The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded

Virtue Rewarded, Part 2


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Beginning Notes:

The scene in \"Pamela\" where the squire hides himself in her closet and then leaps out and jumps her is one scene that I really, really needed to use here, given its sheer absurdity. The trick, though, is to come up with more contrived reasons for placing Serge there in the first place. Hopefully this version came out just as absurd as the original; otherwise, the parody wouldn’t work. ^^;;


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Dear Gilbert,

I had half a mind to burn your recent letter. Your language, monsieur, offends me. “Damn” this, “damn” that—be glad that I had the foresight to read your letter in private before anyone could discover that it came and to lie through my teeth to every single person (particularly the ladies) who’ve been asking for news from you lately.

I’m appalled, Gilbert. Appalled, aghast, distressed beyond words.

Monsieur Battouille’s corruption of you has begun much sooner than I feared, its effects looking to be much deeper than I expected. What a base villain to work his foul desires onto you, who’ve done nothing worse than simply be at the wrong place at the wrong time!

Your attraction for him is terrifyingly strong.

Heavens a, th, the man’s good.

But don’t be afraid, dear friend. This is only a mere phase you’re going through. The virtuous had been victims of some of the worst temptations in history—consider St. Anthony. Think of him. Use him for your model and your refuge.

Here:

“Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life, which the Lord has promised to those who love Him. Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God’: for God cannot be tempted by evil, and He Himself does not tempt anyone. But each one is tempted when he is carried away and enticed by his own lust. Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death.” (James 1:12-15)

Let those words be your guide. I’ve got plenty more where they came from, so you’ll not want for any, and in fact, I aim to share a passage with every letter I send you (as I’m certain that whatever prayer books you’d brought with you had all been tossed out by that vile corruptor of an employer—see how the wicked rejoice in making their victims as vulnerable to their influence as possible).

You can’t fight evil alone, Gilbert. I’m here, as your friend, to offer my own weak self as a shield against those forces that now conspire to drag yet another innocent soul down to the fiery pits with them.

I have a collection of St. Augustine’s writings somewhere. I’ll have to search for it and use it as yet more buffering material for you. If anyone’s thoughts served as the highest examples of virtuous living, it would have to be his.

Be assured that I’ll be sharing some of the most significant passages from the text next time.

For now, dear friend, take care, and may God bless you.

Your very concerned friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

**********

Dear Carl,

I wouldn’t waste my time searching for St. Augustine’s meditations if I were you. It’s gone to the dogs—literally—just before I was hauled off to Avignon. I saw Atlanta run off with it, pages tearing between her teeth. But don’t kick the poor dog. She wouldn’t have made off with it had I not given it to her in the first place. I couldn’t help it. It was either my shoe or the book, and Atlanta was insistent.

So where do I begin now?

I suppose I’ll have to settle for a general observation of Serge’s virtues. That always keeps my mind quite sharp (and certainly my energy very high at the prospect of yet another day of seeking him out).

He’s rather charmingly prudish. I’ve had the good luck of catching him in the room a few times before he’d have the chance of leaping out the window, and it never ceases to amaze me how he could manage to keep an air of dignity about him while stammering out half-formed sentences and placing himself behind any piece of furniture to shield himself from me.

He stood behind a footstool this mornin’d c’d caught him completely unawares, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to come up with a better defense), when I was asking him about his plans for today.

I don’t know about you, Carl, but keeping himself just beyond arm’s length from me is enough to get my blood pumping.

I love a tease. And a handsome prude makes the best kind.

He kept glancing at the open window, so I behaved myself and remained where I stood and simply paced around every so often to keep my feet from fusing themselves onto the floor as he refused to move from his spot (his tenacity is remarkable). To be sure, there’s an undeniably delicious thrill at the thought that one who’s placed at an inferior and dependent position would have the power to keep his betters in a constant state of imbalance. Technically, however, he and I are equals, and he’s even told me to treat him as such, but I prefer keeping to my place if this is the benefit I get from it.

As I was saying, we conversed briefly, with me being on the constant move, pacing and talking and gesticulating freely—even pulling the silk ribbon off my hair and then tying it back up while letting the shorter strands hang loose (the beauty of wearing one’s hair too long for a wig yet too short to be neatly kept with a tie). He refused to look when I toyed with my hair and merely rambled on about today’s menu while staring at my shoes.

So while I moved freely about, Serge stood stiffly behind the footstool, unwilling (though I’d like to flatter myself with the thought that he was unable) to move, his arms crossed tightly on his chest, looking so insufferably proper in his silk and velvet.

I’ve seen him without his bob-wig, and the day will soon come when I’ll be able to convince him to rid himself of that boring thing. You’ll have to come to Avignon to see for yourself exactly how very much like soft satin his hair is. God knows how many minutes I’ve spent wondering how it’d feel running my fingers through those curls…

…among other things that have yet to be explored.

He’s also taken to swimming in the lake at the back of the house, for which I’ve been praying my tearful thanks to every deity above. He swims with a complete disregard to modesty (of course, he does make sure that no one else is in the vicinity to watch him strip, which only forces me to make sure that I’m very well hidden in the shrubbery when he lopes toward the water) that always leaves me practically breathless.

Damn me if I don’t say that the gods have thought it their peculiar province to pour all their energy into this man and endow him with every single virtue onuld uld think of. He’s not at all robust and muscular, but I can tell—even at a distance—that his body’s on the verge of—sprouting.

So sorry, Carl, but Kurt happened to walk under my window, carrying an armload of vegetables he must’ve gathered from the garden, and I got a bit distracted by the cucumbers that he’d just harvested. I must say that Madame Dechenes’s collection has vastly improved. I’ll have to commend her for her efforts.

I’m feeling this sudden, overpowering urge to jump into the lake myself to stave off this heat. The room’s grown quite a bit warmer in the last five seconds. What was I saying about Serge again? Oh, damn, my mind’s a blank. Well—I’m sure it’ll all come back to me soon enough.

If this is a phase as you’ve claimed, Carl, I hope to never grow out of it.

I need to go. He’s getting ready to ride. I need to help him mount his stallion—very slowly. Very, very slowly. Maybe I’ll bumble my way through the task and force him to mount again and again and again.

God, I love Avignon.

Your friend,
Gilbert Cocteau, Avignon

**********

Dear Serge (or Vicomte de Oaf as I prefer to call you now),

Don’t tell me. You’re still a virgin. Gilbert’s still a virgin. I don’t even have to ride there and see for myself. All I need to do is to wait for some cataclysmic weather anomalies, and so far, I haven’t seen any. The sky hasn’t burnt a brilliant and blinding blue. The sun hasn’t turned red. The seas haven’t risen up in great walls of water. The ground hasn’t shaken and swallowed up entire villages and cities.

The only anomaly I’ve witnessed has been the increasing number of those damned birds that poo on my windows. And I think it doesn’t take a great mind to conclude that birds defiling one’s windows are really more of a sign of bad luck than anything else.

I wouldn’t hesitate to claim that your succumbing to your “companion’s” charms will be heralded by the earth cracking open and vomiting copious amounts of earthly bile to destroy the entire human race with.

Ah, Serge, you walking nunnery…

All right, fine. Here’s another sweet little poetic piece to inspire you with.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.”

I’m convinced, Serge, that by the time you decide to allow Nature to take her course, these rosebuds have already turned to organic mush. Have you ever made love to organic mush, Battouille? Wait, what am I saying? You’ve never made love with anyone in your sad little cloistered life!

“The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.”

My friend, as you’re much more attuned to poetry than I am, I expect that you understand the vital importance of sunsets, especially when they mean more than a pretty view on the horizon at the end of the day before you drink yourself under the table in the company of fellow atheists.

Wait. My mind drifted a bit there. Fellow nuns, then, for you. Of course, that also reminded me of this sad little fact that you don’t even k mok more than one glass of spirits! Well, damn my eyes, Battouille! I’m beginning to suspect that you’re not even human!

“That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.”

I think I remember your mother once describing Gilbert in a letter—gold hair, green eyes, pale skin, firm, slender figure on the verge of manhood. All these, Serge—all these are being offered to you on a damned silver platter. Lord help me, even St. Anthony wouldn’t be able to keep himself from following the direction his—celestial rod—would take him had he been harangued by Beelzebub with this vision!

“Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.” [1]

Tarry? How about be petrified into stone that stands around, waiting for those damned Parisian birds to poo on it?

Serge, Serge, Serge…

I know I tend to be harsh with you, dear friend, but sometimes it’s the only way for anyone to get through your skull and knock some sense into you. But I won’t linger on this. I’ve given you yet another poetic piece from which you can draw inspiration, and I’ll leave it at that—at least for now—and move on to other things.

Monsieur Rosemarine has yet to reissue a challenge for another theological debate. Ha! I can’t wait to crush him next time! Well—so long as we all remember to stay sober for the damn debate, that is. Rumors are starting to trickle in, none of which is flattering in any way.

Someone’s evad tad the audacity to claim that I vomited on the moderator (who was, I understand, just as drunk as we were) while spouting off tracts from English deists. Pshaw! I don’t see how that could be of any importance, really, given the fact that I always vomit when I’m so far gone! One only needs to count the amount of money I’ve spent in replenishing my stock of jabots this past year alone. At the moment, my father’s quite incensed and is throwing out hints of cutting my allowance if I continue to ruin my clothes in such an ignoble manner.

Speaking of which, I havego tgo to the tailor’s. I’m afraid I have to set the pen aside for now. Till then, dear Serge.

Always your friend,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

P.S.
Take him, Battouille, or I’ll be forced to send my sister over, and you know damned well what Patricia’s capable of. I still wake up from nightmares on her recent matchmaking attempts involving oil paint and custard, and I know for a fact that Mademoiselle Lavallée is still avoiding me like the plague.

**********

Dear Pascal the Damned,

I’m now officially ignoring the contents of your letters, Biquet. Well, yes, of course I read everything I get from you, but it all goes in one ear and out the other as they all say.

And don’t you dare send Patricia here!

Don’t you DARE!

If you value our friendship, you’ll be keeping your sister in Paris, where she can cause all the damage she can. I want to see Avignon completely unmolested by her matchmaking efforts, Pascal, do you understand? I’ve yet to forgive her for that little prank she played at Madame de Lamontagne’s masquerade ball. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Monsieur Gauthier were walking around with all these horrifying ideas about me and ostrich feathers.

Right. Moving on…

It’s been two weeks now, and I’ve kept my promise to my mother. The household is running smoothly, my neighbors are happy (and, yes, I’ve done my share of visits, thank you), and Gilbert remains chaste and protected.

I’ve also gotten quite good at leaping out of windows (I think I’ve told you this before) at the sound of footsteps at my door. I never thought how nimble I could be given the right situation, considering how sedentary I tend to be by and large. And, I’m very proud to add, I’ve also learned how to climb down the ivy that clings to the walls of the house. Escaping any of the second-floor rooms is very tricky and certainly depends on which room I happen to be in when the moment comes upon me. Some of the rooms have nothing but ivy and thin ledges from which I can dangle, but I’ve been fortunate where my room’s concerned. It’s right above the drawing-room, which has a good-sized ledge sheltering its windows—one that I can actually walk on without fear of tumbling off and breaking my neck.

I still wish, however, that my ancestors thought to arm the entire house with secret doors and secret passages. It would have made a huge difference to me. Then again, I’m terrified of how those intricate passageways would only serve to fuel Gilbert’s enthusiasm in hunting me down.

Ah, Pascal! How can I convince him that his interest in me is fruitless? I’ve already tried to remind him that we’re more like brothers, but that only seemed to encourage him. In fact, just a couple of days ago, he caught me unawares in the library, and I wasn’t able to escape via the window like I needed to.

I think I must’ve looked like a sheep about to be slaughtered because he kept his distance and played the coquette at twenty paces. I couldn’t—I dared not—watch him when we spoke, especially since he untied and then tied his hair, looking sweetly disheveled and indescribably…

Pascal Biquet, you’re the spawn of Satan for encouraging me to listen to my baser instincts, when you know full well that I shouldn’t do anything to compromise both his and my positions in this household and break a most solemn vow I’ve made to my poor mother on her deathbed! I’m resolved to burn your letters the moment they cross the threshold unless you stop your insidious influence with your taunts and your saucy poetry!

This household will remain a household of virgins, so help me God!

All right, I have to qualify that to not include the servants. I’m starting to suspect that Kurt Stahler has been rather frisky of late, and some of the maids are giddier than usual. I need to have the butler and the housekeeper keep a close eye on them.

And speaking of which, I’ll need to convince Gilbert that he’s not fit to be a groom (or assistant groom or whatever position it is he thinks it worth his while to occupy whenever I fancy a ride on my favorite horse). He’s not exactly the most skilled to assist and and I’m now finding that simply mounting my horse has grown to be quite an adventure. He’s insisted on helping me, but now I have to be firm in my refusal.

Unfortunately, I’m anxious about how I could possibly have a conversation with him without him mistaking an earnest desire in me to set things right as a sign of encouragement on my part. I’m sure, if I were to call him to the study for a serious talk, that he’d only try to tempt me further by doing that thing with his hair or straddling a chair the wrong way round, leaning easily against the backrest, hair disheveled, with those legs of his wrapped around the…

I hate you, Pascal.

I hope you vomit your lungs on your most expensive jabot. And I hope it happens while you’re sober.

Your distressed friend,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

P.S.
Keep your sister with you.

**********

Dear Gilbert,

Serge? Serge? Are we on a first-name basis now, monsieur? And I can’t believe that you fed St. Augustine to the dog! How could you? That was a gift from Monsieur Vernadeau! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already! The man flagellated himself up and down the streets of Vienne every Good Friday! He rolled on broken glass on Black Saturday! He fell into ecstatic, apoplectic fits on Easter Sunday! (though I’ll have to admit that that might have been caused by infections sustained from all those moments of self-mutilation, but that’s neither here nor there)

AuguAugustine was practically handed to me on a divine platter, and you fed him to the dog? No doubt Monsieur Dren and Monsieur Blough had something to do with such appalling behavior from you. I told you to keep your distance from those two thugs, didn’t I? Had they been given free reign, I’m sure that Vienne would be marked for eternal damnation, and neither scoundrel would give a toss.

You, Gilbert, of all my friends here, have always been of the most open, easy temper—the most prone to flights of fancy and the most prone to the influence of others. And that thought only serves to fuel my concern for you and your welfare, considering the solemn oath I’d made to your poor father. You’ve no idea, dear friend, how painful it is for me to sit back here, practically shredding my missal from my continued, fervent praying on your behalf.

And, yes, I’m convinced that this is all a phase—your astonishing (and, really, terrifying) attraction for the young vicomte being nothing more than the effects of the vile seducer’s attempts at triumphing over your virtue. He’s slithered his profane, corrupting way into your heart and is now securing himself there, no doubt with endless honeyed words and gestures of affection.

If I could, Gilbert, I’d ride to Avignon right now and drag you back home, safe and sound and beyond the reach of that depraved aristocrat.

But for your sake, I’ll hold on to hope. You might triumph over St. Augustine, but you can never triumph over God. See here:

“Put on the full armor of God, that you may be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, take up the full armor of God, that you may be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand firm therefore, HAVING GIRDED YOUR LOINS WITH TRUTH, and HAVING PUT ON THE BREASTPLATE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS, and having shod YOUR FEET WITH THE PREPARATION OF THE GOSPEL OF PEACE; in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming missiles of the evil one. And take the HELMET OF SALVATION, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” (Eph. 6:11-18)

Who else, dear friend, can offer such impressive protection against any and all forms of spiritual attacks? Yes, you might find the vicomte handsome and enticing, but this isn’t a matter of sinning against the flesh as it is spiritual death, thinly-veiled and prettied up with a dashing figure in a bob-wig, straddling a stallion.

I’m convinced that your ready worship of this man’s so-called virtues springs largely from ignorance of the ways of the world. I’ve told you that before. For one with such an open and easy temper as yours, it doesn’t come as a surprise that you’d be sucked so quickly into the vices of men without even understanding much about their nature and the risk you run with every transgression.

Gilbert…

Remember this…

That you’re the pride and joy of all of us back here in this small, obscure, and inconsequential town. Alas, that I can’t prevent the brutalities that now conspire to hurt you as Satan’s minions lure you further down their depths. All the same, whether or not you return to us innocent and honest is beside the point now, so long as you’re returned to us, and we get to keep you forever protected from the cruelty of the world.

Don’t ever be fooled by wealth, dear friend. Behind all that glitter and glamour lies nothing but pain and spiritual emptiness.

And so I leave you with one more source of inspiration and strength:

…

Oh, dear God, I forgot that I no longer have St. Augustine with me. I feel ill. I hope, monsieur, that your conscience is doing its work in making you repent your thoughtless disregard of a holy man’s words.

Your confounded friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

P.S.
I’ve just gotten word that Monsieur Vernu isu is planning to ride to Avignon—a yearly pilgrimage, apparently. He hopes to flagellate himself before the Palace of the Popes. Perhaps I might be able to convince him to take me along as I’ve always wanted to view such a marvel (the palace, not the flagellation). Then I may be able to see you and judge for myself how well you’re really getting along there—and perhaps have a word or two with your so-called companion.

**********

Dear Carl,

If you know what’s good for you, you wouldn’t take one step outside Vienne. Nothing’s sure to ruin my fun than the most unwelcome presence of a saint-in-training bent on destroying the most desirable creature ever to walk the earth, especially when I’ve already made some headway with him.

And if it makes you feel any better, poor Atlanta fell sick immediately after devng Sng St. Augustine. That’s punishment enough, I suppose, for feasting on a holy man. I myself could only manage to dribble on the pages of that book after drifting off to sleep on it.

But don’t worry yourself senseless, Carl, as I know that Monsieur Vernadeau will be more than happy to procure another copy for you—so long as he’s made to walk to and from his source on his knees, missal pressed fervently against his heart.

Has he made Mademoiselle Perrault an honest woman yet? She looked unusually round around the belly area when I last visited Vienne.

But enough of this dull talk! There’smuchmuch for me to share with you!

Last night, I finally managed to get Serge (yes, we’re on first name basis now as he requested) into bed.

Bed, Carl, bed!

…

All right, so it really isn’t what you think. Yes, I got him into bed. nothnothing came of it. How can it, with someone else in the room with us?

Damned nuisance.

I knoat yat you’re thinking, Carl, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t a Satanic orgy that wen in in my room (though I’ll have to confess to feeling excessively devilish at that moment).

You must know that this recently-hired spark, Kurt Stahler, was just made to share sleeping space with me. Apparently the butler and the housekeeper had thought it for the better if he were to be sleeping with someone who’d somehow keep him in line as rumors are now circulating about his nightly trysts with some of the maids. Now as far as how I manage to keep him in line, I can’t really tell you. All I could dredge up is the fact that I make him nervous. It’s all too true, Carl—I make no secrets of my romantic preferences, and he thinks himself as having the prowess of a rutting bull, that we’re constantly at odds, with him asserting his masculine superiority and I pushing his buttons even more by the more brazen demonstrations of coquetry I could think of to fit the moment. You should see the look on his face when I run my foot up his leg during dinner.

So there we were, getting ready for bed, trying to hold as normal a conversation as we could. He’d just slithered under the blankets (eyeing me warily, I might add), and I’d just slipped my nightshirt on when I heard muffled noises coming from the closet. I extinguished the candle so that we had nothing more than moonlight to guide us with and then crept to the door, loudly declaring that I was ready to go to bed.

Just as I spoke, the closet door flew open, and who’d come staggering out in a confused haze than Serge, and it was all I could do to throw my arms around him (he needed support, what else was I supposed to do?) and half-drag him to bed, flinging myself onto it and dragging him down with me, squawking his protests and struggling mightily against me.

I was so shocked at the moment—at the unbelievable opportunity that had just thrown itself in my way, which I was resolved to take advantage of to the utmost degree—that I’d completely forgotten that I had a bedfellow last night, and he was well nigh screaming in horror at what he believed was about to transpire in the room with him.

“Oh, dear God in heaven!” he cried as he struggled against the weight piled atop him (yes, Serge and I took a tumble into bed and landed squarely on Kurt). “Spare me! Spare me! I don’t take it up there!”

What an ass. Can you believe it? I could barely keep myself from kicking him where it hurt the most just to shut him up.

But God…

To have Serge lying on top of me, his face pressed against my neck (all right, so I held him down with every ounce of strength I had, but you would, too, had you been in my position), the rest of him practically molded against the rest of me…

Carl, you don’t know what heaven is like. The pox on those damned ascetics. They wouldn’t know, either.

In the swirl of confusion that followed—with Kurt struggling and crying out his prayers for salvation, Serge struggling to get away and crying out his protests, and I struggling to keep him where he was and crying out to Kurt to throw himself out the damned window and be done with it—we’d managed to entangle ourselves in the sheets till none of us could move, and it was all we could do to fall silent and breathe heavily in the dark, wondering how in God’s name we could get ourselves out of this mess (though for my part, I wasn’t at all complaining).

So Serge took advantage of that moment to protest his innocence, that the last thing he remembered was sitting in his study, reading and indulging in his post-dinner glass of wine, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up stuffed in my closet, not at all having a clue as to how he got there or who was responsible for his placement. He looked livid, and he was actually cursing the scoundrel who’d done this to him.

I’ve never heard him swear before, and let me tell you, Carl, that obscenity coming out of such chaste lips can fire up one’s passion to an alarming degree. The sheer decadence of such an expression—especially from him—is enough to get me hot all over.

Ah, romance…

For several glorious moments, we lay entangled, and I was trying desperately to “gather ye rosebuds while ye may”—or while I may, for that matter—doing everything in my power to be seduced by this man (I was practically naked under him, for God’s sake!), but with Kurt’s continued wailing ruining the moment, Serge managed to free himself eventually, practically leaping out the door in one move, and angrily reproving me my indelicacy before storming out.

Pshaw.

As if he really believed it. I felt his approval well enough under his breeches.

I feel this glow whenever I fix my mind on that moment, Carl. It’s now been seared into my memory, and all I need to do is to pull it out and indulge in it whenever I have the need to—reminisce (which happens about once every half hour).

Of course, we do have repercussions. The entire household has now gotten wind of the catastrophe (as I’ve head Serge call it last night though for myself, I call it a catastrophe in a completely different sense), and everyone’s going about with the most comical looks of confusion. Kurt’s been trying to reassert his rutting-bull-prowess by flirting left and right with the maids, but they’re now running away from him, with one of them calling him a “depraved libertine” (or was it a “godless predator of the innocent”?) in his face before fleeing as though the Devil himself were after her.

Curiously enough, people seemed to have taken into their heads that their master—that beautiful paragon of virtue—is an insatiably oversexed fiend bent on my ruin. What ridiculous chowderheads they all are. I’d go and offer comfort to Serge, but he’s now avoiding me like the plague. I’ve actually been failing in all of my attempts at finding him today.

“After what happened last night,” Madame Benoit declared while clasping me tightly to her oversized bosom, “he’d do well to make an honest man out of you, poor dear Gilbert!”

Honest man? I haven’t even been made dishonest! What are they talking about?

People are strange, Carl. If you feel the need to lecture, direct your sermons to them, not me.

Your disappointed friend,
Gilbert Cocteau, Avignon

**********

Dear Fallen Angel,

I’ve been spending time with Patricia in an endless competition of who gets to drink whom under the table. And I’m telling you, Serge, that my sister has beaten me every single damned time. I’m now convinced that she was born with a concrete stomach, and I’m also half-afraid of what information I’ve managed to let slip during moments of complete and hopeless intoxication. The way she’s been smirking lately, I’ve got a sinking feeling that I’ve just drunk myself into a corner, and it’s only a matter of time before something happens that would surely lead to my further ruin in the eyes of all the good ladies in Paris.

Speaking of ruin, how goes it with Gilbert?

Note my salutation, dear friend. I’m hopeful. Very hopeful in spite of the fact that keeping a light burning for you is like teaching a dog to speak Russian.

Look here, man—if you’re concerned about your vow to your dear mother, think about this: how do you think she’d feel if she were to discover that her only son, her pride and joy, her golden child, were to sacrifice his happiness in such a pathetic manner? Isn’t it a mother’s peculiar province to ensure her child’s welfare? If given a choice between you and her favorite beneficiary, she’d choose you, of course! What mother could do any less?

And if you think that the poems I’ve just sent you are saucy, you’re in for a bit of a surprise with this gem (once again altered to fit your situation).

“I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which crawling and and every way
Enthralled my dainty Gilbert.
Methought his long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
His belly, buttocks, and his waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced.
About his head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) his temples I behung,
So that my Gilbert seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about his neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that he could not freetir tir
(All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which virgins keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine. [2]

Speaking of which, I find my flesh turning stock-like even as I write this piece. Sweet heaven above! Do all Englishmen get this heated in their erotic poetry? Damn my eyes, I’ve been reading the wrong writers!

Is this motivation enough, Serge? Are you picturing Gilbert in such a state? Gold hair, green eyes, pcompcomplexion, slim and firm body—obscenely naked, I might add—held down and imprisoned in vines, every inch of his figure being groped and caressed by naughty tendrils and…

I should stop before I end up converting myself permanently, and you’ll be in a sad state of competition for Gilbert’s virginity.

I must go. Patricia’s here for another visit. She’s smirking at me again, confound that woman.

Your soon-to-be-rival if I don’t stop this,
Pascal Biquet, ParisP.S.P.S.
Holy God! Patricia’s just confessed to me! Serge! Are you still chaste? Tell me!

**********

Dear Satan,

I hate you. I hope you and your sister come down with smallpox, syphilis, and abnormal hair and teeth loss. If in case dear Patricia-Beelzebub hasn’t told you yet, the entire household is now coming after me with torches, demanding that ke rke reparations for taking Gilbert’s innocence away.

I’m incensed, speechless, barely able to function—reduced to this no thanks to my so-called best friend and his unnatural sister, who can still cause damage via ink and paper from a distance. The servant whom Patricia had bribed has been temporarily suspended (had he not been with the family for this length of time, I would’ve sacked him right then and there, but the poor old man’s utterly dependent on me and made the most pitiful pleas for forgiveness) after being made to confess his part in this godless conspiracy against me to the rest of the staff, which, unfortunately, did nothing to quell their sense of outrage against this non-existent crime committed against Gilbert.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

If you do vomit again, I hope you vomit yourself inside out completely.

Your ex-best friend,
Serge Battouille, Avignon

(tbc)


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:


[1] “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time” by Robert Herrick
[2] “The Vine” by Robert Herrick