The Book of Lost Fragrances

Twenty-six

NANTES, FRANCE, 1794

Marie-Genevieve Moreau stood in the bright sunlight and felt the sweat run down her neck. Despite the beauty of the shore and the river, the scene was hellish. Hieronymus Bosch’s twisted, turned-inside-out hell. That was where she was. That was what she was living.

“You, next.” The soldier with the wart on his nose pulled her roughly toward him. His counterpart, a short man with a brilliant red scar on his chin who stunk of rotting teeth, tore her habit off of her, as she knew he would. As he’d done to the other victims before her.

After the wool of her habit was ripped free, he yanked loose her underthings. Naked, she covered her breasts, but that left the triangle between her legs bare. She didn’t have enough hands. She tried turning her back, but they wouldn’t have that.

“Not while we’re enjoying the sight of you so much, Sister,” the stinking one laughed as he yanked her upright. The other stepped close, groping her breasts with his filthy hands.

“I hope you weren’t thinking you were going to meet your maker still a virgin.” He laughed, pushing her to the ground and unbuttoning his trousers. “Have much of this in the convent?”

Marie-Genevieve forced her mind to escape as he lowered himself on top of her. At least this monster would not be taking her virginity. No. She’d shared that willingly with someone who hadn’t abused it.

Her attacker was clumsy and nasty. His stench made her gag, but he finished blessedly quickly. Once he was off her, she tried to prepare herself mentally for his counterpart’s assault. But there was no second attack.

She was lifted up off the ground and then felt smooth cold skin, just as naked as hers, pressed up against her back. From her calves to her buttocks to her shoulders. But this man wasn’t pushing or groping. He was praying. Marie-Genevieve, who hadn’t entered the convent because of her love of God but because of her love of one man, listened to the soft words.

“Pray with me, my child,” the priest said as the soldier pushed the two of them even closer together. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

If she could let go, the way she sometimes did during mass at the convent, and not hear the words but move with the sounds, she could lull herself into a state of almost sleeping while standing. Of dreaming somehow outside of her body. She didn’t know what to call it and had been afraid to tell any of the other sisters. Not sure if this mind escape she was capable of was a great gift or something heretical.

The soldier with the stinking breath wound a length of coarse rope around her wrists, binding her to the man behind her. So the rumors were true. They were bringing priests and nuns down to the river. Tying them up. Torturing them. Killing them.

“Get moving,” the soldier said as he pushed her. “Time to take a boat ride, down there.” He pointed to the riverbank.

It was a struggle to walk in tandem, but she and the priest managed without falling.

“What is your name, Sister?” the priest asked her.

She started to answer, but the soldier smacked her face. “Keep moving!” he barked. “No conversation.”

Around her the air was filled with crying and shouts-and yet, coming through the other noises were the persistent reassuring sounds of prayers and birdsong.

Her executioners-she had no doubt now that’s who they were-pushed her and the priest into a small boat. He got the worst of it, falling on his face, yelling out in pain, while she only hit the side of her head.

With a grunt from one and a laugh from the other, the soldiers pushed the boat out into the river. The current was strong here and the little skiff moved rapidly. For a few minutes, Marie-Genevieve was hopeful. Maybe they’d figure out a way to untie each other. Maybe the boat would go aground. Then she noticed the water seeping into the wooden vessel.

When Giles’s death had been reported from Egypt, her father had arranged an alternate marriage for her. Marie-Genevieve begged him not to thrust her into a union so fast. Give her time to grieve; to get used to the idea. But Albert Moreau was a businessman; if the son of the man who bought the finest skins from his tannery was no longer able to marry his daughter, he would marry her off to the manufacturer who bought his second-finest skins.

The shoemaker was a recent widower. No, he wasn’t young and good-looking like Giles, but Albert told his daughter none of that mattered.

“You don’t have the luxury of falling in love again. The right marriage and a marriage of the heart-the best of all worlds. But it is not to be. You’re not any younger, and I don’t want you to wait and risk the widower finding someone else. Besides, he has ties to the revolutionaries. If this unrest erupts into the war that we expect is coming, he will be able to aid us all.”

When Marie-Genevieve could not be consoled, her mother helped her run away to the convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

Now as she sat in the boat in the river, unable to do anything to stop the leak, she watched the water rising and considered the irony of what she’d done. Given the revolutionaries’ greed and lust to destroy the Church and everything connected to it, the safety of the church proved no safety at all.

The water rose around them, and still the priest prayed. She was submerged up to her knees. Then her shoulders. Then her chin. She thought of Giles and how he’d once dipped his handkerchief in water to wipe away the tracks of her tears. It was the day he’d told her he was going to Egypt to learn about ancient scents so he could enhance the perfumed gloves and soaps and candles and pomades and make the House of L’Etoile the talk of Paris. He had been excited by the adventure, but she’d been afraid for him to go; had a premonition that he was not going to come back.

But now she was going to meet him again. This cold, cold water was taking her to him. It was closing over her and washing away the stain of the stinking soldier and the touch of his greedy fingers. Giles was waiting. She knew he was. He’d promised her, before he left, they’d be together always. They belonged together, he’d said. They were âmes soeurs.