Des Grieux/Chapter II

by Anonymous

 

CHAPTER II

 

On the morrow the young girl awoke as you and I have often done after a bewildering, restless, terror-haunted night, when we have been the prey of some persecuting nightmare. She was, as yet, half asleep, so she felt weary, sore, broken down, but nothing more. Her head was aching with a dull heavy pain, her body was languid, her mind bewildered, lost, but nothing more. She tossed about for some time between wakefulness and oblivion, unable to rouse herself, unable to fall asleep again, trying to collect her wandering senses.

The first thing that made her feel uncomfortable was the light streaming into her room, whereupon she asked herself how it was that her shutters had been left open? Surely they were shut, or at least ajar, the evening before.

In somnambulism—as in every-day life—one thought recalls another, one remembrance evokes another. Life is a chain of many links, like those Indian puzzle rings; by patient perseverance we can get them to fit into one another. It is like the game played by ten or twenty persons—where a phrase whispered from mouth to ear reaches the last hearer, entirely changed in its meaning as well as in its words.

As she looked at the open window, the golden rays which poured in blinded her, and made her blink her eyes, and the casement seemed to her just then like the frame of the altar-piece, and in the iridiscent glittering light she saw the beautiful image of the saint which—for days, nay for months—had unconsciously, been haunting her, like St-George or St-Denis appeared to Jeanne d'Arc; and like all hysterical saints given to hallucinations, Sebastian now was visible to her as clearly as if he stood there in tangible flesh.

As she gazed upon this beatific vision she saw that the likeness of the vagrant mixed itself up with that of the martyr, and that he was not only palpitating but even panting with lusty life.

Not a wound was to be seen on his sinewy, stout and smooth body, but moreover, the small strip of stuff wound around his loins had disappeared, and his right hand held that holy-water sprinkler which bountiful nature had so generously provided him with, and he brandled it lustily, nay even with more than holy delight.

Now, whether it was the sight of the saint's quaint gill-like appendage of manhood, or the way he so funnily toyed with it—just as she had once seen a monkey do at the show—or else the knowing wink he cast upon her, but somehow or other the girl—as she was lying on her bed—was, all at once, thrilled from head to foot. Moreover, this tingling sensation of eager desire concentrated itself in the very focus of all such feeling, the solution of continuity. The burning fire she felt there apparently put the saint to flight, for instead of the altar-piece, she again saw the window widely open and the glare of the morning sun pouring in and flooding the room.

But what was it she felt there at the parting of her thighs, she asked herself? It was surely not a pleasure, no, rather a dull, lingering pain as of a wound received.

She placed her hand on the gaping slit. It was moist, nay, more than moist, it was wet, and with blood too.

Had her monthly courses begun again? She thought and thought, one image brought back another as on the day before, and piecemeal she reconstructed the events of the night before, and she recalled to mind the way in which she had lost her pucelage.

Horror stricken, she jumped down from her bed. Bruised, crushed, dejected, disheartened, she examined her couch. The pool of blood, the traces of sperm, the creased and tumbled sheets,left no doubt as to what had happened.

Hers had not been a dream, a nightmare, but crude reality; moreover, it was the sinner and not the saint who had slept with her.

With tears of terror in her eyes, she acknowledged the terrible reality to herself.

She was not a virgin any more, but a—what word is horrible enough to express what she was?

She had been possessed, enjoyed, deflowered, futtered. A man—a common vagrant—had taken her, kissed her, toyed with her, used her at his pleasure, poked his prickle into her, slit her, and thus abated her maidenhood. Now she was a man's thing, not his wife; besides what a man this was!

What would her life henceforth be?

She felt sick, her head grew giddy, a spasmodic shivering seized her. First her heart stopped, then again it began to beat wildly. It seemed as if a hand, or rather a claw, was griping her throat tightly and choking her. She could hardly breathe. Soon all this disappeared and a burning pain settled itself in her bowels and made her writhe.

But was it her fault if she had done what she had done?

Then she fell with her bare knees on the floor and tried to pray. If she had that faith that transports mountains, would God, Christ, the virgin, not take pity on her, work a miracle in her favour and undo what was done?

As she prayed from her innermost soul, she felt that she had the faith, but the poo of blood did not disappear from her bed, she felt no change within her.

And although this man had taken her against her will, could she bear the world's contumely if her story was to be known? Could she bear her disgrace, she, universally considered so proud, so haughty, she, who belonged to one of the oldest and noblest families of the town? But perhaps her guilt—her innocent guilt—might not be known; she would see her lover once more and beg him on her knees to spare her further shame, and leave the town for ever.

But now another thought, a more terrifying, a more shattering thought crossed her brain and almost drove her mad. "Suppose that man's seed was in her womb."

Perhaps in two months—in three months at most—her waist would begin to increase in girth, her stomach to expand, her belly to swell out, in huge uncouth proportions.

That thought was an unbearable one, she felt like dashing her head against the wall.

Why was she punished in such a way, what had she done?

Had she committed a sacrilege in loving the saint with the love of the flesh, had she lusted after him in a lecherous, concupiscent way? If so, this was a deadly sin, like that against the Holy Ghost.

Was she perhaps atoning for the sins of her fathers and forefathers?

But was prayer of no avail, or had the Almighty turned a deaf ear to her?

Could it be possible that God was a cruel fiendish being, a very Moloch delighting to damn his children?

Death was her only remedy, her only means of escape. The fire of Gehenna could surely not be worse than the pangs she was suffering.

Yes, she would punish herself, and thereby partly atone for the deed she had done.

She lifted her stiffened fingers up to her throat and tried to strangle herself.

When almost choking, her strength failed, her fingers relaxed their grasp. The image of the everlasting Mower appeared before her eyes, and behind the green gaunt image of death, she saw the dull red lambent restless flames of hell. The bottomless pit of Abaddon and all its horrors stared her in the face. It was not the lurid light of purgatory, where hope still remains, but the dark despair of the deep Malebolgian pool.

She shuddered with indescribable horror and clapped her hands upon her eyes not to see that terrible sight any more.

No, she could not hurl herself into eternal damnation, she could not bring herself to meet the wrath of God, to be tortured for ever and ever in throes of fire and brimstone, among loathsome reptiles, to be scourged with snakes, stung by scorpions, and—what was worse—racked by the incessant torture of unavailing remorse.

No, she would live, go into a nunnery.

She in a convent? She who perhaps bore already a child in her bosom, could she pollute the house where saintly maidens dwelt? No, a house of lewdness was the house fit for her.

But perhaps, hers had been but a dream, a frightful nightmare, a fit of somnambulism. Several times she had walked in the night and done strange things in her sleep.

But what of her nightgown all dabbled with blood, all crumpled and stained by some viscid fluid, the smell of which was present to her nostrils?

Why was the window open, and whose were those foot prints from the casement to her bed? Yes, the dusty traces of a naked foot were visible upon the highly polished floor.

She had but time to close the shutters and wipe away the dust when approaching footsteps stopped and she heard a slight tap at her door.

The softest noise now terrified her, made her shudder and turn pale.

Faint, shivering, frightened, she jumped into her bed, and with a weak, almost inaudible, voice, bade the person who knocked to enter.

Who was it softly tapping at her door, could it be he, her lover? Perhaps some one had seen him come in the night before; the wildest conjectures rushed into her mind.

Evidently her voice had not been heard, a louder knock was heard and, at the same time, the door was opened. It was only the maid who had come to say that her aunt was waiting for her.

Camille told the servant that she was unwell and could not get up; presently the spinster-aunt came to enquire what was the matter. The young girl whispered faintly that her monthly courses had returned and she was feeling a great pain all over her body.

Her weary and worn look, and the dark halo round her eyes, showed plainly that she was not quite her usual self.

"If you are not better, by and by I shall send for the doctor and see if he can do anything for you, though, in such cases…"

"No, no," said the young girl, frightened, interrupting her aunt abruptly, "I will not see the doctor, he can do nothing for me."

"In fact, you are right; a husband, I think, is the best cure for such ailments; and as we are speaking about it I think there is no reason for putting off your marriage any longer. You are young—it is true—but like all the girls of our family, precociously developed."

The young girl did not utter a word, she hid her face in the pillow and cried bitterly.

The aunt, who knew how hysterical girls feel when their whole system is upset by the return of the courses, made her take a few drops of opium, and then left the room, thinking that rest and quietness were the best of sedatives.

A day of agony followed for the poor girl. Every noise jarred upon her nerves, the sound of the round-about drove her to distraction. If she dropped off to sleep, she woke all of a sudden, thinking that somebody had come to taunt her for what she had done. All at once she saw plainly a gibing face making mouths at her, then another and still another, and all the room was full of these grinning, leering masks; they were horrible to see, she felt that she was growing mad.

She took some drops of cherry-laurel, she was again quieted and even dropped off to sleep; when she awoke she found her aunt's obnoxious poodle, sitting on his haunches, in the middle of the room, and watching her. No sooner were her eyes opened than he jumped up, wagged his tail and came to sniff at her bed, with evident delight. She drove him off and her heavy eye-lids drooped and closed again, but not for long. Soon afterwards the dog had stealthily crept back in the room, got softly on her bed, thrust his muzzle between her thighs, and was deftly licking at the sore and turgid lips, producing a most pleasurable sensation. The young girl dreamt that she was at church and that the priest—in the likeness of St-Sebastian—was imparting his blessing upon her. Unfortunately in the ineffable moment she woke and saw that bugger of a beast on her bed; she screamed with affright and forthwith threw the loathsome animal away from her.

At last night came on, dreaded night, that filled her with dire apprehension. Little by little every noise was hushed, silence soon reigned everywhere, deep silence outside, hushed silence within. The perfect stillness of the night was only interrupted by some snatches of a song coming occasionally from alar, by the dull barking of a dog at some hollow distance, by the pulsatory ticking of the clock in the hall downstairs, which by its monotonous beatings seemed like the systole and diastole of the house's heart.

By and by all the occasional sounds outside ceased, and nothing was heard save a low murmuring sound, like the cadenced breathing of the town or the low purring of the slumbering earth.

Had it not been for the foolish terrors of the after-world that religion had instilled in her, death just then would have been a boon and a benefit.

Were it not for the priest-craft, would kind feel such a dread to be laid on the soft bosom of our mother earth, and be for ever rocked in an eternal sleep?

Her ideas soon became vague and indistinct, the image of death alone prevailed over all others. As she was dropping off to sleep she with a certain horror roused herself up, fearing lest she was going off into a trance.

She jumped out of her bed, walked up and down the room and tried to keep awake. The looking-glass, in its porcelain frame, on her dressing table attracted her attention. She went and sat down in front of it. She was still pale but her eyes had lost their hollow look, any how she was languid, weary…

If he came, might he not find her ugly?

If he came? Then she wished, she longed for him to come. "No no," said she, half aloud to herself, as if for greater conviction, "if he comes, I shall scream, I shall rouse the whole house."

But he would not come. Midnight was ringing on the clock downstairs. She shuddered. He was not coming. She sighed a deep, mournful sigh, almost a sigh of disappointment.

Thereupon she felt like grasping her heart in her hand and crushing it, for feeling as she did.

"Besides," thought she, "why was he to come, he had had what he wanted. When the juice of the lemon is all squeezed out, the rind is thrown away." He had got his fill of her, henceforth he would gratify his lust elsewhere.

Still, she knew that people thought her beautiful, could she have faded away in one night?

She looked at herself again in the glass. How large and lustrous her eyes seemed to grow as she gazed upon herself; the pupils seemed to expand, to glow with a luminous fire. It seemed as if it was he that was staring at her, through her own eyes. She got frightened, for she felt that she was hypnotizing herself; that a peculiar drowsiness—which was not natural sleep—was coming over her.

Mad with terror, not knowing what to do, she ran to the washing-stand and plunged her hands and then her face into the basin of cold water. She had succeeded; the trance was over.

Half past twelve; he was not coming. It was useless, making believe that she was glad, when she was sorry, utterly sorry. It seemed as if her heart was crushed; she was yearning for him, why did he not come? Her longing every moment grew more intense, more unbearable, it had now become a pain.

Just then she heard a low, a very low kind of lullaby. Did she hear it or did her ears deceive her? She listened, it was louder now. No, she was not mistaken.

It was so soft and sweet that it must have been a snake charmer's song.

Could it have been that Indian air for which Shelley wrote his magic rhyme?

The voice was approaching stealthily.

He was coming, he was near.

What was she to do, to run away, to hide herself, to escape in her aunt's room?

A feeling of dread came over her; why had that man such a power over her that her limbs refused to obey her will?

She heard a slight creaking noise, she knew that the shutters were being opened.

Now he was getting over the window-sill, he was drawing her to him. She turned round; he was there, naked.

She did not scream, she did not rouse the whole house, she did not utter the faintest sound. He stretched forth his arms, she threw herself in them, he strained her to his breast.

He sat down in the red satin arm chair and took her on his knees. He undid her long golden hair and scattered it in waves over him. He entwined her arms about his neck and taking her head between his hands, kissed her lips eagerly until her mouth grew incarnadined.

She was at first shy to let the youth undo her dress, and plunge his hands in it and grasp her breasts, and toy with her at his will; but he had only to look steadfastly into her eyes, and through them down into the innermost depths, then she was at once subdued, and she yielded to all his slightest wishes as if she had been his slave.

Besides in his rags he might have been a vagrant; in his splendid nakedness, he was a hero, a saint, a demi-god.

Little by little he undid her dress more cleverly than the ablest maid would have done, and laid her beautiful bosom bare. How dazzling her breasts looked in their warm lactean fairness, all tinted with rosy and golden hues; each nipple looked like a tiny peach blossom floating in a bowl of milk, with a slight halo all around it.

Soon she was entirely naked; then their arms wreathed around each other's necks, they writhed with thrilling joy, rubbing their limbs together, murmuring with pleasure, cooing like two amorous doves, and sucking each other's tongues, rapturously intoxicated with the scent of each other's body.

And you can understand their passionate delight, for they were at the age when life is flush with lust, and the flesh melts away like wax. She by natural selection was framed for love; he was not only very young, but he had hardly ever tasted the sweetness of a woman's kiss.

Soon after, her senses shivered with inexpressible pleasure, when he bent down and with the tip of his tongue titillated her nipples, making the nerves within them throb with an almost unbearable sensation; meanwhile his fingers deftly touched her hair, flitted over her body, and his toes slightly tickled the soles of her naked feet. Her whole body coming thus in close contact with his own, was tingling with excitement, her brain was giddy, her head was on fire. Her maidenly modesty was thereupon hardly shocked when he put his prickle within her hand, for she hent it with utmost eagerness, and even began rubbing it against the lips of her little slit, that now had recovered all its life and freshness, and was gaping with lust to receive it.

But now that she was thoroughly herself, he wished to initiate her more fully into a new delight and madden her with lechery before giving her the utmost satisfaction man can feel, or woman either; a pleasure he had only tasted the night before, and which he was again longing to enjoy.

He therefore sat her upon the chair, and kneeling down before her, took her lovely legs upon his shoulders, having thus his head between them. Her thighs being in this way sufficiently opened, he placed his mouth upon her slit. For a moment he breathed the sweet smell that emanated from the golden hair that grew all around.

It was a smell he knew, the scent of a plant that grew in his country and bloomed at Whitsuntide; yes, they called it the snake's flower.

When he had had his fill of that intoxicating smell, then he kissed those lips eagerly, and placed the tip of his tongue on the top of the slit, the most sensitive spot of a woman's body; he seemed at first to sting it rather than to caress and soothe it, and again stirred it almost to pain. She screamed for him to stop, she could not bear it any longer; soon she found herself swimming in a sea of sensual bliss, feeling herself floating in regions of ethereal delight; soon the living berry wept with joy, her nerves fell flaccid and she fainted away with exhaustion.

But the interior of the den of delight was now demanding its share of satisfaction; it seemed like a mouth parched with feverish thirst and craving for a drop of water to wet its withering palate.

He therefore got up and taking her a-straddle on his knees, thrust his rod—now stiff and standing up like a huge mushroom growing out of a clump of grass—into her cleft. He was about to slide it in with care but she—unable to contain herself any longer—came down plump and received the greater part of it in her.

Two reasons, however, brought them for a trice to a perfect stand-still. The first was that having hardly recovered from the wound she had received the evening before she felt a sharp pain in being thus torn open again. As for the young man—having had until now but very few women, and all those being mature matrons with coyntes like old worn-out slippers—his glans was hardly unhooded, so that, as she came down violently on him, he was so painfully wedged in that tight orifice that he was all but circumcised by it; this was the second reason. The smart pain, however,was soon unheeded; she wound her arms round his neck, he clasped her by the waist—and they began to pop up and down whilst he wriggled and shook his buttocks; then she leaped and he bucked so that all the remaining bulwarks of her shattered maidenhood were soon battered and laid waste and his prickle penetrated up into the deepest parts, and there—like a jet d'eau—it squirted forth spasmodically a flood of love's milky sap. They panted and they sighed, then they cooed like amorous doves. After a short rest, without taking out the arrow from its quiver, they began feeling each other's flesh; with the palms of their hands they toyed with each other in every possible way, even biting each other like frolicsome dogs. Soon they lusted once more, their wits wildered, and they forthwith began again love's amorous fray. Several were the assaults given, and different were the sieges and the ways in which the lusty battles were fought. The result however was always the same; their nerves relaxed and the two fighters fell half dead into each other's arms, for passion had made them drunk as with wine. Finally, when for the last time he drew his blunted sword from her sheath his seed was in her womb, and my father was conceived.

On the morrow she had however the full certainty of her fall, and nothing was left to lessen the keenness of her grief save the thought that she had thoroughly enjoyed herself during that night of perfect bliss, proving thereby the fallacy of Dante's saying: that no sorrow is greater than the remembrance of happy times in misery.

Stili the shame of having given up her body to the first man that had wanted it was no less poignant. The thought that—in her wakeful state—she had yielded tamely, nay eagerly, to the stings of desire was an unbearable one.

She had succumbed of her own free will; would she be able to resist on the morrow? Now that she was glutted and surfeited with lechery, now that she was alone, of course she was strong; still when she had not seen him the whole of the livelong day, would she not welcome him at night?

Her heart—or rather her innermost conviction-contradicted the lie uttered by her lips.

Moreover, if even she did oppose him on the morrow, would she do so when love waxed stronger by absence, and lust was fanned by abstinence?

And again: having given him her virginity, being probably with child.by him, of what use was resistance, why not have her fill of pleasure with him?

What was she then to do, where was she to seek for help?

If she went to confess, would not the priest advise her what to do?

What advice, what help was there left to her?

If the church remitted her sin, would the world absolve her.

No she had lived and loved, she had sinned and fallen so low, that she was lost for ever.

The drop of water in the dust might be upheaved from the mud by the heat of the sun, but no love can uplift the maid sunken in the mire. Such is the charity of tender hearted Christian women.

Death was the only escape, the only expiation.

She had an opiate on her table of which she had already taken a few drops during the catamenial days. Worried with fear, mad with despair, she—without any further thought—took up the bottle and emptied its contents down at a gulp.

Shortly afterwards when the maid came in, she found her fast asleep; she tried to rouse her but could only get from her a few inarticulate groans. Alarmed, she called for help.

Miss Des Grieux came in, and perceiving the empty bottle, sent at once for a doctor.

A strong emetic soon brought back the young girl to life, for the dose of poison she had taken had only been strong enough to stun her, but not to kill her; moreover, as she had been suffering these last few' days, the idea of suicide never came into anybody's head.

When she had fully recovered, she made a confession of all that had taken place to her aunt. The old maid was of course greatly shocked and surprised, still she remembered her own youth with its mishaps, so—instead of making an outcry over spilt milk as most of our shrivelled-hearted, dried-up old virgins would have done—she tried to make the best of a bad bargain, and used all her efforts to compose her niece.

These—said she—are things which happen every day, amongst families where hysteric women, with strong imaginations and weak bodies, are like haunted houses, with shutterless windows and open doors. It is not your fatul if you were born like that and not otherwise. Now, as what is done cannot be undone, we must only patch up the whole affair as well as possible, and make as little ado as we can. Therefore leave everything to me, and you'll see that in a year's time you'll think no more of the whole matter; in the meanwhile, the less you brood over it the better.

The first thing she did was to have her niece removed to her own apartment beyond the young fellow's reach; then with the help of a calming potion, she left her to restore her ruffled senses in sleep.

In the evening when her nephew came she told him that Camille was unwell and that the doctor had prescribed a speedy marriage as her only cure.

All the girls of our family, quoth she, are like forced, hot-house plants; they are women at twelve, marriageable at fourteen. By the will of your fathers and grand-father, you are—sooner or later—to be man and wife; why then leave Camille to languish and waste away her best years?

The supper was more succulent and spicy than usual; a bottle of old Burgundy of a rare vintage, some truffles and the enumeration of his cousin's charms, the erotic conversation and a few glasses of liqueurs somewhat excited the young man's sluggish senses, whipped up his cold blood, and kindled his sensual and salacious imagination.

When he was about to take his leave, the sly old maid asked him to follow her upstairs and see if Camille was asleep. Young Des Grieux did so with a slight trepidation, whilst a certain lascivious shivering seized his whole body, the like of which he had never felt before, at least for his cousin.

"Go in gently, go on tip-toe, she is perhaps asleep, and it would be a pity to wake her," whispered the aunt.

The young man abashed, hesitated a moment on the threshold, then he stepped in noiselessly.

The chamber was all but dark; a flickering night-lamp shed a dim rosy light from above. The young girl lay asleep in a huge pink cushioned bed, looking like the princess in the sleeping tower.

With the fire that had enkindled itself in the young man's veins, he saw a mass of fair dishevelled hair, a frail naked arm, a snowy breast, and the outlines of limbs of passing beauty only veiled by a fine sheet. The young man, who had only known the coarse brawny charms of a stout and squat maid of all work, with red hands and broad feet, remained dumb-founded at the sight of such ethereal beauty.

"May I kiss her hand, aunt?" asked the youth, trembling from top to toe.

He—according to the fashion of the time—had been accustomed to kiss his cousin on her mouth, and did not know whether it would not be a breach of etiquette to kiss her hand.

"You may do what you like, as long as you do not wake her," said the aunt with a tantalizing smile.

The old dame thereupon drew aside to trim the night lamp, burning so dimly, but unfortunately, the light went out.

The young man felt rather nervous, finding himself in perfect darkness by the girl's bed.

He groped about and palped all sorts of soft places, then he imprinted a hot feverish moist kiss on a pulpy spot, which proved to be the young girl's breast. She in her slumbers—evidently dreaming of her lover and feeling the contact of his hot lips on her skin—clasped his head with her hands and kissed it repeatedly.

"Where are you?" asked the aunt.

"Here, "replied the youth in a low goatish voice. The old maid, feeling her way in the dark, caught hold of his hand, and led him out of the room.

His blood rushing upwards made him reel like a drunken man.

"It is late," said the wily woman, "moreover I am rather nervous to be left alone, as the doctor said that Camille might be worse to-night, a bed-room is ready for you, had'nt you better stay and sleep here?"

Although the youth was thinking of the scullion's huge breasts, her powerful hips and mountainous buttocks, still he durst not say no, therefore quivering with excitement he went to his lonely bed.

The aunt seeing that all the lights were extinguished, and every one had retired to rest—the maid with the pretty gardener's daughter, and the cook with the man-servant—betook herself to her niece's room, slowly undressed herself, and went off to bed.

As the night was very warm, she, contrary to her habit, did not close the window, nay she even left the shutters apart.

Of course she tossed about aud could not sleep; not that she was afraid—for she was a courageous woman, and she knew that the bell-rope, wherewith she could rouse the whole house, was at hand—but she felt a certain trepidation, which even the bravest of her sex must feel, thinking that from one moment to another a man—a bold young scoundrel—might come in from the open casement. Still such was her fortitude that she awaited his coming with a lusty heart.

Meanwhile she kept thinking of her niece, and of the best way to remedy and patch up what had happened ; she recalled to mind her own unfortunate past, that day in the country when hid behind some bushes she saw the young groom bathing quite naked in the river, and the fit of quivering that came over her, when she saw his well-developed manly parts. Then she remembered how she went to see him again and again, then all that followed.

In the midst of her reflections she heard a slight noise outside. She turned round and she saw the shutters open quietly, and a man’s form appear on the sill. At that moment—with all her bravery—fear powered her, and she was about to seize the bell-rope and call for help. Still she managed to quiet her fright and to wait—and see what would happen next.

What her niece had told her over and over, about the young man, happened likewise at present; he pulled off his shirt, he cast off his breeches and advanced quite naked towards the bed; he seemed quite at home in the room.

Is was he, surely it could not be anybody else.

In an instant he was by the bed, then on her.

As the night was warm and sultry, she had been lying uncovered, with her legs apart and her thighs well open to enjoy the slight freshness of the breeze wafted in the valley down below. She had nothing on her body but a scanty chemise, and that was all uplifted on her stomach.

What was the young man's surprise to find his prickle slip softly within the bulgy lips, and disappear in all its length within the pulpy yielding flesh; he had never believed that a woman so tight the day before could have got so wide and baggy in a single day; his astonishment however increased when he felt himself clasped tightly and his body strained against two fat and falling breasts, which were so different from that budding bosom or the slight dainty limbs of the frail virgin he had deflowered and enjoyed on the previous night.

A moment of bewilderment followed, a thousand thoughts flitted through Ins brain, each chasing the other as snow-flakes on a stormy day.

He had often heard that marriage changes a girl entirely, but could she possibly have grown not only so lax, but so bulky in the space of a day?

Was he dreaming, had he gone into the wrong room, into some other bed? After pondering over it, he concluded—as you and I had done—that his mistress had changed her room and that some other woman had come here in her stead.

In the meanwhile he was tightly clasped and griped and strained and held fast.

His arms, his legs, his whole body was entwined by the strong tentacles of that soft polypus in which he had plunged so rashly.

Now the warm viscid flesh around his prickle seemed to grow tighter; to glue itself on it, and grasp it and suck it with lips innumerable.

"Who are you?" said the voice of the woman as she bumped herself against him. "Answer me at once," and she wriggled all her body, so that the hair of their middle parts came in close contact.

He did not give any answer, but allowed her to buck at her will.

"Will you answer at once, who you are, and how dare you come in the middle of the night in an honest woman's bed?"

He remained silent.

"If you do not reply I shall scream, I shall ring, I shall have you arrested at once."

Thereupon she clasped him the tighter, and only moved her buttocks.

"Excuse me," said he falteringly, "but I am like a ship in distress, that enters the very first port at hand."

"Come, no prevaricating."

"No indeed, though I am afraid I have mistaken the harbour, still the anchorage is a good one…"

The old maid was about to speak, but he at once stopped her mouth with a kiss. She began to suck his tongue, greedily, hungrily, down to its very root, only interrupting herself to beg him not to lift himself up but to press down with all his might.

It was years since the old woman had tasted such a dainty morsel, therefore it was no wonder that she found his basket-weaving delightful and she gave herself up to it to her dear heart's content.

After several assaults made frontwards and backwards, lying, sitting, and standing, the lust of the youth was abated before her senile lechery had subsided. Miss Des Grieux then lighted a night-lamp which gave the faintest of glimmers, and made the young man relate his tale. When he had finished:

"You see," said she, "I could have you arrested for burglary, for breaking into a house in the middle of the night."

"You are right," quoth the youth ruefully.

"Moreover, as you have used magic arts—for I myself had never yielded so tamely if you had not employed witchcraft or some superhuman power—I could not only have you thrust into prison, but have you tortured, put to death, and burnt for sorcery."

The youth gave no answer.

"Still," continued the old maid, "for the pleasure you have given me, I shall have you go scot free this time, for surely you will be hanged elsewhere. Only you must take your solemn oath never to reveal to any human being the mischief you have done, and moreover you must leave this town to-morrow."

The youth was loth to do so, for he loved the girl he had enjoyed; but when he heard that she was on the point of death for his sake, he felt grieved and took the oath that was required of him.

He begged hard to see her once more, but the aunt was relentless.

After the promise was given the old dame brought out a light supper, and set it before the youth, and while he regaled himself with half a chicken and a huge piece of pigeon pie, with truffles and mushrooms, his companion fed on the passing beauty of his athletic limbs. She poured him out the contents of a bottle of Burgundy and he quaffed it down with pleasure, for—although the Hebe was old and fat—the wine was good. She would willingly have gone for another bottle, hoping thereby that the tool of delight which was now so limp and lifeless would lift up its head, but he refused to drink any more.

She patted it and paddled it as it lay there so round, so fat and chubby, looking like a well-fed baby, gorged with milk to the mouth. She toyed with it and fondled it, but it was too weary to wake; she tickled it with one finger, she rubbed it up and down with two and then with three fingers, with the whole hand, still it always remained nerveless and limp. Then she went down on her knees before it, she rubbed it on her nipples, pressed it between the parting of her breast, but it was proof against all blandishments, her caresses were of no avail, nothing seemed able to rouse it from its torpor.

She made one last effort. She unhooded it, took the tip, then the whole glans into her mouth, and suckled it.

A modest blush suffused itself all over its face and head; at the same time it grew stiff and strained itself to action.

She however did not want to see the work half done, so she deftly continued to pump it, to titillate his hair, to rub the edges and even to plunge her finger into the hole behind. Anyhow she worked with such masterly skill that at last his whole body was all aglow, and tingling with pleasurable excitement.

He was about to swoon in a spasm of delight, when she stopped, got up and introduced it into her slit, which was as burning and as moist as the hottest room of a Russian bath. She engulfed it down to its very root, so that nothing was left out except the two balls, looking sheepishly forlorn at not being able to join in the fray. She puffed and blew and wriggled, she tweaked him with such avidity that he forthwith shot into her a burning liquid that seemed to her like an explosion of grape shot. Being so thoroughly tickled she began to mew like an old tabby cat, whilst he, sick, shattered and lifeless, fell on her capacious breast, resting his weary head on her stout shoulders.

Thus that night memorable in the old dame's life—came to an end, but she never forgot the bliss she had felt as long as she lived.

On the morrow the round-about and its owner had disappeared.

And the young girl?

At the usual hour she heard, or at least she dreamt she heard the lover's low and lusting cadences, all intermingled with words of burning love; then she seemed to feel his lips upon her mouth, his breath on her face; but what was he doing, was he licking her?

She woke and found the horrible poodle on her bed; nay, she was clasping his loathsome pink and freckled skin within her arms, whilst he was trying to commit the most heinous of sins with her.

She shrieked, almost fainting with fear; still, having gathered all her strength, she caught hold of the brute, uplifted him and cast him down with all her might. The poor dog uttered a sound of pain—accustomed to better treatment—he got up, looked at the young girl with blank astonishment, and then went off limping and whining, apparently unable to understand women and their whims.

Upset in body and in mind as Camille was, this shock unnerved her quite; she thus lay awake the greatest part of the night trembling and convulsed with imaginary terrors in prey of anguish and remorse. Heaven had evidently abandoned her to her fate. This thought filled her with the deepest dismay and the most appalling dread; she felt as if she was going mad.

She took another spoonful of her quieting draught, and with its help she managed to fall asleep at day-break.

On the morrow young Des Grieux awoke with that same longing lust with which he had gone to bed the evening before, the whole day the stings of desire seemed to tweak his nerves, and made his prickle stand on its end. He passed his day listlessly as usual, all his thoughts bent partly on the vision he had seen the evening before, and partly on the little endearments the scullery maid had in store for him, caresses which made her call him a little bugger and a dirty pig.

In the evening he again had supper with his aunt; the viands were more spiced than usual, the wine itself was drugged; moreover the old maid—if we can call her an old maid—kept him talking about Camille's charms and other erotic subjects, then as soon, as she saw him thoroughly excited she accompanied him up to the young girl's room.

She had not been many minutes with them, when she was called away. A neighbour—a lady friend of hers—had been suddenly taken ill, and she had been sent for, as everybody knew what an experienced nurse she was.

"I have to leave you, my dears, therefore you must promise to be very good children till I return. You, Gaston, you can if you like read to your cousin; though—on second thoughts—you had better not, for her head is aching; try to amuse her till I return."

The young people had not been left long alone, when the young girl was seized by a strong pain on the pit of her stomach, somewhere round the navel.

It was a most unfortunate coincidence that her aunt—who was half a doctor—was out.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what can I do?" quoth Gaston, "shall I ring for the servant?"

"No, no," moaned Camille, "the servants can't help me."

The young man recollected what his aunt had said the day before—i. e. that marriage would cure all Camille's ailments. He was willing and ready to help, but he did not know how he could offer his services.

"Can you think of nothing?" said Camille faintly.

"Cupping?" quoth he ruefully.

"No, no, besides you do not how to go about it."

"It is true," replied he in a crest-fallen way.

"Please hand me that bottle of spirits of balm, I shall try and rub myself with it."

"Shall I rub you?" he asked with some trepidation

"If you like," moaned the poor girl. Her suffering was so great, and as pain does not know bashfulness, she allowed him to slip his hand under the sheet and directed it to the aching spot. He at first rubbed with the tip of one finger, but he only managed to tickle her and make her jump, so that he found himself going into all kinds of crooked ways and hollow places. Little by little the hand was flattened and he rubbed with the palm of his whole hand.

Soon the spasmodic breathing ceased, relief was effected, but the cure was not quite complete.

As he rubbed, the circle of his operations increased, and the friction soon made the blood rush from his hand to his heart and then to his head; he felt it whirring in his ears, squirting in his eyes, he could hardly see, he almost felt tipsy. Soon, almost without wanting it, his hand, instead of a circle, made an ellipse, and he felt—with the tips of his fingers—a soft down like the first fluff of a young fledgling, before its feathers appear, or the fur of a new-born kitten. The touch of that fine hair was so electric that before he knew what he was about his whole hand had slipped between the young girl's thighs, rubbing, grasping, groping what he found there, and his lips were on her mouth.

"Gaston," quoth she, weakly, "what are you about?"

"Camille," added he with some show of courage, "are we not to be man and wife soon?"

"Think of the sin and the shame."

"Bosh!" said he, thrusting his other hand in her breast and feeling her flesh.

She feigned to thrust him off from her, but in a feeble way, managing to throw down the sheet and almost slip out of her shift; moreover she lost strength at every assault, whilst she only excited him by her struggle and the sight of her naked charms.

At last doffing off his coat and waistcoat and letting down his breeches he climbed on the bed and mounted on the breach.

Thereupon the combat began anew, and much more to the point. However when she saw his cock'—a very white, unhooded, smooth and tapering round wedge, better fitted for the hole of the anus than for a capacious coynte—playing a tattoo on his stomach, and that for honour's sake he would not run away like a fox without its tail, she twined her legs together and did her best to keep him off; taking care withal that her bosom might remain bare, and her shift should be drawn up and show all that could be seen between her thighs tightly pressed together.

At last—after a long beating about the bush—she waxed faint from the fray she had fought, then confessing herself vanquished, she allowed him to set her legs round his waist; after this he placed his pointed penis in the breach, and in less than no time—as he believed—made away with her maidenhead.

He sighed with pleasure, she cried with pain; in the meanwhile a noise of sniffing, of whining and a slight scratching was heard at the door; a keen ear might likewise have detected a faint rustling of silk which ended soon after in a muffled licking of chops; but they were too busy with their own work to listen to anything.

Now he puffed and he panted and then he almost swooned with delight, for the only woman he had known was a bawdy young scullery maid, a filly that had been ridden by the whole neighbourhood.

Camille—after the astringent injections she had taken only smarted from the wounds she had received two evenings before—sobbed out of shame, pain and disgust.

Gaston—having done cock's work—rose from the bed as elated and vainglorious as a young chicken that has futtered his father's old hen and that crows and struts about exulting in the deed he has done.

She—humbled, defeated and disheartened, loathed herself for having vilely deceived a man for whom she had always felt a strong sisterly affection, and sickened at the thought that she had allowed herself to play the part of a strumpet, moreover she felt irritated with him for having been such a fool; she therefore hid her head in the pillow, and went off into a fit of convulsive sobs.

The wily aunt deeming the tragi-comical play over, bounced into the room, followed by her faithful poodle, standing on his hindlegs, and stretching his head to see what was going on. The naughty nephew—caught like a boy plunging his forefinger into a pot of preserve—was forthwith sent off to bed. Camille was then soothed and quieted, and the aunt after that went off to bed thinking with a sigh of the previous night's rapturous pleasure.

Shortly afterwards the marriage of the cousins took place.

And were they happy!

Is a marriage based on deceit ever a happy one?

Their character were similar in many traits, both, moreover, were suffering from the same hereditary diseases. They were morbidly sensitive, quick to feel every trifle with too great acuteness, magnifying the slightest incidents of daily life with the subtile keenness of their sickly imaginations into unbearable misfortunes. Neither possessed any power of endurance, any wise descrimination, nor that placid calmness, which makes us bear patiently "the whips and scorns of time." Nay, they only irritated and aggravated each other's sufferings.

The creaking of a door was enough to jar upon their extremely hervous sensibility, to render them peevish and quarrelsome for a whole day, and finally to make them go to loggerheads in the evening.

She had made a full confession of her guilt—not to the husband - but to the priest who got his perquisites for the absolution he had given her. The church blessed the bond of two beings thoroughly unfit for one another, but their union—fortunately—was a fruitless one, as the only child which bore my grandfather's name was not of his stamp.

For a few days every month she suffered from uterine fury, but those days over she remained listless, indifferent, cold, towards all men in general and her husband in particular.

Soon she had the mortification of knowing that a scullery maid was her husband's mistress, she was humbled to think that a servant—who smelt of the stable and the sink—with red hands and dirty nails, a freckled face and a fleshy nose, was preferred to her, and though she almost hated her husband now, still she was jealous of him.

As for her child, it had been given out to nurse so she saw but little of it; she felt for it a fitful love, mixed up with gushing tenderness, fretful remorse and shame, she kissed it almost harshly for the sake of the man who had blasted her life, and then thrust it away from her on account of the sin she had committed.

Every day she spent hours at church kneeling before the image of St Sebastian and during the menses her wits almost wildered with devotion.

Life soon became unbearable to her, she got to be more fretful, more peevish, in her morbid sensibility, everything jarred upon her nerves, every smell was loathsome, every noise painful; the craving for perfect rest and forgetfulness grew daily stronger. Soon that attraction which the abyss has for many people existed in her for everything that brought about instant death. The suicidal mania, predominant in our family, was not to be resisted any longer.

As she often suffered from sleeplessness, she had given orders never to be disturbed in the morning, as she herself used to ring for her maid when she wanted her. One day, however, as no one came and her bell had not been heard, the maid went quietly to her door and listened. It seemed to her that she heard a faint moaning; she tapped lightly, and getting no answer she knocked a little louder, still no reply was given. She tried to open, the door was locked within. Frightened, she went to inform her master of her fears.

The lock was burst open, the room was empty, but in a closet near it, a kind of small boudoir, hung in black velvet, on a low couch of the same material, Camille—in a tight-fitting black gauze dress—was found stretched out lifeless and of a livid palor, looking like a carved image on a sarcophagus.

Although she was not quite dead—for her heart was slightly beating—still she was beyond all medical aid, and the doctor who was summoned in haste confessed that his science was vain. She lingered for some hours, and then quietly passed away. On a table beside her there was an empty phial which contained opium and a sealed manuscript addressed to her son and only to be opened by him on the eve of his marriage.

It was written in a high flown, flowery style, full of high falutin and it contained the drift of what I have related to you.

Two days afterwards, unwept and, uncared for, she was buried according to her wishes, in the robe she wore, together with the—all but withered—snow-drops which her dress, her couch and her room had been strewn with.

Though she imagined herself to be growing plain, stout and dowdy, people still remember her as a frail, fairy-like, etherial beauty. As for the cause of her suicide, it was attributed to the grief she had felt at her husband's faithlessness.