glistening drops trickle down her long neck. Like nectar from a lily, he thought, and clenched his fist.
At the bottom of the stairs, the cat gave a muffled yelp, but Henri was too preoccupied to pay attention to it. Madame Leyster raised one of her elbows high so she could clean the fuzz in her armpit. He was drawn to the swell of her left breast, heavy and thrusting. The ring of her nipple deepened from the heat; its erect knob quivered in response to her vigorous scrubbing. He tried to take a breath, but something lifted the back of his coat, choking him.
What happened next was over in no more time than it took to blink. Henri found himself pulled upward by the nape of his neck. His body dangled a few inches off the ground.
“Emmanuelle,” the husband yelled. “This idiotic water boy is watching you bathe. Such filthy animals, these Auvergnats.”
He could feel the collar tighten around his neck, and his fingers fumbled to loosen its grip. All he could think was how disappointed Madame Leyster would be when she discovered his lewd act. He could hear her screaming from behind the door. The wigmaker puffed. He was a large man, and everything about him was oversized, including the odor of garlic on his breath.
He could no longer hear water thrashing in the wooden tub. Instead, he registered the sound of wet bare feet slapping the stone floor; then a small object struck the door with a hollow sound, followed by a loud thud and a scream that modulated into a muffled, painful whine.
Still struggling to breathe, he watched the bathroom door shake with each blow from his kicking feet until it flung open. Her husband spun him around, and the cloak ripped away from him. He fell, sagging on the ground as his hand came into contact with the bar of soap on which Madame Leyster had slipped. She lay on her back, naked except for the parts that were covered with her hands. One of her legs was bent at an odd angle. He saw the pointed tip of a broken bone jutting through her skin, and underneath, a small pool of blood spread from the wound. She was looking at him, her eyes glassy with agony.
The excitement he had felt as he spied on her was now overwhelmed by shame. He was trying not to think of the terrible consequences of his act, of the husband’s condemnation:
filthy animals, these Auvergnats.
He wished he could disappear like the steam from her bath. Desperation spurred him to spring up and run toward the stairs. The wigmaker did not stop him, nor did any of the servants. No one reacted to Henri’s escape because all attention was riveted on Madame Leyster’s broken limb.
He ran through the streets. Mounds of snow loomed like anonymous graves that had been sanitized in quicklime. He did not stop until he reached his home. He ascended the two flights of stairs and wept silently before he entered the little room, wishing the tears would wash away some of his humiliation. But he could not shed the memory of Madame Leyster’s haunting expression, and the way her brown eyes had turned icy when she stared at him.
He found his mother by the window, her blanket drooping to the floor. For the past months, she had spent most of her time sitting there. The frost etched new wrinkles on her gaunt face, turned her lips blue, and made her hands tremble. He wondered whether she had seen him running and crying through the streets.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he said. The words flew faster than he could think. “I must leave Paris at once, and I cannot take you with me. You have to go back to the Hôtel Dieu and wait for me. I will return in a few months.”
“Are you in trouble?” his mother asked.
He replied to her query with silence.
“Why can’t I go with you? I don’t want to go back to that place.”
The responsibility she placed on him felt like an iron yoke around his neck, cutting into his windpipe. “You have no choice, Mother.” His voice was uneven. “You’re ill, and I can’t take care of you anymore.”
She
At the bottom of the stairs, the cat gave a muffled yelp, but Henri was too preoccupied to pay attention to it. Madame Leyster raised one of her elbows high so she could clean the fuzz in her armpit. He was drawn to the swell of her left breast, heavy and thrusting. The ring of her nipple deepened from the heat; its erect knob quivered in response to her vigorous scrubbing. He tried to take a breath, but something lifted the back of his coat, choking him.
What happened next was over in no more time than it took to blink. Henri found himself pulled upward by the nape of his neck. His body dangled a few inches off the ground.
“Emmanuelle,” the husband yelled. “This idiotic water boy is watching you bathe. Such filthy animals, these Auvergnats.”
He could feel the collar tighten around his neck, and his fingers fumbled to loosen its grip. All he could think was how disappointed Madame Leyster would be when she discovered his lewd act. He could hear her screaming from behind the door. The wigmaker puffed. He was a large man, and everything about him was oversized, including the odor of garlic on his breath.
He could no longer hear water thrashing in the wooden tub. Instead, he registered the sound of wet bare feet slapping the stone floor; then a small object struck the door with a hollow sound, followed by a loud thud and a scream that modulated into a muffled, painful whine.
Still struggling to breathe, he watched the bathroom door shake with each blow from his kicking feet until it flung open. Her husband spun him around, and the cloak ripped away from him. He fell, sagging on the ground as his hand came into contact with the bar of soap on which Madame Leyster had slipped. She lay on her back, naked except for the parts that were covered with her hands. One of her legs was bent at an odd angle. He saw the pointed tip of a broken bone jutting through her skin, and underneath, a small pool of blood spread from the wound. She was looking at him, her eyes glassy with agony.
The excitement he had felt as he spied on her was now overwhelmed by shame. He was trying not to think of the terrible consequences of his act, of the husband’s condemnation:
filthy animals, these Auvergnats.
He wished he could disappear like the steam from her bath. Desperation spurred him to spring up and run toward the stairs. The wigmaker did not stop him, nor did any of the servants. No one reacted to Henri’s escape because all attention was riveted on Madame Leyster’s broken limb.
He ran through the streets. Mounds of snow loomed like anonymous graves that had been sanitized in quicklime. He did not stop until he reached his home. He ascended the two flights of stairs and wept silently before he entered the little room, wishing the tears would wash away some of his humiliation. But he could not shed the memory of Madame Leyster’s haunting expression, and the way her brown eyes had turned icy when she stared at him.
He found his mother by the window, her blanket drooping to the floor. For the past months, she had spent most of her time sitting there. The frost etched new wrinkles on her gaunt face, turned her lips blue, and made her hands tremble. He wondered whether she had seen him running and crying through the streets.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he said. The words flew faster than he could think. “I must leave Paris at once, and I cannot take you with me. You have to go back to the Hôtel Dieu and wait for me. I will return in a few months.”
“Are you in trouble?” his mother asked.
He replied to her query with silence.
“Why can’t I go with you? I don’t want to go back to that place.”
The responsibility she placed on him felt like an iron yoke around his neck, cutting into his windpipe. “You have no choice, Mother.” His voice was uneven. “You’re ill, and I can’t take care of you anymore.”
She
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