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them and an occasional wall sconce for illumination. Jacques’ nose was beginning to react to a familiar odor.
    “I rely on your reputation as an understanding man and a citizen of the world,” the Vicomte said as he stepped into the dark void of a hallway, a rash of thunder echoing from the storm outside.
    Jacques was anxious; he didn’t recognize where he was. Certainly it wasn’t the corridor that led to the miniatures, but while he and the Vicomte lumbered down the hallway, he stayed abreast.
    The unmistakable smell of castoreum engulfed Jacques. In moments, the sight of a gleaming lock told him he was standing at the door that had first attracted his attention that day. He heard a creaking sound and lifted the candle to see the Vicomte replace a key into his vest pocket. What lay behind the door?
    “Remove the lock from the hasp, if you please,” said the Vicomte, “then stand aside.”
    After Jacques complied, Fragonard spoke. “I invite you to view my cabinet of curiosities, Signor Casanova. Few others have seen this work of mine. But you are a freethinker. What I have gleaned of your character interests me—and more importantly, what I intuit to be true of you confirms your usefulness.” The Vicomte de Fragonard edged toward the younger man. “Earlier I readied the cabinet. Now I ask your opinion of my creations.”
    The Vicomte pushed hard, and the door swung wide. A jewel box of iridescence blinded Jacques, and in the moment he tried to regain sight, the sickly sweet smell nearly overpowered him.
    The Vicomte ushered him into the chamber while Jacques shaded his eyes against what seemed a ceiling full of candles. When he stepped forward, his slowly returning vision was drawn to the far end of the room where, high at the ceiling, a black scrim draped downward, partitioning a portion of the large space.
    He followed the scrim to the floor. His chief view was the dark outline of a stationary horse, a rider seated upright, arms flexed as if to grasp reins. Moving slowly into the room, he saw the horse had no skin. Every cord of its musculature was visible.
    Jacques’ throat dried. He was sickened but couldn’t keep from looking. Neither man nor horse was a skeleton or a corpse but an amalgamation of red veins, brown ligaments, and yellowish tendons—all power and rawness, frozen in grotesquerie. The rider’s teeth were gritted, his nostrils flared, eyeballs expressionless. A nightmare of fiendish vulgarity.
    “What is the purpose of …” Jacques stammered, nearly voiceless.
    The Vicomte said, “I, naturally, cannot disclose my recipe, though I have, by determined experiment, improved upon a Templars’ formula, which was revealed to me many, many years ago. My écorchés are preserved, I may reveal, by soaking the cadaver in eau-de-vie, mixed with aloe, myrrh, and pepper, among other substances.”
    “What I meant was—”
    The Vicomte broke in. “After draining blood and removing the vital organs, I employ my prescription, then inject the arteries, veins, and bronchial tubes with tallow mixed with turpentine. Sometimes arsenical salts. I then—” The Vicomte stopped, frowning. “No, I forbid myself to give away the embalming process. That is my private domain. I will say my method is far, far superior to, say, that of Czar Peter, who knew how to decapitate his unfaithful lover but knew only to put her head in spirit of alcohol. Spirit of alcohol. Primitive, do you agree?"
    “So the castoreum I smell—?”
    “Covers the occasionally distressing odors from my work. Sometimes I use ambergris or styrax for a sweeter fragrance.” While the Vicomte ambled forward, he spoke. “You realize, of course, that in France we anatomists receive convicted assassins for dissection. That is the law of the land . Fiat experimintum in corpore vili. ‘Let experiment be made on a worthless body.’ The gentleman you see here was in several pieces when the authorities turned him over to me. It seemed he had