The next morning, Marivol finds her little mistress sleeping in her bed, so lovely to look at that Marivol thinks it a shame to waken this angel with features so pure, so she goes out quietly and closes the door behind her.
Evening comes once again and Martine, unbeknownst to devoted Marivol, seeks out her companions of the night before to revel in new and yet more shameless orgies.
But now let us leave these characters of our drama whom we shall meet again, and pay a visit to Count Fabian's brother, Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, for he too has a vital role to play in our history.
Baron Prosper lived, very much like a recluse, in his magnificent town mansion in Paris. He devoted most of his time to his hobby of collecting rare stamps. Indeed, thanks to his wealth, he had even transformed one of the rooms of his huge house into a kind of stamp museum. Endowed with a stay-at-home nature, he had no use for his brother after the death of the Marquis de Chavignac because of the disproportionate share the latter had received from the legacy. He had never seen Fabian since that time, did not even know that he had married and had a child or even that his brother was still alive. As a bachelor, despite being in his forties, he had never enjoyed the pleasures of love. His only servant was a young valet, twenty-five years of age, a Parisian by birth, named Patrick Dumas.
This young man had served in the colonies and was bored to death to have to live in an austere house which had never seen a woman's smile. He-himself was no monk, and could nostalgically recall voluptuous pleasures experienced with beautiful Negresses with jutting, stiff-nippled titties and rounded, undulating bottoms, scienced in every kind of lustful caress. He pined after those ebony statues of amorous flesh which had brought him such thrilling sensations in times gone by, and yearned for their return.
One morning the postman brought him a letter for the Baron Prosper, who, after adjusting his monocle and reading a few lines, cried out: “Good Lord!” As Patrick was treated by his master as a trustworthy confidant rather than as a servant, he asked: “A misfortune?”
The Baron finished reading the letter, folded it and finally explained: “I've been called back posthaste to Fort-Lamy by Monsieur Honome, the notary in that city, on the matter of settling the effects of my brother Fabian, who has just died. I am to be the guardian of his only child, his daughter Martine.” Seeing the glow of curiosity in Patrick's eyes, the Baron added: “My brother — may God rest his soul — was found in the fishpond, and a verdict of suicide was decided at the inquest. I'm to be at his villa precisely at eight o'clock on the date of May 7th. It's the 5th already, so we've little time to pack. You will of course come with me.”
Patrick, delighted at this unforeseen change in the boring monotony of his days, did not have to be told twice and hurried off to pack for his master, already dreaming of future hours with beautiful accommodating females who would know how to ease the long-pent-up tension of his virile young prick.
On May 6th, an Air France plane took off from Orly airfield towards Tchad, and landed at nine that night at the airport of Fort-Lamy. This arrival and the events which followed it were faithfully related by Patrick in the diary which he punctiliously kept and which he allowed your translator to read. Here are the main passages:
“When we landed, Baron Prosper, who was completely out of touch with this tropical country, gave me carte blanche to make all arrangements for his comfort. After an excellent dinner in one of the city's best restaurants, my master asked me to find a convenient hotel where we might spend the night. Since his request would ruin the plans I had already worked out, I said to him: 'Monsieur the Baron surely can't be thinking of going to bed at an hour when everyone in town is on the go! Let Monsieur remember that he is the heir of Count Fabian, with whom he was on bad terms, and that this event must be celebrated. Monsieur must amuse himself before putting on mourning for his brother. Now I know a place where Monsieur the Baron will have a great deal of enjoyment, and I should be honored if he would allow me to take him there.'
“The Baron followed me without argument. We went down the Street of the Mosque, and, turning to the left, arrived at a little alleyway where we beheld a heavy door decorated with embossed silver, its tops curiously ornamented with the figure of a little squirrel in green neon lights. I rang the bell, and we were admitted into the lobby of this strange house, a kind of huge hall where an imposing matron beamed at us and purred, 'If the gentlemen come to be amused, please enter, for the spectacle this evening is really sensational.' She opened a door and we entered a room where my dazzled master saw women dancing on a wooden runway balanced on the edges of tables at which spectators sat and sipped iced drinks.
“On this runway, four superb half naked Negresses, wearing bracelets and necklaces of cowrie shells, executed lascivious dances to the rhythm of the tambourine. They had the characteristic charm of women of the tropics, always ready to fuck. Their ripe curves fairly cried out to be fondled, kissed, bitten, crushed and embraced. My master, his eyes wide and glazed, no longer thought about his stamp collection, I'm quite sure. After the dances, which simulated the basic thirty-two poses of fucking, I had a gigantic hard on and I asked my master whether he wasn't sexually roused, too. He eyed me solemnly, and, glancing back at the runway, timidly agreed that he was beginning to feel some emotion.
“After a short intermission, the master of ceremonies, through his megaphone, announced in English, then in French: 'And now, you may admire a number unique in all this world. Pamela — I repeat, Pa-me-la.' The orchestra tuned up, the lights dimmed, and Pamela, graceful and supple, came out onto the runway. 'A Frenchwoman!' I exclaimed, astonished. Indeed, she was quite a young white girl, wearing only a tutu made of fibers, and high-heeled clogs which made her lovely calves and thighs flex deliciously with each dancing step. She performed a series of ballet-like movements and leaps, which enabled us all to admire the most intimate parts of her anatomy, for she was naked under her raffia loincloth. I winked at my master and whispered, 'She's a beauty, Monsieur the Baron. You should make her acquaintance after the number.' But he didn't say a word. As the enthusiastically-applauded number came to an end and the waiter appeared at our table for our order, I profited by slipping him a hastily written note and whispered into his ear. He made a gesture showing that he understood. Pamela, despite the cheers and whistles and bravos that acclaimed her, did not return to take a bow. I thought to myself that there were about fifty men here with their female companions — wives or mistresses or whores, as it might be — and that every one of those fifty, like the Baron and myself, must be having agonizing hard ons by now.
“Then a native male dancer came out completely naked, and made us roar with laughter at his contortions, which had to do with the most ingenious ways of twisting himself about to suck his own cock. However, my master and I would have been ultimately bored if Pamela hadn't now approached our table, accompanied by one of the luscious Negresses who had been among those first dancers. The Baron ordered champagne for everyone, and we then followed the young women into a private room, luxuriously furnished for the particular use which was generally made of them.