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Written for my son to read upon my death, from his father, René le Florentin, perfumer to Catherine de Medici, Queen Mother.

It is with irony now, forty years later, to think that if I had not been called a murderer on the most frightening night of my life, there might not be any perfume in Paris today. And that scent-to which I gave my all and which gave me all the power and riches I could have hoped for-is at the heart of why now it is I who call myself a murderer.

It is one thing to fall in love with a rose and its deep rich scent. Once the blood-red flower blooms, browns and decays and its smell has dissipated, you can pluck another rose about to bloom. But to fall in love with a woman after a lifetime of not knowing love? In the browning of your own days? Ah, that is to invite disaster. That is to invite heartbreak.

The château is cold tonight, but my skin burns. My blood flows hot. Who knew that yearning alone could heat a man so? That only memories could set him on fire? I feel this pen in my fingers, the feather’s smoothness, and I imagine it is Isabeau’s hair.

I close my eyes and see her standing before me.

Isabeau! Exuberant, tender, dazzling. And mine.

I whisper to her and ask her to undress for me slowly, in that way she had. And she does. In the dream she does. She strips bare, slowly, slowly, of everything but her gloves, cream kid gloves that stretch above her elbows. Her silken skin gleams in the candlelight, golden and smooth, smelling of exotic flowers. Gardenias and camellias and roses, scents that emanate from within. This is her secret and mine. Isabeau had a garden inside of her body. Flowers where other women had organs. Her own natural perfume richer and more luxurious than anything I ever could have created and bottled.

In this dream, Isabeau never takes off her gloves. Night after night, I beseech her to strip all the way for me, but she just smiles. Not yet, René. Not yet. And then she reaches out with one gloved finger and traces her name on my skin. One day, René. Once you have found the elixir.

I dream this asleep. And hear it, awake, in the wind. Her promise.