“But,” said I, “is not the dogma of the immortality of the soul comforting to the downtrodden and unlucky? Illusion though it may be, is it not soothing, is it not gladdening? is it not a boon, that man may believe he will be able to survive himself and his woes and someday in heaven taste the bliss this world denied him?”
“Frankly,” said she, “I fail to see that the desire to set a few ill-starred dolts at ease warrants poisoning the minds of millions of respectable people; and, besides, is it rational to trim the truth to fit one’s wishes? Be a little more courageous, abide by the general law, resign yourself to the order of a fate which decrees that you, along with everybody else, shall sink back into the crucible of Nature, soon to emerge again in some other shape; for the fact is that nothing perishes in the womb of this mother of humankind. The elements composing us first decompose then straightway re-compose otherwise, in other combinations; an undying laurel grows upon Virgil’s grave. I ask you, foolish deists, whether this glorious transmigration is not as mild as your heaven-or-hell alternative? For if the thought of paradise cheers us, few there are who wax ecstatic over that of hell; and you Christian idiots, say you not that to be saved one needs have grace your God grants to not many folk? Well, there you have some comforting thoughts! Who amongst you wouldn’t prefer to be annihilated once rather than burn forever? Who then will dare maintain that the attitude which liberates one from these dreads is not a thousand times more humane than the uncertainty wherein we are left to languish by setting up a God who, proprietor of the favors he distributes, gives them only to a small clique of his cronies and who allows that all the others become worthy of eternal torture? Enthusiasm or madness alone can make one reject a lucid and reassuring system and cleave to one where improbable conjectures make one despair.”
“But what shall become of me?” I demanded of Madame Delbène. “I am afraid of this darkness, this eternal annihilation scares me.”
“And, pray tell, what were you before birth?” inquired that brilliant woman. “Several unqualified lumps of unorganized matter as yet without definite form or at least lacking any form you can hope to remember. Well, you’re going to turn back into those same or similar lumps of matter, you’re going to become the raw material out of which new beings will be fashioned, and this will happen when natural processes bring it about. Shall you find all this pleasurable? No. Shall you suffer? No. Is there anything truly objectionable, here? No; and what is he who on earth agrees to sacrifice all his pleasures in exchange for the certitude of never having to undergo pain? What would he be, if he were able to strike this bargain? An inert, motionless being. And after he dies, what will he be? Exactly the same thing. What then is the use of fretting, since the law of Nature positively condemns you to the same state you’d gladly accept if you were given the opportunity to choose? Eh, Juliette, have you existed since the beginning of time? No; and does that fact make you grieve and despair? Have you any better cause to despair at the fact that you’re not going to exist till the end of time? La la, calm yourself, my pigeon; the cessation of being affrights only the imagination that has created the execrable dogma of an afterlife.
“The soul—or, if you wish, the active principle that animates, moves, determines us—is nothing other than matter subtilized to a certain degree, by the means of which refinement it acquires the faculties that so amaze us. Not any given portion of matter would be capable of the same effects, to be sure; but, through combination with the ordinary portions composing our body, these extraordinary ones attain their capacity rather as fire can become flame when combined with fatty or other combustible materials. In fine, the soul cannot be approached save in two senses: as active principle, and as thinking principle; well, whether viewed as the one or the other, we may prove its materiality by two irrefutable syllogisms. (1) As active principle it is divisible; for the heart, long after its separation from the body, preserves its action, continuing to beat; now, whatever is susceptible of division is material. The soul, beheld as active principle, is divisible, hence material. (2) Whatever is susceptible of structural degeneration is material, that which is essentially spirit cannot deteriorate; well, the soul is affected by the condition of the body, the soul is weak in youthful bodies, decrepit in superannuated frames; it thus undergoes corporeal influence; however, anything that degenerates structurally is material: the soul declines and hence it is material.
“Let us say forthrightly and repeatedly: there is nothing marvelous in the phenomenon of thought, or at least nothing which proves this phenomenon distinct from matter, nothing which indicates that matter, subtilized or modified in some or another manner, cannot produce thought; the which is infinitely easier to comprehend than the existence of God. If this sublime soul were indeed the work of God, why should it have to share in all the changes and accidents the body is subject to? It would seem to me that, as a divine artifact, this soul ought to be perfect, and perfection does not consist in undergoing modifications in order to keep pace with so defective a material entity as the human body. If this soul were a god’s production, it would not have to sense, reflect, or be the victim of the body’s gradations; were the soul a thing of divine perfection, it wouldn’t, it shouldn’t, be able to; rather, fully formed from the onset, it would conjoin itself to the embryo, and Cicero would have been able to pen his Tusculanae disputationes, Voltaire his Alzire, each in the cradle. If that is not so, and cannot be so, it is because the soul ripens step by step with the body’s development, then with it descends the farther slope; the soul therefore is constituent of parts, since it rises, sinks, augments, diminishes: well, whatever is composed of parts is material; hence the soul is material, since it is composed of parts. Am I clear? We have now to acknowledge the utter impossibility of the soul existing without the body, and the latter without the former.
“Nor is there anything to marvel at in the absolute sovereignty the soul exerts over the body. Body and soul, they are one, a whole made up of equal parts, yes, but in which, howbeit, the cruder must be subordinate to the more refined part, this for the same reason that flame, which is material, subordinates the wax it consumes and which is also material: there, as in our bodies, you have the example of two materials in conflict, the subtler of the two dominating the cruder.
“There, Juliette, I have, so I think, supplied you with more than is needed that you be convinced of the nullity of this God they say to exist and of this dogma which ascribes immortality to the soul. Oh, but they were shrewd beggars who invented this pair of conceptual monstrosities! And what have they been unwilling to stoop to, what have they not extorted from the people by calling themselves the ministers of God upon whose good or bad mood everything depends in the life after this! What has not been their influence upon the minds of simple folk who, in dread of agonies or rewards to come, were obliged to court these cheats, self-appointed and sole mediators between God and men, puissant quacks whose intervention, swaying the Lord, could arrange fates! All these fables thus are but the inspired fruit of self-seeking, of pride, and of the insanity of a handful of ambitious individuals nourished upon the ravings of a few others and fit for nothing but our contempt, fit only to be extinguished, that they may never again reappear. Oh, my dearest Juliette, with what earnestness I exhort you to detest them as I do! Such systems as these, it is said, lead to the degradation of morals and manners. What’s this! are manners and morals then more important than religions? Depending absolutely upon the degree of latitude in which a country chances to be located, manners and morals are an arbitrary affair, and can be nothing else. Nature prohibits nothing; but laws are dreamt up by men, and these petty regulations pretend to impose certain restraints upon people; it’s all a question of the air’s temperature, of the richness or poverty of the soil in the district, of the climate, of the sort of men involved, these are the unconstant factors that go into making your manners and morals. And these limitative laws, these curbs and injunctions, aren’t in any sense sacred, in any way legitimate from the
viewpoint of philosophy, whose clairvoyance penetrates error, dissipates myth, and to the wise man leaves nothing standing but the fundamental inspirations of Nature. Well, nothing is more immoral than Nature; never has she burdened us with interdictions or restraints, manners and morals have never been promulgated by her. Oh, Juliette, you’re going to think me peremptory, somewhat the rebel and an enemy of yokes and handcuffs; but with uncompromising severity I am going to dismiss this equally absurd and childish obligation which enjoins us not to do unto others that which unto us we would not have done. It is the precise contrary Nature recommends, since Nature’s single precept is to enjoy oneself, at the expense of no matter whom. It may very possibly follow from the observance of this axiom that our pleasures disturb the felicity of others; will those pleasures be the less keen for that? This so-called “Law of Nature” with which fools wish to manacle us is thus just as fantastical as man-made laws and, trampling them all indiscriminately in the mud, we may be intimately persuaded that there is no wrong in doing anything we may well please. But at our leisure we shall return to these subjects; for the nonce, I flatter myself in the belief that my discussion of morality has been as convincing as my reflections upon religion. Let’s now put our theories into practice and, after having demonstrated to you that you can do everything without committing a crime, let’s commit a villainy or two to convince ourselves that everything can be done.”
Electrified by these discourses, I fling myself into my friend’s arms; in a thousand little ways I show gratitude for the care she is lavishing upon my education.
“I owe you more than life itself, my beloved Delbène,” I cried; “what is an existence without philosophy? Is life worth living when one lies crushed beneath the yoke of lies and stupidity? Come then,” I said with great warmth, “I feel worthy of you at last, ’tis upon your breast I take sacred oath never to return to the illusions which through gentle friendship you have just exterminated in me. Continue my instruction, continue to direct my footsteps toward happiness; I entrust myself to your guidance; do with me what you will, and be sure of this: that you have never had a disciple more ardent or more docile than Juliette.”
Delbène was beside herself with delight; for a libertine intelligence, there is no more piercing pleasure than that of making proselytes. A thrill marks the inculcation of each principle, a multitude of various feelings are flattered by the sight of others becoming gangrened by the very corruption that rots us. Ah, how it is to be cherished, that influence obtained over their souls, souls which are finally re-created by our counsels, urgings, and seductions. Delbène gave me back all the kisses I showered upon her; she said I was going to become a wayward girl like her, an undisciplined and very disrespectful little whore, that’s where I was headed, I’d wind up an atheist, and when God should begin to wonder what on earth had happened to good little Juliette, she, Delbène, would most gladly step forth and accept the blame for having caused the loss of this soul. And her caresses becoming more vibrant, we soon ignited the passions’ fire by the bright-burning lamp of philosophy.
“Stay,” said Delbène, “since you’re bent on being depucelated, I’m going to satisfy you straight off.”
Crazed with lust, the wench instantly fits herself with a dildo; she frigs me; this, says she, will make me overlook the pain she’s about to cause me and then she delivers a thunderous blow, then another, and ’tis this one does in my maidenhead. Words cannot describe what I suffered; but the lancing pains provoked by this terrible operation soon yielded to the sweetest pleasures. The indefatigable Delbène’s fury only increased; stuffing me with great cracking bucks and thwacks, her tongue meanwhile probed far into my mouth, and worrying my behind with her two clawing hands, she had me discharging one steady hour in her arms, and she only left off when I begged for truce.
“Retaliate, retaliate,” she gasped, “I want to be remunerated in that specie,” said she. “I am devoured by lewd desires, fucking you was all work and no play, I’ve got to discharge too, Christ knows.”
From a doted-upon mistress I immediately turned into the most passionate lover: I encunted Delbène, I set the scraper going. God! what transports! No woman fish-flopped more amorously, never was there one carried so far away by pleasure’s throes; ten times in succession the slut swooned of ease, I thought her like to distill into fuck.
“Oh, my soul’s delight!” I said to her, “is it not true that the greater an individual’s wit and instruction the better accoutered he is to taste the amenities of voluptuousness?”
“Unquestionably,” Delbène replied, “and the eminently simple reason therefor is this: voluptuousness can tolerate no inhibitions, it attains its zenith only by shattering them all. Now, the stronger a person’s intellectual endowments, the more restraints he breaks, and the more decisively: hence, the person of superior wit and parts will always be found more apt to libertinage’s pleasures.”
“I believe that the exceeding delicacy of highly developed organs must also be reckoned as contributory,” I went on.
“Nor is that to be doubted either,” said Madame Delbène; “the more highly polished the mirror, the better it receives and the better reflects the objects presented it.”
Finally, both of us dry from extreme toil, I reminded my instructress of her promise to me to depucelate Laurette.
“I’ve not in the least forgotten it,” she answered, “the deed is for tonight. When everyone has retired to the dormitories, you’ll slip away, so shall Flavie and Volmar. Leave the rest to me; now you’re initiated into our mysteries. Be bold, be firm, Juliette, be staunch; there are wonderful things I design to show you.”
I took leave of my friend to put in an appearance at the house; but fancy my surprise when I heard it reported that a pensionnaire had just fled the abbey. I asked her name. It was Laurette.
“Laurette!” I cried. Then, to myself: “My God, she upon whom I was counting … she the thought of whom has hurled me into this state…. Perfidious desires, have I then conceived them in vain?”
I request the details, no one is able to provide them; I fly to inform Delbène, her door is shut, I have no way of reaching her before the scheduled hour. Ah, how slowly the time drags away! I hear the bell toll at last; Volmar and Flavie arrived before me, they were already in Delbène’s quarters.3
“Alas,” I say, addressing myself to the Superior, “how shall you keep your word to me? Laurette is gone, vanished. Who can replace her?”
And then with a certain sourness:
“Ah! ’tis plain I’m not to enjoy the pleasure you promised me—”
“Juliette,” broke in Madame Delbène, and her tone was cool, her look stern, “the foremost of amity’s laws is that of trust: if, my dear, you wish to be one of us, you can do with more self-control and fewer suspicions. Is it likely—consider now—is it thinkable that I would have promised you a pleasure I lack the means to have you savor? Ought you not to think me sufficiently clever … ought you not to believe my position in this place powerful enough to guarantee that, since the arranging of these delights depends exclusively upon me, you have never to fear that they be unavailable to you? Tush. Follow us. All’s quiet. Did I not tell you that uncommon sights await you?”
Delbène lights a little lantern, she walks ahead, Volmar, Flavie, and I follow. We enter the chapel; to my astonishment I see the Superior bend, a tombstone lifts, a way is opened, she descends into the sanctuary of the dead. My initiated companions go after her in silence; I betray a certain uneasiness, Volmar reassures me. Delbène lowers the stone slab above us. We are now in subterranean vaults that serve as sepulcher to all the women who have died in the convent. We proceed; another stone is swung aside, some fifteen or sixteen downward steps bring us to a low-ceilinged room decorated with much artistry and ventilated by air coming from the gardens above by a shaft. Oh, my friends! whom do you think I found there … Laurette, clad and decked like the vestals they used in olden times to immolate in the shrine of Bacchus; the Abbé Du
croz, first vicar to the Archbishop of Paris, a man of thirty years, very goodly to look upon, his special employment was the supervision of Panthemont—he was there; so was Father Télème, a handsome dark dog of a Récollet friar, thirty-six, confessor to the novices and the pensionnaires.
“She is afraid,” said Delbène, going toward these two men and presenting me to them; “hear, young innocent,” she continued, bestowing kisses upon me, “that our sole motive for congregating in this place is fuckery, the perpetration of sundry horrors, occasional atrocities. If we thus burrow far down into the realm of the dead, it is to be at the greatest possible remove from the living. When one is a libertine, as depraved, as vicious as are we, one likes to be in the bowels of the earth so as the better to avoid the interference of men and their ridiculous law.”
Well along as I was in the career of lubricity, these opening remarks, I confess, disturbed me not a little.
“Heavens!” I cried, much moved, “what are we about to perform in these underground tunnels?”
“Crimes,” said Delbène. “We are going to soil ourselves with crimes before your very eyes, we are going to teach you to imitate us. Do you think you’ll weaken? Am I mistaken in my confidence in you? I’ve told these our colleagues that you can be relied upon.”
“Still your doubts,” I replied energetically, “lay on your hands, I swear to it, whatever you do, it will stir up not a quaver of fear in me.”
Therewith Delbène orders Volmar to undress me.
“She’s owner to the world’s fairest ass,” was the Vicar’s expressed opinion as soon as he saw me entirely naked.
And, instantly, kisses and fingerings were applied to my buttocks; then, clapping one hand over my scarcely fledged cunt, the man of God undertook to tickle up his member by rubbing it in the cleft between my buttocks and so that it grazed my little hole, the which he penetrated forthwith, virtually without effort, and at the same moment Télème slid his gear into my cunt. Both discharged together and I answered almost at once.