The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded

The Garterbelt Series: Virtue Rewarded (Part 3)


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Beginning Notes:
This chapter’s only got one letter per character, but each is longer than the ones written before. This part’s a turning point in the story, after all, which means more rambling stuff from the boys. ^^;; The momentum should pick up again in the chapters that follow.

Incidentally, this fic only slightly follows Richardson’s novel. The basic premise of the imperiled servant under the mercy of the aristocratic master is the same as is the method of narrating the story (epistolary style). Most of the details are my own though I do take advantage of a few things from the original for me to play with. If you wish to read the book, don’t expect to find a lot of real similarities between this parody and the novel.

Apology:
Pascal\'s references to bird taxonomy is an anachronism as Linnaeus didn\'t establish a system of classification till the 1750\'s and beyond.

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France, 1740

Dear Gilbert,

I don’t know what to say. I’m still overcome. At the moment, I’m barely able to keep myself up to write this. I’m in bed, monsieur—confined here—forced here, I might add—after reading your most recent letter.

Yes, Gilbert, I read your letter and completely lost all blood flow to my brain. Even now, having regained consciousness, I’m still feeling nothing more than minute dripping in my skull. My heart must’ve stopped pumping for some time. Sitting up and writing this is making me too light-headed, but for your sake, I’ll fortify myself and carry on with my task.

After all, I’ve got that miniature of your father that you were so kind to give me, and it’s sitting directly across from where I lie right now, perched on a table, with your father’s likeness staring at me dead-on. He’s watching me, you know. Day and night, he’s watching me. I can see him reproaching me right now with that frown of his, for failing in all my attempts at protecting you. Sometimes I have to hide myself in my closet just to dress myself if only to keep him from watching me strip. Sometimes I can’t help but bid him goodnight or good morning. Lately—ever since that fiendish aristocrat returned home from Paris—I’ve been forced to hold arguments with him, defending myself and my (largely failed) efforts. One of the maidughtught me once, and she refuses to come within ten feet of me now.

And people around me are starting to look at me strangely.

But enough of this!

So we now have your paragon of virtue resorting to underhanded methods in claiming you as his newest conquest.

I’m beyond shocked, monsieur. My mind still can’t wrap itself around the thought that a man (who, because of his rank and title, should take it on himself to set good examples for the benefit of his inferiors) would bring himself to stoop this low. He insists that he was merely drinking after-dinner wine and then suddenly woke up knotted in your closet?

Hogwash!

That’s got to be the most ridiculous, most pathetic excuse of an excuse I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing!

He looked disoriented? Alas, Gilbert! Can’t you see? He’s come from Paris! He’s spent a few years of his life in a debauched and godless city, in the company of equally debauched and godless men and women! I daresay even the very dogs in that vile cesspool of moral inequity are guilty of committing every deadly sin condemned in Scripture! What I’m saying is that this whole disorientation thing is nothing more than an act—Parisians are notorious for their ability to put on a performance to get their way with things! Think of the balls and the masquerades and those depraved theatrical productions! Masks, I tell you—they all live in masks!

Oh, lord, I’m feeling dizzy again.

And I wish your father would stop staring at me. I’d turn his picture around, but I’m much too weak at the moment to move anything more than my wrist.

The whole house is in an uproar after my fainting fit. I didn’t know of what nature your letter was going to be when I broke the seal open. My anxiety over you urged me to ignore common sense, and I read your letter in the parlor, where a few visitors were congregated, and so drew much too much attention to myself. I should’ve waited till I was alone in my bedroom. At least there I would’ve been found by one servant and not the entire gaggle of them (the guests were all in a panic and raised such a ruckus as to get every person in my employ rushing to my side, according to one of the maids).

And with my fainting over your letter, everyone naturally fought each other (or so I was told) over its contents, half-expecting some dreadful, unspeakable calamity having happened to you. I suppose, given people’s own reactions to your missive, it truly was a dreadful, unspeakable calamity.

When I say uproar, monsieur, I don’t refer to collective outrage over your usage. I’ve no idea how or why this is happening, but contrary to what’s now going on in your household, where everyone’s aghast at your perceived loss of innocence, everyone here’s up in arms over the fact that—well—you still have it.

I woke up to find Madame Gervais standing at my bedside, glowering blackly at me, with half the female servants surrounding my bed in very much the same attitude, some of them brandishing rolling pins or spatulas or all sorts of kitchen implements. At first I thought that I was about to be violently rebuked (before being slaughtered right then and there and then served for dinner) for being so ineffectual in keeping you from being led deeper into sin, and I prepared myself (trust me, a bevy of outraged females is not a good thing), ready to take any and all responsibility for your downward moral spiral.

Imagine my astonishment when they all spoke at once, rebuking me, yes—but not for what I thought was my greatest setback.

No—every single woman in the room with me almost literally bit my head off for trying my damnedest at keeping you chaste.

Gilbert, they want to see you debauched!

“Fine work you’ve done, monsieur!” Madame Gervais rumbled while jng hng her massive finger at my chest. “Here we have poor, dear Gilbert trying to find someone who’ll make him happy at long last, and what do you do? Hit him with those poxy sermons and make him feel badly about himself?”

“How could you?” Sophie cried.

“And now the vicomte will have nothing to do with the poor, lonely boy!” Aurélie wailed, brandishing an oil jug, which I first feared she planned to break on my head, but God preserved me.

Listening to their hysterical howling, I was puzzled as to why they thought it my fault that the vicomte is now fleeing from your presence (though I’ll stick to my belief that his avoidance of you is really nothing more than another one of his stratagems—the less you see of him, of course, the more you’ll want to find him, and he’ll have you completely in his mercy). But I couldn’t defend myself—given the disadvantage of my situation, I thought it best to bear their censure in stunned silence.

And you know what’s worse?

They’ve confiscated my bible!

I’ve not only been deprived of St. Augustine, but the bible itself! I’ve got nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing!

Bereft! Denied! Helplessly abandoned!

A fine household this is that the master is at the complete mercy of the staff! I’d sack every one of them if my conscience would allow it, but at the moment, I’m much too weakened to do anything more than lie in bed, grieving over the harshness of the world, with your father staring at me from across the way. And with most of them having worked for my family even before I was born—I simply couldn’t find it in myself to boot them out of doors.

I only hope that those women didn’t feed the book to Atlanta. That dog’s gotten much more than any other animal could ever dream of as it is, her system being satiated with a holy man’s words of wisdom.

You’re spared this time, Gilbert, of any more so-called sermons from me.

My head’s spinning again. And, confound it all, your father’s starting to get under my skin. Oh, that I’d be cursed with a conscience!

Make him stop, for the love of God!


Your distressed friend,
Carl Mise, Vienne

**********

Dear Carl,

You really are a booby and a half.

Had I known that my father’s likeness would have this great of an effect on you, I would’ve gladly given you every single damn picture I have of him—even that grand, life-sized one that used to hang in my parents’ sitting-room—just to have my fun at your expense. Come to think of it, it would’ve been great sport to have that portrait set up and mounted on your bedroom wall while you’re asleep, ready for your viewing the moment you awaken. God, how I’d love to be there when that happens! I’ll wager, Carl, that nothing less than a complete fright at having your senses filled with the sight of this obscenely large reproduction of my father, scowling at you from your wall, would extract some of the most colorful oaths from your breast, and I’d be treated to curses that I’d never before dreamt of hearing from you.

Well, those plus some of the most unearthly screams of terror, I’m sure, that a man could ever manage in a single breath.

And I just knew that Madame Gervais would be on my side. Right before I left, she pulled me aside and told me that if I were to find someone worth having, all efforts made in acquiring him would be given my all.

“Don’t be satisfied with anyone less than a gentleman,” she declared. “You should find happiness in someone your equal, and don’t be ashamed of owning that.”

So now I owe her and the others back there my most heartfelt thanks at confiscating your bible though it might be a cause of certain pain to you. Carl, I really think that you should go out more—meet some nice, decent ladies (though I’d rather see you succumb to the charms—or should I say demands—of one of the more brazen ones). Sitting alone at home, with nothing more than prayer books and dull philosophical tracts to entertain you with is turning your brain into this gelatinous blob that requires more blood to sustain it than your body could ever realistically provide.

I’d send you some of the veal-and-fungus dish that seems to be such a favorite here to keep you comforted, but I doubt if it’ll be of much help.

Well, Carl…

I’m not in a very good mood at the moment.

jus just had a thorough verbal lashing from Serge.

As it is, he’s done a damn good job of keeping me in my place (by and large, that is), and while I’d normally ignore everything and carry on with the pursuit, our confrontation today has done nothing more than to ruin my momentum and, indeed, all sense of fun that can be gained from this adventure.

Just after breakfast, he called me to his study, and there he spent a good half hour scolding me about the recent mishap. At first I didn’t think him in earnest and was even chiding him for being much too thorough in his avoidance of me, but he ordered me (yes, ordered) to be quiet while he spoke, even ordering me (yes, ordering) to sit down properly.

“Sit like other normal people would,” he snapped, waving at the chair I sat on (and I suppose I should tell you that I usually perch myself on a chair the wrong way round, with the backrest in front of me and I straddling the seat). Apparently, it wasn’t the proper way to sit in this household—a funny thing, to be sure, as I’ve never once been corrected before—no, not even by Serge himself when he first arrived.

But I digress.

So I sat myself down properly, half-amused, half-perturbed by the tone of voice he was using on me, and I’ll have to confess to feeling a touch miffed as well at his ordering me around. No, it never before bothered me, but somehow it does now.

In brief, he accused me of abusing my position in the household and especially of abusing his trust in me, given our positions. He’d never once considered me to be anything more than a brother, and that, he claimed, was generosity enough.

“And if I’ve ever given you reason to want more from this, I’d never forgive myself,” he added with equal vehemence. “It would do us both good, monsieur, to keep our separate ways from this point on, until we can both show that we’re able to enjoy each other’s company without reducing ourselves to such degrading levels as we’ve been doing so far.”

“And how do you propose to do that—monsieur?” I asked.

Carl, he’s sending me out to live in his summer home in this godforsaken village somewhere in the shadows of Mont Blanc. Oh, God…

He’s punishing me by sending me out to live with goats!

And do you know what’s worse? Kurt’s to be my companion! I’ll be living in a village that time forgot, with nothing to comfort me but a scattering of goats and cows and a pert jackanapes who thinks himself to be God’s gift to women! Carl, he’s consigning me to the second circle of hell!

And for what? An illicit fondle here and there?

All right, yes, a few stolen kisses as well, but what…

All right, all right! A peek at his naked posterior when he went swimming in the lake, too! There! Are you happy now?

…

Oh, God, I was just screaming at a piece of paper. Your insanity’s catching, Mise. This is incomprehensible. My brain hurts just thinking about it.

Where the devil’s Kurt, anyway? I’ve got half a mind to kick something that’s alive, and he’s the best candidate for the position. I blame him for all this, you know. I’m sure that had he not been around that night (or at least had I simply tossed him out the window), Serge would’ve been of a more pliant mind, and he wouldn’t be strung too damn tightly, and we wouldn’t be in this mess.

And just so you’ll know, this strapping stallion of a man (more of a puffed up ass, if you asked me) now blames me for ruining his reputation among the maids.

Ha! Reputation? What reputation? I’ll wager that he wouldn’t even get the most depraved, godless Parisian prostitute to have a go at him if he paid her a year’s salary!

But I must return to my conversation with Serge.

As you may very well imagine, I protested—very passionately—against this scheme of his, confronting him about his own regard for me, which I’ve always sensed though he might insist on denying everything.

And, yes, he actually did deny everything in my face!

“It was a moment of weakness,” he declared. “You’ve placed me at a very awkward and very unfair disadvantage with your advances, and one shouldn’t expect much more of a reaction from me than a muddle-headed attempt at escape. And given our roles in this household, monsieur, this kind of behavior should be looked at as not only contemptible, but certainly beneath my dignity as the master of this estate.”

“You felt pleasure well enough. Even you can’t deny that, monsieur.”

“It was nothing more than a natural response to the brand of attention you’ve been showering on me! Trust me, Gilbert, a eunuch would be hard put to resist your advances had he been in my shoes!”

I didn’t care a jot for that mental picture (and if I tried to persist on imagining it, I’m sure I’d be vomiting my breakfast on this letter). But the long and short of it, Carl, is that Serge is determined and is exercising his authority over a dependent beneficiary, who has no other choice but to accede to his demands, and I’ve been going about my day in a foul, foul, foul mood.

And it looks as though your losing your bible to your household of harridans came at a very opportune time. Damn it. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn it!

I must break off for now. Kurt just walked past the door, and I need to go kick him.


Much aggrieved,
Gilbert Cocteau, Avignon

P.S.
If you’re wondering why in God’s name Kurt’s about to be sent off with me, it’s because he’s been causing a bit of trouble among the maids, who’re all now of the idea that he’s of the worst species of libertines. The housekeeper has complained, and the butler’s hoping that monastery-like living would be a good way of reforming this fellow. Though I’ll have to say—why the devil can’t they just send him to a real monastery?

**********

Dear So-Called-Ex-Best-Friend-of-the-Deluded-Kind,

There’s no need to get so worked up, Battouille, over your Patricia-inspired adventures. If anything, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself for being put in this situation. And, I suppose, for the sake of friendship, I ought to let you know that I’ve spent the morning paying some desperate, half-starved wretch to rid my windows of Parisian bird poo as the vile collection seems to have increased quite rapidly over the span of a few days.

Do you feel better now? Is that justice enough for you?

There’s nothing more distasteful than waking up in the morning and eagerly pulling the curtains apart in hopes of being blessed with sunshine—only to be met by the sight of thick piles of bird waste collecting on both glass and ledge. And I swear there are birds out there that’ve been spelling obscene messages on my windows with their refuse. Don’t ask me how. The image of them aiming at my windows with their feathered backsides before strategically relieving themselves is enough to make me sick.

I think I was able to make out “burn in hell, you filthy atheist” on my parlor window just yesterday.

As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were to confess to hexing those vile, feathered beasts into using my windows for their avian latrine. I suspect that a sudden attack of collective indigestion among these creatures happened on the same day you wrote your recent letter. Like I’ve noted before, Serge, whatever happens to you back there I can certainly discover through some cataclysmic anomaly at this end of the globe.

Birds attacking my windows with unnatural amounts of Columbiforme excrement could only mean that the Vicomte de Battouille’s feeling a touch miffed somewhere in the pastoral hideaway of Avignon.

Well—that may be so, but that’s never held me back before. In brief, my friend, you aren’t spared. Not now, not ever, no matter what my status is in your eyes and no matter what degenerative disease you happened to wish upon me at any given moment.

We’re destined to be best friends, which means that we’re destined to plague each other’s hearts out with each other’s company.

And since Patricia’s scheme didn’t bear much fruit (you really are an oaf, Battouille), I’ll persist with my letters. However, having tasted the impressive (or should I say insane?) brand of resistance that can only come from you, I’ve decided to concede instead and so offer my sincerest declarations of support by sending this bound volume to you for your easy perusal and for inspiration during these trying times. As your steadfast friend, I’m now declaring myself “verse-free” in my missives to you—yes, you read that correctly, monsieur. I might plague you with more letters, but none of them shall be tainted with poetry that would make jaded, hardened, and toothless harlots blush.

This is a solemn oath I take—all for you.

There. Happy now, monsieur?

Damn me for going soft. But as they say, friends are, indeed, proven during moments of extreme trial.

So I suppose this means I need to satisfy myself with accounts that have nothing to do with that beautiful specimen of human perfection who’s placed under your guidance and authority, completely dependent on your whims, vulnerable on all sides, impressionable and eager to please, and, I might add, sleeping a mere ten rooms away from you. Well then, Serge…

As Rosemarine and I have yet to face each other again (no progress yet on that part of Paris’s daily accounts), I think I should simply entertain you with a story I’ve just read about a girl who went to a masquerade. A rather bland tale, I’m afraid, but as I’ve just sworn to leave off any and all references to green-eyed, golden-haired Ganymede (resplendently naked and entwined in vines—but you didn’t just hear that from me, of course), I’ll have to stick to vapid stories for your entertainment.

She appeared in the guise of a shepherd, alone and anxious as it was her first time in such an assembly. She was supposed to meet friends there, but after several minutes of searching in vain, she gave up, placing herself in a corner, where she could watch the festivities with a keen, objective eye. Everywhere around her, she found revelers in rather common costumes—prudish satyrs, /lust/ful priests, morose harlequins /with/ giddy columbines in tow, etc. People’s speech were appropriately affected for their dress, and our heroine heard a smattering of /thy/ and thou and thee in conversations everywhere, which only served to add to the peculiar /beauty/ of the event. Eventually she realized that she’d yet to find her friends, claiming, “But I /cannot/ leave my spot. I’m sure, with such a large assembly, they could be anywhere—in any of the rooms indoors or among the trees or by the man-made /brook/ outdoors. I’ll only get lost and /delay/ our plans of getting back home in one safe group.”

So she remained there, quietly tucked /between/ potted ferns, watching the world move around her, filling her eyes with color and light and her ears with the occasional /thy/ and thou and thee. She kept her spirits from sinking too low by ogling the /pretty/ ladies who danced and laughing at the silly figures of satyrs with grotesque /haunches/. “/I/ won’t stir from this spot,” she cried, “and /will/ wait for my friends to find me instead. I’m having too much fun watching everyone /play/.”

Her patience and perseverance paid off, and she was eventually found, and her friends took her around and blessed her with an evening of even more enjoyment than she’d first expected.

There now. I told you that this was going to be a silly, uninteresting account to share with you, Serge. But an oath is an oath, and I’m never writing you letters with blatant observations that would instill all sorts of lecherous notions in your poor, muddled brain. No more, no more.

Of course, naysayers could always argue that I’m just as dangerous in dropping subtle hints here and there, forcing words into your mind without your awareness and working my influence on you that way. Well, the pox on them! Even if I were such an underhanded, unprincipled sneak, I’m sure that your sense is strong enough to withstand any and all unnoticed battering from without, and you’ll remain your own master. [1]

Before I forget, I’d like to assure you that I’ve just formally and soundly reprimanded Patricia for bribing your servant into knocking you out and stuffing you in sweet Hyacinth’s closet. I’m not sure what good that’ll do as my sister never, ever listens to me (and I being older than she), but I did it, anyway. At least it made me feel good about dispensing my duties as her brother.

I must go, oh, doomed, hopeless virgin, and check my windows.


Now behaving as ordered,
Pascal Biquet, Paris

**********

Dear minion of Hades,

Really now, Pascal! For being one of the cleverest men in Paris, you’re sadly lacking in storytelling skills! A piddling child could spin better tales than you! Even the words you emphasize do absolutely nothing to the story!

A young girl lost in a masquerade ball? Pshaw! What of that? There’s absolutely nothing there! Though perhaps…

…no, nothing. I was just mulling over the curious effect it does have on me, plain and dull though it is. I find it—strangely compelling—so much so that I’ve actually gone back to read it again and again as though it were some great work of literature.

I’m feeling a little overheated—that’s been rather common of late, too. Then again, the weather’s been unusually warm in these parts (which might account for the staff’s odd, sprightly mood). Perhaps I should look at the ventilation in this house.

I’m about to open the package you’ve sent me along with your letter. I don’t know why, but instinct has goaded me on to retiring to my study and locking myself inside before I unwrap this thing.

…

YOU SENT ME A BOOK OF ENGLISH SMUT?

Pascal Biquet, are you suggesting that I find inspiration in verses on some aristocratic, syphilis-riddled, English debauchee’s notions of love? That you expect my powers of reason to be swayed by raw accounts of fornication and buggery from some drunken, insolent, boorish rake?

…

Oh, dear God, have you read his play on Sodom?

This is scandalous! Obscene! I’m at an utter loss as to how you could even begin to think that I’m going to be…

“ ‘Tis all my wish that Pockenello’s arse
May still find favour from your royal tarse.” [2]

Pascal! You atheist WHELP!

I’d burn this volume, but I’m afraid of any little bits left from the fire. My servants are impressive in their thoroughness where cleanliness is concerned, and I wouldn’t doubt if they’ll eventually find those unburnt parts amid the ashes then God only knows what will come of it.

And I can’t just toss this out. A small child might chance upon it somewhere, and POP go his education and not to mention his very soul.

And I suppose it’s safe to say that you’ll refuse to take this unholy book back, given the fact that you were the godless instigator of this whole thing to begin with. You place me in a very, very awkward and embarrassing position, Biquet, in your efforts at corruption. Since I can’t be rid of this thing, I’m afraid that I’ll have to keep it with me—hidden, mind you, from the rest of the world, which means that I’m also forced to find a safe enough pit for me to toss this piece of devilry into.

Dear lord—how came you upon this book? Don’t tell me that you’ve written to your English atheist friends and spilled my wretched story to them. No, no—I’m sure you did just that. And I wouldn’t doubt it if the whole of London is now abuzz with my misadventures with Gilbert. Oh, yes, I can see it all now. All those assemblies and coffeehouses—particularly coffeehouses—packed with spiritually damned Londoners with nothing better to do than to gather together in one hellbound mass to debate the purpose of their godless existence and to titter over some Frenchman’s ridiculous situation involving his mother’s favorite and former servant.

No doubt—no doubt—that they’d be spinning their owniatiiations of my story and the humiliating spectacle Gilbert, Kurt, and I had made of ourselves that night in Gilbert’s room. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of London were spreading rumors of how I contrived to hide myself in Gilbert’s closet, waiting for the right time to come out and to take advantage of the cover of darkness and of Gilbert’s vulnerable state (being half-naked with only his nightshirt on). I can hear them now prattling on and on about how I pushed him back into bed, forcing him down, perhaps even recruiting Kurt’s services and goading him on to holding Gilbert down while I had my way with him.

And I’m sure that every Englishman is now condemning me to the deepest parts of hell for ravishing a helpless, impressionable boy, who’s wholly dependent on my authority. My story’s likely making its way out of London and is rippling outward toward every corner of England—perhaps even crossing the channel to spread out to Europe itself!

I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to wake up tomorrow morning to find letters of condemnation coming from China!

Oh, God, this is making me sick.

A fine work you’ve made, Pascal Biquet, in violating my trust in you and stooping this low for your own amusement! And here I’ve been convincing myself that of the two of you, Patricia’s the one truly spawned by Satan!

…

All right, I’m calm—though I’m also a little giddy. This new cask of wine I had shipped from Burgundy is—phenomenal.

Let me gather my thoughts here. Oh, yes. I was talking—or writing—about Gilbert.

I’ve taken it on myself to send him out to my summer estate in some quaint, unknown village near Mont Blanc. I don’t think you know about it. It’s been standing empty for so long now (save for a housekeeper and a gardener who look after it), and I felt that Gilbert would benefit from the solitude and the serenity the area offered. I need to send him out there for his sake, Pascal, as—and I’m ashamed to own this—my regard for him has taken on a decidedly drastic turn, and I’m afraid of what could happen if I were to be placed in one more situation with the same exasperatingly high levels of temptation as the last one in his room.

You’ve heard this from me before, but it needs to be repeated all the same.

I’m his benefactor, and he’s under my protection. I cannot, in good conscience, take advantage of our relationship.

Yes, I’m weak. I admit it. And that should, I hope, make you happy. But just because I feel something for him, it doesn’t mean that I’m idiotic enough to do something about it. No, not in this capacity.

So there.

I’ve just proven myself to be a more formidable force for you to contend with, Pascal. I now dare you—yes, dare you—to drown me in more collections of obscene poetry and plays, write me endless saucy verses, and bore me to tears with your banal little anecdotes about girls lost in masquerade balls.

Ha!

God, this wine’s good.

Speaking of masquerades, I have this strange urge to reread your story. Really, Biquet, you might not write a half-decent account to save your life, but I’ll have to concede that you’ve got a certain way with words that causes one to feel unusually compelled to read your work again and again.

And I’m not sure why, but I keep thinking of Gilbert and how I can lose myself in mindless, paradisial play—between—his—pretty haunches.

What on earth’s in this wine?

Wait. I found something here that you might find interesting (yes, it comes from the book of smut that I’m determined never to touch—after this, of course). I don’t know why, but it reminded me of you.

“Base mettle hanger by thy master’s thigh,
Shame and disgrace to all prick heraldry,
Hide thy despised head and do not dare
To peep, no no muc much as take the air
But through a buttonhole, but pine and die,
Confined within thy codpiece mastery.
The little childish boy that scarcely knows
The channel through which his water flows,
Touched by his mistress’s most magnetic hand
His little needle presently will stand,
And turn to her; but thou, in spite of that,
As oft cocks flopping like an old wife’s hat.
Did she not take you in her ivory hand?
Doubtless stroked thee, yet though would not stand?
Did she not raise thy drooping head on high
As it lay nodding on her wanton thigh?
Did she not clasp her legs about thy back,
Her porthole open? Prick, what didst thou lack?
Henceforth stand stiff, regain thy credit lost,
Or I’ll ne’er draw thee but against a post.” [3]

Oh, God, I can scarcely write—I’m laughing too hard! The devil take you atheists and your saucy poetry and your English smut! The devil give me more of this wine! And God bless Monsieur LaGarde for recommending it!


Perplexed, dizzy, and overheated (for the tenth time this afternoon),
Serge Battouille, Avignon

P.S.
I’ve just received a letter from my aunt—you know, the one who’s been the bane of my existence. I’m afraid to read it—God knows what she wants from me now. Oh, hell. I should sleep. Yes, that’s the thing to do—sleep. But not till after I send Monsieur LaGarde out for another cask of this wine.

P.P.S.
I find this Monsieur Rochester to be a well-rounded poet. See here—he’s written a longish verse about a dildo. Oh, God, I can’t stop giggling. I really, really should sleep now.

P.P.P.S.
Youu really should t try th is wine, Pascal ll. I’s be eyond glorious. Is sublim e.
.P.P.P.P.S.
O goddd I lo v him m…

(tbc)

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Notes:
[1] In order to understand the irony (and the joke) in this passage, you’ll need to go back to Pascal’s story and read the italicized words in sequence (or those words in set off with //). These form two lines from Rochester’s play, The Farce of Sodom. I figured that Pascal would be clever enough to take advantage of subliminal messages to manipulate his friend into seducing Gilbert. And the lines should read thusly:

Lust with thy beauty cannot brook delay.
Between thy pretty haunches I will play.

[2] from Scene One of Rochester’s The Farce of Sodom

[3] “On His Prick” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester