The terrible antipathy the Président had for Constance was manifest in daily outbursts： he had spent the night with her， having made a bilateral arrangement with Durcet， to whom he returned her the following morning with the most bitter complaints about her behavior.
“Since because of her condition，” said he， “the society seems loath to expose her to the customary punishments for fear she be brought to bed before the time we have appointed to pluck her fruit， at least， by Jesus，” said he， “we should find some means or other to punish the whore when she chooses to play the fool.”
Ah， but what is that spirit of evil that inhabits libertines？ Some glimmer of it may be obtained by analyzing Constance‘s prodigious fault. O reader， what do you suppose it was had waked Curval’s wrath？ Even worse than you may have dreamt： she had most unfortunately turned her front toward her master when he had called for her behind， ah yes， and such sins are not to be forgiven. But the worst part of her error was her denial of the fact； she declared， and there seemed some basis to her contention， that the Président was calumniating her， that he was seeking naught but her downfall， that she never lay with him but he would invent some such untruth； but as the law was precise and formal on this point， and as women‘s speeches were given no credence whatever in that society， but one question remained posed： how in future was this female to be chastised without risking the spoilage of the fruit ripening in her？ It was decided that for each misdemeanor she would be obliged to eat a turd and， consequently， Curval insisted that she begin there and then. Approbation greeted his demand. They were at the time breakfasting in the girls’ quarters， word was dispatched， Constance was summoned， the Président shitted in the center of the room， and she was enjoined to approach his creation on hands and knees and to devour what the cruel man had just wrought. She cast herself upon her knees， yes， but in this posture begged pardon， and her solicitations went unheeded； Nature had put bronze in those breasts where hearts are commonly to be found. Nothing more entertaining than the grimaces and affected airs to which the poor woman resorted before capitulating， and God knows how amused Messieurs were by the scene. At last， however， decisive action had to be taken， Constance‘s very soul seemed to burst before she was half done， but it had all to be done nevertheless， and every ounce disappeared from the tiles on the floor.
Excited by what he was witnessing， each of our friends， while watching， had himself frigged by a small girl； Curval， singularly aroused by the operation and benefiting from the wondrous skill of Augustine’s enchanted fingers， feeling himself nigh to overflowing， called to Constance， who had scarcely finished eating her mournful breakfast.
“Hither， come to me， whore，” said he， “after having bolted some fish one needs a little sauce， good white sauce. Come get a mouthful.”
Well， there was no escaping that ordeal either， and Curval， who， while operating， was having Augustine shit， opened the sluices and let fly into the mouth of the Duc‘s miserable wife， and at the same time swallowed the fresh and delicate little turd the interesting Augustine had hatched for him.
The inspection tours were conducted， Durcet found shit in Sophie’s chamber pot. The young lady sought to excuse her error by maintaining that she had been suffering from indigestion.
“Not at all，” Durcet observed as expertly he handled the turd， “that is not true： indigestion produces diarrhea， soup， my dear， and this article looks very sound to me.”
And straightway taking up his baneful notebook， he wrote down the name of that charming creature， who did her best to hide her tears and refrained， at Durcet‘s request， from deploring her situation. Everyone else had abided by the regulations， but in the boys’ chamber， Zélamir， who had shitted the previous evening during the orgies and who had been told not to wipe his little bum， had tidied it up none the less， disobeying the orders. These were the crimes of the first magnitude： Zélamir‘s name was inscribed. Notwithstanding the boy’s delinquency， Durcet kissed his ass and had himself sucked for a brief moment， then Messieurs passed on to the chapel， where they beheld the shitting of two subaltern fuckers， Aline， Fanny， Thérèse， and Champville. The Duc received Fanny‘s performance in his mouth， and he ate it， the Bishop’s mouth caught the two fuckers‘ turds， one of which the prelate devoured， Durcet made Champville’s his own， and the Président， despite his discharge， gulped down Aline‘s with all the avidity he had exhibited while consuming what Augustine had done for him.
Constance’s scene had heated the company‘s imagination， for it had been a long time since Messieurs had indulged themselves in such extravagances so early in the morning. Dinner conversation dealt with moral science. The Duc declared he could not understand why in France the law smote so heavily against libertinage， since libertinage， by keeping the citizens busy， kept them clear of cabals and plots and revolutions； the Bishop observed that， no， the laws did not exactly aim at the suppression of libertinage， but at its excesses. Whereupon the latter were analyzed， and the Duc proved that there was nothing dangerous in excess， no excess which could justly arouse the government’s suspicion， and that， these facts being clear， the official attitude was not only cruel but absurd； what other word was there to describe bringing artillery to bear upon mosquitoes？
From remarks they progressed to effects， the Duc， half-drunk， abandoned himself in Zephyr‘s arms， and for thirty long minutes sucked that lovely child’s mouth while Hercule， exploiting the situation， buried his enormous engine in the Duc‘s anus. Blangis was all complacency， and without stirring， without the flicker of an eyelash， went on with his kissing as， virtually without noticing it， he changed sex. His companions all gave themselves over to other infamies， and then they sallied forth to coffee. As they had just played a multitude of silly little pranks， the atmosphere was calm， and this was perhaps the one coffee hour during the entire four months’ outing when no fuck was shed. Duclos was already upon the tribune， awaiting the company； when everyone had taken his place， she addressed her auditors in this wise：
I had recently suffered a loss in my house， and it had a deep effect upon me in every sense. Eugénie， whom I loved with a passion and who， thanks to her most extraordinary complaisance in whatever was connected with the possibility of earning me money， had been especially useful to me， Eugénie， I say， had just been spirited away. It happened in the strangest fashion： a domestic， having first paid the price settled upon， came to conduct her， so he said， to a supper that was to be held outside the city； her participation in the affair would be worth seven or eight louis. I was not at the house at the time the transaction took place， for I should never have allowed her to leave with someone I didn‘t know， but the domestic applied directly to her and she agreed to go. . . . I have never seen her since.
“Nor shall you ever again，” said Desgranges. “The party proposed was her last one， and it will be my agreeable task to add the denouement to that lovely girl’s history.”
“Great God！” cried Duclos. “She was so beautiful， that girl . . . only twenty， her face was so sweet， she was so delicate. . . .”
“And， one might add， her body was the most superb in Paris，” Desgranges said. “All those charms conspired to her undoing， but go on with what you were saying， let‘s not become mired down in circumstances.”
Lucile was the girl who took her place， Duclos continued， both in my heart and in my bed， but not in the household’s activities， for she had not by any means Eugénie‘s submissive temper nor her great understanding.
All the same， it was to her hands I entrusted， not long afterward， that certain Benedictine prior who used to pay me a visit now and again， and who had in past times been wont to frolic with Eugénie. After the good father had warmed her cunt with his tongue and thoroughly sucked her mouth， the major phase of the process began： Lucile took the whip and plied it lightly over his prick and balls， and he discharged from a limp machine； the gentle rubbing， the mere application of the lash produced his orgasm. His greatest pleasure used to consist in watching the girl slash with her whip at the drops of fuck as they spattered from his prick.
The next day， I myself took charge of a gentleman upon whose bare behind one had to lay one hundred carefully counted whip strokes； before his beating he prepared himself by kissing one’s behind and while being lashed he frigged himself.
A third， with whom I had dealings some time later， had even heavier demands to satisfy； he also gilded each detail with additional ceremony： I received notice of his intended arrival a week in advance， and during that time I had to avoid washing any part of my body， and above all was to spare my cunt， my ass， my mouth； and furthermore， as soon as I learned he was to come， I selected three cat-o‘-nine-tails and immersed them in a pot full of mixed urine and shit， and kept the whips soaking there until he presented himself. He was an elderly collector of the salt tax， a man of considerable means， a widower， without children， and he treated himself to such parties all the time. The first thing that interested him was to determine whether I had scrupulously abstained from ablutions， as he had enjoined me； I assured him I had followed his instructions to the letter； he wished proof， and began by applying a kiss to my lips. This experience must have convinced him， for he then suggested we go up to the room， and I realized that had he， upon kissing me， discovered I had cleansed my mouth in any way at all， he would not have wished to continue with the party. We go up together， as I say， he regards the whips steeping in the pot， then， bidding me undress， he sets to sniffing every part of my body， above all the orifices he had expressly forbidden me to wash； as I had honored his prescription in perfect faith and in every article， he doubtless discovered the aroma he desired to be there， for I saw him grow restless， appear anxious to be off， and heard him exclaim： “Ah， by fuck， that’s what I want， that‘s just what I want！” I proceeded to fondle his ass： it was sheathed in what positively resembled boiled leather in color， texture， and toughness. After having spent a minute caressing， handling， poking about those gnarled， storm-beaten hindquarters， I seized a cat-o’-nine-tails and， without drying it， I gave him ten stinging cuts， putting all my strength into the blows； but this beginning produced not a tremor， he not only remained impassive， but my blows put not so much as the faintest scratch upon that unshakable citadel. Having opened with this prologue， I sank three of my fingers into his anus， took firm hold， and began to rattle him with might and main， but our man was insensible to the same degree here as elsewhere； my struggles failed to be acknowledged by so much as a sigh. These two initial ceremonies completed， his turn came to act； I lay belly down upon the bed， he knelt， spread my buttocks， and alternately shot his pilgrim tongue into this hole and into the other， and they， one may be sure， were， in keeping with his instructions， not entirely unaromatic. After he had done considerable sucking， I took up another whip， laid on a second time and socratized him again， he knelt as before and returned to his licking， and so it went， each of us doing his part at least fifteen times over. Finally， giving me further instructions and bidding me guide my movements in consonance with the state of his prick， which I was to observe carefully but which I was not to touch， when next he knelt I unleashed my turd. It shot squarely into his face， he fell back， exclaimed that I was an insolent creature， and discharged while frigging himself and while uttering cries that might have been heard in the street had I not taken the precaution of drawing the shutters. But the turd fell to the floor， he did naught but stare at and smell it， neither putting it in his mouth nor even touching it； he had received at least two hundred lashes， and I may assure you . . . his body bore not a trace of what it had sustained， his horny ass， fortified by years of rude usage， betrayed not the least mark.
“Well， by God‘s bum button！” chortled the Duc， “there’s an ass， Président， worth as much as the curiosity you drag about.”
“Oh yes， yes，” said Curval， a stammer in his voice， for Aline was frigging him， “yes indeed， that fellow seems to have both my buttocks and my tastes， for， you know， I am infinitely opposed to the use of the bidet， but I prefer a longer abstinence： I usually set the period at a minimum of three months.”
“Président， your prick‘s stiff，” the Duc said.
“Do you think so？” Curval replied. “Faith， you’d best consult Aline here， she‘ll be able to tell you what’s what， as for myself， you know， I‘m so accustomed to that particular state of affairs that I rarely notice when it ends or when it begins. There is only one thing I can tell you with complete confidence， and that is that at this very moment I’d hugely like to have my hands upon a very impure whore； I‘d like her to present me with a bucketful of shit， fill a bowl to above the rim， I’d like her ass to stink from shit， I‘d like her cunt to smell like a beach covered with dead fish. But hold！ Thérèse， O thou whose filth is as old as the hills， thou who since baptism hast not wiped thine ass， and whose infamous cunt breeds a pestilence three leagues on every side， come bring all that to my nose’s delectation， I beg thee， and to that put a fine wet turd， if ‘twould please thee.”
Thérèse approaches， with foul and evil charms， with parts disgusting and withered and wounded she rubs the magistrate’s face， upon his nose she excretes the desired turd， Aline does frig amain， the libertine discharges， and Duclos therewith resumes the story she has to tell.
An elderly rascal， who used to receive a new girl every day for the operation I am going to describe， besought one of my friends to persuade me to visit him， and at the same time I was given information about the ceremony regularly performed at the lecher‘s home. I arrive， he examines me with a phlegmatic glance， the kind of glance one encounters among habitual libertines， and which in an instant arrives at an infallible estimate of the object under scrutiny.
“I have been told you have a fine ass，” said he in a drawling tone， “and as for the past sixty years I have had a decided weakness for fine cheeks， I should like to see whether there is any foundation to your reputation . . . lift your skirts.”
That last phrase， energetically spoken， sufficed as an order； not only did I offer a view of the treasure， but I moved it as near as possible to his connoisseur’s nose. At first I stand erect， then little by little I bend forward and exhibit the object of his devotion in every form and aspect most apt to please him. With each movement， I feel the old scoundrel‘s hands wander over the surface， scouting the terrain， probing the geography， sometimes creating a more consolidated effect， sometimes attempting to give it a more generous cast， compressing here， broadening there.
“The hole is ample， very ample，” says he， “appearances attest a furious sodomistical prostitution.”
“Alas， Monsieur，” I concede， “we are living in an age when men are so capricious that in order to please them， one must indeed be prepared for virtually anything， and consent to it all.”
Whereupon I feel his mouth glue itself hermetically to my asshole， and his tongue strive to penetrate into the chasm； I seize my opportunity， as I have been advised， and profiting from my situation， slide out， directly upon his probing tongue， the warmest， most humid， densest eructation. The maneuver displeases him not at all， but on the other hand does little to animate him； finally， after I have unleashed half a dozen winds， he gets to his feet， leads me to his bed， and points to an earthenware crock in which four cat-o’-nine-tails are marinating. Above the crock hang several whips suspended from gilded hooks.
“Arm yourself，” murmurs the roué， “take a cat-o‘-nine-tails and one of those other weapons， here is my ass. As you observe， it is dry， lean， and exceedingly well seasoned. Touch it.”
I do so； he continues：
“You notice，” says he， “that it’s old， toughened by severe treatment， and it‘s not to be warmed save by the most incredibly excessive attacks. I am going to keep myself in this posture，” and while speaking he stretched out upon the bed and rested his knees on the floor. “Employ those instruments， first one， then the other， now the cat-o’-nine-tails， now the whip. This is going to take a little time， but you will receive an unequivocal sign when the climax approaches. As soon as you see something out of the ordinary happening to this ass of mine， hold yourself in readiness to imitate what you see it doing； we will then exchange places， I shall kneel down before your splendid buttocks， you shall do what you shall have observed me do， and I‘ll discharge. But above all do not become impatient； I warn you once again： this business is not to be accomplished in haste.”
I begin， I alternate weapons in accordance with the prescription. But， my God！ what nonchalance， what stoicism！ I was drenched in sweat； that my strokes be more freely applied he had suggested I roll my sleeves to above the elbow. Three-quarters of an hour went by and I was still beating him， putting every ounce of strength into my blows， sometimes tearing at his stubborn flesh with the cat-o’-nine-tails， sometimes with the steel-tipped thongs， three-quarters of an hour， I say， and it seemed as if I had got nowhere. Still， silent， our lecher was as quiet as death； one might say he was mutely savoring the interior stirrings of delight quickened by this ordeal， but there was no outward sign of pleasure， not a single indication of pleasure‘s influence even upon his skin. I proceeded. By and by I heard a clock strike two and realized I had been at work three whole hours； then all of a sudden I see his rump rise， his buttocks part， I slash and send my thongs whistling between certain crevices； a turd emerges， falls， I whip away， my blows send the shit flying to the floor.
“Courage，” I say to him， “we’re within sight of port.”
And then my man gets up in a rage； his prick， hard and in fierce revolt， is glued to his belly.
“Do what I did，” says he， “imitate me， I need nothing now but shit and you‘ll have my fuck.”
I promptly adopt the position he has just abandoned， he kneels as he said he would， and into his mouth I lay an egg which I have been holding in store for him for three days. As he receives it his fuck leaps， and he flings himself backward， shouting with joy， but without swallowing， and indeed without keeping the turd in his mouth for more than a second. In conclusion let me say， Messieurs， that， your Lordships excepted， for you are without doubt superior examples of this species， I have seen few men convulse more frantically， few who have manifested a more trenchant delight； he came nigh to swooning as he gave vent to his fuck. That séance was worth two louis.
But no sooner did I return to the house than I found Lucile come to grips with another old chap who， without having laid a finger upon her， without any preliminaries， had simply ordered her to fustigate him from the small of the back to just above the knees； Lucile was using a cat-o’-nine-tails soaked in vinegar， was endowing her blows with all the force she could muster， and this individual ended his ritual by having her suck him. The girl knelt before him when he gave her the signal and， adjusting his old weary balls so that they dangled upon her teats， she took the flabby engine in her mouth whereinto the chastened sinner hastened to weep for his transgressions.
And Duclos having therewith put a period to what she had to relate that day， and the supper hour not yet having arrived， Messieurs delivered themselves of a few smutty comments while waiting.
“You must be done up， Président，” gibed the Duc. “I‘ve seen you discharge twice today， and you’re hardly accustomed to such feats of liberality.”
“Let‘s wager on a third，” replied Curval， who was pawing Duclos’ buttocks.
“Why， certainly， as much as you like and as often，” the Duc returned.
“And I ask for only one condition，” Curval said， “and that is to be allowed to do whatever I like.”
“Oh， I‘m afraid not，” the Duc answered， “for you know very well that there are certain things we have mutually promised not to do before the appointed time indicated on our schedules： having ourselves fucked was one of them - before proceeding to that we were， according to prior agreement， to wait until some example of that passion were cited to us， but by your common request， gentlemen， we ceded on that point and suspended the restriction. There are many other pleasures and modes of taking them we ought to have forbidden ourselves until the moment they were embodied in story， and which we have instead tolerated， provided the experiments are conducted in privacy - in， that is to say， either our closets or our bedchambers. You， Président， surrendered yourself to one with Aline just a short while ago； did she utter that piercing scream for no reason at all？ and has she no motive for keeping her breast covered now？ Very well then， choose from amongst those mysterious modes， or from one of those we permit in public， and I’ll wager one hundred louis you‘ll not be able to derive your third from one of those legitimate sources.”
The Président then asked whether he might be allowed to repair to the boudoir at the end of the corridor and to take along the subjects he deemed necessary to success； his request was granted， although it was stipulated that Duclos would have to be witness to the goings on， and that her word would be accepted upon the existence of the discharge or upon Curval’s failure to produce it.
“Agreed，” said the Président， “I accept the conditions.”
And by way of a preliminary， he had Duclos give him five hundred lashes within view of the assembly； that accomplished， he led away his dear and devoted friend Constance， in whose behalf his colleagues besought Curval to do nothing which might damage her pregnancy； the Président also took with him his daughter Adelaide， Augustine， Zelmire， Céladon， Zéphyr， Thérèse， Fanchon， Champville， Desgranges， Duclos， of course， and three fuckers besides.
“Why fuck my eyes！” exclaimed the Duc， “there was nothing in the bargain that said he could recruit an army.”
But the Bishop and Durcet took the Président‘s side in the matter of manpower and firmly reminded Blangis that the terms of the wager included no limitation upon numbers. The Président led his band away， and at the end of thirty minutes， an interval the Bishop， Durcet， and the Duc， with the few subjects remaining to them， did not pass in holy orison， thirty minutes later， I say， Constance and Zelmire returned in tears， and the Président reappeared soon afterward with the rest of his force； Duclos then related the mighty things he had done， paid homage to his vigor， and certified that in all fairness and justice he merited the crown of myrtle. The reader will kindly allow us to suppress the text of Duclos’ report， for the architecture of our novel bids us conceal the precise circumstances of what transpired in that remote boudoir； but Curval had won his wager， and that， we consider， is the essential point.
“These hundred louis，” he remarked upon receiving them from the Duc， “will be useful in paying a fine which， I fear， shall soon be levied upon me.”
And here is still another thing the explanation of which we pray the reader will permit us to postpone until the appropriate moment arrives； for the time being he need but observe how that rascal Curval would anticipate his misdeeds well in advance， and how， with unruffled calm， he would accept the fact that they would bring down upon him certain and merited punishment， a fatal necessity he faced unflinchingly and with a proud smile.
Between that time and the opening of the next day‘s narrations absolutely nothing out of the ordinary transpired， and therefore we propose to conduct the reader to the auditorium at once.
