THE TWENTY-THIRD DAY

“But how is it possible to shout and roar the way you do when you discharge?” the Duc demanded of Curval upon bidding him good morning on the 23rd. “Why the devil must you scream that way? I’ve never seen such violent discharges.”
“Why, by God,” Curval replied, “is it for you, whom one can hear a league away, to address such a reproach to a modest man like myself? Those little murmurs you hear, my good friend, are caused by my extremely sensitive nervous system; the objects which excite our passions create such a lively commotion in the electrically charged fluid that flows in our nerves, the shock received by the animal spirits composing this fluid is of such a degree of violence, that the entire mechanism is rattled by these effects, and one is just as powerless to suppress one’s cries when overwhelmed by the terrible blows imparted by pleasure, as one would be when assailed by the powerful emotions of pain.”
“Well, you define the thing very well, Président, but what was the delicate object that could have produced such a vibration in your animal spirits?”
“I was very energetically sucking Adonis’ prick, his mouth, and his asshole, for I was cast down with despair at not being able to do more to my couch companion; all the while I made the best of my hard situation, Antinoüs, seconded by your dear daughter Julie, labored, each in his own way, to evacuate the liquor whose eventual outpouring occasioned the musical sounds which, you say, struck your ears.”
“And it all worked so well that now, today,” said the Duc, “you’re as weak as a baby.”
“No, your Grace, not at all,” Curval declared; “deign but to observe my career, my motions today, and but do me the honor of judging my style and vehemence in sport, and you shall see me conduct myself quite as ever, and assuredly as well as you yourself.”
They were at this point in the conversation when Durcet arrived to say breakfast was being served. They passed into the qirls’ quarters, where those eight charming little houris were distributing cups of coffee and hot water; the Duc therewith demanded to know of Durcet, the month’s steward and presiding officer, why was it the coffee was being served with water?
“You’ll have it with milk whenever you wish,” said the financier. “Would you prefer it thus now?”
The Duc said that yes, he would.
“Augustine, my dear,” Durcet said, “a little milk in Monsieur le Duc’s cup, if you please.”
Thereupon the little girl, prepared for any eventuality, placed Blangis’ cup beneath her ass, and through her anus squeezed three or four spoonfuls of milk, very clear and perfectly fresh. This cunning feat produced much pleasant laughter, everyone requested milk in his coffee. All the asses were charged in the same way Augustine’s was: ’twas an agreeable little surprise the month’s director of games had thought to give his colleagues. Fanny poured some into the Bishop’s cup, Zelmire into Curval’s, and Michette into the financier’s; the friends took a second round of coffee, and the four other girls performed over these new cups the same ceremony their comrades had over the first cups; and so on and on; the whole thing entertained their Lordships immoderately. It heated the Bishop’s brain; he affirmed he wanted something beside milk, and the lovely Sophie stepped forth to satisfy him. Although all eight definitely wished to shit, they had been strongly urged to exercise self-restraint while dispensing the milk, and this first time to yield absolutely nothing else.
Next, they paid the little boys a good-morning visit; Curval induced Zélamir to shit from him, the Duc applauded what Giton brought to light. Two subaltern fuckers, Constance, and Rosette provided the spectacle in the chapel latrine. Rosette was one of those upon whom the old formula for promoting indigestion had beed tried out; at coffee, she had had the world’s worst time keeping her milk free of foreign ingredients, and now, seated upon the throne, she released the most superb turd you could hope to lay eyes upon. Duclos was congratulated, they said her system was a resounding success, and from then on they used it every day; never once did it fail them. The conversation at the dinner was enlivened by the breakfast’s pleasantry, and a number of other things of the same kind were invented and proposed; we shall perhaps have occasion to mention them in the sequel.
After-dinner coffee was served by four subjects of the same age: to wit, Zelmire, Augustine, Zéphyr, and Adonis. The Duc thigh-fucked Augustine while tickling her anus with his thumb, Curval did the same thing with Zelmire, but may or may not have used his thumb, his hand was not in clear view; the Bishop toiled between Zéphyr’s tightly squeezed legs, and the financier fucked Adonis’ mouth. Augustine announced that she was ready to shit, how would they like her to do a little shit? The poor dear could not wait another moment, she too had been exposed to the indigestion-producing experiments.