City of Wisdom and Blood by Robert Merle

Author:Robert Merle [Merle, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782271604
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Published: 2015-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

9

THE PAIN I SUFFERED at the hands of Figairasse didn’t simply make for “some difficulties sitting down” but for difficulties of another kind, which the reader will easily understand, since my arse hurt with every movement I made. And since, every night, Fontanette slipped the bolt of her door and came into my bed, she was every bit as distressed as I was.

“Oh, Pierre,” she whispered, her eyes glowing in the darkness, “you never should have taken my virginity. Now I’m so anxious to make the beast with two backs with you, however great a sin it may be, that I could no more do without it than do without my daily bread. I go wandering dreamily about during the day, which is spent only in waiting for night to come, and as soon as I’ve left your embrace, I start dreaming of it again in my own bed.”

“But, Fontanette,” I answered, “isn’t it sweet to dream thus, and to anticipate such pleasure?”

“It would be, Monsieur, if I liked my work. But alas! She’s watching my every move and especially now that my heart isn’t in the work as much as it was before. Dame Rachel is forever quarrelling with me and nagging my master to get rid of me.”

“All the more reason, Fontanette,” I replied, “to listen to reason: you see what state my backside is in, and that I wince every time I move. Go straight to bed: you’ll feel more like working in the morning.”

“Oh no, Pierre! Not on your life,” she said, her sweet arms round my neck and hugging me close with marvellous vigour. “Let me at least enjoy you a little before I go to bed!”

Whereupon, unable to resist her embraces any longer (for this adorable girl’s arsenal was more potent than any brace of pistols), I began sweet-talking her and caressing her, and from caress to caress we slipped inevitably into giving her what she had asked for (and of course what I wanted), despite the grimaces that I made towards the end, when I was again beset by the bruises on my back.

Dear reader, I don’t know why, upon rereading this page, I don’t rip it to shreds. God knows why I should have written it in such lighthearted and profane terms, I who swore to say no more about my poor Fontanette, since every thought of her and her terrible and pitiful fortune so tears at my heart: a thorn that I could never pull out, even today, without it ripping me apart.

My Samson was in heaven, but at the same time very tormented, for the courses had begun at the Royal College of Medicine and he was required to attend at least some of them, which lasted until five o’clock—at which time he could be seen running madly towards the needle shop, carrying his books, his writing desk and his candle—this last because the lectures began before daybreak. At ten, I would go looking for Samson and, with Miroul on

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