Mrs Grainger's Gift 24

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

Part XXIV

Wednesday 22nd July

Matthew in the sun; and reads Daphnis and Chloe to Catherine.

Matthew carried the bottle of sun lotion carefully, wondering what was in it. The local doctor, named Fauré, had devised it a couple of years previously and tried it on his friends in town, and encouraged, he sold it to some tourists who had somehow managed to find the sleepy place while browsing in the Provençal hinterland. It had a pleasant smell, and looked something like a pale butter, and he and Catherine had smeared it on that morning, looking saucily at each other and promising they’d apply it to the other, all over! very soon.

He wandered for a while before finding what promised to be a quiet unvisited spot, and sat down to gaze about him. Catherine, he knew had gone for an exploratory walk in the opposite direction, towards the fearful Bertin, with fixed intentions of steering clear. The other two were helping Mireio wash floors and so on, and Matthew therefore could strip and sunbathe with no qualms to test the efficacy of the lotion. Quickly he divested himself of what he was wearing (shirt, trousers, pants) and began to lard himself up from top to toe. The very action, in that warm sun, was incredibly erotic, somehow, and he began to imagine doing the same to Catherine. Ah, but that would be good! Before he realised it he had a strong erection, and for a while he lingered, experiencing the unbelievable sun on his receptive skin, enjoying the sensation of his hard-on in the open air, exposed to that sun. Almost absent-mindedly he put his hand to his penis to stroke it gently, deliberately tracing its contours and holding that arousing picture in his head. Then he realised what he was doing, and paused. Christ! he thought, how long is it – it’s absolute ages! since I had a wank that I managed myself! It’s been all these others – all those girls! And here I am all alone for once, naked and erect, with no-one to help me, take the initiative, and force my beleaguered prick to do her bidding! All right, Raven, be a man! It’s up to you! Here goes!

He looked up at the sky and began to stroke himself in earnest. The lotion helped lubricate his member, and his hand glided easily up and down the quivering shaft. Yes, he thought. “Yes!” he cried out loud, “let me tell the world, oh God!” He braced himself, legs apart, pelvis thrust out, brandishing his prick like the weapon it was, fucking the air, fucking a ghostly invisible Catherine, who smiled at him seraphically and helped him come with an exquisite shuddering and a climactic explosion of seed, seed, projecting his stored fluid up into that kindly serene sky.

He shut his eyes and breathed hard, feeling his heartbeat gradually lessen its frantic pace, and stood for a while gathering thoughts like picking up his clothes, then settled down on the grass and arranged his limbs to take full advantage of that merciless sun. He’d rouse himself shortly to plaster more of Fauré’s herbal cocktail on his body, but maybe not with the same result…. And latterly, he and Catherine could come here and he’d read a bit of Daphnis and Chloe to her. That would be nice….

Treading carefully, Jennie and Amelia stole away in the shadows. Once they were some distance off, they burst into quiet giggles. “That’s the first time for me. You too? Well, now we know how it’s done. And did you see the … the beatific, that’s the word, Amelia, the beatific smile that lit up his face? He was using his imagination I suppose. And doing it himself probably gave him more satisfaction than having it forced on him, yes. Anyway, don’t let’s tell him. Maybe we’ll surprise him next time, hmm?”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Matthew put down the book and said “It’s a great story, isn’t it? You can see that the two children are going to be lovers. And now they’re thirteen and fifteen, just ripe for love! She’s at that age, or almost, that they were talking about at the dinner. Remember young Damian? And he’s my age. But where are we? They’ve saved him from the wolf trap, and gone to see their flocks.” He took up the book again and read on.

“And when they had found that all were feeding orderly, both goats and sheep, sitting down upon the trunk of an oak they began curiously to search whether he had hurt any limb in that terrible fall. But nothing was hurt, nothing bloodied; only his hair and the rest of his body were dirtied by mud and the soil which covered over and hid the trap. And therefore they thought it best before the accident was made known to Lamo and Myrtale, that he should wash himself in the cave of the Nymphs.

“And coming there together with Chloe, he gave her his scrip and his shirt to hold, and standing by the spring fell to washing himself from top to toe. Now his hair was long and black, and his body all brown and sunburnt, insomuch that the one seemed to have taken colour from the shadow of the tother; and to Chloe’s eye he seemed of a sweet and beautiful aspect, and when she wondered that she had not deemed him such before, she thought it must be the washing that was the cause of it. And when she washed his back and shoulders the flesh yielded so softly and gently to her hand, that again and again she privily touched herself to see if hers were more delicate than his.”

“Oh God,” said Catherine, “I can just imagine!” He smiled and continued.

“Sunset now coming on, they drove home their flocks, and that night there was but one thing in Chloe’s mind, and that the wish she might see Daphnis at the washing again. When they came out to pasture in the morning, Daphnis, sitting down under the oak where they were wont, played his pipe and watched the flocks that lay around as if to listen to the music of it. Chloe, sitting close by, although she looked well after her sheep, looked better after Daphnis.

“And piping there, he seemed again to her goodly and beautiful to look to, and wondering again, she thought the cause must be the music, and so, when he was done, took the pipe from him and played, if haply she herself might be as beautiful. Then she asked him if he would come again to the bath, and when she persuaded him, watched him at it; and as she watched, put out her hand and touched him, and before she went home had praised his beauty, and that praise was the beginning of love.”

“Touched him. Yes. Where, I wonder? His shoulder, his waist, his thigh? Probably from behind, so that she wouldn’t interrupt. So, his back, perhaps the swell of his bum. Ooh yes!” She smiled lasciviously.

“But Longus doen’t say how he felt about this. Daphnis is quite nonchalant about stripping to wash, and handing his clothes to Chloe. So she’s touching him, feeling his body, and we’re not told his reaction. Did he even notice?”

“I wonder,” she said. “You would notice, wouldn’t you? If I touched you there,” she playfully put her fingers to his chest, “or there,” touching his knee, “or there….” She smiled slily and stroked his thigh. “And from behind, as I said!” She thrust her hand under him and squeezed his bum, and he laughed and said maybe he’d be so mesmerised by her presence he wouldn’t feel a thing. “We’ll read a bit more, then look for berries, d’you think?”

“Just the thing,” she said. “My, it’s quite a sweet story, as you said.”

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Thursday 23rd July

Town

Catherine drove them both into town, then turned back, to help Mireio with some chores, saying she’d be by later. Matthew waved her goodbye and strolled around the town, investigating the peehouse in the middle of the square, which turned out to be a single water closet surrounded by a series of shallow channels, evidently for pissing in. He used the facilities, marvelling at the fact that the tyrannical and less than altruistic lady of the manor had done something nice for the town. It couldn’t be because she accepted the responsibilities of the grande dame, surely!

He sat at the little café for a while, with a cup of coffee and a leisurely cigarette, then roused himself to visit the priest, reflecting about the pleasures Mrs G missed by not being gregarious. But then, Père Michel was just not her kind of person! He was welcomed and given a glass of wine, and the priest was quite willing to have a philosophical discussion.

“But, my son,” said Père Michel, “You cannot look around you at all the beauty of the world, from the flowers to the cicadas, and say that it all started by an accident!”

“No, Father,” the boy replied. “I don’t deny that all the intricate details of the world, the beautiful and the ugly too, are so complicated and … well, contrived, I suppose, that it’s easy to imagine a creator, some great Being somewhere, who put it all together. I’m only saying that I have no intellectual understanding of how that was done, or more importantly, why it was done. And even if I granted the existence of a Creator, whatever you want to call him – or her –” The priest gasped. “Or it, even! Yes, Father, for we can’t assume he she or it is made in our image! Even if we grant that, I still have grave doubts about the veracity of the Bible.” Père Michel raised a finger. “No,” Matthew continued, “if God exists, there’s still no reason to accept the Hebrew-cum-Christian Bible as his work, or his biography!”

He sat back, prepared for more arguments, but the priest just looked at him and smiled. “Intellect and Reason,” he said, “Belief and Faith. They’re not so far apart, you know. But I will not attempt to convince you of your errors. You have been too long in a godless country, and (I tell you in private, entre nous, as we say) you have been living with a godless woman. Oh yes,” he added, seeing the look of shock on the boy’s face, “I know about Mme Grainger. From several sources.” Matthew opened his mouth. “Yes, my son, I admit to you that one of them is the confessional. I know a great deal about your employer, and while I grieve over her behaviour, it is not in my power, or interest, to do more than that. I pray for her and her household, I will pray for you, for I see you are at heart a good boy. Well now! Let us talk of other things. My friend Lebouc, the schoolmaster, will be here soon, and we can tell you something about the history of Vaulx and the rest of Provence. And your friend will be coming later, you said. She is a charming girl.”

“Yes, Father,” said Matthew with a contented smile, “she is. I’m glad you like her. She’s clever and good at French and music and things. And she’s very pretty, don’t you think?”

“Ha, Mathieu, I see you have taken her to your heart, have you not? I am not surprised. Yes, she is pretty, and I can understand that her … personality, her spirit, is pleasant and … aimable. You are a lucky boy, to have a friend like her. And,” he smiled at the boy, “she is a lucky girl, I know, to have a friend like you.”

Matthew blushed and didn’t know how to answer, and was glad of the interruption by the arrival of a middle-aged man with pince-nez and a seemingly perpetual quizzical expression who turned out to be the schoolmaster, a childhood crony of the priest, who quickly took to the English boy, as he later did to the girl, and they had an enjoyable conversation in English, which he was naturally pleased to practise.

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Friday 24th July

The forfeit; some history, and prophecies

Catherine didn’t appear at breakfast, and when Matthew went to her room he found her in bed looking subdued.

“Oh, love,” he said sympathetically, “it’s that time again, isn’t it? Your period – ”

“Yes,” she said with something of a flush, “it’s a bit bothersome, today. But it’ll pass pretty soon, it never bothers me for long. Still, I won’t be able to join you going into the town. You must go, though, you’ll like that.”

He was on his way to see about the donkey cart when he was waylaid by Amelia, who seized his arm and asked him to come for a little walk. He followed her out the gate and looked at her in some wonderment. She didn’t really like him, surely! Why would she want his company? She was carrying a satchel at her side. A hike?

“Well, Matthew,” the girl said with a lascivious smile, “it’s time for that forfeit you owe me.”

He looked at her anxiously. “Please, Amelia, can’t we forget it? We’re not at Summerton, we—”

“We’re here in Vaulx, yes, in delightful Provence, with sunny skies and all, it’s warm weather, that sort of invites you to take your clothes off, doesn’t it?”

He bit his lip and sighed. “What do you want then?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she said, “only to have you all to myself, naked as you were born, for an hour or two.”

“An hour or two? Doing what?”

“Oh, you stupid thing! I’m going to play with you, naked, for a couple of hours.” She laughed at the expression on his face.

He took a deep breath and burst out “No! I don’t have to do anything. You can’t enforce the forfeit. I won’t—”

“Yes you bloody will!” she hissed. “I’ve been looking forward to this, and it’s going to happen. And if you think you can avoid it, think again. I know you’re terrified Mrs G will punish you or yours for disobedience. Well, I can always tell her you’ve been uncooperative, can’t I?”

She waited, while he cast about for an answer. Finally he sighed, “All right, you win. What do you want me to do?”

She smirked. “That’s better. Now we’re going for a little walk to a place I discovered the other day. Come along.”

He followed her with a thumping heart as she led the way to the wood that separated the house from the valley of the village. Within the trees, it was hushed and mysterious, but every so often he heard some birdsong, and felt the hot sun intermittently on his shoulders. Amelia stopped in the middle of a clearing, where the heat beat down unimpeded by the leafy branches of the trees that surrounded the spot.

She held out her arms to the sun and cried “Oh, Matthew! Isn’t this fine? Warm and sunny! Hot on your skin! Don’t you feel it? Your shirt must be sticking to your shoulders. Take it off!”

He looked at her silently and slowly put his hands to the buttons at his cuffs. She watched him with a satisfied grin as he freed his garment from his trousers and drew it over his head. He stood before her in vest and trousers, conscious even more now of the warmth of the sunlight on his bare arms.

She looked at him admiringly, “Yes, Matthew,” she said, “you’re a very nice looking boy. You haven’t got much muscle, yet, but your … shape is very nice.” She stroked his arm from shoulder to wrist, and he shivered. She laughed and stroked the other one, and then inserted her hand under the hem of his vest. He flinched as she stroked his belly and diaphragm, making approving noises in her throat, then she stepped back and said “Now! Take off the undervest.” He drew it off over his head, and again she seemed to commend his body. “Put your arms back up, above your head,” she ordered. “Yes, your muscles aren’t obvious, but the whole look of you ….” Again she ran her hands over him, this time from chest to belly, where she tickled him till he squirmed.

“Please, Amelia!” he groaned, “Let me be!”

“Oh no,” she said, “not for a long time yet!”

She put her hands to his waist and ran then down his legs, then pulled off his shoes and stockings, he hopping on one foot and exclaiming about her roughness. He looked down at her and swallowed. “What now?” Though he knew he’d ultimately (and soon) be naked.

She looked up at him and laughed. “Now we take off your trousers,” she said. “No,” she added as his hands went to his fly buttons, “allow me!” He stood in miserable silence with a thudding heart as she undid his buttons and drew his trousers down to his knees, then lifted the legs to free them. She looked at him and laughed at his expression. “Come on, Matthew,” she said, “cheer up! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, those grasshoppers are all chirping away. Feel the warmth on your legs and body. Why not take off your pants too, let the sun at every part of you? No, let me!”

Matthew stood still as she put her hands to the waistband of his underpants and put in her thumbs. At the contact he shivered, and she smiled hugely as she slowly drew his one garment down to reveal his pubic hair – she paused, and he made an impatient sound – her smile grew even more, and she eased the pants down over his penis, which was slowly thickening and lengthening. Off came the pants from his feet, to be tossed aside, and Amelia ordered him sharply to put his hands at the nape of his neck. Then she started to stroke his body with one or two fingers, beginning at his cheek, which was brilliant red by now. Down his neck her fingers went, to caress his collar bones, his shoulders, his breast (and tickle his nipples, of course). He swallowed and began to speak but she hushed him and continued her exploration of his body, which was beginning to sweat in the sun.

Her fingers went down to his belly button, and toyed with that, then by slow circuits to his pubic hair, He was squirming at the slight contact all through this, and Amelia’s face wore a sardonic sort of smile. She was savouring the erotic effect this had on him, and purposely prolonged her touching to tease him into something approaching frustration. Then she was behind him to caress his back and trace his spine down to the beginning of the cleft of his buttocks. Once there, she lingered to run her finger down to the anus and he grunted and flinched. She laughed and set about fondling the cheeks of his arse, commenting on their firm lack of flabbiness. He for his part was wondering why everyone wanted to handle his bum and pay it compliments. It wasn’t so special, surely? And then what was her arse like, anyway? He felt his penis stir at that thought, and realised he was becoming quite aroused, though his penis had a bit to go before it was fully erect.

Then she was stroking his thighs, kneeling down to face his penis, gradually stiffening, and her hands came in to meet at his slight bush of pubic hair, which she tugged playfully. “You haven’t much hair there,” she said. “How old are you again?”

He winced and stuttered “F—f—fifteen.”

“Oh yes. Well, I suppose you’re one of those late developers. Now girls get their hair and their monthlies a lot earlier. We mature a lot before boys,” she said smugly. “I got mine when I was eleven.” He looked at her in surprise, and she tittered. “So, when did you start your spending? No, when did you discover you could get a good feeling from rubbing your cock?”

He felt rather strange having a conversation like this with a girl, whose hands were busy at his belly, but answered “I th—think I was going on twelve or so….”

“And what about ejaculating?”

He sighed. “I suppose fourteen. About a year ago.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe you’ve made up for being so late, by all the frigs we’ve given you, eh? Speaking of which—” Her fingers were finally at his testicles, scratching the underside of the scrotum, running the mid-fingers from his anus to the bag and back, while he started getting short of breath. Then she was at the penis itself, tenderly caressing the tip, the shaft, the foreskin, pushing the prepuce back to reveal the naked glans, now glowing fiery red. He was beside himself by this time, and made little moans, wanting her to frig him and give him release. But the girl, with a wicked smile, desisted and sat back.

He gasped “Aren’t you—?”

“No,” she said coyly, “not yet. Can’t you wait? Are you so anxious? You poor thing. Well, just hold on for a while. Keep your come for a bit. We’ll let you get relief shortly.”

He gritted his teeth and panted “You bitch! You want to leave me strung up, dying to, to spend. Don’t you know—”

“Oh Matthew, you fool, of course I know. It’s the same for girls, it’s very frustrating to be brought to the edge and not go over. But you’ll just have to wait.”

“God, you are a bitch! But Amelia, please, when—”

“You’ll see,” she said. “You’ll see.” She delved into the satchel to produce some wrapped sandwiches. “Lunch?”

He goggled at her and repeated “Lunch!” in incredulous tones.

“Well, do you want a sandwich? Mireio very kindly made these. Ham, with cress. Jolly good. Sure you don’t want some? All right. Let me finish this one.” She looked at him as she chewed, her eyes bright with lust, and he knew he’d ultimately be brought to an orgasm. But … there was more to it surely than that.

She looked at him in a sort of content, pleased to have him here at her mercy.What could she do with him? Well, the obvious, of course. But let’s lead up to it in a leisurely fashion, she thought, take it easy. Plenty time. And when I think about it there’s quite a few days left before we get back to old England, aren’t there? When we can renew this. And I bet he’s got enough spunk in him to please us both. Ha! Yes, Jennie will be interested.

“Well now,” she said with another grin, “look at you! Your cock is beginning to get tired. Look at it!”

In truth, he had relaxed a little and his penis was now at half mast – still tumescent put not pointing up any more.

“All right! What can we do about this? I know,” she carolled merrily, “indeed I do! See here,” and dug into the satchel once more. What she produced this time was a bottle of the sun lotion, and he saw what she had in mind.

She stood up and opened the bottle of lotion. “Now, Matthew, all you need do is stand nice and at ease while I make sure you’re not going to broil in this sun. Whew, it’s hot, isn’t it? Thank goodness you’re naked, eh? But those rays of whatever will soon turn you red and uncomfortable. Hey, you’re already red, aren’t you?” She chortled in a very juvenile fashion (he thought) and came to him. “Right then; hands out to the sides, legs apart, say, three feet maybe. That’s it. Now shut your eyes in case it runs into them. First, your face….”

She carefully covered his brow with the potion, and went on to his nose and cheeks and throat. Then his shoulders, and he couldn’t help shivering in a sort of erotic way (What!) at the touch of her hands on his skin. Then his chest. Then his back, to his waist. She carefully spread the liquid round to his belly, poking a finger into his navel, then to his bottom, where she spent an inordinate amount of time, sensuously fingering the rounds of his arse, pushing her index down the cleft, touching the anus – “Oh, God, Matthew, I love your little hole!” – and then to the most important part, his great penis, which by now was nicely standing at what she called half-salute.

“You won’t need much on your seam, will you? But let’s make sure anyway.”

He gave a gasp as she attended to the perineum, rubbing her fingers back and forth, then brought them up to the ballocks, whose testes she carefully felt as if for the first time (silly idea), then the pubis and the prick. She was definitely trying to be as rousing as she could, being delicate with feathery fingers and even the nails, and it was not long before he was proudly erect and panting once more for release. But she surprised him by standing back and holding his gaze as she deliberately undressed before him.

Her clothes dropped to the ground in sequence and she saucily squirmed her body, thrusting out her pelvis and circling her nipples with frisky fingers, looking into his eyes and then at his prick, which she was pleased to see throbbing in a full salute. Then she came to him and gave him the bottle. He looked amazed at her, then nodded, and got the stuff on his hands. She stood before him and held out her arms, and he put his hands to her body, her breasts (and she shivered), her pubis, her arse, and all the while she was tempting him and taunting him with an extraordinary come-on smile like Salome or Delilah. Finally of course he was at her vulva (oh God! it was wet) and they were on the forest floor – his finger went in, to bring her up to the same pitch as he was at – and oh, finally, put his hot member into her waiting vagina.

He seized her waist and thrust into her with excitement, thinking that he’d wondered about her sexuality and so forth, and here it was, he was fucking her, fucking her hard, for this was no loving congress, but an erotic attack, and she, for God’s sake, she wanted it this way! Her eyes looked into his with blazing satisfaction, and she took hold of him to knit their bodies together. She put her legs up and around his back, and placed her hands on his arse to pull him into her, and they rocked back and forth, back and forth, for what seemed a long time in pleasurable tingling warmth till he came violently and collapsed on top of her, gasping in depletion and closing his eyes in wonderment. The fuck was different from the more business-like one he’d had with Jennie, and of course a far cry from the loving one with Catherine. Amelia herself lay with closed eyes for the longest time, then suddenly took a deep breath and roused herself to escape from his arms and stretch languidly, allowing herself a smile of triumph. Yes, she’d expected it to be like that. What a prick he had! She looked down at him and nodded as if to show appreciation, then picked up the satchel and rummaged in it to find a packet of cigarettes.

He looked up at her and sighed, and she smiled as she offered him a smoke. He accepted as a sort of sign of truce between them, and they sat side by side on the turf quite companionably, he not wishing to spoil the moment, and she – well, she was squinting into the smoke and working out her next move. All too soon the fags were finished, and she turned to him to say merrily that he’d been a naughty boy.

“What? You wanted—”

“Oh, you liar! Everyone knows it’s the boy who starts the fuck. And the girl has to submit.” She laughed in his face, and said “Come here! You need taking down a peg. Over my knee.”

He started and said “Oh no, you don’t want—”

“Oh yes I do,” she trilled, “you need a good spank! Come here!”

He bit his lip and saw he had to acquiesce. All this would be reported to madam, and any dereliction of duty, i.e. disobedience, might have dire consequences, so he crawled over her lap, feeling utterly foolish. He felt her bare skin under his, and immediately had a tremor of desire again. Again! Well, he’d done it before ….

SLAP! He howled in shock, and she laughed loud, waiting for some seconds before deciding on where to punish him next.

SLAP! The other cheek of his arse, then SLAP again. He refused to show his pain, for the greatest time, but ultimately he was nearly sobbing, while she gave a playful tap to his scarlet bum and admitted her hands were sore. But then she felt underneath him to find his erection. “Yes!” she cried in triumph, “I knew you could! It stimulates you, doesn’t it? Mrs G said it would.”

“She did? God damn her, she’s a—”

“Shut up, you silly boy! And come and use that. Why let it go to waste?”

He looked at her with wide disbelieving eyes, then set his jaw in a scowl and seized her again. This time his copulation was a real attack, a reprisal for her demeaning of him. Without thinking of his words he set about telling her what he thought of her, as he was forcing his penis, eager now in unashamed erection, into her vagina. “Fuck you, you bitch! And fuck that bitch in Paris! Fuck Summerton and the bloody Academy and those fucking teen-age witches. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

He poured his ejaculation into her cunt and drew out of her immediately, with no tender afterfeelings. He lay for a bit with closed eyes, hearing her get up and dress, and his eyes flickered open, to see her turn to go. He looked up at her and sighed, then closed his eyes again. After a minute he sat up suddenly. Where were his clothes? Wait, for God’s sake, there was no sign of them! The fucking woman had taken them, hadn’t she? What direction had they come? Oh no, he wasn’t abandoned in an unfamiliar forest with no cover at all!

It was a sore and fed-up boy who made his way discreetly into the house quite a while later. He ran a bath and managed to wind down, and pondered what he’d tell Catherine. All right, he’d put it off till he came back from the village, and he had a fleeting thought about facing the kindly old priest after a session like that – practically a rape! He envied the Catholic and High English churches for their rite of confession, to cleanse the soul…. But his lips twisted as he cynically added And make it easy to go out and sin again.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Father Michel looked enquiringly at Matthew.

“Your friend Catherine is not with you?”

“No,” said Matthew, “she’s … in bed, she’s …”

The priest frowned. “She’s ill?”

Matthew reddened. “N-no,” he stammered, “she’s …having a …”

Lebouc smiled slightly and said “It’s all right, Mathieu, I understand. She has a female indisposition, yes? Do not be embarrassed. We understand. It’s the curse of Eve, as they say. Come, let us talk of history. Let me tell you about our town. It has had an uneventful history, I’m afraid, at least I should say I’m pleased that it has been so peaceful over the centuries, right from Roman times.”

“And while M. Lebouc does that,” Père Michel said, “I will offer you a little wine. ‘For the stomach’s sake’, as St Paul says.”

“He does?” said Matthew in surprise.

“But yes, my son. In his first letter to Timothée. And good advice it is.” He brought a bottle to the table and poured out three glasses. “Now, Amiel, my friend. Tell Mathieu about Vaulx and how it got its name.”

*   *   *

“It’s a metaphor with me, Père Michel,” said Lebouc. “But with you it’s serious, real. I say the world is going to hell, and you say the world is going to the Hell of Dante. You, young Mathieu, you will live to see it I think, it is coming, and not too slowly either. And as for the real Hell of the afterlife, you may see that too. No,” he continued, looking at the priest, who was opening his mouth to say something, “I do not prevaricate. Our religion says that all who do not accept it, in all its anomalies and curious rules, shall perish and suffer for it after death. Mathieu will be in one of the circles of the Inferno, and there’s nothing to prevent it – except his coming into the sheepfold and repenting his sins, however few they be at his age, and embracing all the strictures of the Holy Church, the Mother of God, the Saints, Confession and all the Sacraments – then he can look at his fellows who still labour under the sinful laws of a sinful country and pride himself (a forgivable sin, a venial transgression) on being a convert to the truth, the one and singular truth, that comes to the world from Rome.”

“Ah, Amiel, my friend, you are riding your horse again. Mathieu, I should tell you we continually have this argument. Lebouc here pretends to be a non-believer, but at heart he knows he is an honest Catholic. Honest because he is not blind to the contradictions of the faith, and makes speeches about them to all who will listen. But a Catholic all the same.”

Matthew smiled and said “Monsieur Lebouc, I appreciate your concern about my immortal soul. But while I doubt there’s a painful retribution coming, there’s always the possibility (your certainty, surely) of the infinite mercy of God.”

“Well said! Besides, there is always Purgatory to take care of accidental sinners, can we call them. Those that don’t know any better. But Dante shows the new arrivals singing joyfully as they enter Purgatory, for they know their punishment is merited and accept the cleansing chastisement. It’s only the deliberately sinful, who, having heard the glad news, refuse to accept it, who are cast into the eternal fire.”

“Or the ice, maybe. In the Ninth Circle, Satan is up to his breast in ice… But then I don’t recall any official sort of prospectus for Hell. Or even Purgatory. Or Limbo, for that matter, where Virgil lives. But enough of this. I want to teach young Mathieu here how to play chess.”

The priest rose to fetch his chess set from an armoire, while Lebouc poured some more wine and continued the discussion.

“I talked about the truth that comes from Rome! Remember, mon père, that it hasn’t always been so. Mathieu, you know perhaps about the popes of Avignon, along there?”

“Yes, sir, but not a great deal. It was in the fourteenth century, wasn’t it, when the papal court moved north to stay, for about a hundred years?”

“Yes, Mathieu,” said Father Michel, extricating a big box from the cupboard, “very good. The pope liked the place and took his court there, and it became for a good while the centre of the faith. Some antipopes were there as well. It’s a fine old place with mediaeval walls around, the papal palace, and so forth, and the bridge, of course.” The priest hummed the old tune. “You can still see it,” he said, “the pont d’Avignon.”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew, “a friend was telling me. I was imagining the peasants dancing their farandole, isn’t that it? All over the bridge?”

“Ha, Mathieu,” scoffed Lebouc, “there probably wouldn’t be room to do anything else than the line, I think, it’s not very broad. So the song is out, tout en rond is out. But they could dance, I’m sure. Oh yes,” he smiled, “Avignon is a truly famous little town. There are one or two towns, cities, valleys, that have their place in history, or say their place in the memory of the people, for only one or two things. With Avignon, it’s the popes and that bridge. But that’s sufficient, wouldn’t you say?”

“What about the mule?”

“Aha, Mathieu, you know about that!” exclaimed the priest, “A pretty little story, yes. Well, maybe that too. But it’s true that some places have only one reason to be remembered. Take Varennes.” He began to set out the pieces.

Lebouc took up the tale. “We’ve talked about this before, Mathieu. Father Michel means that this little place – it is really very small – is up in the Meuse department in Lorraine, in the north-east near Verdun. Its full name is Varennes-en-Argonne, on the river Aire. Anyway, it has only one claim to fame, only one reason for being mentioned in history books. No-one had heard of it before, no-one has bothered about it since. Yet on one occasion, it came into the news, one single time of prominence.

“That was in June 1791, when Louis XVI, with his immediate family, was trying to escape from the revolutionaries, and they made a quick run to the nearest friendly border, which was that of Belgium, part of the Austrian empire, and Marie-Antoinette was a sister to Leopold II, the Austrian emperor. But in Varennes they were arrested, by a certain Citizen Drouet, the local postmaster of nearby Sainte-Menehould. It is said that at Sainte-Menehould, where the escaping party had spent the previous night, a merchant alerted the town authorities of their presence after recognising the King's face on a coin, as Louis tried to buy something from a shop. However that may be, he was arrested in Varennes, and that’s the only thing that ever happened there of note.”

“But listen Mathieu!” The priest set down his wine and looked at him portentously. “You have heard perhaps of the French astrologue, Michel de Nostredame, called in Latin Nostradamus?”

“Oh yes,” said Matthew. “I don’t know much, though—”

“Well,” continued the priest, “his prophecies, called ‘Centuries’, were published in the sixteenth century. He died in 1566. Now it is interesting that one of the most intriguing and seemingly straitforward quatrains (albeit rather obscure) in the entire sequence of prophecies refers to Varennes by name.” Matthew looked at him with interest. “Now you know about the royal family. Well, consider what Michel de Nostredame said two hundred and forty years before, about an obscure provincial town – it’s the twentieth quatrain of the ninth Century, and goes like this:

De nuict viendra par la forest de Reines

Deux pars vaultore Herne la pierre blanche

Le moine noir en gris dedans Varennes

Esleu cap. Cause tempeste, feu sang tranche.

“Now this means, evidently, that some mysterious affair is going on at night, in Varennes, involving an elected, or chosen, ‘cap’ – meaning captain, perhaps? But what about an abbreviated form of ‘Capet’, the original family name of the kings of France? (He was arraigned as ‘Citizen Capet’, actually.) - Causing a storm, fire, blood, and tranche – the word means ‘chop’, and is the very sound of the guillotine!”

Matthew’s eyes grew round. “That does sound pretty accurate,” he said.

“Ah, but it’s still ambiguous, like most prophecies of most prophets,” said Lebouc. “After all, there are quite a few towns called Varennes, and who’s to say what ‘cap’ means? I will grant however that Nostredame must have had some power or other, if only to impress the people of his time. He is said to have predicted the desecration of his tomb fifty years after his death. Another thing he is said to have done is a prediction of the future for a young monk. This was in Italy, a Franciscan friar at Montalto. It was a young swine herder named Felice Paretti who had become a monk, and reportedly Nostradamus went down on his knees before him and kissed the hem of his robe, saying that this young boy would one day be Pope. Nineteen years after Nostradamus’ death, Paretti became Pope Sixtus V.”

“—Who did some good things, like starting building the Vatican library; and he extended liberty to the Jews (perhaps because of the prophet’s Jewish ancestry), while being very severe on the religious who lost their chastity. He fixed the Vatican treasury, and redesigned Rome in many ways. Under him new editions of the Septuagint and the Vulgate came out, though the latter was not too accurate….”

“Yes,” said the teacher, “but he wasn’t very popular I’m afraid. He didn’t care about antiquities, for one thing, which annoyed the humanists. But I think we can acknowledge him as an important figure of the Catholic Reformation. Ha! You’ll maybe be amused to hear he excommunicated Elizabeth of England!”

Matthew laughed, and grew more interested. “Did Nostradamus predict the Great War?” he asked. “Or what about the end of the world?”

Father Michel smiled and said “I think there’s a trace of irony there. But I leave it to you; there is a quatrain, I forget where exactly, that has a specific date, which runs

L’an mil neuf cens nonante neuf sept mois

Du ciel viendra un grand Roy deffraieur

Resusciter le grand Roy d’Angolmois

Avant après Mars regner par bon heur.

“Which seems to mean that in July of the year two thousand a great king of terror (perhaps) will come from the sky, bringing back the great king of the Mongols (or angels, perhaps), before and after Mars, reigning by good luck.”

Matthew looked perplexed. “Is that the Last Judgement, then? But who’s the king of the Mongols? Wasn’t that Genghis Khan?”

Lebouc patted Matthew’s hand. “Do not distress yourself, my boy. That has probably nothing to do with anything. Nostradamus wrote a letter to his son saying that the end would entail great floods, and finish with a shower of meteors that would destroy humanity. When that would be though he didn’t say exactly, but people say it would be at least the year three thousand and something.”

Matthew blinked. “But meanwhile, I suppose it’s not impossible I could live till I was ninety, no? Then I’d see what happens in the year 2000!”

The others chuckled, the priest saying “It’s more than possible, my son, if you look after yourself. But see, the hour grows late. We’ll have time for a short game, and then you’ll have to get back to the Grainger estate. Black or white?”

Forty minutes later he smiled at the boy and said “Thank you for visiting. When do we see you again? And you must bring your friend with you, your petite amie.”

“Yes, father, for sure, next time. I’ll let you know. Well, goodbye to you both. Modestine is waiting.”

They looked after him with smiles that soon faded. Lebouc looked at the other and said “Eh, Michel, old friend, I somehow have troubled thoughts about the lad. What do you see, really, in his future?”

Père Michel sighed. “Urós quau es artisan de sa fortuna,” he murmured. “Each is the master of his own destiny. I am as troubled as you, Amiel, and have nothing to say except that I rely on the will of the good God, who I pray will grant him and his friend the mastery of their respective fates. Which – I tell you I do foresee – are the same. They are bound together, I feel it – ah, perhaps my namesake speaks through me! They will come to their joint dispensation, however long it takes, and I bless them in the name of our Lord, who will look after them. They have suffered, I know, and will suffer yet, but in the end they will come to a happy peace. I pray God that this is their future.” He crossed himself, and his sceptical friend looked at him and nodded, and raised his hand to cross himself in his turn.

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

Saturday 25th July

Mrs G arrives. Local lads to work in garden, admired by Jennie and Amelia

“My word,” said Mrs Grainger, “the village has certainly developed a bit in a couple of years! It was really sleepy when I was here last. But I suppose it’s inevitable. The twentieth century is catching up to it. Still, it’s the same old backwater underneath. Have you met the locals yet?”

“Oh yes,” said Catherine, “we’ve been talking to the teacher and the priest.”

“Really?” she said with a look of surprise. “I didn’t think you were good enough.”

“No, madam,” said Matthew, “it’s true, we aren’t, though we’re getting better. It turns out that they both know English very well, so we don’t miss the … communication. So we’ve had some nice conversations with them, telling us about the place, and Provence history, and things.”

“All right. And you’re getting on with Pascau and his daughter, yes?”

“Yes, madam. I think they’re delightful people.”

“You do?” She looked surprised, as if the thought of them being delightful was entirely foreign. “Well, anyway, now I’m here we can relax in the warm sun of Provence. I don’t tan too well, but you children might. In fact I think I can see a difference even now. Did Mireio find the lotion for you?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “and it’s jolly good I think. The doctor should patent it, it would sell like hot cakes to the tourists.”

“We don’t see many tourists. At least we didn’t, but quite a lot of people are arriving on the coast these days, and I expect some will find their way here. But it’s really quite amazing how the village has transformed itself in two years. There’s another school, for one thing. In the holidays there’ll be another pool of labour for the garden, and so forth. I’ll be hiring a few for this place. I stopped in the village to ask for some boys to present themselves this afternoon. They’ll be doing some pruning, digging, carrying firewood, that sort of thing. Helping Pascou.”

She looked sharply at Catherine. “Isn’t it about time for your period?”

The girl flushed and muttered “Yes, madam, it came yesterday, and I’m nearly finished.”

“Fine. So you can be around to fetch and carry. You, Matthew, can go to the village, and get some things from the grocer and the boulangerie, get some more sun oil perhaps. Besides fawning over the priest. You can be back by tea-time I suppose. Then lie about in the sun, perhaps. All right?”

Some time later a little crowd of teenaged boys arrived at the door, to be admitted by Mireio and shown through to madame. Jennie and Amelia observed this with satisfaction, and exchanged naughty looks. Things had immediately improved. They made sure to be able to give warm glances to the boys, who were not slow in picking up the message. Somehow or other, it was tacitly agreed, they’d get better acquainted.

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

“I must admit, Father,” said Matthew with an apologetic look, “that I probably count myself a deist, isn’t that what folk like Thomas Paine went for? I think a real deist accepts a god as creator and all that, but he denies miracles and doesn’t like revelation, I mean his religion is got through reason. I’m not an atheist; more of an agnostic really. Thomas Huxley’s word for it. Do you know him?”

“Ah, Mathieu,” said Lebouc laughing, “you surely don’t expect Père Michel to admit knowing such an agent of the devil!”

The priest smiled patiently. “Let me say, Mathieu, that there are quite a few books on the Index that I have deliberately sought out. And although the Greeks, Thales and company, tell us ‘Gnothi seauton’, ‘Know thyself’, the other maxim is maybe even more important, from the Chinese warrior, Sun Tzu, ‘Know thine enemy!’ In order to fight an idea, one must first understand that idea. Not accept it, of course, not follow it, but try to see it in its entirety in order to point out its flaws. So I know Huxley, as I know many of these writers who have ideas quite contrary to our revealed religion. And you, on the other hand, probably know, have read, many authors who take Christianity for granted, without saying, as natural truth. You have the right to dismiss them as mistaken, but I think you have the intelligence to appreciate their own version of things.”

“You’re absolutely right, Father,” the boy replied, “ and I can immediately think of a couple of examples. G K Chesterton, an English Catholic, is a jolly interesting writer and philosopher, really, who has a wonderful little poem about a donkey.”

“Ha! Like Modestine, eh?”

“Yes, and it’s a delicious poem, that stirs the heart, even though one may reject the belief that it commemorates. It goes – it’s the donkey speaking –

“When fishes flew and forests walked

                               And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

                               Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

                               And ears like errant wings,

The devil’s walking parody

                               On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

                               Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

                               I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

                               One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

                               And palms before my feet.”

    Lebouc drew in his breath. “That is magnificent! A beautiful description of an ugly beast, then the startling statement of his secret – that wonderful day when Jesus entered Jerusalem. But you’re saying, if I understand you rightly, that you can get the fine description, the irony, and appreciate the message, the meaning, even though you are a doubter?”

    “That’s it. I suppose I must admit that it may just be a stirring up in my memory of the ideas I had when I really believed in the Christian story. The same can be said of the other writer I was thinking of. Thomas Hardy. He has a poem about an old folk belief, superstition maybe, but it’s a good illustration of the powerful ideas the common people had. It’s about the scene in the stable at Christmas. It’s called ‘The Oxen’.”



    They looked at him with interest as he recited the poem, their eyes fixed on his face, and smiling as the story unfolded.

                                       “Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

‘Now they are all on their knees,’

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

‘Come; see the oxen kneel,

‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,’

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.”

The priest smiled, and nodded, saying “It is the old belief of simple folk, yes, that the beasts all knelt to honour the baby. And I see why you like that. The poem is really quite cunning, in that it tells us that such an idea is hardly the view of a modern man. Yet … perhaps it is again a stirring up of one’s old faith in miracles.”

“It’s a good poem,” said Lebouc. “Thank you for telling us. And the author, he’s alive yet, is he?”

“I think so, sir,” said Matthew,”though he’s probably a fair age. That poem was written as I remember, in the war, around ten years ago. I saw it in an old copy of The Times. Hardy was probably not religious by that time. His wife had died, and he knew about the awful carnage of the war. I suppose the poem is really about an adult wanting to hold on to the simple belief – the credulity if you like – of childhood. So it’s the same, a stirring up of old memories. I’ll tell you, friends, when my mother died last year I was in two minds. The Christian in me took it as a tribulation that faith would heal, while the agnostic made me accept it as a natural part of life; change, transformation, maybe, but with no guarantee of resolution.”

“That is a little bleak,” said the priest; “but I will only say that I wish you might come to an inner peace.”

“Right,” said Lebouc. “Now what about chess? I’m looking forward to teaching it to young Catherine next time!”

As Matthew passed by Lydia Grainger, seated down comfortably with a book, she looked up and said “Oh, you’re back! I hardly noticed you’d gone. I really don’t know what drives you to talk to the priest, and that teacher too. But the teacher at least should know better.”

“Madam, I wish you wouldn’t make fun of him. His name’s Père Michel.You despise him, don’t you?”

“Oh Matthew,” she laughed, “how quaint of you! I don’t despise him, not in the usual sense, it’s just that I view him as a deluded functionary of a mediaeval empire (that of the Vatican), and that does him more honour, I think, than he’s worth. The other side of it would be to look at him with actual dislike and some unease perhaps, as a deliberate wielder of self-interested exploitation of the ignorant. I do hope you have more intelligence than to be seduced by such inanities. And I don’t single out his so-called faith. The Church of England (God bless it) is just another such establishment. For me, all organised religion is an embodiment of hypocrisy and self-aggrandisement…. What are you trying to say?”

“Well, madam, it’s just that there are, have been, so many really sincere believers. Like … Saint Francis, maybe—”

“Ha!” She threw back her head and laughed. “He was just another of the deluded, and an exhibitionist to boot! Haven’t you heard how he rejected all his parents’ values and stripped in the market-place, to the absolute buff, before going off to found his own clique of like ‘believers’! But most of the church fathers were very peculiar people. St Anthony, for instance, never washed his feet, and he wasn’t the only one who thought dirt was holy. And the misogyny they displayed is quite amazing, and their language amusingly coarse. Have you ever heard of Odo of Cluny? A terribly pious monk who had a horror of womankind. In one of his essays he exclaims that beauty is only skin deep – I think he invented the phrase – and that if men could see under the skin, to see what was hidden, they’d be nauseated by the nasty fluids, the phlegm, the blood – especially he’s thinking of menstrual blood – and they wouldn’t want to embrace a sack of excrement. Oh yes, that’s how he puts it.”

Matthew stared at her in some shock.

“Somerset Drayton (the Irreverend, as he justifiably calls himself), you’ll remember him at the dinner, he’s a good example of a religious realist. He makes no apology for his beliefs and actions, and is very willing to argue their merits (and demerits). He is, in other words, honest. He’ll quote you (he did quote, at the dinner) the rabbinical injunctions about sodomy, but he’s quite open about practising it. Actually I’m surprised he didn’t catch you that evening – I could see he had his eye on you.”

Matthew sighed and said “Yes. Madam, I thought so too and I’m damn glad he didn’t get around to it. That’s probably because he got a bit comatose on drink and hashish, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, Matthew. Those two palliatives can be useful, can’t they? Don’t be so superior.They make life bearable, for thousands. That’s why they’ve been so popular for millennia, They brewed beer in ancient Egypt, and the primitives of the jungles of America discovered the qualities of some plants long ago. It’s world-wide, is what I’m saying, the search for comfort, for pleasure, for oblivion. Life is hard, life is earnest, for many; why should they not grab relief of whatever kind when they come across it? I tell you, the Prohibition that the United States suffers from won’t do any good, morally speaking, which presumably is what the instigators were after – unless of course they did it just because they could get away with it, removing the anodyne of millions, because they enjoyed depriving people of pleasure. The real Puritan ethic. Of the dog in the manger variety. Thank heavens there have been some to fight back against the purification of society. From mediaeval times, in fact. You should look up the book in our library, called Carmina Burana, which is a multilingual anthology of drinking songs, love songs, and satires, out of the Middle Ages. Circa 1200 I think. See if Elizabeth Huxton can translate things for you. She can handle Late Latin obviously, and probably the old German, like Walther von der Vogelweide.

“Now go away and let me finish my story in peace.”

Matthew nodded and left without replying. Sometimes, he thought, she seems so reasonable in what she says, and sometimes so diabolically wicked and cruel! I wonder what she’s really like, what she is basically, deep down?

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

    Sunday 26th July

By the fire

Mrs Grainger came into the room and clapped her hands. “Catherine! It’s time for your bath.”

The girl looked at her with a piteous expression, but began to go to the bathroom, her hands twitching at her side. Then she stopped and looked up at her employer. “There’s no witnesses! Oh!”

Lydia Grainger said only “Here. You’ll bathe here in front of the fire. Mireio!”

The girl appeared, to be told in rapid French to bring the bathtub and fill it. Catherine stood in some puzzlement and looked at Mrs G, who smiled thinly and said merely “Take off your clothes, Catherine, get ready for the bath.”

Mireio brought in a large tin tub and put it down in front of the fire, arranging some pots on the coals to heat the water. Catherine took off her shoes and stockings and undid the buttons on her frock. By the time she’d removed the garment Mireio was pouring hot water into the tub and testing it with her elbow. Off came the knickers, and she was dabbing her toe into the water. Mireio muttered “Tout prêt, ready for you,” and stood back, looked at Mrs Grainger and left the room.

Catherine stepped delicately into the bath and took hold of her shift to draw it over her head, when there was a noise of feet in the passage and four boys came into the room. Catherine looked at them in panic, and they looked at her in amazement. Mrs G however welcomed them in and bade them sit at the table to take a glass of wine. They did so, ogling Catherine with grins on their faces. She thought about getting out, but Mrs G gestured to her. “All right, girl, carry on! Take that off and start washing!”

With a moan Catherine lifted her shift over her head and off, showing her entire body to the boys, raising her breasts and making them give little sounds of admiration. She sat down quickly and began listlessly to cover her body with soap. They drank their wine and gazed at her contentedly. She was hidden from their gloating while she sat, but she would have to get out sometime, and dry herself, and they would, she knew, still be there, for Mrs G was engaging them in conversation, evidently making arrangements for their help in the garden and elsewhere on the little estate, and they were all too ready to tarry while they could gaze at a naked girl.

Inevitably the time came – she was finished and couldn’t delay longer. Mrs G gestured to her to come out of the tub, and she slowly arose, shielding herself from the libidinous looks of the teenagers. “Ha, Catherine!” said Mrs Grainger, “A fine sight you make! Just like Venus rising from the sea-foam. All right, get out and we’ll get you dry.”

Cheeks flaming, Catherine came out and stood there looking around for a towel. Mrs Grainger rapidly told the boys to take a couple of fluffy towels from a chest by the window and take them to the girl. She was aghast at this but her anguish increased when they were told to dry her body. Eagerly they set about the task, and took great care to be sure every inch of her was dry, feeling her blushing skin and murmuring their pleasure at the agreeable occupation. Those who hadn’t already put their hands to her most intimate parts now did so, fondling her excited breasts, stroking the rounds of her buttocks and fingering her anus, feeling her seam and passing the hand over her pubis to rest for a worshipful moment on her trembling vulva. At length they admitted she was dry all over, and Mrs G thanked them and nodded them out, eyeing their bulging trousers with a cynical smile and telling them they’d be seeing more of the pretty girl when they came to work. They looked at each other and grinned lecherously. This would be an interesting place to work in!

She looked at the scarlet girl, now standing with drooping head, her hands by her sides, drawing great sighing breaths. “Well, Catherine! You didn’t really expect to escape your baths, did you? To have no witnesses? They didn’t get a chance to frig you unfortunately but we can’t have everything, can we. All right, get dressed. You can look forward to another bath like this next month. Or in a fortnight, more likely. The oftener the better. Meanwhile, you may keep yourself clean.” She left the kitchen and Catherine shed a few despairing tears. She was glad however that Matthew hadn’t witnessed her shame.

Amelia and Jennie found the boys as they were leaving and immediately noticed that they all sported erections. With a conspiring glance at each other they invited the boys to come for a short walk, making gestures and cooing “Come, come?” in a ludicrous sort of way, as Jennie thought, but it worked. Behind a clump of trees they halted and brazenly embraced the boys, who were not reluctant to join the fun. Then the fingers got busy, and soon those erections, which had just begun to die, were in full flower again. No words needed to be exchanged, but each party made grateful noises and exclamations. The boys couldn’t believe their luck as they were rubbed into ejaculation, every one of them, the others taking an interval to tease the two clitorides into blushing thrills. This would indeed be a very interesting workplace….

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

Monday 27^th July

Lydia goes to town, sees doctor and barber, giving notice of business. The pair wander over the countryside – finding nice places to hug.

“Well,” said Mrs Grainger, putting her gloves down on an occasional table, “I’ve just been talking to the doctor—”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Catherine. “What’s wrong?”

Mrs Grainger frowned. “Don’t be impertinent! It’s nothing to do with you. But in the conversation you were mentioned, and Dr Fauré suggested you be given a full physical examination. When was the last time a doctor looked at you?”

Catherine racked her brains as Matthew came in with a couple of letters. Mrs G looked at him and said “You too.”

“What?”

“I’ve been talking to the doctor—”

“Oh dear! What—”

“For God’s sake,” she sputtered angrily, “it doesn’t matter! But he wants to give you a physical examination.”

“Oh no! But—”

Catherine broke in. “It was only a couple of months ago, madam, Dr Braithwaite, you remember?”

“Ah yes, that’s true,” said Lydia, smiling in reminiscence. “In front of a dozen boys!”

Catherine flushed and drew in her breath. “Yes,” she said, “and it was awful! But I don’t need another one, surely? Or Matthew either!” Her friend looked at their employer and shivered. Somehow, he just knew an embarrassment was in the offing.

“Yes,” Lydia continued, “I’ve arranged a full physical exam for you. Braithwaite was not all that thorough, you know. Besides, some things, like a faeces test or a urine sample, weren’t possible.”

Matthew’s eyes grew big and he glanced quickly at Catherine, who was looking worried.

“So let’s see. Catherine, you’ll go first, on the thirtieth. Matthew on the thirty-first. I don’t really believe he’ll find too much wrong with you, but better safe than sorry. So be prepared. I’ll send Catherine with Pascau, that’ll be convenient, and on the Friday, Pascau will be busy, so you can go in the donkey cart. Modestine knows the way I’m sure. She’s a remarkable animal. All right? Understood?”

They nodded, and a look passed between them. Yes, they each knew, something newly mortifying was planned. Their holiday from embarrassment couldn’t last. Somehow or other each of them was going to be exposed. At a doctor’s office it was always possible, Matthew supposed, but surely the doctor was habitually discreet, and how could he join in Mrs G’s humiliating designs? Surely all would be well….

*   *   *

That afternoon they wandered over some of the property hand in hand, wondering how extensive it was. Summerton was something like a working estate, of many hundred developed acres, besides quite a few left to themselves; but here apart from a small vegetable garden, a few grape vines, and a large field of olive trees the entire area was apparently left to its wild self. There were a few little hills, and a couple of what could be called crags, and they discovered two of the three unusual springs Abigail had talked about. Then in the shade underneath one of those crags they found a nice cool spot to relax in. They lay down, their arms about each other, and looked out at the sylvan scene before them.

“This is sheer beautiful,” murmured Matthew. “And to share it with you is Eden, so it is.” He put his other hand up to her breast and stroked it with gentle fingers. She gave a little shiver and smiled, then turned slightly to do the same to him. Through his thin shirt she felt the nipples on his chest suddenly move to erection, and she laughed. “Oh Matthew,” she breathed, “why not, in this Eden why not, take our pleasure of each other, give each other the pleasure of the gift?”

He smiled and proceeded wordlessly to unbutton her frock. She lay back and closed her eyes, allowing him to undress her completely before she opened them, then busying herself in her turn with the delightful task of denuding him – those sensitive nipples, his flat belly, his bare haunches, his neat feet, and oh, his marvellous cock, lying there against his thigh, beginning to stir in the open air and under her gaze.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, wondering about the grass under her arse.

“Oh yes, love,” she said, “it’s just like a bed. Oh, it reminds me of a poem—”

“A poem? What sort?”

As she began to move her loving hands over his body, she quoted what she called an old German poem her uncle had been fond of.

“Under the lime tree on the heather,
That’s where the bed that we shared was,
You’ll still find there, both together,
Flowers broken, ruffled grass.
By the forest in the dale,
Tandaradei!
Sweetly sang the nightingale.”

“That’s lovely! Who wrote it?”

“It’s an old German poem,” she said again, tracing his pectoral muscles, and he shrugged in pleasure. “Written by a chap called Walther von der Vogelweide. Way back in about 1200 I think. Round about the same time, or just before, as the monks of Reading were singing ‘Sumer is icumin in’. Uncle taught it to me. He made few bones about the facts of life, but oddly enough never did get round to instructing me in all the ins and outs, let’s call them! of the business of making love. But then he died unexpectedly. Mind you, I was very innocent, really, till I got to Cumberland at least…. I think he translated it himself. I used to be able to sing it in German, but I can’t remember much. Unter der linden an der Heide, da unser zweie Bette was…. It’s quite beautiful, and uncle made a nice tune.” She sang another verse to a sweetly melancholy air

“Through the meadow I did wander;
My dear lad was come before.
And what happened over yonder—
Makes me happy evermore.
Kisses thousand slaked my drouth;
Tandaradei!
See how red now is my mouth.”

“Oh, love, kisses thousand I’ll give you, and more!” He seized her shoulders and pulled her to him, she laughing in delight. Their mouths met, then their bodies, then their loins, and they eagerly embarked once more on the beautiful voyage of love.

Later they made it to the village, to find the teacher visiting the priest, and were welcomed with smiles and wine. The conversation ranged satisfyingly over lots of topics, from music to political history and local legends, and the children were fascinated, and flattered in fact, to be accepted as intellectual equals by these well-informed gentlemen. There were arguments of course.

“Yes, one can admit that there have been some bad popes. But that does not mean that they were not true leaders of the church. God can still speak through the mouth of a sinner! Wisdom and strength can come from the mouths of little children and those who suck at the teat—”

“Babes and sucklings!” said Catherine.

“Yes,” said Lebouc, “you know your Psalms, I see!”

The priest smiled and continued, “Well, so why not truth from a fornicator? A murderer, even one who does not believe in what he preaches? A fool can speak truth, with insight; which is why we say he is touched by God. So why not believe that a bad pope can still speak for God?”

“I think you’re thinking of such as Alexander the Sixth, Rodrigo Borgia – that entire family were less than sinless! Still, what you say is quite logical, granting the premise that God inspires the cardinals to choose the right man, chosen by God, really, so however unholy he is, he is still the Holy Father. Yes, but of course if we do not grant that premise, and I can see our young friends are a little unwilling to do that, then the entire fabric of the Mother Church falls. But enough of this. We taught Mathieu some chess last time. So now Catherine can learn, if you wish it, that is—”

“Oh, certainly, monsieur! Actually I know the basic moves, my uncle taught me.”

A shadow passed over her face. The priest caught it, and gently said “That was before you began to live with Madame Grainger, no? Well, daughter, you can regain some of that pleasant existence, remember the good things, by playing the world’s oldest game!”

She smiled, and they settled down to a foursome match, an adult and a child versus the others, and the time passed all too quickly.

Lebouc and Matthew allowed Catherine and Père Michel to win, and winked at each other. When the children left they were given a spare set of the game to play on their own, and practise for a return match. They waved goodbye with smiles and jogged back to the estate in a very good humour. Later that evening the others looked at them playing, and couldn’t believe their eyes. Mrs G shrugged and opened her book, and the other girls were resentful at being forced to fill in their time by washing and sweeping. They looked at the English books scattered about but found them old-fashioned and boring. Yes, they were bored to tears. Ah! There was a pack of cards. Fine, now they had some entertainment. Why had Mrs G picked them to attend to her whims? Oh well, at least they weren’t being worked to death. And those boys were in the offing, yes!

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

Tuesday 28th July

An unwelcome visitor

Catherine stopped on the threshold and said “Excuse me, I didn’t know you had visitors.”

Lydia smiled and said “That’s all right, Catherine! Come in. This is Monsieur Paul Folliet.” She indicated a cheerful looking man in his later thirties who nodded and said “Enchanté!” “And these are his sons, Jean and Pierre.” The boys grinned at her and muttered greetings. The elder, about sixteen, she thought, had tousled brown hair and a glint in his eyes for some reason. The younger, probably fourteen, had dark hair and a cheeky look to him.

Catherine summoned up her French and smiled, saying “Bonjour, monsieur Folliet, bonjour, garçons! Je m’appelle Catherine.”

Mrs Grainger smiled again and said “Catherine, you’ll be interested to hear that M. Folliet is the local barber.” The girl paused and a wild look came into her eyes.

She stared in panic at the visitors, then at Mrs Grainger, and stammered “M-Madam, you don’t m-mean—“

“Oh but I do, Catherine dear. M. Folliet assures me that he is perfectly capable of removing unwanted stubble from delicate areas. So I’ve asked him to clean up yours. Mireio!” The girl appeared, to be given instructions in high-speed French. She nodded and left. “Well, Catherine,” said the tyrant, “come over here to the couch. That’s it. You can lie here as you did before. Mr Reeves told us you’d probably need attention in a month, and here we are!”

Mireio appeared with a jug of hot water and a basin, and put them on the table. She looked without expression at Mrs Grainger, who dismissed her and addressed the barber. “Voila, M. Folliet,” she said, “tout est prêt. Continuez.” Catherine watched in trembling apprehension as the man prepared the shaving soap. Mrs G motioned to her to undress, and with a scared look at the boys, she began to unbutton her dress. She fumbled with the fastenings, and Mrs G stared at her and said “If you can’t manage it, Catherine, I can always ask the boys to help you. Do you want that?” She shook her head wordlessly and managed to undo her buttons and pull the dress over her head. As she took off her slip she understood Mrs G’s instructions only too well.

“I’m sure there’s not much to worry about, but it’s better to be sure, isn’t it? Shave her mount of Venus, and then her backside, and we can feel her skin just to be sure, can’t we? Oh, do her armpits as well, first. Fine. There she is. A pretty girl, isn’t she?”

“But yes, very much. How old is she?”

“Fifteen and a few months.”

“Ah, then she is just between the boys here! Come, miss, lie down.”

She stood before them totally nude, trying ineffectually to cover herself, knowing she’d soon be totally exposed. The barber repeated “Couche-toi!” and motioned to her to lie down on the divan and spread her legs, so giving access to her bare mons, and raise her arms above her head to allow him to shave her armpits, incidentally elevating her breasts alluringly. She was of course blushing violently, and he remarked on that with a playful smile to Mrs G and the boys, who were following all this avidly. M. Folliet made short work of her armpits, then carefully soaped his brush and applied it delicately to her crotch, causing her to shiver, and stood back to let the boys see clearly what he’d done. He spoke to them in what had to be the local dialect, pointing out his method perhaps, and they nodded eagerly. Next he took his straight razor and with even more delicacy of movement began to shave that hairless pubis, commenting from time to time to his curious children. Catherine lay there with eyes shut, her cheeks blazing and her lips moving in making little moans, but she didn’t dare move. When Folliet finished he carefully wiped off the last of the soap and held his hand out as if to say “There, boys, that’s how it’s done!”

He looked at Mrs Grainger, who told him to make sure about her behind, and he laughed and agreed. He looked carefully at Catherine and spoke rapidly to Mrs G. Catherine understood well enough what was said.

“We have to raise her to get at her bottom, madam. Unless you want to turn her round on all fours? Perhaps the boys…?”

“Why, yes. We’ve done it before. Boys, take her legs behind the knee and lift them to let your papa reach her bum.”

They seized her eagerly and she gave a little shriek as they raised her to expose her anus. “Good! Now hold her there.”

Folliet soaped up her seam and her anus and again, with slow and sure care, denuded her of any possible stubble. He knew of course, as did they all, that this was just an excuse to torment the girl with naked shame in front of male voyeurs.

He wiped her clean and said “Ah, madam, now the beautiful bottom is plainly more beautiful. But we make sure, no? Boys, let her down. Now feel how smooth she is.” Catherine squealed faintly as the pair of them laid hot hands on her mons, reaching through to her behind, and agreed that all was indeed smooth and silky. “And now, madam, there is perhaps a problem with itch—“

“Oh no, M. Folliet, that’s all right. Here, I have an ointment to be rubbed on to soothe the skin.” She produced her little jar and offered it to the youngsters.

“Here, boys. Why don’t you apply this, it’s a soothing cream. Pierre, you do her front and Jean can do the back.” They grinned in delight and grabbed the jar, eager to set about their task with a will. “Come next door, monsieur,” said Mrs Grainger, “and I’ll pay you, and you’ll take a glass of wine, surely? Boys, see to her. She’s in your hands.” With an enigmatic smile she led the barber out and the boys looked at each other.

Catherine opened her eyes to stare wildly at them. “S’il vous plaît, garçons,” she stammered, “please!”

Pierre didn’t pay her any attention. He put his hand on her waist and pulled up a leg to let his brother get at her rear. Jean got the cream on his fingers and spread it on her perineum, then directly on her anus. Catherine made choking noises that turned to soft screams as he poked a finger inside her. Egged on by his brother, he slid his finger in and out, and she twisted and tried to move away. Pierre seized her other leg and lifted them both up to let his brother get at her more easily. In and out went his finger, and the crimson girl couldn’t escape. When Jean tired of this amusement he told his brother it was his turn now – “There’s her cunt, go to it!”

Pierre grinned at her and smeared his fingers with the green salve. His brother pushed Catherine’s legs further apart, and Pierre quickly anointed the bare pubis, the groins, the mount of Venus, and the pink lips of the vulva. Then he glanced at his brother and deliberately pushed an inquisitive finger into her. She stared up at him wildly and tried to shift but he relentlessly pursued his object. Jean looked at him with a broad grin and made encouraging remarks, and Catherine soon gave up the struggle, knowing that Mrs G would want her to submit. Besides, she was beginning to get excited in spite of herself. She shivered and closed her eyes, and tried to escape mentally by imagining, as she’d done with Andrew, that it was Matthew who was administering the ointment, it was Matthew’s fingers inside her, touching her most sensitive part, bringing her, oh God, to an ecstasy again—! She gave a little cry as she spasmed, and the boys stood back to watch her ride on a sexual crest. Then she subsided and lay limply. Mrs G called the boys out and ushered them away with thanks for their participation. The man and his boys were profuse in their own thanks for their reception, and went away in wonderment, the boys trying to get their erections in order.

Mrs Grainger came back into the room and eyed the girl’s sweating body. “I believe you had an orgasm there, didn’t you? Hmm? I’m sure you enjoyed it. Well, perhaps you’d better go and wash thoroughly now. What’s the date?” Catherine got up and made to pick up her clothes.         “Leave them there. Go and wash. Ah yes, in another month we’ll be back in England. So next time it’ll be Reeves and young Jack, and Matthew rubbing your vulva.” Catherine shivered, and with downcast eyes padded listlessly to the bathroom. Lydia smiled in satisfaction. There were still opportunities for humiliation, oh yes! Then the smile left her face and she grimaced in discomfort. Her hand went to her abdomen, and she uttered a grunt. Tomorrow, she decided, she’d go to Marseille and see to things. Meanwhile, a glass of wine to wash down a pill or two….

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

Wednesday 29th July

Lydia goes to Marseille to consult. More talks with the priest and teacher – legends of Provence.

“I’m going to Marseille today,” said Mrs Grainger, “so if there’s anything you think we might need, or anything you want, come to that, let me know. Write it down, in fact. Amelia, Jennie, you’ll be with me to fetch and carry. Matthew! Anything that occurs to you?”

He looked at her in some bewilderment. “No, madam,” he said, “unless maybe you could get me a book on those painters? You know, the—”

“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Though you might find something in Vaulx, I suppose. All right. I’ll see. Van Gogh or some others. So, Catherine! Something for you?”

“No, madam,” she said, “but thank you. I can’t think of anything.”

Mrs Grainger looked at her a moment, then shrugged. “All right, then we’ll be off in a minute or two. You pair can help Mireio, and perhaps visit the village again. You seem to like that. Talking to the priest and so on. Hmm?”

She evidently found their interest in the villagers a little droll, and went out to the big old car with a cynical smile on her face. Matthew smiled at Catherine and said “Well, my love, we can do quite a bit while they’re away. We’ll help Mireio, then we’ll have a nice cuddle, then we’ll let Modestine take us to town. Eh?”

She smiled. “That sounds good,” she said. “And maybe we can sunbathe together….”

“Oh!” His eyebrows went up. “Of course! Well, a nice day, all things considered. Let’s see what Mireio would like. Ah, Catherine, don’t you think she’s nice, and her father too? I do like them. And Mrs G, have you seen, she treats them like …”

“I know what you mean, love. So let’s be extra nice to them, hmm? Let them know, let them realise, that not all English people are so stand-offish, so cold. So where is she?”

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

“Yes, there are many legends, which by definition almost, are stories that might not be true. For instance, about Gonfaron.”

“What is that?”

“It is a little town over there in Var, to the east, a nice little place, which has one legend, about a happening that gave a proverbial by-name to the town. Actually I’m not sure the inhabitants appreciate their fame. My second cousin lives there and he finds it a bit embarrassing. About this donkey.”

“Another donkey, like Modestine!”

“But yes, Catherine. It was in 1645, the day of the festival of Saint Quinis.”

“Who was he?”

“Ah, Mathieu,” said the priest, “he was a famous local saint. In the sixth century, in the Merovingian times. His mother went a pilgrimage to Arles when she was pregnant, and had a dream that her son would become bishop. And so it was, later. He was a very holy man, who is said to have worked miracles. He took part in some important ecclesiastical councils summoned by Childebert and Chilperic. As for miracles, General Patrice Mommol was the count of Auxerre, the governor of Provence. A great soldier, who had famous victories—”

“Ha!” Matthew smiled. “Sorry, I’m just remembering a poem about the Battle of Blenheim, which is repeatedly called ‘a famous victory’. Sardonically, of course. But anyway, General Mommol.”

“He came to Vaison and wasn’t pleased with the welcome he got from Quinis. After all, he was a famous general, an important victor over the Lombards, and his visit should really be a triumph like the old Romans used to do. But here he was, the bishop didn’t come out the gates to honour him, or make any great effort, although he extended a perfectly good reception as befitted his position as bishop. So Mommol began to swear at him, to curse him in public, and the bishop suffered his vituperation humbly, then retired to pray. The general was scarcely a mile away when he was struck down with paralysis. The doctors could do nothing for him, he was wasting away and at death’s door. His entourage took him to the feet of Quinis, who prayed over him, and he was forthwith whole again. He made a humble apology, and afterwards sent rich presents to the bishop, who gave them to the poor. Many more miracle cures are credited to him, lepers and the blind, and paralytics. They say it was through his intercession with God that Vaison, his see, was always spared from the plague. He was canonised by Innocent III in 1205.”

He looked at the teacher, who smiled at the explanation and continued.

“So there’s this Festival, where there’s a procession through the countryside. I don’t suppose you’ve seen many of these, it’s probably not an English thing to do, but here and in most Catholic places, I expect, the image of the saint, or the Blessed Virgin, a statue or a picture sometimes, is carried through the streets with music and singing, and banners and bells and flowers and so forth, and everyone turns out to see it and honour the saint.”

“It must be quite something to see,” smiled Catherine.

“Indeed it is,” said the priest. “By the way, the date would be the fifteenth of February, that’s his day.”

“It’s a special occasion,” continued Lebouc, “and so the villagers were asked to clean their front doors to let the statue and its train pass down the narrow streets. One of the townsfolk, a bad character, declared that he wasn’t going to clean up, and if the saint wanted to pass he had only to fly over.

“Well! The procession took place quite successfully, and some time after that, the wretch went up to the top of the hill on his donkey. The animal slipped on the … the roubine, what do you say?”

“Hmm, it’s an Occitan word and really means something like ‘loose soil’, I think.” The priest shrugged.

“Anyway, the ass slipped, and tumbled down, with his master, to the bottom of a ravine. The folk of Gonfaron saw in this accident a vengeance from the saint, and cried out “Saint Quinis has punished him, the donkey has flown!” And so that’s where the saying came from, ‘Gonfaron is the country where donkeys fly.’

The children laughed. M. Lebouc smiled and said “That’s a tale rooted in one spot, shall we say. But in regard to Provence as a whole, a bigger area, we have the story of Mary Magdalene.”

“In the Bible?” asked Catherine. “The New Testament?”

“Yes,” said the priest. “It’s a bit complicated, and M. Lebouc and I differ on the … details, how do you put it, the ins and outs of the affair. But the general drift is like this.

“Mary of Magdala caught the attention of the early Christians because she seems to have been the first female apostle of the creed. In the Gospels, Mary Magdalene is the woman that Christ freed from seven demons, and she then became his disciple. Her ‘sin’ is supposedly that of … prostitution,” he said apologetically. “She’s mentioned as having been present at the Crucifixion, at the foot of the cross, and it was to her, not one of the twelve, that Jesus appeared first on Easter morning, for she was among the women who went to the tomb to find it empty. She’s singled out, really, as being active in supporting the early church. She’s actually … what’s the word? – conflated, confused, combined, with other Marys, namely Mary of Bethany, sister of Martha and Lazarus, who put spikenard on Jesus’ feet, and the unnamed female sinner who similarly washed his feet with her tears. to be a sort of symbolic figure, a representative, of the faithful women in the early church. I am not going to go into the position of Saint Paul on whether women should preach or even pray uncovered. That’s a debatable thing we two nearly come to blows about. The tenth-century Christian Father Odo of Cluny gave a sermon about Magdalen’s life, though he was actually against women—”

“Odo!” exclaimed Matthew, remembering the sack of shit Lydia had spoken of.

“The priest looked at him in surprise. “You’ve heard of him?”

Matthew coloured and mumbled “Y-yes, h-he was on about beauty being only skin deep….”

Lebouc grinned as he understood the embarrassment and said “Exactly, Mathieu! And while we may disagree violently with the venerable father about the desirability of embracing … a compendium of awful things, we may accept him as a historian, albeit of a rather fantastic kind. No?”

The boy nodded, and looked at Catherine to indicate he’d fill her in later.

“So,” continued the priest, “he talked about her life, up until the Ascension that is, and started the whole thing off I suppose, but the main thing about her from our point of view is that she was in the party that journeyed from the Holy Land to Europe, to France, to Provence, to carry the Christian message to the heathen.”

“Oh!” said Matthew, “she came here? To convert the pagans?”

“Yes. Mathieu, so runs the legend. You realise that, as with many old tales, whatever the truth of the original story, it may be embellished and altered and improved, shall we say, in each telling, so that there may arise many different versions of the story.. Now these three saints who were the first witnesses to the empty tomb, Mary Salome, Mary Jacobe, and Mary Magdalene, were said to set sail from Alexandria, in Egypt, with their uncle Joseph of Arimathea and Lazarus. But according to our local traditions Magdalene was expelled from Palestine together with Martha and Lazarus and other saints in the first persecution against Christians. They included Sidonius, whose blindness had been cured, and Maximin, one of the seventy-two disciples, who had christened the Magdalene. Some say they were cast adrift – by Jews, supposedly, hostile to the new faith, in a vessel without sails, oars, or rudder, and after a miraculous voyage they arrived off the coast of Gaul, at a place now called Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

“It’s situated in the Rhône River delta, about one kilometre east of the mouth of the Petit Rhône distributary. It is of course a pilgrimage destination. For les tziganes, the Gypsies, also, who gather yearly for a religious festival in honour of Saint Sarah. She was either the servant of the three Marys, or a local woman, of Gaul, who helped them land when the sea was rough, through another miracle. There’s a statue of her in the crypt of the church, which also has, I’m told, an old altar once used in the taurobolia, where a bull was sacrificed. It was connected with the cult of Mithra.”

“Which we can go into another time,” said the teacher, looking at his watch.

“As to their apostolic work, Mary Magdalene preached in Marseilles in the company of Lazarus, then she settled on a mountain, Saint-Baume, in a grotto, for thirty-three years of solitude, as a contemplative hermit. When she died her body was buried at the nearby church of St. Maximin, who had gone to Aix, where he eventually became bishop. Of course there are many stories about the Magdalene’s miraculous intercessions for believers who have prayed to her or honoured her memory in other ways. A remarkable woman, by any account. She was the first female saint to have a college dedicated to her at Oxford!”

“And then,” said the teacher with a playful grin at his friend, “there’s her son. The German poet Rainer Maria Rilke has a poem, "Visions of Christ", which depicts Mary Magdalene as the mother of Jesus’ child.”

“What!”

“Yes, Catherine, I know, it’s not in the Gospels, and it sounds blasphemous, but the legend does exist. I must say that those who argue for the humanity of Jesus, and not his godhood, you understand, have no difficulty in accepting the idea. And even granting his divinity, he also became human, thoroughly so. If I may mention it, the early representations of Christ don’t make … ils ne font ni une ni deux … what is your English idiom?”

“I think, Father, you mean ‘don’t make any bones about it’. Yes?”

“Ah yes, Catherine, thank you. They make no bones about his human form, whether he is the naked child or the stripped victim, as Michelangelo shows us in his statue of the risen Christ.”

She hesitated, with a little flush, and said “Yes, Father, he is naked – altogether naked? – to show how he has accepted the burden of humanity. I understand.”

“But that would mean, wouldn’t it,” said Matthew, “that she probably had her kid in that boat, and he grew up in France!”

Lebouc smiled mischievously. “Yes, Mathieu, and so he could have been in the party that brought the faith to England.”

Seeing their puzzlement, he explained: “The preaching of the news was not confined to France, why should it be? Let it go to the isle of Britain, which is full of pagan Celts who practise Druidism. I think it was Joseph of Arimathea who is supposed to have travelled there, to a place called Glastonbury, where he lay down to sleep and planted his staff in the ground, When he woke it had rooted and bore flowers. It was a symbol of the resurrection, you see.”

Matthew shook his head in confusion. “That’s the Glastonbury thorn I’ve heard about! So anyway, what about the others? Lazarus and company?”

“They separated,” said the teacher, “and preached in various places in that south-east quarter. Lazarus went to Marseille. He converted many people to Christianity there, and became the first Bishop of Marseille. During the persecution of Domitian, in anno Domini 81, he was imprisoned and beheaded in a cave beneath the prison. His body was later translated to Autun, where he is buried in the Autun Cathedral, dedicated to Saint Lazare. His head however, is still supposedly at Marseille. St Martha went to Tarascon, where Tartarin lived, and founded a convent before dying in sanctity at an advanced age.”

“Tartarin?” said Catherine.

Father Michel laughed. “M. Lebouc is joking, Catherine. Tartarin of Tarascon is a novel from … fifty years ago or so, by Alphonse Daudet.”

“Oh! Who wrote about the pope’s mule!”

“Correct, Catherine!” The priest smiled hugely. “Tartarin is a renowned hunter of no experience who has to prove himself by shooting a lion. It’s a very funny story, though an animal-lover might not appreciate it.”

“But come,” said M. Lebouc, “what about a game of chess, hmm?”

They had another glass of wine and fell to the game with good humour.

Later that evening Mrs G reminded Catherine about her doctor’s appointment, and the girl gritted her teeth and muttered “Yes, madam.” She was making her way to the bathroom when she heard Jennie muttering something to Amelia about the boring day, and she asked what the problem was.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Jennie, “and nothing to do with you. Or us, I suppose. Mrs G kept us waiting for an hour while she was consulting some expert or specialist or something. About what, I’ve no idea. But there we were with nothing to do but wait. We couldn’t understand what was going on around us, not knowing the language or anything, couldn’t speak to anyone, didn’t even have a book to read. It was boring as hell.”

“But naturally we couldn’t complain,” said Amelia with a scowl. “That reminds me, why are you getting a special doctor’s appointment? And Matthew too?”

“I’m sorry,” said Catherine, somewhat taken aback, “I didn’t think to ask. It was the doctor who suggested it, God knows why. But why don’t you tell Mrs Grainger? Ask her! She—”

“She’ll take it as impertinence, and let us know about it! Don’t you know yet how severe she can be, how hard?”

Catherine subsided. “Oh yes, I know,” she said. “Oh, I know!”

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

Thursday 30th July

A neighbour visits. Catherine is at the doctor for a check-up.

“Are you moping because Catherine is away seeing the doctor? Why don’t you sunbathe, Matthew? Out on the lawn. Read the book I got you.”

He stared at her, then drew in his breath and muttered “Yes, why not? I’ll wear my underpants, and get the rest of me tanned.”

She smirked. “Yes, that’ll do for the nonce. There’s that lotion we have, you’d better use that, you’ve got to watch for a burn, and a pair of dark glasses also. That should do. Away you go. I’m going to be here with my novel. It’s a jolly love story of young folk in the Tyrol, called The Constant Nymph. You should read it, it may give you ideas.” Her smile broadened. “All right, away you go. I suggest,” and she looked at him meaningfully with a command, “that you undress in your room and go out there to lie on a big bath towel. Fine.” She dismissed him and turned to her book.

Some time later she laid the book aside and went out to the grass. Matthew was lying on his front, seemingly asleep. Lydia spoke sharply. “Matthew! Don’t doze like that, you’ll be getting burnt. Do you have the lotion?”

He opened his eyes and turned his head. “Oh yes,” he said, “I’ve got some on. I’m fine.”

She sniffed. “I really think you should try tanning all over. Give me your underpants.”

He gasped. “M-Madam, I don’t really—”

“Yes you do,” she said inexorably. “Give me your pants.” He knew all protest was in vain, and with a long-suffering sigh and a scowl at her smiling face he removed his one garment and held it out. “No,” she said, “go indoors and put them in the laundry basket.” She followed him with her eyes as he obeyed her, and came back to lie down once more. “There!” she said, “isn’t that better?” He grunted and closed his eyes, hoping the girls wouldn’t arrive for a while. But then again, they’d seen all of him. As for Mireio, he instinctively knew she would respect his privacy. He grimaced and tried to ignore Mrs G, who he knew was enjoying (for the umpteenth time) the look of his bare buttocks, as he bethought himself to spread a little lotion on his backside. She shrugged and went back to her book, from time to time looking out onto the lawn to where he was sprawled on a large white bathtowel, and after a while forgot about him. Then Mireio came in to ask about tea. Lydia thought a moment, then answered in nonchalant French.

“Yes, let’s have it. Where are the others?”

“They went for a walk some time ago, madam. Do you wish to wait for them?”

Before she could reply there was a ring at the doorbell and the girl went off to answer it. She returned in a moment to say “Madam, it’s the neighbour, M. Morelli, from the old Matalone estate, you remember?”

“Good God,” she said, “has that been taken? When was that?”

“It was six months ago, madam, an Italian gentleman and his family. He’s come to pay his respects.”

“Oh, why not. Send him in, and he can share in the tea. If he drinks it. Ask him.” Mireio went off and Lydia heaved a sigh. She’d been hoping to be somewhat isolated in her little domain, but she couldn’t really refuse to be charming to a neighbour. Morelli? She’d heard the name before. Anyway, she’d soon find out.

M. Morelli was a tall dashing-looking fellow of about thirty-five with dark eyes and dark curly hair. He shook her hand vigorously and addressed her in English, to which she replied in Italian, which charmed him. He presented two of his daughters, twins of fourteen, called Carla and Rosa, who curtsied politely and stood back to allow their father to converse with the chatelaine. Yes, he would take English tea! What a pleasant little place she had here! And where was Mr Grainger?

She explained her presence and enquired about his. It appeared he had a difference of opinion with the new ruler of Italy, Mr Mussolini, and so he had left his homeland for the liberty of France. He himself was a widower of sorts – he admitted that his wife of sixteen years had left him a while ago for an actor in films. He also was in the business, he told her, and hoped to continue making films in France. She confessed she couldn’t recall seeing any of his productions, though his name was rather familiar. That, he said, was because they were short films of a specialised kind. Not really expected to interest the ordinary public, and so rather ignored by cinemas and critics.

“I’d like to see one,” said Lydia. “Did you bring any with you?”

“Oh, madame, I brought everything with me. My films, my cameras, my servants, my daughters. I must warn you that my films are not … ordinary. Maybe even shocking.”

Her eyes brightened. “Signor Morelli, believe you me, I am not unused to the ways of the world and the facts of life, if that’s what you mean. I’ve seen a few things about naked natives, and I know about the more squalid, shall we call it, side of life. I am, as they say, broad-minded, modern in my thinking. Don’t worry about shocking me. So produce your films. But come, tell me about your family. These are your twin daughters.”

“Yes, the twins. I have two more, Lucia and Fiorella, aged fifteen and thirteen. There’s also my stepson, Marco. He just had his sixteenth birthday. He just arrived last week.” In answer to a questioning look, he explained, “He’s been living with his mother, but he hasn’t been getting on with her new man, so they agreed to send him here to me, along with a friend. And what about your family?”

“Ah, signore, we didn’t have children. The young folk you’ll see around here are servants. Three girls are out right now, and the fourth admitted you. The boy on the lawn is another.”

He stood up to look out, and saw the teenager lying in the sun. “Ah,” he said, “bello! Si, com'è bello! Quale incanto in quel volto onesto e altero! Do you know Donizetti’s opera, Lucrezia Borgia? How old is he?”

“Fifteen and six months, more or less,” said Lydia. “Do you want to meet him?”

Morelli smiled. “Very much,” he said.

“Come, then. And your delightful daughters.”

His smile grew to a grin. “Yes! Carla, Rosa, come.”

They made their way out to the lawn, and the girls gave little exclamations of pleased surprise at the sight of the nude boy relaxed on the towel. Mrs Grainger said “Matthew! Wake up! We have visitors!” She gazed at him in amusement as he roused himself, looked up, then scurried to hide behind a corner of the towel and cast about for some other cover.

“Good day, young man! I am Luigi Morelli, an Italian film maker. These are my daughters Carla and Rosa. Say hello, children.”

The girls giggled and murmured greetings. Matthew babbled some sort of response, and looked pathetically at Mrs Grainger as if to say why are you doing this to me again?

She pursed her lips and looked sardonic. “You’ll be getting a good tan at this rate,” she said. “Have you put on your lotion? I suggest you put on some more, all over, especially on your middle and your bottom. It’s been in the sun now for ages. Where’s the lotion?” He pointed a shaking finger at the container, close to her feet. “Well,” she said, “will you come and get it?” He looked desperately at her. “No, well, Carla, Rosa!” She spoke to them in Italian. “Take this to the shy boy over there, and you can help him put on the lotion. So that his delicate skin doesn’t burn. Go on, help him. On his bottom and everywhere.” The girls picked up the bottle and advanced on the poor boy who quailed to see them approach with excited grins. “And bring me that towel! Yes, thank you, child! That’s it! Yes, come inside, signor Morelli, and we’ll have English tea.” Her visitor, vastly amused at the turn of events, followed her shaking his head.

As she poured tea, listening with half an ear to giggles and agonised squeals of protest from the lawn, she asked her neighbour about his work, and they discussed film and photography in general. “You will have to come and visit us, Mrs Grainger,” he said. “Bring your girls and the boy with you. I would photograph them, and I will run a few of my films for you.”

“What sort of subjects have you done, signore?”

“Ah, madam, some are very short, only a few minutes long, and there are a few of some length. Half an hour, forty minutes. I fully intend, mind you, to make a complete film, shall we call it, of the same length, say, as Chaplin’s The Kid, a six-reeler. For the moment, though, I am content to emulate Chaplin in his shorter repertoire. You ask about subjects; well, I made one last year lasting ten minutes, which was, I like to think, an artistic rendition of a sultry strip-tease. You spoke of naked natives, well, there’s another one I made nearly two years ago, featuring some African tribesmen (and women, believe me), doing a dance in the middle of the village, ostensibly for fertility. For the crops, you understand?”

“Hm,” she said, “that should be interesting. Anyway, signor Morelli, I thank you. I’ll take you up on that. I do think you’ll like filming the servants. Children, really, they’re fifteen and sixteen, and they’re all rather good-looking. I choose them carefully.”

“Excellent, madam! And may I say, a very good tea. I love the English tea with crumpets and cakes!”

“Tell me about your son. Stepson. Marco, is it?”

“Yes, Marco. He is the son of my wife, by a previous marriage. He has just had his sixteenth birthday, as I said. He is a delightful boy. So is his friend, Amadeo Cardinale, who is I suppose a few months younger. They are inseparable, which is why they came together. Amadeo’s parents are at present in England. They are musicians, on a little tour. May I have a little more tea?”

“Oh, of course! And try that cake. I don’t know quite when we will visit. Perhaps I’ll send the boy and his friend, Catherine, first, then the others, who are my two maids, when I come to see the films. Hmm? That should work. You can photograph Matthew and Catherine first, that is, as a pair, maybe, and I might as well tell you you may pose them entirely as you wish. Don’t allow them to object to anything. The other two likewise, who will I think be a little less reluctant to be exposed. How are you settling in? My local maid here, Mireio, tells me you’ve been there six months or so.”

“Yes, madam, and we are enjoying the place very much. We have carried out repairs, you may know the place has been empty for years, and it’s looking very handsome and comfortable.”

“I remember seeing it when I was here last. At that time it was very run down. But it had potential, the architecture was good, and for a while I thought of buying it myself, to restore. I’ll be very interested to see what you’ve made of it.”

They finished their little meal shortly and she took him on a tour of the estate, collecting the twins on the way, who had evidently rubbed Matthew all over with the lotion, and he was sitting there blushing, his erection pointing up, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. “Ah, Matthew! I hope you’ve been nice to the girls. I’m sending you and Catherine over to Mr Morelli’s place shortly. It should be interesting for you. He’s a photographer and cinéaste. All right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but swept off with the visitors.

The boy curled up in mortification and shivered at the thought of meeting them again. And then he had the memory of that picture session at the school, and he got the awful feeling that something similar awaited them. He looked up to see Mireio looking at him sympathetically, holding out a big towel. He took it with a grateful smile. “Merci, Mireio. It’s thoughtful of you.” She smiled in her turn. “Rien, Mathieu!” She turned and went into the house, and he knew he had a friend in her, at least. He’d got the impression that she didn’t really like her employer very much. Then he wondered how Catherine was getting on at the doctor’s.

Catherine at the surgery

Pascau parked not far away from their destination, and directed Catherine to the doctor’s place, saying he’d be there in half an hour, expecting the examination wouldn’t take very long. She thanked him and walked along the street enjoying the sun on her bare arms. She was wearing a light summer dress with short sleeves, and attracted a few admiring looks from the locals. She opened the door of the building to find herself in a sort of lobby which gave onto what must be the waiting room: several chairs, a desk, medical diagrams and certificates on the walls, and a portrait of a man in his sixties, labelled “M. le President Gaston Doumergue”. After a minute a tall middle-aged man in a white overall entered to greet her in French, to which she answered with some self-satisfaction, and he smiled, He continued in English. “Permit me to practise my English, mademoiselle! You will be Miss Catherine Hammond, the English servant of Mme Grainger, no? And you are here for a thorough physical examination. Well now, come through here with me, please.” He led her to another room which evidently doubled as examination room and a medical store, featuring a table with stirrups at one end “for pelvic examinations”, said the doctor, bringing a flush to the girl’s cheek.

“Well now! I am Doctor Fauré. Not the same family, alas, as the celebrated composer! But it is a good old Occitan name, I assure you! All right, take off your clothes and put them over there, and I will return shortly.” She obeyed, and hid behind the curtain that surrounded the examination table. She pondered whether to draw it completely, but thought that was foolish over-modesty, and waited by the table. Fauré returned and set about getting her statistics. She was weighed and measured and tapped and peered into, and the doctor filled in a chart. Then he took her over to the commode and asked her to provide a urine sample. This she did, with a red face, which increased in hue as he asked her to raise her legs to provide some access to her anus. This was for the collection of stool, he said, and he got a little on a swab, which he examined closely and laid aside for future analysis.

Then he positioned her facing the table and excused himself a moment. She saw with a twinge of anxiety that he hadn’t closed the curtain, and her heart leapt to her mouth when she heard the door open and a lighter step behind her. There was an “Oh!” from a young voice, and she turned to see a boy of sixteen or seventeen bearing a box, which he took over to the shelves and proceeded to open. She stared at him with a blush as he took out the contents – jars and packets, presumably of medicaments – without looking at her, though he addressed her nonchalantly with “Bonjour, mademoiselle!” She shakily replied, and turned back to the table, conscious of her bare behind, but thankful he hadn’t come in any earlier.

Fauré came back, and said “Ah, you have met my son. This is François. He helps me in the surgery.” He addressed his next words to the boy. “This is Mlle Catherine, a servant of the English lady, Mme Grainger. She’s here for a thorough examination. You may be ready to help.” Catherine understood the French, and began to tremble. This boy, just a bit older than she, would help? But where was the nurse? Surely he had a nurse? As if reading her thoughts, Fauré said “Today my nurse is busy at school.” School? What did he mean? “So here is François, who can help if necessary. Calm yourself.” It was all very well for him, but Catherine just knew, without looking, that the boy was gazing at her in pleasure, with no medical detachment.

The doctor set about looking at her body in more detail, and the boy left, to her relief. After a few minutes of inspection and note-taking, Fauré indicated the table. “Please mount the table,” he said. “Ah, here is François, he will assist you.” She gave a smothered whimper as the boy put down another box and came over to put his hands on her thigh, grinning as he did so in evident bawdy pleasure at the chance. He helped her up, his hands warm on her skin, touching her breast by accident, surely, and eyeing the rest of her. Once there, he helped his father fit her feet into the stirrups and position her at the end so that her behind was presented to the viewer, her perineum, her vulva and her anus, the feet raised to elevate the buttocks and show everything. She was blushing furiously, and making protesting noises, but the doctor frowned and said “Hush, do not make a fuss. François is a mature boy. He helps in the surgery, as I said. Now be calm and lie back as I examine you. François, go on with the supplies.”

Fauré tutted to himself. “Yes, hm, hm, perhaps….” His son finished putting the medicines and packages on the shelves, and left, with a grinning glance back at her. The doctor peered more closely at Catherine’s crotch, frowning and making questioning noises, then turned to greet another boy who came in with another large box. “Louis! Good, you’re helping François. I’m glad.”

Catherine gave a squeal as she saw his face light up when he saw the scene before him. He quickly went past and began to unload his packages, and his friend came in with another little box. “That’s all, papa,” he said. “More coming next week.”

“Good,” said Fauré absently, wrinkling his features to stare at Catherine’s seam. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Mademoiselle, have you been wandering in wild places, sunning yourself, perhaps bathing in a stream? Have you been in contact with insects? Or wild plants?” She admitted she probably had, having explored the countryside, and he nodded. “I ask because you have signs of an infection there. François,” he spoke to his son in English, “perhaps you should see this.” She gulped as the boy came over eagerly to stare at her nudity. “You see, my son, it’s very easy to make out problems when the pubis is shaved like this.”

“It’s fine,” said the boy, with some relish.

“But yes,” said his father, “and so look, she has a rash of some sort on the perineum, which has spread some centimetres to the neighbourhood of the anus. This needs looking at. Oh, Louis! A moment. Do you have any Medicrème there? I know we ordered some.”

“Yes, sir, here it is.”

“Good. Bring it here.”

She closed her eyes in anguished mortification as the other boy joined them at the foot of the examination table, and trembled as Fauré pointed out the trouble, speaking to them in English, to practise, as he said, and probably so that she would well understand what he was talking about. The boys made sounds of interest and looked from her crotch to her face with grins. “Well, we might as well apply it. First, get that cloth, Louis, moisten it with this lotion here. That’s right. Now swab the area carefully.” She was silently screaming as the boy carefully wiped her entire genital area, murmuring in a pleased way to himself. “There! Now the cream. Listen, Catherine, you will find it difficult to apply the ointment by yourself, and you will have to have it done by someone else. For now, there’s no reason why François and Louis cannot do it. Here, boys, you see the problem? Apply the ointment, rub it well in, then wait for five minutes and apply it again. Catherine, hold still. They are helping you.”

With that he left the room, muttering something about a telephone, and she looked up at the eager faces of the boys who were going to rub ointment on her seam? Oh God! Then François started, putting his fingers to the perineum, the few centimetres separating her anus from her vulva. He rubbed the ointment in slowly and thoroughly, looking from time to time at her face, to catch her wild eyes and hot cheeks, as she threw her head from side to side as if to say No, no, please! His friend followed his actions intently, nudging him to say he could help. Catherine was near hysterics but clamped down on her emotions, which (she admitted) were a mixture of hot shame and hotter arousal.

Then he was at her arse, and another finger poked into her bowel. Then he was at her vulva, and the clitoris. She couldn’t help herself, she came with a little cry, and the boys laughed to see her spasming, lifting her pelvis higher as if to meet an invisible penis. The orgasm left her weary, but they weren’t finished yet. For the moment, however, they relaxed and tried to make conversation, which struck the girl as absurd in the shameful circumstances. The boys were eager to practise their English, and asked her where she came from, whether she went to school, did she have a special friend, what did she think of France, Paris, Vaulx? She felt silly answering them in her position, laid out like that, her buttocks, anus, seam and vulva on plain display, but she talked to them and asked them the same sort of questions, trying to forget for a moment her humiliating predicament.

Then the five minutes were up, and now Louis took over to apply cream to her perineum and groin, then to ease his slick finger into her anus, where he lingered for quite some time, then to her vulva. She was once more swooning with shame and hot with arousal, and finally spasmed again in ecstasy. They looked at each other in seeming triumph, and at her with what looked like pride. Catherine took deep breaths and tried to calm down and slow her thudding heart, and looked up at the boys as if to ask how they felt, but realised that was ridiculous. And Fauré, now; how would he take it?

…………………………………………………………….

“Mme Grainger? This is Dr Fauré. In regard to your servant Cathérine, who is here just now. I’ve discovered what appears to be an infection of her genital area, the perineum especially. It’s being treated right now with ointment—”

“Your nurse is treating her? I thought she was away, you told me.”

“Well, no, my son is putting it on. Don’t be disturbed, he’s—”

“Oh no, doctor, I don’t mind. In fact I’m pleased Catherine can be used to educate the young man.”

“In that case,” said Fauré with something of a grin, “you approve of another friend of his helping also?”

“But of course, why not? Between ourselves, doctor, these young people need to lose some of their so-called modesty. And on the other hand, boys should be made familiar with the bodies of girls, and vice versa. So they’re putting on an ointment, yes?”

“Yes, madame, and I’ve told her she can’t really apply it herself – someone else has to do it. Twice a day. And I’ll be asking her to come back for another check, and maybe application of the ointment, in two days’ time. Is that convenient?”

“Oh yes, I believe so. I suppose she can drive herself in the donkey cart. Excellent. And I think you’d better check the genitals of the boy I’m sending tomorrow.”

“May I ask, madame, if they have sexual relations, to pass on an infection? I don’t mean it’s an actual venereal disease, but—”

“Oh goodness, doctor, I wouldn’t be surprised, frankly, but maybe we can leave that till we find out the state of his organs.”

“Very well, madame. And I think it will suit if my daughter attends that examination. Will you permit? She, by the way, is quite young, fifteen actually, but keen to become a nurse.”

“Ah! That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m looking for. And if she has a suitable friend, like your son, I don’t mind, that’s even better. I trust you to make arrangements. So then Catherine comes back in two days, and the boy likewise, hmm? With the same arrangement. Yes, excellent.”

Dr Fauré came back into the examination room to find the boys wiping sweat from the brow of the girl, who was blushing hard. “We’ve applied the salve twice, papa, to all the area. Louis helped.”

“Good, boys,” said Fauré, and addressed the girl in English. “Now, mademoiselle, the ointment is to be applied twice a day. By someone else. You must return in two days’ time for a check. In the meantime, let the air get at your body. Do not wear drawers – if possible, wear nothing below the waist. All right? Very well. Boys, get her dressed, but leave off her drawers. Give her the tin of salve. Au revoir, mademoiselle.” With that he left, and a weary girl was released from the stirrups and helped down, to be dressed by grinning boys, who were looking forward, as they told her unashamed, to the next examination. They handed her her knickers and showed her out, patting her on the behind. She stood for a minute shaking her head to clear it, then walked along to where Pascau was snoozing at the wheel. What should she tell Matthew about the exam? And what could she do about wearing nothing on her bum?

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

That afternoon Mrs Grainger entered the living room to see Catherine taking off her dress, and stood for a second to admire her. Then she spoke to her briskly. “Catherine, Dr Fauré told me that you have an ointment to put on.”

“Yes, madam, I—”

“And that it should be put on by someone else.”

Catherine looked at her dismayed. “Y-yes, madam, I—”

“Well now. Where is it? Bring it outside.”

The girl frowned in puzzlement but went to her room and came out onto the lawn with the tin of salve, to find Mrs G in conversation with a young boy of twelve or so, the sight of whom caused a flush to the half-dressed girl. He was introduced to her as Ugues, “a version of Hugh, you can understand. I’ve explained the difficulty to him and he’s very interested in helping.” Catherine blushed violently and moistened her lips.

“M-madam, please, you’re not—”

“Oh but I am, dear. It could be anybody, really, but Matthew is off helping Pascau with the restanques somewhere and I think it would be good to have this boy introduced. Ugues, tell the girl how eager you are to help her trouble.”

The boy looked at her with shining eyes and made some voluble comment to her in more rapid French than she could assimilate, then looked at Mrs Grainger and thanked her for the chance.

“That’s fine, my boy,” she said. “Now take the salve from Catherine here and get it on your fingers. Catherine, give it to him, and pull up your slip.”

She swallowed a sob and obeyed, baring her loins to the erotic glee of the twelve-year-old, who approached her, his eyes on her clean-shaven delta, and the beginning of a bulge to be seen in his trousers.

“Now, Catherine, part your legs, for goodness sake, he has to get in there! Ugues, child, you’ll put your hand under her to smear the salve on her bum-hole and her puss, quite thoroughly. Go ahead.”

He licked his lips and extended his hand to her quailing body, and stuck his eager fingers right on her perineum with an exclamation of triumphant pleasure. He could hardly believe that the mistress was allowing him to do this, was commanding him to do this, and glanced over at her with a grateful grin as he started to move his hand over that marvellous spot. He put his other hand to the girl’s shivering hip and fixed his admiration on her delicious con, whose outer lips were quickly becoming as rosy as her cheeks.

“Ugues, be sure to wipe that whole area, the hole of her bum, the seam in the middle, her groins, her vulva, what you call the puss, don’t you? Catherine! Stand up straight, you sloven! Push out your pelvis so that Ugues can reach you nicely. Are you getting excited? I can see you are, your cunt is blushing like you, and your water is beginning to seep! You like it, don’t you? Don’t deny it. Now Ugues, pause a minute. Catherine, turn round, and bend over a bit. The boy will reach you a bit better perhaps. There, now, Ugues, rub her bum from that side. That’s it. It feels different, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, madame! Oh, madame! It’s tremendous! Thank you for letting me do this. She’s a great girl, she’s….”

“Yes, isn’t she? Catherine, you should see the erection the boy has got. For a tyke not yet in his teens he’s well-endowed, an eight-incher if I know one! How do you feel? Answer me!”

Catherine couldn’t reply. She was panting noisily by now, and trembling, and suddenly thrust out her hands to the side as she thrust her vulva forward, dislodging the boy’s fingers, and gave a small scream as she entered orgasm. He stood back and looked at her, then at madame, and a great grin came over his perky face.

“Well done, my boy! You’ve certainly had your effect. Thank you for helping with her problem! I’m sure you’ll tell your friends all about it. Now come along in and wash your hands, and I’ll give you a tot of marc. Catherine, stay. Don’t cover up. You can let the fresh air in.”

As the light began to fail Lydia paused at her writing desk and stared into space. Yes, she thought, a very successful day. Those girls were just the thing to torment Matthew, and evidently Catherine had had a satisfyingly shameful day at the doctor. And then that entertaining episode with young Ugues, the randy child, not in his teens yet but oh so pleased to be let finger a girl. And hey, the film-maker, an attractive young Italian … remember Alessandro, remember Rafael, with dark curls, and that earlier Luigi, with a prodigious cock that somehow managed to lodge itself in her modest vagina! Luigi Morelli, then; she thought he had found some attraction in her. Perhaps on her visit to his place they could find time … maybe stimulated by what were evidently rather erotic films … to get a little more intimate. All right, goddamnit, she wondered about the size of his cock. Prodigious, probably not. Maybe not as big, even, as the well-hung Ugues. She’d settle for six inches, perhaps, rather like poor Matthew there. Now he had a very attractive cock, as every one of the girls had assured her. Nice arse too. To go with his nice feet, that had attracted her in the first place. Hmm. It would be his turn to go to the doctor tomorrow, and this time Fauré’s daughter, and friend too, perhaps, would get a chance at his arse. Yes, she could get some mischief going there, with the pair of them flaunting their bottoms. Hah! Cowering more like, shivering in the shame of nudity, fearful of discovery and ridicule, being attacked by gleeful peers of the opposite sex and made to come in abject humiliation. Yes. A pretty good day, and tomorrow promised to be the same.

(End of File)