Des Grieux/Chapter III

by Anonymous

 

CHAPTER III

 

My childhood was a very dull one. I am hardly certain whether I remember my mother or not, for I was only about two years old when she died. By an effort it seems to me that I can recollect having been taken into a dark hushed room, where she was asleep—of having been lifted on a couch and made to kiss her. Her face was as white as marble, seemed quite as cold; so that the contact of my warm lips with that clammy flesh produced an indelible impression upon me. Still, I believe that this impression has lingered in my mind, because these details have, every now and then, been rehearsed and related to me. It is, therefore, like the ghost of a thought evoked from time to time.

Till about ten years of age my life was passed in an almost claustral loneliness. I lived in a large rambling two-storied house together with my father, and his aunt. My father, however, was almost always absent, and, besides, he took but little notice of us when he was at home. My aunt as a rule got up very late, went daily to the 11 o'clock mass so that I hardly ever saw her before dinner time, at half past one. I had some toys, but no play-mate. I was pampered with dainties, surfeited with sweet meats, but as I took no exercise, I had no appetite, especially for wholesome food.

My days, withal, would have flowed by monotonously, had it not been for an infirmity of mine, which really tortured my life. I was terribly frightened of poodles, they were the bane of my existence. I did not care much for any dogs in general, but at the sight of a poodle, I grew deathly pale, I trembled from head to foot, and almost fainted for fear. Still I can hardly call it fear, for it was more a kind of loathsomeness, that made me thoroughly sick, than any apprehension of danger.

I have been told that my mother—during her pregnancy—had been frightened by a poodle that my aunt had at that time, and that died shortly afterwards,—still can such a circumstance have produced so great an impression on the fœtus in the earlier stages of gestation? And yet I cannot explain this infirmity of mine otherwise, for neither my father nor my mother had any dread of this particular race of dogs.

As I grew older I tried to reason myself out of this dislike and I have almost succeeded in overcoming it ; now I can even bear the sight of one of these canine clowns, provided they do not come unexpectedly bouncing upon me, which they do so very often.

I have very few recollectious of those early years, and those I have are hardly worth recording. Still it is astounding how some trifling facts sink deeply into a child's mind and are never forgotten, whilst many important events pass entirely into oblivion.

When I was about four or five years of age, I was—as usual—-playing alone with some blocks of wood, building a tower if I remember rightly. In the same room, there was a young dressmaker, busy at one of my aunt's gowns. This girl—who must have been rather pretty—was about 18 or 19, for she was engaged at the time, and she married shortly afterwards. I remember the fact because she brought me a paper of comfits when the wedding took place.

Well—as I was playing, this dressmaker stopped in her work and looked at me. She was flushed, her eyes were sparkling, and her lips were very red.

"Come here," said she, "you are a good boy, are you not?"

"Yes," I replied indifferently. "Come then and give me a kiss; I am very fond of good little boys."

I looked at her, astonished.

"Come on," repeated she, with a husky voice. I at last went up to her. She caught my face between both her hands and kissed me repeatedly and lingeringly on my mouth, with far more eagerness than I had ever been kissed. Of course—like most boys—I felt nothing, and disliked being fondled, especially in that way, for she almost suffocated me.

"As you are a very good boy, to morrow I'll bring you some bonbons," she said.

Then hesitatingly, and after a pause:

"Do you know where I keep my sweeties?"

"No."

"Well, come nearer, my pet, and I'll show you,"—her voice was trembling.

I shuffled up to her. She took hold of my hand and held it tightly by the wrist, then opening her legs wide apart and uplifting her skirts, she thrust my little fist between her thighs and pressed it deep between her soft, warm flesh.

"I don't think there are any comfits there, to-day, but look well, perhaps you might find one or two, you are such a clever little boy."

I was both astonished and shy; although I could not have given any reason for it, still I instinctively felt that it was a naughty thing to do. I was therefore going to draw my hand away, but curiosity retained me.

What I touched was at the same time warm, pulpy and moist, nay the farther in my hand was plunged, the more intense the heat grew. Moreover to my utter surprise, there was a lot of hair growing over her stomach and all around that sticky flesh.

My bewilderment likewise increased when after a greater exploration I found that she had no birdie, or a little bag with balls, but that she had quite a beard instead.

In the meanwhile-—always holding me by my arm—she rubbed my little fist in the hot place—always telling me with a husky panting voice to look for sweeties—till I felt it get quite wet.

I asked her what she was doing, if she was piddling on my hand, but she began to pant and to squeeze my arm tightly. "Ah!" she said, with a sigh of satisfaction, "I've done it, it was very nice, wasn't it?"

She dried my hand on her skirt, or shift, and taking it out she put it under my nose.

"Do you like the smell?" she asked. I do not know what I answered, or if I did give her any reply, but I remember that it smelt fishy, and I smelt it over and over all that day. I never forgot it, and now whenever that smell of a woman's coynte mounts to my nostrils, I always remember the girl I masturbated.

"Haven't I a funny pussy," said she, "should you like to see it, my dear?"

I don't think I answered her anything, but I certainly7 stared with very round eyes.

At that moment there was a noise of footsteps, for she said to me:

"If you are a very good boy, I'll show you my pussy another time. Only mind it's a secret, and as you are a little man, you must mind, and never tell secrets. To-morrow I'll bring you some bonbons. Now go and play' thats a dear." Saying this she pushed me away from her, and resumed her sewing.

I went back to my toys; I played, I smelt my hand and I chewed the cud of my thoughts.

For a long time afterwards I kept thinking and pondering over the whole affair; asking myself whether women have a real pussy between their legs; moreover—being always foud of cats—I should dearly have liked to have seen it.

Shortly after this event there happened another one, which—although I have not exactly cherished it—I could withal never forget, for erotic words and subjects seem to cling with a particular tenacity to a child's mind.

It was a hot summer day, and I was lounging listlessly in the hall down-stairs, the door of which—opening on the street—was ajar. My aunt had gone to vespers, as usual, and had promised to bring me a pretty pair of new boots, if I was a very good boy during her absence.

In the hall, over the door opposite the entrance, there was a huge stuffed vulture, perched—with outstretched wings—on a stand. This bird—as you know—belongs to our crest, and I had therefore been brought up to feel a certain veneration for it; why, I really cannot tell. To me it has always been the type of cruelty and rapine.

All at once, as I was playing, I turned round, and saw two boys standing at the door, looking at the bird, and making—as thought—all kinds of irrelevant remarks about it, and laughing. They were two ragged street arabs, about twelve or fourteen, little men in comparison to myself.

As they could not see the bird, they advanced a step or two within the hall. I was alone—for the servants were either in the kitchen or up-stairs—still I peremptorily ordered these two young vagrants out of the house.

"Is it your house?" said the elder mockingly.

"Of course it is," said I, sternly.

A marmot who has a house of his own," said the younger laughing at the absurdity of the statement.

"Out from here," added I, with a grand gesture of the hand.

"Your house?" continued the big boy cyncally, then taking his pizzle out of his ragged breeches, and shaking it, "this is yours, baby, and you can come and suck it if you like."

"You have bought the house with this," said the other boy imitating the example of his friend, and splitting with laughter, "haven't you, baby?"

I rushed at them in a mad rage, and my anger must have made me seem formidable, for the two imps turned round and took to their heels.

I had remained the victor without fighting, for the two vagrants—double my size—had fled before my fury, and still I was humbled, crushed, annihilated. Almost out of my senses with the stinging shame I felt, I threw myself on the floor and burst into a fit of hysteric sobs. I was found there soon afterwards by my nurse who vainly coaxed me to tell her what had happened; she summoned all the other servants and questioned them, but nobody knew anything, or could make me utter a word about the matter, for when I tried to speak,the image of the elder boy, shaking his unhooded brown prickle at me tauntingly, not only closed my mouth but made me burst into another fit of convulsions.

Their words: "This is yours, come and suck it," and: "You have bought it with this," were constantly ringing in my ears for days afterwards: I even heard them at night in my dreams. For the first time, at about four or five years of age, I found that life was not worth living, and death just then would have been a relief; nay, such was my morbid sensitiveness that I found it a hard task to bear my shame.

When my aunt came home, she inquired what was the matter with me, and she was told that I must have been terrified by some stray poodle.

She brought me the little boots she had promised me. I remember them after a lapse of more than twenty years, the tops were of brown yellowish kid and the lower part of patent leather.

As my nurse tried them on, I saw—in my imagination—the elder boy, standing in front of me, shaking his tool menacingly. I at once burst into another fit of convulsive sobbing.

"Just look at your pretty little boots," said the nurse coaxingly, "auntie has hought then for you, and now they are yours."

It seemed as if she actually laid a stress on the words emphasized by the street boy, only to taunt me. I thereupon kicked my ligs veolently, for the boots had become obnoxious to me and I did not want to keep them on. In fact—since that time—I have not only disliked such boots, but even the people who wore them.

Althongh—after a few days—I managed to get over the loathsomeness I felt for life, still that trivial incident has never been forgotten.

Another fact that also impressed me at that time was the peculiar copulation of a dog and a bitch. I happened to be at the diningroom window when I witnessed the astounding sight.

Our house—as you know—overlooked a kind of yard, and as its inmates always afforded me great interest, I passed many hours of the day watching them.

It therefore happened, at the time I speak of, that the owner of one of the booths possessed a dog—a peculiar animal with many long pointed breasts—which I could not help noticing, as it was ever pestered by all the curs of the neighbourhood. One day as I went to the window I saw that, and another dog, tied together—as I imagined—by their tails and they could not get free from one another.

The two pitiable animals were howling, for the children—cet âge est sans pitié—were throwing stones at them.

It was a rare sight, so I called everybody to hasten and enjoy it. As soon as my nurse perceived the two dogs, she snatched me up, cuffed me soundly, sent me off from the window, and told me if I ever looked upon such things again, my eyes would drop out of my head.

I therefore began pondering. Why I was a naughty boy? I had not tied the dogs together; and, if I looked at them, why were my eyeballs to fall clean out of their sockets?

Perhaps the dogs had not been tied, perhaps I ruminated they had stuck their tails into each other's bottoms, just for fun; that of course would not have been a thing to be looked at. It was a riddle which I only solved many years afterwards.

At about ten my father sent me to school. Never having had any playmates of my own age, I was as shy as a girl, and on that account mercilessly plagued and made fun of. The little boys called me "Mademoiselle," and the big ones tormented me. They used to catch me from behind, and clasping me, they began bumping their middle part against my bum, asking me how I'd like it. Thereupon all would laugh. Of course I did not understand what they were hinting at, but I felt sure that in their words there was some hidden meaning which I could not fathom. Nevertheless I used to blush scarlet, having half an intuition that they wanted to do something naughty.

After some time I got to be great friends with one of my school-fellows and he then explained to me what those horrible boys wanted to do. It was he who informed me one day, as a great secret, that girls had no birdie as we had.

"No, of course they haven't" quoth I, proud to show my own knowledge, "they have a pussy instead."

"A what?" asked he, astonished.

"Why, a pussy with lots of hair."

He burst out in a loud fit of laughter, tickled at that peculiar idea of mine.

I felt hurt to see him laugh so foolishly and remonstrated with him, but all I said was in vain.

"No, no," said he, "you are wrong, you can call their little hole a pussy if you like, still you maybe sure that they have no hair."

I looked at him superciliously, and was about to walk away.

"What they have," continued he, "is a big bum behind, and another little one in front, but no fur."

I would not vouchsafe any explanation as to where I had got my knowledge, for although I had never seen what women have between their legs, still I had felt the bushy hair, and that was enough for me.

Anyhow he understood that I was staunch in my belief, and he therefore took the first opportunity he could find to convince me of the truth of his assertion.

Shortly after this confab we happened to be in his garden, behind a hedge of thick gooseberry bushes, quite a secluded little leafy dell, discussing erotic subjects.

Hearing his younger sister's voice, he called her to him, then, catching hold of her, he threw her on the grass, lifted up her skirts, opened her drawers, showed me the rosy flesh between her thighs, that tiny cleft bordered by two pale lips, like a long mouth, which contorted into grimaces as she tried to free herself from his clutches.

He however sat astraddle on her stomach, and with the tips of his fingers opened the lips. I sank down on my knees and looked within, astonished to see the numerous folds of living flesh.

"You see"—quoth he, "that girls have no hair as you thought."

I had to give in, there was no gainsaying facts.

"Put your finger in and see how moist it feels," said he.

I should, in fact, have liked to continue my explorations but the girl began to screech so loud that we had to let her go.

From that day, with other girls and boys of our own age, or thereabouts, we often compared notes, we measured whose pizzle was the thickest and the longest, whose unhooded most, and above all who could piss the farthest and the highest. It was a triumph indeed to see that water spout up as high as our heads, and sparkle in the sun like real oriental topazes. The girls—I know—envied us such a feat; but then they did what we could not, they filled up their little goyntes with pebbles, for how far does human vanity not reach!

Another delightful thing was to get some girl to lie across our knees, to open her pants, and slap her buttocks till it made our hands, as well as those quiescent lobes, red as poppies, hot as ovens, and tingle with pain; stilwe found an unexplainable pleasure in the sound cuffs we gave, for it almost made our tiny prickles stand on an end. This amusement, however, was the beginning and the cause of all my troubles in after-life.

One day, we were interrupted in the very midst of our sport, I remember all the little details of the scene, as if they had happened yesterday; shutting my eyes, and slightly rubbing the lids, I evoke the flushed faces of all my playmates.

It was on a warm spring day; we were in our favourite secluded nook, that grassy path, "with daisies powder'd over," between the hedgerows of gooseberry bushes, in the old fashioned garden. We had, on either side, a wall of glossy green leaves; over head the brown bunches of some old cherry trees, all covered with bunches of wild blossoms, and little greenish or browish leaflets, and as the fresh breeze wafted its scented breath through the entangled boughs—a snow storm of soft petals came fluttering, showering down; white butterflies chasing each other flitted around us. The blithe birds warbled or twittered on the branches and in the bushes; some in long amourous strains others trilling merrily with mad delight,—whilst a few added their short and jerky notes which blended themselves in harmonious unison to the great concert, whilst the grave enckoo seemed to be slowly keeping time to them all.

My school-mate was squatted on the sod, having his sister's friend across his knees, he had lifted up her white petticoats, pulled open her cambric pants and exibited two rounded lobes of flesh, like a large melon cut in two, only that the colour instead of being orange yellow was of a faint pinkish tint.

To our delight he opened the two lobes widely apart, and thus discovered the little browish dot of her tiny hole, and, forthwith, tried to force his finger into it. The aperture, however, was too small, and as he thrust his index brutally within it—saying that he was planting a May-pole—the poor child screamed with pain.

"Sotte," said he, and pulling out his finger he gave her such a smacking slap, that the white flesh was at once flushed, leaving the incarnadine sign of his five fingers. The first blow had been too strong and unexpected; the girl uttered a faint cry, at which we all clapped our hands in high glee.

"Ah! you are mewing are you," said the boy excited, and he immediately gave her another and much stronger slap. The girl uttered a shriller cry, at which we all capered for joy, in a kind of wild dance.

All at once my friend's eldest sister, a girl of 18, appeared arm in arm with the young man to whom she was engaged, at one end of the flowery path. On the other outlet we saw an old aunt—a prim, gaunt, weazened, methodistic spinster, a real methusalah in petticoats—who had always looked upon us as a hellish brood.

Fancy how sheepish, and crestfallen we looked as we held our little pizzles in our hand, and pissed as high as we possibly could.

My friend was whipped before us, we—his guests—were sent home in disgrace.

I was soundly, thrashed by my father, lengthily lectured to by my aunt, then scolded by my nurse.

She told me that my hands would wither away if I ever played with my little birdie again, for God—the Ever-Lurking-Spy—always sees little boys when they do such naughty things. He curses them on earth, and—as. He never fails to write down what ever they do in His big book—He sends them to hell when they die, where they wriggle about with worms in ever consuming flames.

"With poodles?" I asked.

"Surely," quoth she.

Then to impress her words more firmly on my mind she showed me several pictures of sinners wallowing in the bottomless pit.

After that, I was sent supperless to bed, where—when I fell asleep—I raved feverishly the whole night, fancying that I was scampering as fast as I could, trying to escape grim Jehovah—running after me with a switch—and ever and anon, stumbling from giddy heights, then suddenly awaking to find myself in bed.

Terror-haunted, full of anguish, my heart bursting with contrition, motherless and almost fatherless, feeling in the Christian-like way I was brought up—that I was a disgrace to myself and to all who knew me, hated by God and man, on account of my manifold sins, I not only wished myself dead, but I think I would have committed suicide had I known how to bring about my end.

My aunt—who was positively weary of me—seized this as a good opportunity for declining any further responsibility in my education, and persuaded my father to put me out as a boarder in some school.

I had hitherto dabbled in early vice thoughtlessly and without malice. In that hot-bed of rottenness—a French boarding-school—I soon learnt all the secrets of life, and still—strange to say—it was not by my schoolfellows.

For several reasons I was not placed in the dormitory with the other boys. First I was very young, secondly there was no bed vacant, thirdly my story having been related to the head master, he had been requested to have a sharp look out on my morals; for I was described as a black sheep with the very worst propensities. I was therefore put to sleep with one of the nurses, a stout masculine-looking woman, past the canonical age. A screen however, divided the room into two compartments.

One sultry summer night, I awoke feeling very hot and feverish; parched with thirst I got up to see if I could find a glass of water. Besides the rays of the moon in her zenith, the early gloaming shed its mellow light in the room. There was no water on my night table, I erossed over on her side, to see if I could find any there. The nurse was lying on her back, her legs somewhat apart, her thighs open, her slit uplifted. All her middle parts were therefore entirely bare. In that pale amber light her skin looked as white and as smooth as newly carved ivory. I should almost have felt inclined to pass my hand over it had my eyes not fallen, at once, on the dark fleece, which covered half of her thighs and almost reached up to her navel.

I was so thoroughly astonished, that I forgot my thirst, I forgot the reason for which I had got down from my bed; I stood there for a while, staring at her with widely-opened eyes.

This woman possessed a pussy, and there was no mistake about it. How I wished my friend had been with me, I might have convinced him of the truth of my assertion, for although little girls—as a rule—had no hair around their slit, women had a regular fleece there.

And yet I hardly believed my eyes, it seemed impossible that she could have such a lot of hair in that place and no beard on her chin, though she had a slight moustache.

As the nurse was sound asleep and suoring loudly, I thought I might just try and see if the hair grew there naturally or if it was a kind of bib to cover her shame. I just passed my hand lightly, tremblingly, over the fur, it was long, crisp and curly; it seemed to grow there. The nurse continued her rumbling noise: I therefore just caught hold of one or two hairs and pulled them slightly. All at once she gave a kind of snort, moved, and her hand came down upon nime. I slipped away my hand, popped down quickly and crawled noiselessly under the bed.

"Guillaume," said she, stretching out—I believe—her arms in her sleep.

After a pause:

"Guillaume, where are you?"

Of course I gave no answer. By the noise the bed made, I knew that she had turned on the other side. Soon she was again fast asleep, for although she did not suore, she was puffing rhythmically.

I was about to leave my hiding place, when I heard a slight noise; some one was actually turning the handle of the door. It opened without creaking.

Lying flat on my stomach, I could see the legs of a barefooted man, standing on the threshold.

How I did shiver and quake. I of course concluded that it must be a burglar, coming to murder us. I did not stop to think that the man was in his night gown. My first impulse was to scream; but fear, and the instinct of self-preservation, made me keep quiet.

If I only had had a sword, I might have cut off his two feet and toppled him down.

The man came close to the side of the bed and stopped for a minute.

What was he doing? My heart was giving some mighty thumps. Perhaps he was smothering the nurse with her own bolster like the little princes in the tower. Presently I heard a sound, but it was very much like a kiss, then another and still another.

No, I could not be mistaken.

"Oh! Guillaume, is it you, so you're come." Thereupon she moved on one side, as if she was making place for him.

But then, thought I, this man is no burglar; moreover she was expecting him.

Who could he be?

In the whole house there were several Guillaumes, one of the older boys, one of the junior masters, and a sturdy Auvergnat of a servant man were all Williams, which of them was the conqueror? Moreover was he so very fond of this old virago that he had stealthily crept into her room like a thief, only to kiss her?

Whilst I was lost in these surmises, I saw his bare legs and feet disappear, and by the noise of the mattress—evidently crushed down—I guessed that Guillaume had got into the matron's bed.

A moment's silence followed; a more expert ear might have detected the straining of muscles, the clasping of naked flesh; mine did not. Then succeeded a suppressed smacking of kisses, together with an interrupted conversation in hushed and husky tones.

What could they be talking about? I strained my ears but I could not catch the slightest syllable.

Soon the mattresses were set in motion, to which a slight and almost musical creaking of the bedstead kept time. They evidently disliked this rhythmical accompaniment, for they tried to strain the wooden frame to make it stop, but the jerks they gave it, as well as their curses, were of no avail, on the contrary the noise grew ever louder. It was now a regular cadence of bumping and plunging, something like a continuous kneading of dough, marked at intervals by a sound like that of a horse's hoof drawn out of the mire.

My wildest conjectures were too vague to allow me to form any plausible supposition as to what they were about.

Little by little the bucking and pounding as well as the creaking increased both in time as well as in strength. From an adagio it had got to be a presto, then a prestissimo. I was dreadfully frightened lest the whole bedstead would come down upon me and crush me. I therefore crept to the farthermost end of the bed, and kept, ready to slip out, if the slightest accident happened.

When there I heard the nurse whisper to Guillaume to take care lest he might wake the marmot—that was me—with the noise he was making.

"The devil take the brat," muttered the conqueror, "it is time he was got out of your room."

Thereupon the thumps and thuds increased, then a puffing and panting, intermingled with grunts of satisfaction, and wriggles which seemed more of pleasure than of pain, together with an undescribable gurgling.

Then in a suppressed sotto voce: There I'm doing it, ah!—louder, shudderingly—I'm doing it, all!—and after a slight pause he added in a more tremulous and louder voice—all! I've done it. Then some panting, a few seconds of silence—during which I asked myself what Guillaume had done—and he added with ineffable satisfaction:

Ah! futtering is after all the only thing worth living for in this world.

Mow those words impressed me. I repeated them over and over to myself, and for days afterwards they kept ever ringing in my ears.

I had found out what Guillaume and the nurse were doing. They were futtering.

Yes, but what was futtering?

I had often heard common people use the word foutre, either when they were much astonished or very angry. I knew it was a trivial word. I likewise had heard an idiot called a foutre or a Jean foutre, that likewise was low. Moreover a man that was dead or done for, was said to be foutu. To futter some one was—I had hitherto believed—to thrash a person. How could it then follow that "futtering was the only thing worth living for?"

After a lengthy pause the man added. "But you did not enjoy it, did you?"

Now that Guillaume spoke in his natural voice, I was all but certain that it was the junior master.

The matron added at once:

"No, since that sacred brat has been put in my room, I never feel at ease, and all my fun is spoilt."

"Yes, he's a little curse."

"I'm always so frightened that some day or other he'll wake, and then there'll be some bother."

"Oh! he always sleeps like a top."

"I'm not quite so sure of that, he's such a little sneak. For instance just before you came in, I am sure I felt a hand on my coynte."

How I pricked up my ears at the word.

"Her coynte!" Then the fur all round her slit, thought I, is called a coynte and not a pussy as the dressmaker told me.

"Well and then?" asked Guillaume.

"Nothing; only I thought it was you."

"Perhaps," added I to myself in a mental monologue, "there are two names for the same thing, just as some boys call a birdie a handle," any how, in my soliloquy I kept repeating the new word lest I might forget it.

"And you did not go to see if he was in his bed?" was the master's query, for he was always fond of putting everlasting questions.

"No, I turned the other side, and I went off to sleep."

"Then you must have been dreaming."

"Yes I suppose so."

After that they kissed, then the bed creaked again, and she added:

"No, no, you had better go away now, it is almost broad daylight, you came so late."

"Yes, I over slept myself."

Some more kissing took place, then he jumped down, did something to her, but I don't know what, then they kissed again.

"Ta, ta,—on Wednesday next," said he at last.

"Yes," added she, drowsily wallowing on her bed.

The man crept away on tip-toe. He opened the door noiselesly, cast a glance on either side of the passage then sidled out.

From where I was I could see him quite well now, I had not been mistaken in my thoughts; it was the junior master, he taught history and mathematics.

I did think it somewhat strange that the matron should call him Guillaume when everybody called him Mr Durieux, but then there were so many other things to astonish me that this incident was soon forgotten.

I waited just a little and I heard the nurse snore—as she always did when she slept—then glided out of my hiding-place, crept on all fours round the screen and thus went back to my bed. There, it did not take me long to fall asleep.

It was late when I woke, nay the nurse was tugging at me to rouse me from my overpowering drowsiness. But what was she saying: The words I heard were: Puttering is the only thing worth living for," and I believed I repeated them in an inarticulate way.

"Get up, it's late," added the nurse,giving me another shake.

I opened my eyes, the matron was there standing beside me, but instead of her face I saw her huge pussy; and I kept muttering the above quoted phrase to myself.

I must, have looked at her with scrutinizing astonished eyes, for the virago seemed for a moment quite abashed.

"Why are you looking at me so surprised?" she asked.

"Oh! nothing."

"Still, you seem so bewildered," added she coaxingly.

"I… I think I've been dreaming."

"About what? my pretty pet!"

"I… I don't think I remember."

"Now just suppose you' try a little."

I was itching to ask, still I durst not.

"Come, you are a darling of a child, do try and think what it was."

I paused for a moment, then encouraged by her loving words, and prompted by the curiosity I felt:

"Mrs Lachand…" said I, with a fluttering heart and a trembling voice.

"Well? my love."

"Please, will you tell me what futtering is?"

I shall never forget the transformation that woman's face underwent. From sweet benevolent cozening look, it changed into the ugliest of grim scowls.

She lifted up her hand and gave me a smacking slap, then in a hissing undertone:

"You dirty, sneaking wretch, ah! you want to know what futtering is, well I'll show you." Thereupon she turned me on my back and pulling up my night-gown she began to thrash me mercilessly, nay the more she struck, the greater pleasure she felt, and the smarter were t he blows she gave.

"Now I hope, you've been futtered to you heart's content, and it'll be enough for a long while, but next time you ask such a thing, I won't thrash you, I'll simply take you by your ear, just as you are, in your night-gown, and drag you to the head-master, before all the boys. We all know what a filthy imp you were when you came to us, so he'll expell you from school at once.

Of course I was sobbing piteously during her speech, so she shook me several times to make me stop, then she began again.

"Just say such a word again, and your tongue'll wither in your mouth. Don't you know" you wretched child that you make the good God cry when you say such words. You are old enough to understand that if you make the good God so angry, he might in his wrath strike you dead for ever."

"And a day after," said I to myself, mentally.

Her scolding and my whimpering were both suddenly stopped by the sound of the drum. It was the second signal, so I ought to have already been combed, washed and ready to join my school fellows who were marching down to their morning studies.

The nurse soused my head in a basin of water, anxiously bidding me at the same time to forget the terrible word I had uttered, and that for this time she would not speak to the masters, then she helped me to put on my dirty uniform.

All haste was however useless, I was twelve minutes late, therefore I was noted down and got fifty lines to copy during the play hours.

Dull, dispirited,and muddle-headed as I was, smarting from the blows I had received, it was no wonder that I again began to blubber.

Besides it was a wretched feeling to think I was so atrociously wicked that whatever I did and whatever I said made my Heavenly Father snivel, and that it was a mercy my eyes did not drop out of their sockets, my hands grow paralyzed, my tongue wither to the root. Then in my forlorn state I felt a kind of homesickness, I longed fora little love, for a few kind words.

Why had my mother killed herself and left me alone in this world?

This thought brought on another.

"Perhaps," said I to myself, "she did not know the only thing worth living for." I tried not to think of the word "futtering," but my lips uttered it almost against my will. She probably, like myself, did not know this pleasure, and then surely life was not worth a rap.

In fact, was I not the most miserable wreech in the whole school? The boys pestered me because I slept in the matron's room, and asked me all kinds of silly questions. There I spoilt all the nurse's fun; in fact, since my birth I always seemed to be in everybody's way, a burden to myself and to all who had anything to do with me.

The day dragged on most drearily, for although I knew my lessons well, I was so listless and muddled, that I always answered wrongly. The upshot was that I got two hundred lines more.

In my despondency I was glad when night came on, my bed—a child's bugbear—was a real haven of rest. Although I intended remaining awake, just to see if anything would happen,still, no sooner was my weary head on my pillow, that I went off to sleep.

I only slumbered lightly, for I woke when the matron came in, and again T woke when she wallowed in her bed. As in a dream I heard the clock strike one, then I was conscious of a slight noise, the door of the room was opened and some one came in.

In spite of all my curiosity, I durst not turn round, nor move; I felt sure the matron would be listening to hear if I was awake.

In fact she soon uttered a low hissing soud, then she jumped out of her bed.

The man evidently stopped where he was.

"Is it you, Guillaume?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes,"—in an undertone.

I was lying flat on my stomach, my face turned to the wall, as quiet as a mouse. Though young, there was however guile enough in me to make me understand that she had come to make sure of my being asleep. Not wanting to get into more trouble but anxious to know—if possible—what flittering was, I began to breathe softly and slowly, even puffing every now and then as sleeping persons usually do. She patted me lightly, called me by my name, asked me if I wanted to do pi-pi, but seeing that I did not budge, she, was thought I—as our Latin books have it—in Morpheus' arms. She therefore left me and went to meet Guillaume, who—as I surmised—was always standing at the door.

As soon as they were together, they began to whisper in that same low husky, somewhat nasal, tone, but I could not hear what they said. By degrees they got more excited and their tones grew louder, and as I listened it did not seem to me that the man's voice was that of Mr Durieux, although this Guillaume—whoever he was—spoke likewise in a goatish way.

But what could they be doing so long together?I turned my head as much as I could, I strained my eyes to their utmost corners.

They were, now, standing close together kissing. She was holding his pizzle, and—I think—rubbing it. He had uplifted her shift and his hand was between her legs. He must have been patting her pussy.

I twisted my head round a little more, now I could see them pretty well, it was not Guillaume Durieux, the junior master, but Guillaume Chretien, a senior scholar, a young Marseillais of about 17, the sturdiest fellow of the whole school.

They seemed to be enjoying their little game, so I asked myself if this was futtering, or if it was only the preliminaries. After they had been amusing themselves a little in that way, they both disappeared behind the screen, and—by the noise they made—it was evident that they had gone to bed together.

They at first kept quiet for some time, and—in the meanwhile—I began to ponder.

How was it that the good God—who is always horrified at what children do—allows this matron to go to bed every night with another William?

Can he wink at such doings, does he smile at their pranks?

Surely if he has to cry at all the naughty things children do, and the dirty things grown up people indulge in, why then his own life is not worth living.

Meanwhile the two in bed were rehearsing the little game that had been played the evening before. They first proceeded quietly, like a sleam-engine just started, but after a few strokes, the speed of the piston-rod increased rapidly.

It was the same thumping and bumping, the same inarticulate sounds of puffing and puffing, of breathing painfully and panting pleasurably, even the same hoarse gurglings, to which the thuds on the mattress, the creaking of the hinges, the straining of the wooden bed kept rhythmic time.

Evidently they were having their fill of pleasure—for surely they would not take so much trouble for nothing—therefore I concluded that they were doing the thing worth living for.

My curiosity had risen to such a pitch of excitement that I could hardly keep still any longer, my craving to see them flittering was irresistible; I was even ready to put myself into jeopardy to gratify my thirst for this forbidden knowledge.

My first plan was to slip on the floor quietly, and go and peep round the screen, but on second thought I concluded it would be better to stand on the bed and look over that partition of paper.

I therefore got up quietly, holding myself—as well as I could—to the wall, and making as little noise as possible,—as I was very light the bed did not make the slightest sound.

For a little while I could not understand much of what I saw, but by degrees I perceived that the matron was lying on her back and Guillaume was upon her. They were both moving up and down.

"This," thought I, "is the beast with two backs that the boys had once been so much amused about."

Straining my eyes, holding my breath, I advanced cautiously towards the edge of the bed. I now saw that she had her fat legs entwined in his, whilst both were clasped in each other's arms.

"There, there," said she, "move a little, but don't pull yourself up, there, like that push it in as far as you can, ah!"

In my eagerness to see, I bent just a little forwards, when—all at once—the mattress gave way under my feet, and lo! I slipped and fell with a tremendous thud on the floor.

Although I hurt my head and bruised my back, I durst not utter a moan, still I could not help whimpering a little as I tried to extricate myself from the sheet, but before I could get up the matron was by my side, clapping her hand on my mouth and almost smothering me, for fear I might scream. "What's the matter with you, you little monster?" She hissed in my ear.

"I… I fell out of my bed."

"Oh! you fell, you toad"—and catching hold of my hair she shook me violently—"and. how did you manage to fall, pray?"

"I… I don't know, I think I slipped," I answered gasping.

"In your sleep?" said she relenting.

"Yes, I think I was dreaming."

"Oh! you were dreaming poor dear, were you?" added she in a soothing voice, kissing me.

Thereupon she helped me to get back into my bed, she tucked me and then bade me go off to sleep.

I had seen what I wanted, though perhaps not quite as much as I should have liked; of course I could not go off to sleep after that.

For a while they kept very silent, then—after some time—I heard the matron come up to my bed. I did exactly what I had done before. She called me again by my name. I did not vouchsafe any answer. She then went back to her bed.

"Now you had better go," said she gruffly.

"Oh! let me slip it in once more," rejoined he, coaxingly.

Within myself there was the mental query—What did he want to slip in, and where did he want to slip it?

"No, no, not to-night."

"Oh! but that cursed toad spoilt every thing just when I was going to shoot."

I asked myself rather frightened: What was he going to shoot?

"So I felt nothing."

"And do you think I felt?"

"We'll just let me try another shot," added he, always coaxingly.

"No, no, you've been here too long already, that'll never do, you might be missed, and then there'll be a row."

"No, no, on Tuesdays Durieux sleeps like a top."

I could hardly help chuckling. There were many things I did not know, but one thing that I did know was why Durieux slept like a top on Tuesdays.

Then came a good deal of coaxing and kissing but still the matron was inflexible.

"No," said she peremptorily, "it's useless, but I'll tell you what, if you like, you can faire minette to me, that can be done noiselessly."

This was a new wonder for me. What were they going to do? They were almost mewing like old cats, were they going to be noiselessly frolicsome like kittens? I did wish they would let me join in their little game. Then t asked myself if I could do minette to the nurse? I durst not move any more, for I felt sure their rage would be ungovernable if I spoilt their fun a second time.

Whatever this game was they kept quiet for some time, then there was some wriggling and wallowing, a great deal of strong breathing, the nurse seemed to be having stomachache, then a subdued sighing as if the pain was over, and all was silent for a few minutes.

Thereupon I think they rose.

"Did you enjoy it?" quoth he.

"Fichtre!" in a decided tone.

"I did it nicely, didn't I?"

"Very."

"Then,"—some low words in a longing tone which I could not understand.

"Go away you pig."

"How hard you are."

"Do you want the toad to jump out of his bed and catch us at it, then the whole school will be roused."

"Then on Friday?"

"Yes."

He thereupon went to her basin, wet his face and seemed to be washing or rincing his mouth. The first Guillaume had not washed himself.

Query 1. Had it anything to do with the pussy game?

Query 2. Do people always wash after playing pussy!

For some evenings I slept like Mr Durieux did on Tuesdays and I suppose Chretien on Wednesdays. I never heard anything, never woke at all. I had—I think—caught cold, a very slight cold indeed, for I did not perceive it, but the matron who had grown exceedingly fond of me, said that I coughed in the night and that I breathed with a wheezing sound, so she made me take a cup of tea before going to bed. It was very good and sweet, of pansies and orange leaves—she said—but I was not to mention it to the other boys who would be jealous. I kept taking it for several nights, but whether it was my cold, or the sultry hot days, the more I slept, the more drowsy I grew.

At last—about a fortnight afterwards—having got sick of my tisane and being sure I had neither a cold nor a cough any more, I—the matron not mounting guard—instead of drinking it and having it pass through my body into the vessel where it was destined to go, I deftly poured it into the night-vase at once.

I went off to sleep, but I did not fall into that lethargy of the evening before. In the middle of the night I had a peculiar dream. I was on board of a ship and the matron was with me, but I do not exactly know whether we were in bed or not. All at once the waves began to roll high and dash against the bow of the vessel, that was labouring to make headway through the trough of the waters. She was straining her bulwarks, and although the huge sails were swelled by the heavy gale I could hear them flapping rhythmically, keeping time to the creaking sound of the boards and the beams. The engine too was puffing madly and the piston rod going in and out the cylinder was giving mighty thuds. All at once the ship was attacked by pirates—just like in the story I had been reading that very evening—only one of them had got over the matron, as Guillaume Chretien had done a fortnight ago, and she, poor thing, was sobbing and calling for help. Yes, I could hear her plainly, she was panting, wailing, almost screeching.

I thereupon seized a crowbar and ran to her help. Some one had rung the bell, the ship was on fire, I shrieked for help, I yelled…

There was a scuffle. The nurse was by my side almost throttling me, her eyes were out of her head, her hair all dishevelled, she was looking like a devil. A man appeared likewise by my bed.

"If you scream, you dirty blackguard, I'll just murder you."

I tried to scream, but the nurse gagged me. I now recognized the man that had thus threatened me. It was Guillaume, the broad-shouldered Auvergnat servant man. Another second and he vanished behind the screen.

A few moments afterwards there were lights and footsteps in the passage, but the door being locked no one could come in. The nurse told them, however, that there was nothing the matter with me, I had been dreaming and pulled the bell-rope in my sleep; so they all went off grumbling and evidently cursing me as giving more trouble than the whole school together.

I was shaken and thumped in bed, and ordered to go off to sleep at once, which I tried to do as quickly as I possibly could.

My stay in that boarding-school was, however, not to be of long duration.

Not long after the incident of that night, Mr Durieux was explaining to us something about the Persian wars. The subject was an interesting one, and most of us—contrary to our habits,—were straining our ears to listen to every word he uttered. I remember he was saying that the lads of 15 and 16 had fought like heroes.

All at once the boy next to me—the one who had wanted to know if I had ever seen a beast with two backs—whispered in my ear:

"Just ask him at what age one can fire off a shot!"

"Why!" rejoined I innocently, not understanding the drift of the question.

"For the fun of the thing."

"But there's no fun."

"Well, ask him and you'll see if there isn't."

"Then ask him yourself."

"Oh! you are frightened," he whispered.

"No I'm not."

"Then ask."

I did as I was bid, simply, straightforwardly.

I saw Mr Durieux blush scarlet and bounce off his chair, as if he had been jerked out of it. The vhole class burst into a loud fit of laughter. Mr Durieux glared at me, rapped with the book he held, and ordered silence.

The scholars, who had never seen him in such a rage, seemed cowed down.

"Leave the class," said he to me with an angry scowl.

"But why?" said I, trembling.

"Get out, at once, do you hear."

"But sir," said I, stammering, "I didn't mean, that is, it's not I, it's…"

"Will you go out at once, you scoundrel, or I'll call Guillaume."

I knew that Guillaume—in fact all three Guillaumes—boreme a grudge. I rose at once, casting an imploring glance at my neighbour, hosping that he would get up and explain. He sat quietly with head bowed down.

I was locked up in a closed by myself, never saw any of the other boys again, then, after a few days, I was expelled from school.

Why, I did not know.

I was told something about black sheep, and contamination, wheat and tares, but I did not understand what they meant, still I suppose they were right, they were learned professors and I was only a little motherless boy.

 

END OF VOL. I