DIALOGUE THE SIXTH
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE, EUGÉNIE, LE CHEVALIER
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Indeed, brother, your friend is greatly a libertine.
LE CHEVALIER—Then I’ve not deceived you in presenting him as such.
EUGÉNIE—I am persuaded there is not his equal anywhere in the world. . . . Oh, my dearest, he is charming; I do hope we will see him often.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—I hear a knock . . . who might it be? . . . I gave orders . . . it must be very urgent. Go see what it is, Chevalier, if you will be so kind.
LE CHEVALIER—A letter Lafleur has brought; he left hastily, saying he remembered the instructions you had given him, but that the matter appeared to him as important as it was pressing.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Ah ha! what’s this? ’Tis your father, Eugénie!
EUGÉNIE—My father! . . . then we are lost! . . .
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Let’s read it before we get upset. (She reads.)
Would you believe it, my dear lady? my unbearable wife, alarmed by my daughter’s journey to your house, is leaving immediately, with the intention of bringing Eugénie home. She imagines all sorts of things . . . which, even were one to suppose them real, would, in truth, be but very ordinary and human indeed. I request you to punish her impertinence with exceeding rigor; yesterday, I chastised her for something similar: the lesson was not sufficient. Therefore, mystify her well, I beseech you on bended knee, and believe that, no matter to what lengths you carry things, no complaint will be heard from me. . . . ’Tis a very long time this whore’s been oppressing me . . . indeed. . . . Do you follow me? what you do will be well done: that is all I can say to you. She will arrive shortly after my letter; keep yourself in readiness. Adieu; I should indeed like to be numbered in your company. Do not, I beg of you, return Eugénie to me until she is instructed. I am most content to leave the first gatherings to your hands, but be well convinced however that you will have labored in some sort in my behalf.
Why, there, Eugénie! you see? There is nothing over which to be disturbed; it must be admitted, though, that the little wife in question is a mightily insolent one.
EUGÉNIE—The slut! Ha! since Papa gives us a free hand, we must, by God, receive the creature in the manner she deserves.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Hither, kiss me, my heart. How comforted I am thus to perceive such dispositions in you! . . . Well, be at ease; I guarantee you we will not spare her. Eugénie, you desired a victim, and behold! here is one both Nature and fate are giving you.
EUGÉNIE—We will enjoy the gift, my dear, I swear to you we’ll put her to use!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—How eager I am to know how Dolmancé will react to the news.
DOLMANCÉ, entering with Augustin—’Tis the best news possible, Madame; I was not so far away I could not overhear; Madame de Mistival’s arrival is very opportune. . . . You are firmly determined, I trust, to satisfy her husband’s expectations?
EUGÉNIE, to Dolmancé—Satisfy them? . . . to surpass them, my love . . . oh, may the earth sink beneath me if you see me falter whatever be the horrors to which you condemn the tramp! . . . Dear friend, entrust to me the supervision of the entire proceedings. . . .
DOLMANCÉ—Allow your friend and me to take charge; you others need merely obey the orders we give you . . . oh, the insolent creature! I’ve never seen anything like it! . . .
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—Clumsy fool! Well, shall we rather more decently deck ourselves in order to receive her?
DOLMANCÉ—On the contrary; from the instant she enters, nothing must prevent her from being very sure of the manner in which we have been spending the time with her daughter. Let us all be rather in the greatest disorder.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—I hear sounds; ’tis she! . . . Courage, Eugénie; remember our principles. . . . Ah, by God! ’twill be a delightful scene! . . .
DIALOGUE THE SEVENTH AND LAST
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE, EUGÉNIE, LE CHEVALIER, AUGUSTIN, DOLMANCÉ, MADAME DE MISTIVAL
MADAME DE MISTIVAL, to Madame de Saint-Ange—I beg your forgiveness, Madame, for arriving unannounced at your house; but I hear that my daughter is here and as her few years do not yet permit her to venture abroad alone, I beg you, Madame, to be so very good as to return her to me, and not to disapprove my request or behavior.
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—This behavior is eminently impolite, Madame; one would say, upon hearing your words, that your daughter is in bad hands.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Faith! if one must judge by the state I find her in, and you, Madame, and your company, I believe I am not greatly mistaken in supposing her in no good sort while she is here.
DOLMANCÉ—Madame, this is an important beginning and, without being exactly informed of the degree of familiarity which obtains between Madame de Saint-Ange and you, I see no reason to pretend that I would not, were I in her place, already have had you pitched out of the window.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—I do not completely understand what you mean by “pitched out of the window.” Be advised, Monsieur, that I am not a woman to be pitched out of windows; I have no idea who you are, but from your language and the state I observe you to be in, it is not impossible to arrive at a speedy conclusion concerning your manners. Eugénie! Follow me.
EUGÉNIE—I beg your pardon, Madame, but I cannot enjoy that honor.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—What! my daughter resists me!
DOLMANCÉ—Nay, ’tis worse yet: ’tis a case of formal disobedience, as you observe, Madame. Believe me, do not tolerate it in her. Would you like me to have whips brought in to punish this intractable child?
EUGÉNIE—I should be greatly afraid, were they to be sent for, that they would be employed rather upon Madame than upon me.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Impertinent creature!
DOLMANCÉ, approaching Madame de Mistival—Softly, my sweet, we’ll have no invectives here; all of us are Eugénie’s protectors, and you might regret your hastiness with her.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—What! my daughter is to disobey me and I am not to be able to make her sensible of the rights I have over her!
DOLMANCÉ—And what, if you please, are these rights, Madame? Do you flatter yourself they are legitimate? When Monsieur de Mistival, or whoever it was, spurted into your vagina the several drops of fuck that brought Eugénie into being, did you then, in the act, have her in mind? Eh? I dare say you did not. Well, then, how can you expect her to be beholden to you today for your having discharged when years ago someone fucked your nasty cunt? Take notice, Madame: there is nothing more illusory than fathers’ and mothers’ sentiments for their children, and children’s for the authors of their days. Nothing supports, nothing justifies, nothing establishes such feelings, here in currency, there held in contempt, for there are countries where parents kill their children, others where the latter cut the throats of those whence they have breath. Were reciprocal love to have some natural sanction, consanguinity’s power would no longer be chimerical and, without being seen, without mutually being known, parents would distinguish, would adore their sons and, reversibly, these would discern their unknown fathers, would fly into their arms and would do them reverence. Instead of which, what is it we see? Reciprocal hatreds inveterate; children who, even before reaching the age of reason, have never been able to suffer the sight of their fathers; fathers sending away their children because never could they endure their approach. Those alleged instincts are hence fictitious, absurd; self-interest only invents them, usage prescribes, habit sustains, but never did Nature engrave them in our hearts. Tell me: do animals know these feelings? no, surely not; however, ’tis always them one must consult when one wishes to be acquainted with Nature. O fathers! have no qualms regarding the so-called injustices your passions or your interest leads you to work upon these beings, for you nonexistent, to which a few drops of your sperm has given life; to them you owe nothing, you are in the world not for them but for yourselves: great fools you would be to be troubled about, to be oc
cupied with anything but your own selves; for yourselves alone you ought to live; and you, dear children, you who are far more exempted—if it is possible to be far more exempted—from this filial piety whose basis is a true chimera, you must be persuaded also that you owe nothing to those individuals whose blood hatched you out of the darkness. Pity, gratitude, love—not one of these sentiments is their due; they who have given you existence have not a single right to require them from you; they labor for themselves only: let them look after themselves; but the greatest of all the duperies would be to give them either the help or the ministry no relationship can possibly oblige you to give; no law enjoins you, there is no prescription and if, by chance, you should hear some inner voice speaking to you—whether it is custom that inspires these announcements, whether it is your character’s moral effect that produces these twinges—, unhesitatingly, remorselessly throttle those absurd sentiments . . . local sentiments, the fruit of geographical accident, climate, which Nature repudiates and reason disavows always!
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—But the care I have lavished upon her, the education I have given her! . . .
DOLMANCÉ—Why, as for the care, ’tis never but the effect of convention or of vanity; having done no more for her than what is dictated by the customs of the country you inhabit, assuredly, Eugénie owes you nothing. As for her education, it appears to have been damnably poor, for we here have been obliged to replace all the principles you had put into her head; not one of the lot you gave her provides for her happiness, not one is not absurd or illusory. You spoke to her of God as if there were some such thing; of virtue as if it were necessary; of religion as if every religious cult were something other than the result of the grossest imposture and the most signal imbecility; of Jesus Christ as if that rascal were anything but a cheat and a bandit. You have told her that it is sinful to fuck, whereas to fuck is life’s most delicious act; you have wished to give her good manners, as if a young girl’s happiness were not inseparable from debauchery and immorality, as if the happiest of all women had not incontestably to be she who wallows most in filth and in libertinage, she who most and best defies every prejudice and who most laughs reputation to scorn. Ah, Madame, disabuse yourself: you have done nothing for your daughter, in her regard you have not fulfilled a single one of the obligations Nature dictates: Eugénie owes you naught but hatred.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Oh merciful heaven! my Eugénie is doomed, ’tis evident. . . . Eugénie, my beloved Eugénie, for the last time heed the supplications of her who gave you your life; these are orders no longer, but prayers; unhappily, it is only too true that you are amidst monsters here; tear yourself from this perilous commerce and follow me; I ask it of you on my knees! (She falls to her knees.)
DOLMANCÉ—Ah, very pretty! a tearful scene! . . . To it, Eugénie! Be tender.
EUGÉNIE, half-naked, as the reader surely must remember— Here you are, my dear little Mamma, I bring you my buttocks. . . . There they are, positively at the level of your lips; kiss them, my sweet, suck them, ’tis all Eugénie can do for you. . . . Remember, Dolmancé: I shall always show myself worthy of having been your pupil.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL, thrusting Eugénie away, with horror— Monster! I disown you forever, you are no longer my child!
EUGÉNIE—Add a few curses to it, if you like, my dearest Mother, in order to render the thing more touching yet, and you will see me equally phlegmatic.
DOLMANCÉ—Softly, Madame, softly; there is insult here; in our view, you have just rather too harshly repulsed Eugénie; I told you that she is in our safekeeping: a punishment is needed for this crime; have the kindness to undress yourself, strip to the skin, so as to receive what your brutality deserves.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Undress myself! . . .
DOLMANCÉ—Augustin, act as this lady’s maid-in-waiting, since she resists. (Augustin goes brutally to work; Madame de Mistival seeks to protect herself.)
MADAME DE MISTIVAL, to Madame de Saint-Ange—My God, where am I? Are you aware, Madame, of what you are allowing to be done to me in your house? Do you suppose I shall make no complaint?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—It is by no means certain you will be able to.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Great God! then I am to be killed here!
DOLMANCÉ—Why not?
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE—One moment, gentlemen. Before exposing this charming beauty’s body to your gaze, it would be well for me to forewarn you of the condition you are going to find it in. Eugénie has just whispered the entire story into my ear: yesterday, her husband used the whip on her, all but broke his arm beating her for some minor domestic mismanagement . . . and, Eugénie assures me, you are going to find her ass’ cheeks looking like moire taffeta.
DOLMANCÉ, immediately Madame de Mistival is naked—Well, by God, ’tis the absolute truth! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a body more mistreated than this . . . but, by Jesus! she’s got as many cuts before as she has behind! . . . Yet . . . I believe I espy a very fine ass here. (He kisses and fondles it.)
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Leave me alone, leave me, else I’ll cry for help!
MADAME DE SAINT-ANGE, coming up to her and seizing her by the arm—Listen to me, whore! I’m going to explain everything to you! . . . You are a victim sent us by your own husband; you have got to submit to your fate; nothing can save you from it . . . what will it be? I’ve no idea; perhaps you’ll be hanged, wheeled, quartered, racked, burned alive; the choice of torture depends upon your daughter: ’tis she will give the order for your period; but, my whore, you are going to suffer . . . oh, yes, you will not be immolated until after having undergone an infinite number of preliminary embarrassments. As for your cries, I warn you they will be to no purpose: one could slaughter a steer in this chamber without any risk of having his bellowings overheard. Your horses, your servants have already left; once again, my lovely one, your husband authorizes what we are doing, and your coming here is nothing but a trap baited for your simplicity and into which, you observe, you could not have fallen better.
DOLMANCÉ—I hope that Madame is now perfectly tranquilized.
EUGÉNIE—Thus to be forewarned is certainly to have been the object of a very ample consideration.
DOLMANCÉ, still feeling and slapping her buttocks—Indeed, Madame, ’tis clear you have a warm friend in Madame de Saint-Ange. . . . Where, these days, does one come across such candor? What forthrightness in her tone when she addresses you! . . . Eugénie, come here and place your buttocks beside your mother’s. . . . I’d like to make a comparison of your asses. (Eugénie obeys.) My goodness! yours is splendid, my dear, but, by God, Mamma’s is not bad either . . . not yet . . . in another instant I’ll be amusing myself fucking you both. . . . Augustin, lay a hand upon Madame.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Merciful heavens! what an outrage!
DOLMANCÉ, continuing throughout to realize his projects, and beginning them with an embuggery of the mother—Why, not at all! Nothing easier! . . . Look ye! You scarcely felt it! . . . Ha! ’tis clear your husband has many times trod the path! Your turn now, Eugénie. . . . What a difference! . . . There, I’m content; I simply wished to volley the ball a little, to put myself into shape . . . well, a little order now. First, Mesdames, you, Saint-Ange, and you, Eugénie, have the goodness to arm yourselves with artificial pricks in order, one after the other, to deal this respectable lady, now in the cunt, now in the ass . . . the most fearsome strokes. The Chevalier, Augustin, and I, acting with our own members, will relieve you with a prompt exactitude. I am going to begin and, as you may well believe, it is once again her ass which will receive my homage. During the games, parenthetically, each is invited to decide for himself what torture he wishes to inflict upon her; but bear it in mind: the suffering must increase gradually, so as not to kill her off beforetimes. . . . Augustin, dear boy, console me, by buggering me, for the obligation I am under to sodomize this ancient cow. Eugénie, let me kiss your beautiful behind while I bugger mamma, and you, Madame, bring yours near, so th
at I can handle it . . . socratize it. One must be walled round by asses when ’tis an ass one fucks.
EUGÉNIE—What, my friend, what are you going to do to this bitch? While losing your sperm, to what do you intend to condemn her?
DOLMANCÉ, all the while plying his whip—The most natural thing in the world: I am going to depilate her and lacerate her thighs with pincers.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL, understanding this dual vexation—The monster! Criminal! he is mutilating me! . . . oh, God Almighty!
DOLMANCÉ—Implore him not, my dove: he will remain deaf to your voice, as he is to that of every other person: never has this powerful figure bothered to entangle himself in an affair concerning merely an ass.
MADAME DE MISTIVAL—Oh, how you are hurting me!
DOLMANCÉ—Incredible effects of the human mind’s idiosyncrasies! . . . You suffer, my best beloved, you weep and, wondrous thing! I discharge . . . ah, double whore! I’d strangle you if I did not wish to leave the pleasure of it to others. She’s yours, Saint-Ange. (Madame de Saint-Ange embuggers and encunts her with her dildo; she bestows a few blows of her fist upon her; the Chevalier succeeds her; he too avails himself of the two avenues and, as he discharges, boxes her ears. ’Tis Augustin who comes next: he acts in like wise and ends with a few digs with his fingers, pokes, pulls, and punches. During these various attacks, Dolmancé has sent his engine straying about all the agents’ asses, the while urging them on with his remarks.) Well, pretty Eugénie, fuck your mother, first of all, encunt her.
EUGÉNIE—Come, dear lovely Mamma, come, let me serve you as a husband. ’Tis a little thicker than your spouse’s, is it not, my dear? Never mind, ’twill enter. . . . Ah, Mother dear, you cry, you scream, scream when your daughter fucks you! . . . And you, Dolmancé, you bugger me! . . . Here I am: at one stroke incestuous, adulteress, sodomite, and all that in a girl who only lost her maidenhead today! . . . What progress, my friends! . . . with what rapidity I advance along the thorny road of vice! . . . Oh, right enough, I am a doomed girl! . . . I believe, dear Mother, you are discharging. . . . Dolmancé, look at her eyes! she comes, it’s certain, is it not? Ah, whore! I’m going to teach you to be a libertine . . . well, bitch, what do you think of that? (She squeezes, twists, wrenches her mother’s breasts.) Ah, fuck, Dolmancé . . . fuck, my gentle friend, I am dying! . . . (As she discharges, Eugénie showers ten or twelve jarring blows upon her mother’s breast and sides.)
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