
I thought.

“Yes?”

“She is in need of a way to prevent a crime from being done.”

I nodded. There was nothing at all unusual about the request other than her discomfort in making it.

“You make shrouds, do you not?” she asked.

I knew many people called the poisoned undergarments I sold shrouds, for indeed they were, but it always made me uncomfortable to hear them referred to that way.

“Yes. I do. I would need some idea of the gentleman’s size if possible.”

“It’s actually not for a gentleman.”

“For a lady?”

She nodded.

“Well then I would suggest a pair of gloves. That’s what the queen has purchased in the past.”

Bernadette seemed flustered. I was sure she was worried about bringing back the right thing.

The queen had previously bought several pairs of gloves impregnated with poison. I was aware of the pain they would inflict and the discomfort the wearer would feel. I knew that death was inevitable and always felt a terrible burden at being involved. But not so much that I didn’t continue to supply her with what she required. She was my mistress. And so I told Bernadette the gloves would be ready in two days’ time, and after she left I set to work.

The most complicated part of the process was the care needed to ensure I didn’t injure myself. Breathing the fumes of the solution I was soaking the gloves in could be deadly. Frequently, I had to walk outside and get fresh air into my lungs.

Serapino had taught me the dark arts of his trade so I could protect myself if need be. He warned me the poisons were to be used only on those who were evil or threatened me. He had clear and precise rules for what was acceptable to God and what was a crime. I had been raised by this monk whose greatest desire was to salvage the human soul. And yet here I was. A man whose hands were stained with the blood of other souls.

As I poured the mixture of corrosive sublimate, arsenic and cantharides over a pair of lovely gloves, I did not think of the feminine arms that would pull them on. To wander there was to invite disaster. I had accepted this part of my job a long time ago and had inured myself to it.

Why now was I having a sudden attack of conscience?