Mrs Grainger's Gift 22

By Ritchie Moore

(I'll forward it to the author)

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Mrs Grainger’s Gift

XXII

Thursday 9^th July

They wandered around hand in hand, visibly exuding a sheer joy to be with one another. When their gazes met, they flushed to mutually remember how they had coiled together in their ecstasy and run their hungry hands over each other, finding again and again the sweetest insatiable places in the other’s so desirable body, all naked and waiting. Their hands clasped and squeezed in a silent secret cryptography that telegraphed love and content and satisfaction and promise of arousal.

At the sight of the happy couple people stared, then smiled, recognising love when they saw it. Did they in fact broadcast the consummation of their lust to knowing eyes? No matter. They were really in a little universe of their own, blind and deaf to the harsh world outside their affectionate cocoon, and only came to concrete reality when they collided with a café table, at which they promptly sat to continue gazing inanely into the other’s eyes. Then an impatient waiter caught their attention and finally got their order. They pulled themselves together and took stock of the establishment, examining the other patrons and wondering whether they too were famous, artists and poets and revolutionaries. Chatter rose around them, but any hope of overhearing an interesting conversation about art or socialism was defeated by the volume of many individuals and groups talking at once in French, mostly, too fast for pickup anyway. They sighed and drank their coffee and decided to ask Justine for guidance.

Meanwhile not too far away, had they but known it, Lydia Granger was poking about the shelves in a bookshop labelled “Shakespeare and Company”, which sold (and lent) books in English, handing one or two to Jenny to hold till she concluded her quest. She’d already ordered a caseful of books to be sent to Summerton, expecting it to be waiting for her when she got back at the end of August, but for now she’d take Ernest’s sketches and a copy of Joyce’s Portrait (signed with a flourish by the author), besides a half-dozen journals in English, promising to cross the road to another shop that sold the same sort of thing in French. Once Jenny’s arms were full Amelia was brought in as beast of burden, and Raoul was nonchalant about lounging outside smoking while his lover indulged herself and the servants were expected to serve.

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Friday 10^th July

They all made an excursion to Versailles, and the children gazed with wonder at the opulence and art. There was so much to see both indoors and out, with gardens and the fountains and the statues and …. They were all tired out by the time they summoned a cab, and once home they took time to rest, though Mrs G retired to bed very soon after their short supper, and gave notice she didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Well, monsieur,” said Amelia, “madam isn’t feeling too good. So … I wondered if you wanted some different company tonight.”

He looked at her with amusement. “Hah, mademoiselle Amélie! Perhaps that would suit us both. But where? Ah, I suppose this broad divan will do, don’t you think? Yes. We shouldn’t disturb your mistress, she should rest. So here we both are.”

She laughed roguishly and put her hands to her blouse, starting a provocative strip-tease that held his smiling attention till the last stitch had been dangled before his eyes and cast aside. She stood straight and proud, raising her arms to the ceiling and throwing her head back and looking at him with brazen invitation. He laughed out loud and began to disrobe himself. Naked and erect he picked her up and carried her the few feet to the divan, where he deposited her and arranged her limbs in open sexuality. For a while they gazed at each other, then with something like a growl he was on her and the erotic scuffle commenced, the pair writhing and grinning, exclaiming obscenities in two languages and panting till they individually came.

A couple of Gauloises and a pee later he roused himself and began tracing her spine with a finger. She smiled lewdly and said “Ah, Raoul, I knew you’d be able for this. That prick of yours is after some more exercise, hmm? It’s a nice big prick, let me tell you, and it deserves a good home.” He laughed and continued to tickle her back, then suddenly seized her thighs and drew her to him, pressing his new erection against her buttocks. She gave a little yelp, then relaxed while he thrust himself against her till they were both breathing hard with desire. He reached out for the ever-handy jelly to anoint his tool and grease her anus, then the thrust put him inside her and she breathed heavily at the sensation. In and out went his eager penis, in and out, and she rapidly came to another orgasm, while he continued to heave at her and snort like a horse – as she thought of it – till he too reached the orgasmic plateau and moaned as he came. The evening stretched before them enticingly.

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Saturday 11th July

More night life, with Justine; Jennie enjoys the evening with Raoul

12 Christopher Lane

Barnton

Saturday 11th July 1925

Dear Mr Bryden:

Your request is a rather peculiar one, and I’m not sure how to answer you. Let me say first that as a faithful retainer of a valued client you are entitled to the same courtesy I’d show to Mrs Grainger, and there are some aspects to your story which interest me particularly, since I know the girl you speak of through correspondence with Mrs Grainger and Mrs Grove. That said, I’m sure you understand that asking a lawyer about another lawyer is capable of being answered with a stiff refusal to say anything at all, since saying something can be interpreted in a multitude of ways, pro and con, positive and negative, laudatory or otherwise. There is also, perhaps unfortunately, a tendency you may have seen in most professions to cling to a certain solidarity, a reluctance to comment on a brother professional’s behaviour. I would recommend that you speak to a representative of our firm in private, and put little in writing. Suffice it to say that I know the gentleman you speak of both professionally and socially – I met him a year or so ago at a solicitors’ association meeting, and had converse about him with colleagues; and socially, in that I have seen him and his partner at various events, such as a racecourse (last year’s Ascot).

If you let me know when you are free to speak with our representative, I will arrange a visit. I’ll send a young man who has been your way before and is familiar with the layout of your household. He may carry some papers which will inform you further.

Best wishes in your endeavours

Everett Barry

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“Well,” said Justine, “I want to take you to a couple of little places, we call them boîtes, ‘boxes’, where you drink wine and listen to songs and other entertainment. They’re also called cabarets.”

They looked at her wide-eyed. Matthew laughed and said “Oh, Justine, that sounds pretty nice. Forgive our reaction, it’s just that we’ve already been to some, and it was … a bit … of a shock.”

She stared at them and then nodded, saying “Ah yes, I think I understand. You have seen some things to surprise you, such as a little nudity, perhaps.”

“No, Justine,” said Catherine, getting a little flush, “it’s that Mrs Grainger took us to one like that, yes, called the Café de Vénus, and—”

“Yes, of course!” she answered. “I think I know it. Where you are invited to take off a woman’s clothes. Ha, Mathieu, that would interest you!”

“No,” he said, “I mean yes, it did, but she also took us to a place where they sang quite obscene songs, and they … they stripped us naked….”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “That sounds like madame,” she said. “Do not worry. I’m sorry you had such an introduction to our night life, but we will be going to respectable places. And I do not mean conventional, or what you call stuffy, guindé, n’est-ce pas? No, these are interesting places but not because they shock you. One is called Au lapin agile, which means ‘At the Nimble Rabbit’.”

Catherine laughed. “That does sound interesting,” she said. “Does it have a story, about why it’s got that name, hmm?”

“Yes indeed,” she said with a smile. “I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s get a taxi.”

As they threaded their way through traffic she told them the history of the oddly named establishment.

“It opened about 1850 as an inn for carters and draymen called ‘The Rendezvous for Thieves’. But it changed its name many times, first I think to ‘Cabaret des Assassins’, and that is supposed to be because there were pictures on the wall, of notorious murderers, from Ravaillac, who assassinated Henri the Fourth in 1610, to one named Troppman, who was guillotined before an enormous crowd in 1870. An atrocious crime, the brutal murder of an entire family, including small children! Anyway, that’s what I heard about its name. Then it became something else, ‘A ma Campagne’, then ‘The Nimble Rabbit’. It was frequented by art students and the neighborhood riffraff, street arabs, down-and-outs, anarchists, poets, and so forth, people like the artist André Gill, who painted the rabbit on the sign – he’s wearing a red scarf, escaping the saucepan where he was going to be cooked. – That’s supposed to be his own caricature, symbolising his participation in the Commune and his escape during the following savage repression, Then there was the humorist Alphonse Allais, artists like Max Jacob, Pablo Picasso, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and poets like Guillaume Apollinaire, among many others. Oh, it’s a fabulous place.”

“What about the rabbit?”

“Well, André Gill was a well-known caricaturist last century. I believe he invented that style that puts an extra-large head on a normal body. He was a Communard, you know about that? In short, it was a republican protest movement in 1871, which was put down quite ruthlessly by the government. There were deportations, executions…. So Gill painted the picture in 1875 for the place, which was called at the time ‘A ma Campagne’, ‘My country’ or so. The neighbourhood began to call their haunt ‘At Gill’s Rabbit’, Au Lapin à Gill; which became in time the homophone Au Lapin Agile, which means ‘The Nimble Rabbit’. Gill died just forty years ago in the famous asylum of Charenton.”

“Famous?”

“Well, because it was where another unusual man died – the Marquis de Sade. The author, I told you, of Justine, ou les Malheurs de la Vertu.”

“Yes,” said Matthew, “there’s a copy in the library at Summerton.”

Catherine looked quizzical. “I expect it’s a racy book then?”

“It is, Catherine. That’s a good word for it. I’ll tell you the plot some other time. But to finish with the rabbit. The building has been painted several times by well-known artists, Maurice Utrillo, Pablo Picasso, and he did the interior, twenty years ago, a picture of a harlequin, who is himself, standing at the bar with a woman, who I heard was his mistress at the time, looking sadly into space. At the back there’s a fellow playing the guitar, who is Frédé, Frédéric Gerard, the proprietor. He commissioned it, I believe, but I don’t suppose he thought much of it because he sold it just a few years later for twenty dollars. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of these people I mentioned, but I assure you they’re pretty well known in France. Amedeo Modigliani is another, a very interesting artist who died of tuberculosis five years ago, aged only thirty-five. Anyway, Père Frédé would play his guitar, and there’d be someone to sing, I suppose the old songs that everyone knew, but up-to-date as well of course. So they’d drink and sing and have a riotous time, all these pimps and poets and students and smokers of hashish and revolutionaries. I do hope it hasn’t changed too much.

“Well now. Another story – there’s lots of stories about the Lapin – is about a great affair of fifteen maybe years ago. It seems that at the annual Salon des Indépendants, an exhibition of modern art, where people like Matisse showed their work, a painting was exhibited called Et le soleil s'endormit sur l'Adriatique, ‘And the sun set on the Adriatic sea’ by an Italian painter called Boronali. It earned lavish praise from the leading art critics, and everyone was talking about it. But then a newspaper revealed the facts: under the eye of an official witness, the work had been produced at the door of the Lapin, by Père Frédé feeding nice things to his donkey, whose name was Lolo, and he wagged his tail, which had a paintbrush attached, and a canvas behind him, and he painted colours onto it. It was a great scandal, and the press were laughing about it for weeks.”

The children laughed, and she continued, “The artist’s name, Boronali, was just a version of the full name of Lolo, which was Aliboron, which means a fool, or ignoramus. Actually it’s from the name of Buridan’s ass, made popular by La Fontaine in a fable.”

“Yes, but who was he?”

“What? Jean De La Fontaine—”

“No,” said Matthew. “I know about the fables. But who’s this other fellow, Burden?”

“Buridan. A mediaeval scholar who is credited with inventing a famous paradox, as they call it, though actually it’s just a case of a dilemma pushed to the absurd extreme. It’s about a donkey placed between a supply of hay and a supply of water, who can’t make up his mind which one to try, and he starves from hunger and thirst.”

“So he’s stupid, and gets that name?.”

“Yes, Mathieu, I think that’s how it goes. Buridan himself, now, there’s an odd story about him.”

Catherine said “Well, come on! An odd story?”

“Well,” she said with a smile, “history, records, make it unlikely. But the story is that a certain queen of France had a love-nest in a tower by the Seine, and she met a lot of lovers there. When she tired of them she had them sewn up in a bag or sack and thrown into the river. Buridan was one of her lovers, but he was saved by his students, who in one version at least had a boat filled with hay to catch him safely.”

Catherine grinned and said “But you don’t believe it.”

“No,” said Justine, ‘for several reasons as I said. Dates and so on. But Villon might well have.”

She looked at the children and sighed. “All right. François Villon was a poet in the fifteenth century; born 1431, died, or disappeared at least, in 1463. Yes,” she added, “that young. He wrote a wonderful poem, a Ballade, which is a strict form, ending with an Envoy addressed to a ‘Prince’, with a moral attached often enough. So this poem, subtitled (by one of his editors) Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis, which means ‘Ballad of the Ladies of Olden Times’, lists many famous or notorious women of past ages, and asks where are they now? The refrain says they’re all gone like the snows of the other year, Mais où sont les neiges d’antan? It’s a fine poem, and someone should set it to music. So anyway, in it he mentions the queen – it goes

Semblablement où est la royne                                                                   Qui commenda que Buridan                                                                     Fust jetté en ung sac en Seine?                                                                 Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?

Villon doesn’t mention him being saved, maybe because he didn’t believe the story anyway.”

Matthew brought them back to the Lapin, and said “But who were all these artists you spoke about? Tell us!”

“Ah well. Let’s see….”

The remainder of the trip was taken up with a rough account of the artists she’d talked about, particularly Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, which the children remembered being spoken of by Mr Bryden, and it occurred to Matthew that the “dive” where he’d lost his lover could have been this place, with its riffraff and so on. When they got there they admired the sign outside, the jaunty animal with his revolutionary scarf, and sat down at a wooden table which showed ancient scars and initials carved into it, and looked around. The interior certainly looked rather arty, with paintings and other objects against the wall, and there were a few people sitting down drinking, but nothing else was going on.

“Perhaps we’re too early for the cabaret,” said Justine. “I don’t know when it starts, I’m sorry. But anyway, we’ll have a few drinks. There’ll be wine, or coffee, at the very least.”

A little later several people who seemed to know one another drifted in and the place became a bit livelier. In a short time a guitar was produced and a sing-song started, and with various interruptions from solo singers and instrumentalists, the concert continued for at least an hour, the children learning the chorus of a drinking song, Chevaliers de la Table Ronde, which consisted mostly of Oui oui oui and Non non non. Then Justine gathered them up and ushered them out, thanking the performers and the grizzled host, to where the night was still young.

“We have time to find the oldest café in Paris,” she said, “which is more than two hundred years old. It is called Le Procope. Let’s find a taxi.”

Justine settled herself and told them about their destination.

“It got its name from the original proprietor, an Italian called Procopio, whose name conjured up in the minds of many the author of a salacious book in Greek called The Secret History. I asked Elizabeth Huxton about this, and she took great delight in telling me all about it. It’s a book by this fellow Procopius, who was a historian or chronicler in the seventh century, and he wrote very serious books about the history of Byzantium and the Emperor Justinian and his wife Theodora, and the famous general Belisarius, who fought the Goths and so forth. But then he wrote this book, which disappeared for a thousand years, and was found at last hidden away in the Vatican. It was known to exist, because other books mentioned it, but it was nowhere to be found. Then it turned up in the Vatican library, and caused a sensation.

“It was immediately published, and became what you’d call a best-seller now. Why? Because it goes out of its way to tell the most scurrilous anecdotes about the rulers, Theodora flaunting her nakedness at the theatre, oh goodness, all sorts of awful behaviour.”

Seeing their round-eyed interest, she continued, with a naughty smile on her lips.

“She was originally an actress before she attracted the attention of the emperor. Anyway, it seems that it was forbidden to appear on stage totally naked, so she got round that tiresome rule by wearing a ribbon round her groin, which was absolutely no modest cover at all. Then she’d recline on her back, and several slaves would scatter grains of barley into her vulva.”

Catherine gasped, and Matthew made a disbelieving grunt.

“Then they’d bring on several geese, specially trained, you bet, that picked out the grains and ate them. I know, Catherine, it makes you squirm, but presumably she got some kind of thrill out of that. And the audience did too.

“Anyway, that was the Secret History of Procopius. Well, the later Procopius cashed in, as they say, on the notoriety of the historian. His was the first café, I think, and it quickly grew popular. You could buy all sorts of things, including a special Italian ice cream, that they call gelato. So it got very popular, and became I think the first literary coffee-house. Poets and statesmen and all sorts frequented it. Who, you ask? Let me think. Practically anybody who was anybody, all through the nearly three hundred years it’s been there.”

She drew a breath and began ticking off on her fingers.

“Voltaire, Rousseau, Robespierre, his rival the famous orator Danton, Marat, the fellow in the bath; Victor Hugo, Verlaine, La Fontaine, the fable poet we mentioned. Who else? Balzac, yes, and Diderot, Anatole France, the Nobel Prize winner … do you know him? An excellent writer. He died just last year. I really must persuade you to read him. Novels, journalism … maybe we can pick up something at a bookshop I have in mind. It’s called La Maison des Amis des Livres, and there’s an English bookshop just opposite to look at. You may be amused to know that a couple of years ago the Catholic church put France’s entire works on their index of forbidden books, the Index Librorum Prohibitorum.”

The children chuckled, Matthew remembering Pisanus Fraxi’s bibliography of real erotica.

“And so, who else? Ah, the Americans, Jefferson, Franklin; and of course Napoleon Bonaparte. I think Longfellow, the American poet, visited it, and Oscar Wilde, of course. It’s had a long and distinguished history!”

When they got there they admired the old-fashioned exterior, and then in the foyer she pointed to a display case against the wall. “See that?” she asked. “That is the very hat that Napoleon left here once. He was just a poor soldier, and couldn’t pay his bill. So he left that hat, it’s called a bicorne, as surety. He never did redeem it!”

The children gaped at the bonnet and wondered how true it was.

“What else can I tell you?” she asked as they were seated. “Another famous style of hat was the one that became a symbol of the revolution. It was red, called a Phrygian cap, and came from a theatre performance – they all wore the red cap to show they were with the revolution, you see. And it became a real revolutionary symbol afterwards. They wore it in the National Assembly, and oh, yes, you may be interested to hear that the entire convention met here, at Le Procope, to drink a memorial in honour of Benjamin Franklin, when he died in 1790.”

“What was it like?”

“Well, Catherine, it’s a soft woollen cap, quite snug, conical, without a brim, and the top is pulled forward, or to the side maybe.”

“So why was it a symbol, to start with?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “it started in the seventeenth century. There was a rebellion in Brittany around 1675, in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, the famous Sun King. It arose from a protest about a stamp tax on official documents, if I remember correctly. Anyway, the insurgents were peasants who wore caps of different colours, depending on the region, blue or red, and the region that was most violent in its uproar wore red caps, that’s just the way it worked out. So a red cap stood for revolt, and a hundred years later for the liberty that revolt would bring. Supposedly there was a connection with a special headgear given by Romans to manumitted slaves, but I’m not sure about that. Anyway, red has meant rebellion, revolution, communism, socialism, ever since. Remember the rabbit’s red scarf too. Do you know the song ‘The Red Flag’?”

“Oh yes, rather!” said Matthew. “One of the footmen in Essex used to sing it, just to annoy Botkin, the butler.” He sang, with a humorous twist to his lips.

“The people’s flag is deepest red,

It shrouded oft our martyred dead.

And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold

Their heart’s blood dyed its every fold.”

He sang a bit louder, with cheeky enthusiasm.

“Then raise the scarlet standard high,

Within its shade we’ll live and die,

Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,

We’ll keep the red flag flying here.”

“My, Matthew,” said Catherine, “such passion! You sound quite militant!” She looked around, to see some other patrons looking at their table with amusement.

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Justine. “You recognise the tune? It’s O Tannenbaum, the German Christmas carol.”

“So it is! And it fits the words when sung briskly, like that.”

“But did you know,” said Justine, “that the song was originally written to another tune? It was the Scottish song ‘The White Cockade’.”

“Goodness,” said Catherine, and hummed over the air. “It fits too, I suppose, but it’s too jaunty. I’m not surprised they changed it. Am I right in thinking it’s a sort of international song?”

“Well,” said Justine, “the idea is international, all right. In Italy they sing ‘Bandiera Rossa’, which means the same thing, though it’s a much jollier tune.

“Avanti o popolo, alla riscossa,

Bandiera rossa, Bandiera rossa.

Avanti o popolo, alla riscossa,

Bandiera rossa trionferà.

(Chorus)

Bandiera rossa deve trionfà

Bandiera rossa deve trionfà

Bandiera rossa deve trionfà

Evviva il comunismo e la libertà.

“Do you follow that?”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew, with a smile. “And it is more cheerful, right enough.”

“But wait,” said Catherine. “There’s another one, called ‘The International’, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” said their mentor, “and it’s international, truly, being translated into lots of languages. I can’t remember much of it, but it’s by a man called Eugène Pottier, a Frenchman, about 1880 maybe. He was a member of the Commune I told you about, and the song does give a great rallying cry to the downtrodden. I think it’s actually used as the national anthem of the Soviet Union, which is understandable enough I suppose. They probably think the hopes expressed have all been realised. Yes,” she said with a smile, “you may guess I’m not too much in favour of what’s going on over there. But anyway, it’s interesting perhaps that Pottier originally had a different tune in mind, namely the Marseillaise. And then Pierre de Geyter wrote his stirring tune in the Eighties, which was better, it saves confusion. He’s still alive, I believe. I do hope they’re paying royalties. But here’s a waiter. We’ll eat, and have some gelato later, yes?”

“Yes!” they chorused. They would have a pleasant repast in a place absolutely reeking with history. This was exciting stuff!

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Sunday 12th July

A letter, a bath

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18 Wimpole Street

London W.1

12th July 1925

Dear Mr Bryden:

I was a little surprised to be asked about my buying Beales’s Farm, since there was never the slightest suggestion that anything untoward had happened, or was intended. I have however no hesitation in letting you know all the details, it may be a private matter but somehow I trust you to be discreet about it, in particular since it concerns a young lady. When I went into the place, which I’d bought lock, stock, and barrel, by the way, complete contents of the farmhouse etc., I found several pictures, photographs, of a comely young lass who was said to be Sutton’s niece. I bundled them all together and put them in a drawer and forgot about them, but now you remind me of her and somehow I feel for that young girl’s sake I should acquiesce. This is the old romantic in me of course. I don’t know whether you’ve seen any of my work – I wrote a short novel a couple of years ago, ‘Hannah’s Luck,’ which was brought out by Herbert Jenkins, just before he died, but not many noticed. Some short stories – but anyway, I wander.

The farm was put up for sale in March I believe, by the solicitors themselves, as executors of Sutton’s will. The main partner is Jonas Bigby, and the address is 82 Haig Street, Croydon, Surrey. He should be able to tell you his side of the story, though I doubt he will. It is a private affair of course. Perhaps a letter from me might persuade him to release information, particularly if he knows you’ve got details from me. It was offered at £9,500, which I considered reasonable, if a little too much for my own pocket. A bit of haggling ensued, and between you and me I think they wanted rid of it quite quickly, so it wasn’t long before I beat them down to £6,900 and got it in late July. I may as well tell you that the acceptance of another story improved my bank balance immensely, so I hardly had time to regret my purchase.

I’m not sure what else I can tell you. I’ll telephone Chester at the farm and tell him to give you free rein when you arrive. – If you think I’m ridiculously agreeable to your enquiry, so be it, but I have the subliminal notion that this is very important to that comely lass. Perhaps you may convey my best regards to her. – And I should have thought of it before – you’re welcome to remove those pictures I spoke of. There was one particularly attractive one of her laughing into the camera with a crown of daisies in her hair.—   Any other things, which the girl might want, I will of course allow you to take, as long as you let me know. They were hers, really; it’s a great pity that the estate was in such a shabby condition.

Yours sincerely

Neville Russell

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Matthew gets another bath from another three girls

Matthew went out to practise his French on a news vendor, and returned in triumph with a paper which he and Catherine went over for a while, learning about a war in northern Africa, till Jennie, who had been upstairs, appeared at the door to tell him he was summoned. He went upstairs with Jennie, who was looking at him with amusement, and he had a disturbing thought. “It’s bath time, isn’t it?” he asked. “Oh, please don’t say you’re going to bath me again!” She laughed. “No, Matthew, not me, not Amelia either.” They got to the upstairs apartment and he found himself being introduced to Mme Dubois, a plump woman of about forty, who shook hands vigorously and sized him up with evident approval. She spoke English with something of a twang, and it turned out she was a real Parisienne, a school teacher acquaintance of Mrs Grainger. She introduced him to her daughters, who had been hanging back shyly. Francine was sixteen, a slim brunette with shoulder length curls and sharp-looking hazel eyes. Her sister Hélène was fifteen years old, her hair a little darker than the other, her eyes a deep blue. They greeted him with smiles, and asked him how he was. Their English was only slightly accented, and he assumed their mother had taught them fluency. A third girl, another fifteen year old, was introduced as a friend visiting from Reims named Lisette, whose cheeks gained a faint flush when their eyes met. She was blonde, with pale blue eyes that looked him up and down with interest.

The conversation was general for a few minutes, till Jennie came in to tell Mrs Grainger that the bath was ready. Matthew paled, and looked anxiously at the tyrant, who smiled maliciously and said “Matthew, Matthew! It’s bath time, had you forgotten? Thank you, Jennie, off you go. Matthew, take your bath. And since these delightful girls happen to be here, they can help you.”

He gasped, “But madam, please! I—”

“Yes, Matthew. I’m sure they’ll be thorough and take care of you. Won’t you, girls?” They grinned and agreed, saying they were looking forward to it.

Their mother smiled dotingly and looked at the red-faced boy complacently. “Yes,” she said, “they’ll be glad to do it.” He stood up, his hands twitching, his lip trembling, and went to the door. The giggling girls followed him, glancing back at Mrs G and their mother, who waved them away and smiled at each other.

In the bathroom the steam rose from the ornate tub, and Jennie took her hand out of the water. “It’s just right for you, Matthew. There you are, girls – he’s all yours!” She left with a giggle of her own. The three girls looked at Matthew expectantly, and he swallowed and started to unbutton his shirt, avoiding their eyes, which he knew were following his every move. Off came the shirt, and they made murmurs at the sight of his bare chest. Off came his shoes and socks, off came his trousers, and he glanced up to see their gaze fixed on his crotch, where his erection was all too visible. “Il bande—” said one. “Yes,” said another. “Oh, you are standing, Mathieu! Quel plaisir!” He heaved a sigh and got out of his pants to show himself to the bawdy trio, who now surrounded him to manoeuvre him into the tub. Then they looked at each other and grinned as they soaped up and applied their hands to his shrinking body – and his growing erection. They spoke to each other in excited French, and to him in giggling English, making comments about his endowments and laughing at his blush. They soaped his behind, asking him to corroborate the word in English.

“We say ‘le cul’ in French,” said Lisette. “In English it is what?”

He grimaced and said through his teeth “Arse. Or bum.”

“Ah yes,” said Francine, “that’s correct. I remember that. And this – ceci – qu’est ce que c’est?”

“Ah! It’s the, the anus,” he said wearily, giving a shiver, “or the bumhole.”

Then of course they were at his pubic hair. “We say ‘poil’”, said Hélène, “do you call it anything?”

He licked his lips and said “Nothing special. Just ‘hair’, or maybe ‘bush’, I suppose.” He waited for the inevitable fingering of his penis, and when they got there he told them in something of a stammer the crude words for the area. They were pleased to learn more vocabulary, and fondled his ‘cock’ and his ‘ballocks’ to such an extent that he erupted in ejaculation with a cry, pushing his pelvis out to them, looking at their lively interest and blushing, blushing hotly as the focus of their sparkling eyes.

They lifted him out and stood for a minute, just admiring the lines of his body, while he looked at them shamefacedly, clenching his hands. Then they seized towels and started to dry him, very carefully going over every inch of his body, murmuring in pleasure to themselves. Of course they paid most attention to his loins, each going over his groins and his seam and his arsehole with the fluffy towel, then feeling the skin with an impertinent hand to make sure. Each in turn attended to his testicles, each in turn dried his penis, now trying to lose its floppy state under their fingers. Francine played with it, batting it back and forth from side to side, while Lisette fondled his scrotum, tracing the seam up to the root of the penis with a cool finger. Hélène was smoothing her hands over his arse, then with a roguish grin she grabbed the soap to slick her fingers enough to easily push them into his twitching hole. They kept this up for a minute and between them managed to restore his erection, which they greeted with glee, and were encouraged to continue the stimulation till he ejaculated again, eliciting more laughter and comment.

They cleaned him up and got him into his clothes, putting the bathroom to rights, then escorted him back to the main room where the adults were drinking wine and smoking. “Well, girls,” said Mrs Grainger, “did you enjoy that? What do you think of him?”

They giggled, and Hélène said “Thank you, Mme Grainger, for letting us bath him. We enjoyed seeing him and washing him and drying him. He has a nice body.” She looked at her mother as if to ask permission for her directness, and Mme Dubois smiled at her, then looked at the flushed boy up and down, saying “Yes, it seems so. You others …?”

The girls laughed and said it was very educational, and they were grateful to Mme Grainger for the chance. Their mother stared at Matthew with a sardonic sort of smile and asked “And you, boy, did you enjoy it? Being washed by young girls, your own age? We heard you cry out!”

He swallowed and mumbled “Please, I—”

Mrs G intervened. “Matthew,” she said, with a smile of her own, “tell the truth. Did you like being washed all over by the girls?”

He looked at them, bit his lip, and burst out “No! I hated it! I—”

Mrs G narrowed her eyes and widened her smile. “Do you mean to say, Matthew, that you didn’t enjoy feeling their hands on you, running their fingers up and down your spine, to the behind, investigating your anus – I’m sure they did—” The girls nodded, grinning and blushing themselves. “And then washing your testicles and penis, which was of course erect by then and standing up in salutation.”

Matthew was blushing again, but continued to shake his head in denial. “Don’t tell us you didn’t enjoy being masturbated!”

He was crimson by now, and shrugged hopelessly. “All right!” he yelled, “all right! I wanted to come, and they made me come. Twice! Yes, yes, I enjoyed that—”

“Well,” said she, “don’t you see that it’s in a spirit of help, an altruistic desire to assist your pleasure, that we find ways of stimulating you to orgasm? Say thank you to the girls.”

He looked at them sighing, and mumbled “Thank you, girls.”

“For?”

He licked his lips. “Thank you, Hélène, Francine, Lisette, for bathing me and … feeling me and ….” He looked at the floor. “Making me erect. And … making me come.”

The girls laughed and said he was very welcome. Francine suddenly exclaimed “Ah! Ça sera beau, oui. Madame,” looking at Mrs Grainger, “is it possible that Mathieu could come to our party—”

“Oh yes!” said Hélène. “Maman, that’s a good idea. I’m sure all the girls would like to meet him.”

Matthew stared at them in alarm. What was this? Mrs Grainger laughed and said “Ah girls, I’m sure we could manage that. What do you think, Mathilde?”

Mme Dubois laughed in her turn. “I think that is an excellent idea. It’s a little party we’re arranging for Lisette here. It’ll be after the Fourteenth – that’s another sort of party! – on Friday the seventeenth. It’s her name-day, after her second name, Charlotte. We can pick the boy up and bring him back easily.”

Matthew looked from one to the other with a sinking heart. He just knew the unexpected invitation would lead to some awful experience or other. It had to; Mrs G was all agog about it, and those randy girls could only be angling for another chance at his privates. Oh God, he thought miserably, it’ll probably be another bath or something … and whatever it is they’ll finish up by wanking me to orgasm. All right! Yes, I like orgasm! It’s a great thrill, yes! But … done by girls, my own age! He shivered in anticipation. And will I really enjoy it then? The hands of these three on my prick again?

He flushed, and Mrs G looked at him curiously, then as if reading his mind (as usual) she smiled lasciviously and said “It’s agreed. He’ll be ready for you, Mathilde. Now say goodbye, Matthew, kiss the girls, and away with you.” He did so, enduring a hand on his bum from Hélène, and went downstairs, deciding not to comment if the girls asked what had happened. Of course Jennie had told Amelia, and Catherine looked worried. But he held his peace.

===================================================================

Monday 13th July

Two films

“We’re going to a film today,” said Bauvais, “ I’m sure you will enjoy it. You don’t see much of our productions in England, I suppose. So while you’re here you should partake of as much of our culture as you can. Learn from it. Mlle Maury has done some of that, but there’s more to be done, always.

“There are many interesting places to visit,” said the poet, flourishing his cigarette and smiling broadly. “Some are well-known for their history, their connections with famous events, like Le Procope, for instance, which you saw the other day. Some places are known mostly for their clientele, the artists or writers who frequent them….”

“Like Les Deux Magots!” said Matthew. “We were there, we met a writer, a surrealist.”

Bauvais’ eyes crinkled in interest. “Who was he?”

Catherine replied, “His name was Antonin Artaud, it turned out. He gave us a signed drawing….”

“Hah, I hope you thanked him. I know him. He’s a stage designer. I didn’t think he was much of a writer, though. But anyway, I was saying that there are many places to see, some for their background, or their clientele; another such is Le Boeuf sur le Toit, a good avant-garde place which artists like Jean Cocteau frequent – you should ask la belle Justine to take you there – but others are interesting because of the varied entertainment they provide.” He winked at them.

Matthew looked at him in distaste.

“Yes,” he said, “we know what entertainment you mean. Naked women and dirty songs!”

Bauvais laughed. “Ah, mon ami, you’re so … English! Yes, you saw the bill of fare at the Vénus and the Vermeil, and I suppose you’ll have tender memories, but let me assure you that was comparatively mild. There are other places that a very limited audience supports, and they’re not cheap either. There’s one, for instance, where you’ll see a billiard game played on a table with very special pockets.”

He looked at the boy impudently, and Matthew gazed back with some weary insolence. “What?”

“Ah,” said the poet, flashing his teeth, “the pockets are provided by girls, who are entirely naked, and position themselves so that their cunts can serve as the recipients of the balls.”

Catherine gave an exclamation.

“Yes, that is what they do. And of course the men playing can always push their cues playfully into the open vaginas of the girls.”

Matthew screwed up his face in disgust. “What about the girls?” he asked. “What do they think? How do they feel?”

Bauvais shrugged and beamed a sardonic smile. “Who cares?” he said. “That’s why they are there. They’re paid for it – a little no doubt – and it feeds them, or their children. It’s what they call in business supply and demand, isn’t that the phrase?”

“But they have to do it to survive!” exclaimed Catherine. “How can you use them like that? How can anyone? Paris is an awful place if they do that….”

Bauvais laughed derisively. “Paris is not the only place, you innocent! All the capitals around the world, I venture to say, are exactly like this. In Germany, Berlin has its own sex suburb, can we say. And I know a bit more about Hamburg, where there’s a district called the Reeperbahn, where bahn means street and reep means what it sounds like. Haha!” He snorted a laugh. “The Winkelstrasse likewise, a red light district to shame most of the others, save perhaps De Wallen in Amsterdam. Ah yes….”

He drew on his cigarette, evidently remembering some bawdy adventure, and the children looked at each other and sighed.

“Yes,” said their mentor, “and your own London is a tremendous centre for such things. It stands to reason. I was there as a boy,” he snickered, “a young boy seeking adventure, and by God I found it. I’ll tell you my experiences some time. Aha, yes….”

His eyes went vague as he reminisced to himself, and he turned and wandered off. Matthew looked at his friend and said “I’m not sure I want to hear what he got up to as a kid. And it’s a bit … disappointing, don’t you think, to hear about the … decadence that’s so prevalent? I mean the sexual oppression, the bondage. Why do people do these things?”

Catherine smiled ruefully. “They get some thrill or other, Matthew, and in a way I can understand that. Yes, I even understand M. Bauvais and Lydia Grainger, and those awful people at the dinner, and so on, even that bastard Bradley – I can see the drive they have, I mean what drives them to recognise their … desires, to get a feeling of pleasure at making others miserable. It’s awful but it’s understandable. And we’re caught in the middle of the whole … movement, this phenomenon if you like….”

“We’re in the middle and can’t get out,” he said grimly. “But at least we haven’t been physically abused, not much anyway. I know we’ve been spanked, but within bearable limits, not flogged till the backside is bloody, like those dreadful sadistic poems I told you about, that Swinburne wrote? Thank God your lovely face hasn’t been scarred, your lovely arse is unmarked, your nice limbs are still whole, not like some of those other anecdotes. Am I saying we’re lucky? I suppose I am. Comparatively anyway. They could have been so cruelly destructive at that dinner! And we do have one thing to consider: we have each other. At Summerton we have our friends, but here we have each other.”

He leaned over to kiss her, and she smiled her thanks.

On the way to the Ciné-Opéra Raoul talked about the film he’d seen the year before.

“René Clair directed another film last year, called Entr’acte, a Dada sort of thing featuring folk like Picabia and Man Ray. The music was composed by Erik Satie, who died just the other day, did you hear? and was quite good, though the plot of the film was … absurd. Anyway, forget that. This film is another fantasy, and you’ll have to tell me what you make of it.”

“The title reminds me of something….”

“It’s not the same as another film you may have seen, chérie, an American film with Lon Chaney, called ‘While Paris Sleeps’, a love drama of little consequence. No, this is ‘Paris Which Sleeps’, and it’s about a scientific invention … just wait.”

Two hours later they were in another café.

“… So we can call it a scientific romance, like H G Wells, or Jules Verne, eh? It rests on one scientific premise, that one may make a machine that stops time. If we admit the premise, what then? We can imagine, and so it was – at first one can play jokes, then steal whatever takes ones fancy, and then what? That episode where the rich man finds his mistress with another lover was amusing. It could have been more embarrassing, of course….”

“If you mean, mon cher, they could have been in bed, all naked, et cetera, yes it could. Most likely in fact! But alas. Even in France that wouldn’t do.”

“Still, I thought it was good, a valid comment on the way things would develop, that they get bored with it all. It’s maybe improbable that the mad scientist’s daughter might get her message out, but I suppose the plot demands it. Then all is back to normal, and no-one even notices. I think it was successful, and I’m glad I saw it again.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Catherine, “it was interesting, with a moral too! And I liked the views from the Eiffel Tower.”

“That was very imaginative,” said Matthew. “The director is good, and I’m sure he’ll do well. This is just the second thing he’s done, did you say?”

“Yes, Mathieu, after the Dada film. He’s young but he’s already acknowledged, I would say, as a genuine member of the avant garde. I’ve seen him at Le Boeuf. But what about the other film? Did you enjoy it?”

“You said the scenery reminded you of some forest….”

“Yes, Matthew, I think it was shot in a beautiful area called the Fontainebleau forest – and actually it recalled a typical landscape of his father, Renoir père, not surprisingly.”

“Ah, Lydia, you noticed that? But Mathieu, what did you think?”

“It was exciting, and full of action, or maybe I should say it varied its movement between slow scenes and fast ones. The canal moved slowly, and even the father’s death was sort of languid. But the heroine went from danger to danger—”

“Not unlike The Perils of Pauline! Have you seen those Pearl White films?’

“Well, madam, I suppose it was a bit like that, only more believable of course. Still, when I think about it the girl, Virginia, goes from one trouble to another. Her wicked uncle trying to seduce her—”

“— And the peasant mob burning the caravan—”

“Yes, but what about her?”

“The actress, Catherine, isn’t it? – she, though, had nice eyes—”

His inamorata fluttered her lashes at him.

“All right, like you! And you get some good close-ups, do you call them? Actually the film techniques are well done, and varied also. The cutting, it’s called, no? And….”

“What did you make of the dream sequence?”

“I’m not sure, Mrs G, I’m wondering about its place, if you like, in the … the logic of the story. Symbolic? Undoubtedly. Dreams (and nightmares too) are always full of symbols. As to what they mean, on the other hand….”

Catherine chewed her lip. “He’s her hero on his white horse, I expect, but then we can’t be sure of the colour. Pale anyway.”

“A pale horse!” Matthew’s brows rose. “Not like that one in the Bible, of course not. I shouldn’t think so anyway.”

“You mean in the Apocalypse, the rider on a pale (not white) horse, who is Death! But the first rider, who does ride a white horse, is Conquest, isn’t he? He gains many victories. I don’t think we can go in that direction.”

“Have you heard of the Chinese quibble, that a white horse is not a horse? Not the same thing, in other words. Two separate (though connected) concepts.”

“Oh please, Raoul! That takes us into difficult and abstruse territory. Concrete and abstract in fact.”

“Exactly so, my dear! That’s the difficulty. In Chinese, the two are grammatically the same. I mean, you cannot differentiate between the use of a word as an abstraction and its use as a concrete entity.”

Matthew looked at Catherine and shrugged as if to say how do we get out of these metaphysics? But the watchful Mrs Grainger brought them back to the film, asking Catherine how well she identified with the heroine .

“I could believe it,” she said, “though I suppose she was rather unlucky! Still, she survived all that to have a happy relationship with the boy who loved her. That was what she dreamed of in that sequence. And I must admit,” she said with a bit of a flush, “that the way they rode the horse together, him urging it on and inevitably thrusting his body against hers in front, made it look very … sexual. I suppose,” she added a little shamefacedly, “that that’s just my mind….”

Lydia laughed (naturally) and congratulated her on her observation. “Another piece of symbolism from Renoir? Who knows? The good thing about symbolism , often enough, is that it’s ambiguous, keeping a lot of interpretations tossed in the air all at once. Yours is just as good as mine. In this case, it’s better. When I think of it, it’s very good. He simulates intercourse, from behind – dog fashion – or maybe, just maybe, per anum? Why not? Raoul! What’s your take on this moot point?”

“Oh,” he said with a shrug, “it conveys different things to different people. But I think that Mlle Catherine has hit it. And I think both the theories are true. It is sexual, yes, and yes again, it brings to the libidinous mind – as to the objective virginal mind – both entry a tergo and deliberate sodomy. A good point that.”

The children looked at each other, flushing, visualising in the mind’s eye.

Lydia summed up, saying “Renoir does seem to be trying for a Griffiths epic, but Miss Hessling isn’t a patch on Lilian Gish. A good film nonetheless, and thought-provoking. I’m glad we saw it. It’ll be interesting to see how Renoir fils develops.”

====================================================================

Tuesday 14th July

Quatorze juillet

Tricolours everywhere. “This,” said Bauvais, “celebrates the taking of the Bastille in 1789, which is generally taken to be the real start of the revolution, but also an event on the same day in 1790, which was a festival of the unity of the French people. Louis XVI was there too, and swore an oath of loyalty to the constitution.”

Catherine looked amazed, and didn’t really believe him. “So what happens today?” she asked.

“Well,” he said with a proud smile, “we have a grand parade, in the presence of the Président de la République, Gaston Doumergue. He was elected last year. He’s a Radical Socialist, and I’m not sure where he stands on some issues. But I do think he can separate himself, and separate France, from some of these other so-called socialists. There are so many varieties, truly, and one can only be sure of where one stands by adhering to the most conservative faction. However, enough of politics! There will be celebrations all over France, even in those places who supported the monarchy, back in 1790 and also at the restoration. It is after all not for a particular dynasty, or even class, but for France, for la belle patrie herself.”

He smirked complacently, and Matthew smothered a laugh. Still, he said to himself, it’s a good thought, and one old Britannia could do with embracing.

Several hours later, tired with marches and speeches and bands, they were in a café drinking coffee and listening to the hubbub around them. Mrs G was smoking a perfumed cigarette in a long holder and looking at the passing parade, and she smiled reminiscently to say to Matthew that sitting at a café, drinking in the sights and sounds with one’s coffee, and admiring the action on the street, the comédie humaine, was the quintessential Parisian occupation. “You get some amusing, and instructive! conversations going. After all, it is here, in such a place, that you find the revolutionaries who think differently from the rest of us, and the intellectuals who argue for instance about the law, which is the Code Napoléon, still, because they haven’t found anything better. It’s a bit more liberal than our Victorian statute book. Take homosexuality for instance.”

Matthew looked uncomfortable. “I know,” he said hesitantly, “that there’s that harsh amendment thirty years ago, that sent poor Oscar Wilde to prison. What would have happened in France?”

Bauvais shrugged. “The Code Napoléon,” he said, again looking proud of his land’s tolerance, “does not recognise homosexuality as a crime. A homosexual commits an act against someone – rape for instance, or causes bodily harm, or has intercourse with a child, and he will be prosecuted on those terms as would a normal person. Forgive me, Lydia,” he added, “I know you are sympathetic and say that it is just a condition like red hair and should be ignored. I agree, actually, but allow me to say it is not normal. I will not quote the scriptures, you don’t want to hear that, but you’ll admit that Wilde, who at least had the good sense to die in Paris, was not the usual sort. Which I call ‘normal’, you see. It is natural, yes, as Gide says, in Corydon. Have you seen that? It came out last year. And also an autobiography, Si le grain ne meurt, which describes his realisation of his homosexuality, with Wilde in Algeria. Anyway, I still allow the abnormal, the unusual, to exist, as does our code. France in that regard, as in so many others, is in the vanguard of thinking.”

“That’s very true, Raoul, and France can be justly proud of her advanced thinking. It was in 1791,” she said, looking at the orphans, “that the penal code ignored homosexual acts. Before that, under the Ancien Régime, they carried the death penalty.”

“Yes,” said Bauvais, “by fire. I think the last time a pair were burned for sodomy was in 1750. But it was still the law.”

Matthew frowned. “There’ll be an age of consent, though, isn’t there?”

“Yes, yes,” said Bauvais, “it’s thirteen right now. It used to be eleven.”

Catherine’s eyebrows rose. “I expect,” she said thoughtfully, with something of a flush,” “it’s because an adolescent is sexually able, as they said at the dinner. A girl will possibly be menstruating even….”

Raoul’s eyes brightened as he nodded. “But,” he changed the subject, “it is true one can have very good dialogues at a café. I remember well about three months ago I was sitting just like this at the Café de la Paix and noticed a family of about six or seven people, old, middle-aged, young, at a nearby table. Two tables, in fact. They had a lot of newspapers there, in several European languages, and the notable circumstance was that they would read out a headline, and a bit of the article, in French, say, and immediately another would compare the headline and comment with a piece in another paper, quoting the German. Then another, quoting the Times in English. The discussion ranged all over the place, and each showed a capacity for understanding and arguing in all those languages. Italian too, quoting l’Osservatore Romano I believe. And so forth. I was captivated. It was a real international scene! That sort of thing does happen though, frequently I’m sure. France, after all, is an international country, a cosmopolitan country!”

“And an example, Raoul, for the backward rest of the world to pattern itself upon,” said his lover with a smile that could have been satirical. “Well, let’s get back to the apartment. I’m assured that we’ll be able to see the fireworks very nicely this evening.”

=====================================================================

Wednesday 15th July

The Salon

“Allons, les enfants!” Raoul clapped his hands. “Today we have a treat, yes? We all go to the salon, to be made beautiful! Mme Grainger has booked us a place this afternoon. She will tell you all about it!”

He went off, and Matthew looked at Catherine. “Somehow I think this will not be pleasant. I can’t imagine her doing something nice!”

She nodded glumly. “We’ll have to go, we can’t get out of it. But you never know, it might be all right….” He shook his head, and just wondered how the sadistic lady could embarrass them again.

That afternoon they were ushered in to a smart little shop whose front was discreetly labelled “Chez Martin”, where they were shown all kinds of equipment intended to make the subject beautiful. Martin evidently didn’t exist, but his assistants did, a man and woman in their early thirties, with half a dozen assistants of their own, all seemingly in their late teens. The clientele was mostly female, but there were facilities for both sexes – the massage tables, hair wash sinks, movable chairs for hair cutting and pedicure, all looked very businesslike. The male head, called Mario, took charge of Matthew and Raoul, and they were whisked behind a curtain to have their hair shampooed and their nails trimmed.

Then Raoul began to saunter off, getting out his cigarettes, telling Matthew he’d get the expensive massage. From behind the curtain came vague sounds of contentment. “Ah, I hear young Catherine being massaged already. The masseuse is maybe the young girl from Nantes we saw before. Here is your own – his name is Charles. Say hello.”

Matthew smiled at the young man, who seemed about seventeen, and said “Bonjour! Je … je m’appelle Matthew.” Charles greeted him in French, and there the conversation languished.

Raoul grinned and said “No matter, just relax and enjoy. Take your clothes off and lie on that table there. Charles will take it from here. Bonne chance!” He left, and Charles looked at Matthew, pointing to the table next to the curtain. It was made of white padded leather, covered with towel cloth. It looked comfortable, and so it turned out to be. Matthew stretched himself naked on the towel and Charles produced a bottle of oil. First he ran his hands over the boy’s body from neck to toe, then began gently kneading the flesh with cool fingers. After a while Matthew practically went to sleep, though he opened his eyes when Charles reached his upper thighs and groin. He relaxed and enjoyed the soothing hands that glided over the oiled skin, till he was motioned to turn over. He lay face down and shut his eyes, and soon felt the cool massage on the back of his shins, his thighs, his behind. Charles, who seemed to be using a more delicate touch, concentrated on the rounds of the buttocks, squeezing and caressing almost in a sensual way, and Matthew felt himself getting aroused. This was silly, he told himself. Then the fingers parted his legs to gain more access, and he felt his anus being caressed gently. He made a protesting sound, but stopped in shock when a female voice bade him be still. Then he looked up to see the curtain drawn aside and Charles busy at the other table a foot away, tenderly kneading the beautiful buttocks of nude Catherine, who had her eyes closed. They opened suddenly to stare into his, and a blush covered her face. The pair of them lay there prone, not daring to move, looking at each other’s flushed face, while the masseur smoothed his hands up Catherine’s legs from ankle to bottom and, with a squirt of oil on her anus, entered her with a finger, two fingers, to lubricate her bowel, just as young Annette, the blonde girl from Nantes, did the same to Matthew. In his case, she deliberately sought his prostate gland and massaged it gently – it was all done gently – till he squirmed, his penis growing uncomfortably hard against the table.

Beyond Catherine’s table he saw Mrs Grainger looking at them with cynical satisfaction, nodding at them as if reminding them that they were expected to submit to whatever was done to them. He closed his eyes in despair, and made only token resistance when Annette’s hands made him turn over, to display his hardness to them all. By this time others had joined them, and a crowd of about thirty people of both sexes surrounded them to take in the exhibition. The operators looked at each other and nodded, then set to work, Charles turning Catherine over and beginning at her neck, massaging her shoulders, breasts, belly – Matthew couldn’t help but follow the progress of the hands on that beautiful skin, while Catherine for her part couldn’t keep her eyes off the noble erection of the boy, soon to be attended to by Annette’s eager fingers. Charles found her clitoris, and began agitating it, at the same time entering her anus again. Matthew was being stroked by Annette, one hand on his scrotum, the other gliding up and down the slickly oiled shaft of his penis, till he called out something indecipherable and, with an ecstatic moan, lifted his hips off the towel to ejaculate what seemed an inordinate amount of sperm. At about the same time Catherine was moaning herself, looking wildly at her lover, writhing in her own orgasm.

The older teenagers stood back to let the children get through that experience, while the rest of the company had the shameless effrontery to applaud the sight. Matthew looked back at Catherine, who gazed into his eyes and mouthed a kiss at him. He nodded and turned away. The crowd dispersed, and the orphans were helped to their feet. Raoul suddenly appeared to take charge, and Matthew was whisked away, still naked, through the interested customers to the rear of the salon where a shower area glistened in steel and tile. He looked round and saw the red-faced Catherine being installed in one next door. Charles stripped to a skimpy swim suit and entered too. Of course Annette was to help Matthew. Through all that Matthew shut his eyes to avoid eye contact with the pert blonde, and the others, staff and customers, smiling at the show.

Washed all over and dried (every crevice), then dressed and escorted to the door, Matthew and Catherine looked at each other and sighed. Raoul and Lydia were very pleased with their entertainment, and with broad smiles said goodbye to Annette and Charles and the other employees, who were grinning themselves. The children said nothing, and sat in glum silence in the cab. Back at the apartment house they looked silently at their tormentors, and went to their rooms. Lydia opened a bottle of wine, poured glasses, and lit a cigarette. “Yes,” she said, “that, my darling, was so amusing! It was clever of you to think of it. Still, I think we should send them off to Vaulx soon, the eighteenth maybe, after the party, or the next day. All four of them. Justine Maury can accompany them to Marseille. So that you and I can be alone with nothing to inhibit us having a good time of our own. Hmm?”

“Certainly, ma chère, though I admit I will miss the delightful sight of a girl toute nue, like Catherine, who makes a blush so attractive…. No, chérie, don’t frown. You are still my goddess. Come here….”

(End of File)