Thrice they thus paid their tributes to Venus and Priapus while I watched over their happy beatitudes, ready to bite Pierre on the leg to warn him should some rude interloper like Pere Mourier interrupt such passionate transports. But none did, and at last they parted with the sweetest of kisses and pledges to meet again, as I was sure they would.
Yet even I could not have predicted how soon that next meeting was to be, for when Victorine timidly knocked at the old patron's bedchamber the next morning to ask if he wished his breakfast brought in on a tray, she found him lying there cold and lifeless, a beatific smile on his dry thin lips. The seizure of which Marisia had spoken had taken place; yet at least he had died a happy death, drawn to climax by young bride and younger niece, believing to the very end that charming Laurette had overcome her aversion to him and come to love him for his own sake. And who is not to say that illusion can sometimes be stronger than reality?
Two days later, after the funeral, Pere Mourier attended the Widow Laurette Villiers, who was most becomingly attired in a simple black cotton dress, though she was now a wealthy and secure widow who need never again worry about a crust of bread or a roof over her head. For in his will, the patron had left everything to her, save a thousand francs for Victorine.
“How can I console you in your great bereavement, Madame Villiers?” the fat French clergyman unctuously queried.
“Is it true, mon pere, that I am actually the owner of this house and all the vineyards of Languecuisse?”
“It is true, my daughter.”
“And I am free to marry again, for you yourself have always told me it is better to marry than to burn.”
“That also is true, my daughter.”
“Then I wish you to announce the banns between myself and Pierre Larrieu—after a proper interval of mourning, to be sure.”
“Oh, my daughter, this is madness!”
“Why so? Is he not the same flesh as my adored, lamented husband? Am I not lonely and in need of a strong young husband, that I may produce the heirs M'sieu Villiers so had his heart set upon?”
“Yes, but -”
“And since I have fallen heir to all this unexpected wealth, mon pere, it is my wish to make free gift unto your parish of the little vineyard over which my dear father had tenancy. My parents will come to live with me in this big house. Oh yes, and the rental on their cottage shall also be turned over for your charities, mon pere.”
“My daughter, I cannot bless you enough. Very well, you shall have your way. Perhaps it was thus intended.” Pere Mourier kissed Laurette who then knelt to receive his blessing.
But once outside, Father Lawrence caught him by the wrist: “A word with you, my confrere. I must go back to the seminary in England in a few days. Would it not be wise to entrust to me the care of tender Marisia?”
“Why so?”
“Because the Widow Bernard, having grown used to a man about the house, longs to make confessional with you, Pere Mourier. And you will have Desiree into the bargain. I go back a lonely man, without having contrived to save a single soul in all my time in France.”
Pere Mourier frowned, considering: “There is merit in what you say, mon confrere. But I should grieve over the loss of that delicious, forward minx.”
“True, and I know with what vigilance you seek to guard the souls of the young. Yet take heart. In our seminary, we have many lovely young novices, even more adept and ardent than the charming Marisia. I have long felt that I should induce the Father Superior to send some of these well edified daughters to another country, where they may expand their education. And I will see to it that several of them are sent to the parish school of Languecuisse.”
“On that case, take her and with my blessing. Ah, Pere Mourier exhaled a nostalgic sigh, “how I shall miss the minx! Those soft lips, that nimble tongue, that eagerness to learn which characterizes her.”
“She will return to you even better edified, I promise,” smilingly retorted the English ecclesiast.
And thus it was decided. On the very next evening, Laurette said a tender au revoir to her raven haired young niece, who, when Father Lawrence had presented himself to ask to take her back to the seminary of St. Thaddeus as novice, had herself enthusiastically pleaded with her aunt to let this happen. And Laurette, perhaps wisely realizing that the presence of the precocious girl in a household where now strapping, handsome young Pierre Larrieu would be lord and master might be highly precarious to her own hopes for marital fidelity with her adored spouse, gave her leave.
Now that I knew the end of the story, I was drowsy. I had chosen my napping place in the golden tendrils of Laurette's sweet cunt curls. And that was why I was not aware of Laurette's telling her niece that she wished to give her a parting remembrance of their joys together. Taking a pair of dainty scissors, Laurette cut off some of those golden ringlets and encased them in a little locket with a golden chain, which she hung about the ivory neck of her niece. And so, when I woke, I found myself, oh horror, imprisoned in that locket!
And I heard the resonant, mellow voice of Father Lawrence close by, telling Marisia that they would arrive in London a few days hence, where she would be initiated as a novice, he being her sponsor. That was why she had forsaken her memories of Everard; competent though that distant youth might be—and I never had the chance to conjecture—Marisia had already decided that the mighty cock of her newfound protector could not easily be surpassed. And as she whisperingly confided to him, replying to his statement, “Oh, Your Reverence, I ask only one boon, that before I am made novice, you, all by yourself, will initiate me with your great, wonderful prick, and show me truly what fucking really is!”
What irony! I, the imaginative, sophisticated Flea who had vowed never to see Bella and Julia and those licentious men of the cloth, was now on my way back to their very lair, entrapped in the cunnycurls of the young virgin I had befriended. Was that to be my reward?
I told myself philosophically that all was not forever hopeless. A Flea can live a long time without nourishment. I was sure that tender Marisia would at some time or another open her locket to recall those happy hours with her golden haired young aunt. Then I might escape and try my fortunes in some other still more distant land.
Yet, what if she does not open the locket? What if, just as at this very moment when I hear the soft sloshing of tongue within mouth, and mouth greedily accepting tongue, and the hoarse whispers and the soft giggles of that novice-to-be Laurette? What then?