“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; absolutely 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 prepar
ations 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.
“Never was laurel with greater difficulty won,” says Sévérino, retreating, “I thought indeed that for the first time in my life I would fall before the gate . . . ah! ’twas never so narrow, that way, nor so hot; ’tis the God’s own Ganymede.”
“I had better bring her round to the sex you have just soiled,” cries Antonin, seizing Octavie where she is, and not wishing to let her stand up; “there’s more than one breach to a rampart,” says he, and proudly, boldly marching up, he carries the day and is within the sanctuary in no time at all. Further screams are heard.
“Praise be to God,” quoth the indecent man, “I thought I was alone; and would have doubted of my success without a groan or two from the victim; but my triumph is sealed. Do you observe? Blood and tears.”
“In truth,” says Clément, who steps up with whip in hand, “I’ll not disturb her sweet posture either, it is too favorable to my desires.” Jérôme’s Girl of the Watch and the twenty-year-old girl hold Octavie: Clément considers, fingers; terrified, the little girl beseeches him, and is not listened to.
“Ah, my friends!” says the exalted monk, “how are we to avoid flogging a schoolgirl who exhibits an ass of such splendor!”
The air immediately resounds to the whistle of lashes and the thud of stripes sinking into lovely flesh; Octavie’s screams mingle with the sounds of leather, the monk’s curses reply: what a scene for these libertines surrendering themselves to a thousand obscenities in the midst of us all! They applaud him, they cheer him on; however, Octavie’s skin changes color, the brightest tints incarnadine join the lily sparkle; but what might perhaps divert Love for an instant, were moderation to have direction of the sacrifice, becomes, thanks to severity, a frightful crime against Love’s laws; nothing stops or slows the perfidious monk, the more the young student complains, the more the professor’s harshness explodes; from the back to the knee, everything is treated in the same way, and it is at last upon his barbaric pleasures’ blood-drenched vestiges the savage quenches his flames.
“I shall be less impolite, I think,” says Jérôme, laying hands upon the lovely thing and adjusting himself between her coral lips; “where is the temple where I would sacrifice? Why, in this enchanting mouth. . . .”
I fall silent. . . . ’Tis the impure reptile withering the rose—my figure of speech relates it all.
The rest of the soirée would have resembled all the others had it not been for the beauty and the touching age of this young maiden who more than usually inflamed those villains and caused them to multiply their infamies; it was satiety rather than commiseration that sent the unhappy child back to her room and gave her, for a few hours at least, the rest and quiet she needed.
I should indeed have liked to have been able to comfort her that first night, but, obliged to spend it with Sévérino, it may well have been I on the contrary who stood in the greater need of help, for I had the misfortune, no, not to please, the word would not be suitable, no, but in a most lively manner to excite that sodomite’s infamous passions; at this period he desired me almost every night; being exhausted on this particular one, he conducted some researches; doubtless afraid the appalling sword with which he was endowed would not cause me an adequate amount of pain, he fancied, this time, he might perforate me with one of those articles of furniture usually found in nunneries, which decency forbids me from naming and which was of an exorbitant thickness; here, one was obliged to be ready for anything. He himself made the weapon penetrate into his beloved shrine; thanks to powerful blows, it was driven very deep; I screamed; the monk was amused, after a few backward and forward passes, he suddenly snapped the instrument free and plunged his own into the gulf he had just dug open . . . what whimsy! Is that not positively the contrary of everything men are able to desire! But who can define the spirit of libertinage? For a long time we have realized this to be an enigma of Nature; she has not yet pronounced the magic word.
In the morning, feeling somewhat renewed, he wanted to try out another torture: he produced a far more massy machine: this one was hollow and fitted with a high-pressure pump that squirted an incredibly powerful stream of water through an orifice which gave the jet a circumference of over three inches; the enormous instrument itself was nine inches around by twelve long. Sévérino loaded it with steaming hot water and prepared to bury it in my front end; terrified by such a project, I throw myself at his knees to ask for mercy, but he is in one of those accursed situations where pity cannot be heard, where far more eloquent passions stifle it and substitute an often exceedingly dangerous cruelty. The monk threatens me with all his rage if I do not acquiesce; I have to obey. The perfidious machine penetrates to the two-thirds mark and the tearing it causes combined with its extreme heat are about to deprive me of the use of my senses; meanwhile, the superior, showering an uninterrupted stream of invectives upon the parts he is molesting, has himself excited by his follower; after fifteen minutes of rubbing which lacerates me, he releases the spring, a quart of nearly boiling water is fired into the last depths of my womb . . . I fall into a faint. Sévérino was in an ecstasy . . . he was in a delirium at least the equal of my agony.
“Why,” said the traitor, “that’s nothing at all. When I recover my wits, we’ll treat those charms much more harshly . . . a salad of thorns, by Jesus! well peppered, a copious admixture of vinegar, all that tamped in with the point of a knife, that’s what they need to buck them up; the next mistake you make, I condemn you to the treatment,” said the villain while he continued to handle the object of his worship; but two or three homages after the preceding night’s debauches had near worked him to death, and I was sent packing.
Upon returning to my chamber I found my new companion in tears; I did what I could to soothe her, but it is not easy to adjust to so frightful a change of situation; this girl had, furthermore, a great fund of religious feeling, of virtue, and of sensitivity; owing to it, her state only appeared to her the more terrible. Omphale had been right when she told me seniority in no way influenced retirement; that, simply by the monks’ caprice, or by their fear of ulterior inquiries, one could undergo dismissal at the end of a week as easily as at the end of twenty years. Octavie had not been with us four months when Jérôme came to announce her departure; although ’twas he who had most enjoyed her during her sojourn at the monastery, he who had seemed to cherish her and seek her more than any other, the poor child left, making us the same promises Omphale had given; she kept them just as poorly.
From that moment on, my every thought was bent upon the plan I had been devising since Omphale’s departure; determined to do everything possible to escape from this den of savages, nothing that might help me succeed held any terrors for me. What was there to dread by putting my scheme into execution? Death. And were I to remain, of what could I be certain? Of death. And successful flight would save me; there could be no hesitation for there was no alternative; but it were necessary that, before I launched my enterprise, fatal examples of vice rewarded be yet again reproduced before my eyes; it was inscribed in the great book of fate, in that obscure tome whereof no mortal has intelligence, ’twas set down there, I say, that upon all those who had tormented me, humiliated me, bound me in iron chains, there were to be heaped unceasing bounties and rewards for what they had done with regard to me, as if Providence had assumed the task of demonstrating to me the inutility of virtue. . . . Baleful lessons which however did not correct me, no, I wavered not; lessons which, should I once again escape from the blade poised above my head, will not prevent me from forever remaining the slave of
my heart’s Divinity.
One morning, quite unexpectedly, Antonin appeared in our chamber and announced that the Reverend Father Sévérino, allied to the Pope and his protégé, had just been named General of the Benedictine Order by His Holiness. The next day that monk did in effect depart, without taking his leave of us; ’twas said another was expected to replace him, and he would be far superior in debauch to all who remained; additional reasons to hasten ahead with my plans.
The day following Sévérino’s departure, the monks decided to retrench one more of my companions; I chose for my escape the very day when sentence was pronounced against the wretched girl, so that the monks, preoccupied with her, would pay less attention to me.
It was the beginning of spring; the length of the nights still somewhat favored my designs: for two months I had been preparing them, they were completely unsuspected; little by little I sawed through the bars over my window, using a dull pair of scissors I had found; my head could already pass through the hole; with sheets and linen I had made a cord of more than sufficient length to carry me down the twenty or twenty-five feet Omphale had told me was the building’s height. When they had taken my old belongings, I had been careful, as I told you, to remove my little fortune which came to about six louis, and these I had always kept hidden with extreme caution; as I left, I put them into my hair, and nearly all of our chamber having left for that night’s supper, finding no one about but one of my companions who had gone to bed as soon as the others had descended, I entered my cabinet; there, clearing the hole I had scrupulously kept covered at all times, I knotted my cord to one of the undamaged bars, then, sliding down outside, I soon touched the ground—’twas not this part which troubled me: the six enclosures of stone and trees my companion had mentioned were what intrigued me far more.
Justine, Philosophy in the Bedroom, and Other Writings Page 68