THE SEVENTEENTH DAY

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.