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
127
