Choisy contemplated the naked, disheveled woman on his bed: how ribald, and how different from her dignified self she paraded in front of her guests in the salon! Lydie was sprawling on the bed, with her sexual cleft all open as if awaiting a new assault, and palpitating lasciviously.
None of the women he had possessed had aroused his sexual impulses to such a degree as Lydie. She seemed insatiable and he had to resort to exceptional means in order to content her. Among his many victims there had been all kinds- some gay, some tender, some emotional-but none that had given him such a sensation of a furiously unleashed passion. He thought of Rose's remark that Neapolitan girls were capable of “devouring” a man, and saw what she meant now. He reflected how easily the polite veneer she had at receptions cracked under the unbearable strain of her awakening senses.
She had kept Choisy with her after all the other guests had gone from a reception to which they had both been invited, and, sitting in the carriage with him, she kept his hand crushed in hers, passionate and silent, until the coach had reached her home, and there, she had surrendered to Choisy. And she had done so with a savage passion: after stripping off the clothes she had almost tom Choisy's clothes off him in her boiling impatience. From her naked body there came a perfume that would have aroused an eunuch, and her breasts were swollen with pent up desire.
She had taken hold of his penis and soon Choisy, not wanting to wait till it was too late, had drawn her towards him, and she had lain on top of him and almost raped him till his sap was exhausted.
And there she was lying languidly by him, whispering:
— Caro, you're a demon. Are all the subjects of the King of France like you? In Naples, when I was young, I knew a few fishermen, handsome men like those that had served as models for the sculptors of the Antiquity, and yet none of them has feasted me like you.
— Not all women can inspire such an eloquence, said Choisy, who knew those compliments by heart, having used them so much.
Do you know that you've made me renounce my intensions to remain faithful to my departed husband? Yes, my husband was a real bull, who was so ardent that he died of it, poor man. Even dead I never deceived him, and I would never have done so had not the pope Clement X given up the ghost so that you came to Rome for the election of his successor. By the way, who's going to be that successor, according to you?
But she did not wait for an answer. She laughed, which agitated her voluptuous bosom.
— I couldn't care less, she cried, all those plotting people… I only wanted to go to France in order to make love without restraint, for here I am a respected widow. But then France came to me!
— I shan't stay here, alas, said Choisy.
— I shall follow you if I cannot accompany you in your travels. They say French women are coquettish, but I shall know the way to keep you all to myself alone.
Choisy was not too enthusiastic about that statement of hers. To avoid taking a formal engagement, he did not answer but started again caressing her demanding flesh. He half-pinched, half-stroked her breasts which very soon became taut, and ran his hands along her body, up dale and down vale. Lydie wriggled with delight and uttered little cries of pleasure, meeting his caresses half way.
Soon this little game made his sex become stiff again and he was ready for new effusions. “When Lydie saw it, she whispered in a deliriously sensual voice: — You'll be the death of me. She opened up to him so that he could penetrate her more deeply, she clung to him desperately, while Choisy was going slowly in order to keep his voluptuousness as long as he could. And soon they were engulfed in a whirl and eddy of passion, unrestrainable like fury unleashed, and they gave themselves so wholly to the demands of their flesh that they soon lay too exhausted even to speak.
Lydie ended up asleep in the arms of her man, unable to say a single work (and yet she was by nature very talkative). But then her silence was eloquent enough!
The conclave had begun and the electors were shut up in a room with no communications with the outside world. Choisy found himself with no work to do, so that he was completely at the mercy of the insatiable Lydie, and such was her passion that soon the whole Roman society had learned about her affair with Choisy and they were gossiping about it all the more eagerly as they were by now tired of the subject of who was going to become the new Pope.
Thus Mrs. de Montprofit heard about Choisy's success and her vanity was injured, for she had thought that Choisy was chained to her hands and feet and waiting impatiently for her to condescend at last to receive him. It was only in order that he should not become too pressing that she had suggested to him that he should give his attention to Lydie Uppa. But she had been far from anticipating his success with her, for she knew the widow's firm intention to remain forever faithful to her husband's memory. So her rage can be imagined when she learned that Choisy had triumphed over such a seemingly impregnable virtue. She felt hatred for the happy couple boiling up in her and she made up her mind to separate them.
She told Choisy that she was surprised not to see him any longer, which was like an invitation. Choisy, at first, put off his visit, but, one day, as he was free, he went to see her at a time when he thought she would certainly not be alone, and, indeed, there were several guests in the salon.
Rose de Montprofit greeted him with seemingly distant politeness but soon found a way of whispering into his ear:
— How seldom I see you these days, Abbot! And yet, you have nothing to do now that the electors are pent up in their room.
— That enables me to get some rest, Choisy answered, laughing ironically.
— Some rest? She exclaimed, inwardly raging.
She got up to greet a new-arrived guest, and Choisy reflected:
— What is she complaining about? She set up between us the fear of her husband's anger if he found out, and now she really must see that it's her fault if I've found an outlet with another woman.
Yes, she had changed visibly, but then now, wasn't it too late? Confronted with the choice of holding in his arms the extraordinarily sensual Lydie and the comparatively normal Rose de Montprofit, Choisy did not hesitate-when one is offered a snack or a festive meal, there is no doubt where one's choice goes. But Choisy knew one had to be careful with a “woman scorned.”
A few days later, meeting her again, he saw the feverish warmth in her eyes as she told him:
— When are you going to give me the pleasure of talking, er-more freely with you?
— As soon as I have obtained Mr. de Montprofit's authorization, was Choisy's cynical answer, which he delivered with a disarming smile.
Although she did not reply (for there were guests present), Choisy saw from the expression on her face that his shot had gone home. But he did not worry unduly and ran to Lydie, to whom he recounted his brief incident.
— She's French, the ardent Neapolitan woman remarked, with her, as with the other ladies of France, nothing's real-it's all make-believe, grimaces, kisses, oaths that are not kept, and then, from time to time… Call that love? Have you ever known a woman who really loved you?
— Like you, never, I swear it.
And this time Choisy was sincere: Lydie loved him passionately, even too much-it was getting monotonous and he wished the Conclave would end soon in order to leave Rome and Lydie. He had enough of those luxurious orgies with her and he was more and more inclined to prefer the mild flirtation with Rose de Montprofit. But, in order to avoid a scandal, he bore up with the bondage in which Lydie kept him.
And so he neglected the French woman who attracted him with her perversity, for the Neapolitan woman who wearied him with her devilish carnal avidity. Then, one night, something happened which, shrewd as he was, he would never have foretold.
There he was with Lydie, during a pause between two furious love-making bouts, waiting patiently for their love-juice to re-create itself. They were not even caressing each other, but just lying with their bodies close together, in a bliss of happiness and contentment, waiting patiently for the next frenzy of their senses.
They were so deeply engrossed in each other, as it were, that they failed to hear the door of the room open slightly and a masked woman wrapped up in a cloak came near their bed, her footsteps making no sound on the thick carpet. Then they heard a strident laugh, which made their hearts beat violently and they sat up like a double jack-in-the-box.
— Who're you and what d'you want? Asked Lydie.
Choisy, who had recognized, in spite of her disguise, who the unexpected visitor was, told her:
— Madam, your place is not here.
Mrs. de Montprofit put out her arm, at the end of which the blade of a dagger glinted ominously. Choisy warded off the blow that was destined for him and seized the attacker's wrist with such force that she dropped her weapon.
— You ridiculed me and now you're hurting me!
Rose complained unreasonably.
— Go away, that's the best thing you can do! Choisy advised her.
Meanwhile, Lydie had quickly stolen behind her and ripped the mask off her face.
— Mrs. de Montprofit! she cried, what's the meaning of this? Do you want to murder us?
— I want to murder you, to get my lover back!
— Your lover? Lydie laughed wickedly.
Choisy let go of Rose's wrist and picked up the dagger.
— You're better at comedy than at tragedy, Lydie scoffed.
— Shut up! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Rose asked.
— Ashamed? Of what? I am free, not like you.
Choisy intervened:
— Please don't prolong this useless scene. Go home, madam. We shall forget that you But, furious, Mrs. de Montprofit seized the dagger which Choisy was holding carelessly and stabbed him before he could ward off the blow and his shoulder-blade was scratched, fortunately not deeply, but enough to draw blood, the sight of which set up different reactions in both women: frightened, Mrs. de Montprofit ran away, laughing madly, while Lydie shouted at her:
— You were only a whore, but now you're a murderer as well!
Then she drank up avidly the blood that was running down the back of her lover. The wound was superficial and, by dint of gorging herself of the blood, she managed to stop the hemorrhage. Then she said:
— Now your blood has gone into my body-we're now one!
And disregarding his wound, she pushed Choisy on to the bed, bestrode him and pushed her cunt onto his penis. What a dame!
When she had had her fill (both figuratively and in the proper sense), she saw that the bed-sheets were red.
— How beautiful! she exclaimed, we've loved each other in blood!
— A good thing it doesn't happen every day, said Choisy, who was not such a foolish romantic creature as that Neapolitan jane.
He got up and washed his back, and was still witty enough to say:
— You should thank Mrs. de Montprofit: you owe her an exceptional thrill.
Lydie sighed.
— Yes, it can't happen often, was all she found fit to say.
But Choisy thought that he'd rather have a quieter sort of love. He felt himself weakened by his loss of blood and virility. Weakened and disgusted, too.
Disgusted because of Lydie's selfishness in love. She thought only of her own pleasure, emptied her lover of all his sap and then felt angry because she could not get anything out of him, like someone who squashes a lemon dry and then is unpleasantly shocked to find there is no more juice in it.
Neapolitan women are to Italy what the women from Toulouse are to France, that is mezzo-soprano voiced conceited women made for music and love. For them, a bed is a battle-field where the lover plays the part of the vanquished. A Parisian girl, on the contrary, understands a lover whose forces begin to fail him: she helps him get revived, by means of skilful and patient caresses with her breasts, lips and fingers. But in Naples or in Toulouse, making love implies none of those tender complicities: the woman is naked and after two hours of uninterrupted voluptuousness she feels indignant that her wearied lover cannot find back his aggressive humour through the mere contemplation of her nudity. And she will make no effort to help him restore himself gradually through caresses-she considers caresses unworthy of her and only good for whores.
They are just too proud, they think it would be immodest to caress their men, but they are just plain selfish. As for modesty, the bestial way in which they make love has little modesty about it.