Erotic Classics I

by Various Authors

  These frightful theories soon led me to think of Omphale’s doubts upon the manner in which we left the terrible house we were in. And it was then I conceived the plans you will see me execute in the sequel. However, to complete my enlightenment I could not prevent myself from putting yet a few more questions to Father Clément. “But surely,” I said, “you do not keep your passions’ unhappy victims forever; you surely send them away when you are wearied of them?”

  “Certainly, Thérèse,” the monk replied; “you only entered this establishment in order to leave it when the four of us agree to grant your retirement. Which will most certainly be granted.”

  “But do you not fear,” I continued, “lest the younger and less discreet girls sometimes go and reveal what is done here?”

  “’Tis impossible.”

  “Impossible?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Could you explain . . .”

  “No, that’s our secret, but I can assure you of this much: that whether you are discreet or indiscreet, you will find it perfectly impossible ever to say a word about what is done here when you are here no longer. And thus you see, Thérèse, I recommend no discretion to you, just as my own desires are governed by no restraining policy. . . .”

  And, having uttered these words, the monk fell asleep. From that moment onward, I could no longer avoid realizing that the most violent measures were used with those unhappy ones of us who were retrenched and that this terrible security they boasted of was only the fruit of our death. I was only the more confirmed in my resolve; we will soon see its effect.

  As soon as Clément was asleep, Armande came near to me.

  “He will awake shortly,” she said; “he will behave like a madman: Nature only puts his senses to sleep in order to give them, after a little rest, a much greater energy; one more scene and we will have peace until tomorrow.”

  “But you,” I said to my companion, “aren’t you going to sleep a little while?”

  “How can I?” Armande replied, “when, were I not to remain awake and standing by his side, and were my negligence to be perceived, he would be the man to stab me to death.”

  “O Heaven!” I sighed, “why! even as he sleeps the villain would that those around him remain in a state of suffering!”

  “Yes,” my companion responded, “it is the very barbarity of the idea which procures the furious awakening you are going to witness; upon this he is like unto those perverse writers whose corruption is so dangerous, so active, that their single aim is, by causing their appalling doctrines to be printed, to immortalize the sum of their crimes after their own lives are at an end; they themselves can do no more, but their accursed writings will instigate the commission of crimes, and they carry this sweet idea with them to their graves: it comforts them for the obligation, enjoined by death, to relinquish the doing of evil.”

  “The monsters!” I cried. . . .

  Armande, who was a very gentle creature, kissed me as she shed a few tears, then went back to pacing about the roue’s bed.

  Two hours passed and then the monk did indeed awake in a prodigious agitation and seized me with such force I thought he was going to strangle me; his respiration was quick and labored, his eyes glittered, he uttered incoherent words which were exclusively blasphemous or libertine expressions; he summoned Armande, called for whips, and started in again with his flogging of us both, but in a yet more vigorous manner than before having gone to sleep. It seemed as if he wished to end matters with me; shrill cries burst from his mouth; to abridge my sufferings, Armande excited him violently, he lost his head entirely, and finally made rigid by the most violent sensations, the monster lost both his ardor and his desires together with smoking floods of semen.

  Nothing transpired during the rest of the night; upon getting up, the monk was content to touch and examine each of us; and as he was going to say Mass, we returned to the seraglio. The superintendent could not be prevented from desiring me in. the inflamed state she swore I must be in; exhausted I indeed was and, thus weakened, how could I defend myself? She did all she wished, enough to convince me that even a woman, in such a school, soon losing all the delicacy and restraint native to her sex, could only, after those tyrants’ example, become obscene and cruel.

  Two nights later, I slept with Jérôme; I will not describe his horrors to you; they were still more terrifying. What an academy, great God! by week’s end I had finally made the circuit, and then Omphale asked me whether it were not true that of them all, Clément was the one about whom I had the most to complain.

  “Alas!” was my response, “in the midst of a crowd of horrors and messes of filth which now disgust and now revolt, it is very difficult to pronounce upon these villains’ individual odiousness; I am mortally weary of them all and would that I were gone from here, whatever be the fate that awaits me.”

  “It might be possible that you will soon be satisfied,” my companion answered; “we are nearing the period of the festival: this circumstance rarely takes place without bringing them victims; they either seduce girls by means of the confessional, or, if they can, they cause them to disappear: which means so many new recruits, each of whom always supposes a retrenchment.”

  The famous holiday arrived . . . will you be able to believe, Madame, what monstrous impieties the monks were guilty of during this event! They fancied a visible miracle would double the brilliance of their reputation; and so they dressed Florette, the youngest of the girls, in all the Virgin’s attire and adornments; by means of concealed strings they tied her against the wall of the niche and ordered her to elevate her arms very suddenly and with compunction toward heaven simultaneously the host was raised. As the little creature was threatened with the cruelest chastising if she were to speak a single word or mismanage in her role, she carried it off marvelously well, and the fraud enjoyed all the success that could possibly have been expected. The people cried aloud the miracle, left rich offerings to the Virgin, and went home more convinced than ever of the efficacy of the celestial Mother’s mercies. In order to increase their impiety, our libertines wanted to have Florette appear at the orgies that evening, dressed in the same costume that had attracted so many homages, and each one inflamed his odious desires to submit her, in this guise, to the irregularity of his caprices. Aroused by this initial crime, the sacrilegious ones go considerably further: they have the child stripped naked, they have her lie on her stomach upon a large table; they light candles, they place the image of our Saviour squarely upon the little girl’s back and upon her buttocks they dare consummate the most redoubtable of our mysteries. I swooned away at this horrible spectacle, ’twas impossible to bear the sight. Sévérino, seeing me unconscious, says that, to bring me to heel, I must serve as the altar in my turn. I am seized; I am placed where Florette was lying; the sacrifice is consummated, and the host . . . that sacred symbol of our august Religion . . . Sévérino catches it up and thrusts it deep into the obscene locale of his sodomistic pleasures . . . crushes it with oaths and insults . . . ignominiously drives it further with the intensified blows of his monstrous dart and as he blasphemes, spurts, upon our Saviour’s very Body, the impure floods of his lubricity’s torrents. . . .

  I was insensible when they drew me from his hands; I had to be carried to my room, where for a week I shed uninterrupted tears over the hideous crime for which, against my will, I had been employed. The memory still gnaws at my soul, I never think back upon that scene without shuddering. . . . In me, Religion is the effect of sentiment; all that offends or outrages it makes my very heart bleed.

  The end of the month was close at hand when one morning toward nine Sévérino entered our chamber; he appeared greatly aroused; a certain crazed look hovered in his eyes; he examines us, one after the other, places us in his cherished attitude, and especially lingers over Omphale; for several minutes he stands, contemplating her in the posture she has assumed
, he excites himself, mutters dully, secretly, kisses what is offered him, allows everyone to see he is in a state to consummate, and consummates nothing; next, he has her straighten up, casts upon her glances filled with rage and wickedness; then, swinging his foot, with all his strength he kicks her in the belly, she reels backward and falls six yards away.

  “The company is retrenching you, whore,” he says, “we are tired of you, be ready by this afternoon. I will come to fetch you myself.” And he leaves.

  When he is gone Omphale gets up and, weeping, casts herself into my arms.

  “Ah!” she says, “by the infamy, by the cruelty of the preliminaries . . . can you still blind yourself as to what follows? Great God! what is to become of me?”

  “Be easy,” I say to the miserable girl, “I have made up my mind about everything; I only await the opportunity; it may perhaps present itself sooner than you think; I will divulge these horrors; if it is true the measures they take are as cruel as we have reason to believe, strive to obtain some delays, postpone it, and I will wrest you from their clutches.”

  In the event Omphale were to be released, she swore in the same way to aid me, and both of us fell to weeping. The day passed, nothing happened during it; at five o’clock Sévérino returned.

  “Well,” he asked Omphale, “are you ready?”

  “Yes, Father,” she answered between sobs, “permit me to embrace my friends.”

  “’Tis useless,” replied the monk; “we have no time for lachrymose scenes; they are waiting for us; come.” Then she asked whether she were obliged to take her belongings with her.

  “No,” said the superior; “does not everything belong to the house? You have no further need of any of it”; then, checking himself, as might one who has said too much:

  “Those old clothes have become useless; you will have some cut to fit your size, they will be more becoming to you; be content to take along only what you are wearing.”

  I asked the monk whether I might be allowed to accompany Omphale to the door of the house; his reply was a glance that made me recoil in terror. . . . Omphale goes out, she turns toward us eyes filled with uneasiness and tears, and the minute she is gone I fling myself down upon the bed, desperate.

  Accustomed to these occurrences or blind to their significance, my companions were less affected by Omphale’s departure than I; the superior returned an hour later to lead away the supper’s girls of whom I was one—we were only four: the girl of twelve, she of sixteen, she of twenty-three, and me. Everything went more or less as upon other days; I only noticed that the Girls of the Watch were not on hand, that the monks often whispered in each other’s ears, that they drank much, that they limited themselves violently to exciting desires they did not once consummate, and that they sent us away at an early hour without retaining any of us for their own beds. . . . I deduced what I could from what I observed, because, under such circumstances, one keeps a sharp eye upon everything, but what did this evidence augur? Ah, such was my perplexity that no clear idea presented itself to my mind but it was not immediately offset by another; recollecting Clément’s words, I felt there was everything to fear . . . of course; but then, hope . . . that treacherous hope which comforts us, which blinds us, and which thus does us almost as much ill as good . . . hope finally surged up to reassure me. . . . Such a quantity of horrors were so alien to me that I was simply unable to conceive of them. In this terrible state of confusion, I lay down in bed; now I was persuaded Omphale would not fail to keep her word; and the next instant I was convinced the cruel devices they would use against her would deprive her of all power to help us, and that was my final opinion when I saw an end come to the third day of having heard nothing at all.

  Upon the fourth I found myself again called to supper; the company was numerous and select: the eight most beautiful women were there that evening, I had been paid the honor of being included amongst them; the Girls of the Watch attended too. Immediately we entered we caught sight of our new companion.

  “Here is the young lady the corporation has destined to replace Omphale, Mesdemoiselles,” said Sévérino.

  And as the words escaped his lips he tore away the mantlets and lawn which covered the girl’s bust, and we beheld a maiden of fifteen, with the most agreeable and delicate face: she raised her lovely eyes and graciously regarded each of us; those eyes were still moist with tears, but they contained the liveliest expression; her figure was supple and light, her skin of a dazzling whiteness, she had the world’s most beautiful hair, and there was something so seductive about the whole that it was impossible not to feel oneself automatically drawn to her. Her name was Octavie; we were soon informed she was a girl of the highest quality, born in Paris, and had just emerged from a convent in order to wed the Comte de ——: she had been kidnaped while en route in the company of two governesses and three lackeys; she did not know what had become of her retinue; it had been toward nightfall and she alone had been taken; after having been blindfolded, she had been brought to where we were and it had not been possible to know more of the matter.

  As yet no one had spoken a word to her. Our libertine quartet, confronted by so much charm, knew an instant of ecstasy; they had only the strength to admire her. Beauty’s dominion commands respect; despite his heartlessness, the most corrupt villain must bow before it or else suffer the stings of an obscure remorse; but monsters of the breed with which we had to cope do not long languish under such restraints.

  “Come, pretty child,” quoth the superior, impudently drawing her toward the chair in which he was settled, “come hither and let’s have a look to see whether the rest of your charms match those Nature has so profusely distributed in your countenance.”

  And as the lovely girl was sore troubled, as she flushed crimson and strove to fend him off, Sévérino grasped her rudely round the waist.

  “Understand, my artless one,” he said, “understand that what I want to tell you is simply this: get undressed. Strip. Instantly.”

  And thereupon the libertine slid one hand beneath her skirts while he grasped her with the other. Clément approached, he raised Octavie’s clothes to above her waist and by this maneuver exposed the softest, the most appetizing features it is possible anywhere to find; Sévérino touches, perceives nothing, bends to scrutinize more narrowly, and all four agree they have never seen anything as beautiful. However, the modest Octavie, little accustomed to usage of this sort, gushes tears, and struggles.

  “Undress, undress,” cries Antonin, “we can’t see a thing this way.”

  He assists Sévérino and in a trice we have displayed to us all the maiden’s unadorned charms. Never, without any doubt, was there a fairer skin, never were there more happily modeled forms. . . . God! the crime of it! . . . So many beauties, such chaste freshness, so much innocence and daintiness—all to become prey to these barbarians! Covered with shame, Octavie knows not where to fly to hide her charms, she finds naught but hungering eyes everywhere about, nothing but brutal hands which sully those treasures; the circle closes around her, and, as did I, she rushes hither and thither; the savage Antonin lacks the strength to resist; a cruel attack determines the homage, and the incense smokes at the goddess’ feet. Jérôme compares her to our young colleague of sixteen, doubtless the seraglio’s prettiest; he places the two altars of his devotion one next to the other.

  “Ha! what whiteness! what grace!” says he as he fingers Octavie, “but what gentility and freshness may be discerned in this other one: indeed,” continues the monk all afire, “I am uncertain”; then imprinting his mouth upon the charms his eyes behold, “Octavie,” he cries, “to you the apple, it belongs to none but you, give me the precious fruit of this tree my heart adores. . . . Ah, yes! yes, one of you, give it me, and I will forever assure beauty’s prize to who serves me sooner.”

  Sévérino observes the time has come to meditate on more serious matters; absolute
ly in no condition to be kept waiting, he lays hands upon the unlucky child, places her as he desires her to be; not yet being able to have full confidence in Octavie’s aid, he calls for Clément to lend him a hand. Octavie weeps and weeps unheeded; fire gleams in the impudicious monk’s glance; master of the terrain, one might say he casts about a roving eye only to consider the avenues whereby he may launch the fiercest assault; no ruses, no preparations are employed; will he be able to gather these so charming roses? will he be able to battle past the thorns? Whatever the enormous disproportion between the conquest and the assailant, the latter is not the less in a sweat to give fight; a piercing cry announces victory, but nothing mollifies the enemy’s chilly heart; the more the captive implores mercy, the less quarter is granted her, the more vigorously she is pressed; the ill-starred one fences in vain: she is soon transpierced.