The Collector of Dying Breaths

Chapter 39

MARCH 25, 1573

BARBIZON, FRANCE

I did not see Isabeau for the next week. Soon she would be released from her duties as a member of the squadron, but not until the queen devised a plan for shifting the duke’s attention away from Isabeau.

Whenever she was with him, I lived a kind of half life. My thoughts would wander from my work as I pictured them together. Wondered what she was saying to him. How he was responding. What he asked of her. Torturing myself, I imagined him touching her, kissing her, smelling her.

When I had first met Isabeau and we had begun to spend time together, she had been more open with me about her spying and how she conducted her affairs. In time, she had become reticent to discuss the details. Isabeau claimed she couldn’t bear to watch my face while I listened or tolerate the barrage of questions I asked.

“Why do you punish yourself, wanting to know these things? This is what I have to do for Catherine. Soon it will be over, but until it is, be kind to me and to yourself, René. Let us talk of other things.”

But I would insist.

“Did you entertain him with stories and dine with him last night?”

“Yes, and I made him laugh and flattered him.”

“And did he become aroused?”

“Yes.”

“Easily?”

“Yes.”

“And did you look at him when he was in that state? Does he like you to see him undressed, the way I do?”

“No, I told you, he doesn’t luxuriate in it. He isn’t sensual like you are.”

“Did he touch you?”

“My breasts.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. I told you. He’s never interested in me, only in himself. What I provide is just a momentary reminder of his own power and prowess.”

Once she had answered my questions I would descend into a dungeon. No torture chamber was worse that the one I concocted for myself. No whip or rack could compare to the pain I felt as I imagined this woman with another man. Imagined his hands on her shoulders, gripping her. Imagined the jolts going through his body as his orgasm gathered and readied. Imagined his face thrown back in ecstasy.

In those moments I wanted to cut off Isabeau’s hair. Smear dirt on her face. Anoint her with a perfume made from rotten eggs. Make her unappealing to other men so that Catherine couldn’t use her anymore.

They were fleeting fantasies that shamed me then and shame me more now. But I am a man. And I didn’t want another man soiling my garden. I feared every time she came back to me that I would smell him on her.

I never did. Never saw a finger mark or scratch on her skin. Sometimes I pretended that she only told me these stories to incite my jealousy. That she really never ventured out of the palace to see anyone but me.

But I knew I was lying to myself.

She was gone for a week, and then on the next Friday she arrived with much fanfare, rushing into the shop, full of excitement and delight. Catherine had just spent the last hour working with Isabeau, explaining the plan for replacing her.

“There is to be a dinner party, and the queen is going to offer the duke a virgin who is much admired,” Isabeau gushed.

So taken was I with her news that I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Here was Isabeau telling me she was going to be free of the duke!

“No man is going to touch you ever again but me,” I said, my words laced with my lust as I imagined it.

“And that makes you happy?” she teased.

“Oh yes.”

“You look happy, René.”

“I am.”

“Would you like to be even happier?” She laughed.

I knew that tone, and it stirred me. “Yes, yes. Please.”

And so she began to play her games with me. Isabeau turned her back and began to undress for me. First she unbuttoned her dress, dropping the green silk to the floor. Stepping out of it, she took off the chemise beneath it. Her bare shoulders inflamed me.

Then, slowly, she turned around. Her corset fitted right beneath her breasts, pushing them up, showing them off. The entire rest of her body was covered by underskirts, stockings, shoes, gloves.

All that was bare were her neck, her shoulders and her beautiful ripe breasts.

The sight literally took my breath away. I went to her and buried my face between her breasts. They were warm and smelled of the most fragrant apple blossoms I’d ever inhaled.

Teasing, she pushed me away and continued to strip. Taking off one layer and the next until her breasts and her pudenda were bare, but her legs were in their stockings and her arms were still covered by her gloves.

The gloves!

What was it? The way the candlelight fell? The way the sun shone through the windows as it set? What was it that suddenly pulled all the breath out of my lungs and clenched around my heart, squeezing the very life force from me?

It wasn’t possible, but her gloves looked so much like that other pair. I grabbed her wrist and inspected the stitching.

“Where did you get these?” I screamed as I started to rip the right glove off her.

Startled, she fought me.

“They were a gift.”

“From whom?” I continued ripping.

“Not from the duke. Stop it, René. They were given to me by a woman.”

The right glove came apart, and the upper portion fell away, but her fingers were still covered with leather. I began to pull her hand out. “From whom? From whom?”

“One of the other ladies-in-waiting. She said she’d been given them but they didn’t fit her. She asked if I wanted them.”

“Tell me her name.” I had gotten the whole right glove off and now was working on the left. Still Isabeau struggled with me, pushing me off.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Who gave you the gloves? What is her name?”

“Bernadette de La Longe.”

“Oh no, oh good Lord no. Isabeau, how many days have you been wearing them? When did she give them to you? Tell me! Isabeau! Tell me!” I was trying to rip the left glove off, but she fought back, treating me as if I’d gone mad. And I had. I had.

“For the last three days, I’ve worn them, yes.”

“Each day?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. I knew it was already too late, but still I worked at the glove, pulling and ripping until all that was left were the fingers of her left hand, covered still in the fine soft kid that I had soaked in poison.