Chapter 58

From that day, I detected my mother's attitude towards me changed. If she had appeared detached but cordial when I had first returned to her after my year at the institute, now she seemed unable to spend any time alone with me, and, in fact, she seemed to reject my company completely.

I often noticed how she bit her lip, while staring at me with a mixture of emotions I could hard untangle. Worry, fear, anger.

I didn't know what might cause that attitude, but I was certain she wanted to get rid of me. In fact, the day after I received the dresses that Mr. Martin had ordered for me, she said:

'I believe it's time that Eloise gets married.'

Mr. Martin looked at her with some surprise and some bemusement, which was his usual way of receiving any comment from his poupette.

'You think so?' he asked.

'She is well educated, young, and passably good looking,' my mother said, coldly assessing my virtues. 'She's certainly not the worst I've seen.'

My stepfather nodded and replied:

'Whatever you think is best.'

I was not consulted, and, had I been, I would not have known what to say to this idea.

My mother then, seeing that there was no resistance to her proposal, looked away, with some satisfaction and didn't speak of it for a few days.

In the meantime, she had also received new dresses from Mr. Martin. The fabric, although not poor, appeared cheap and the cut amateurish. Different patters clashed, unfriendly colours struggled in a forced embrace, ribbons hung lifelessly, the symmetry that is required to exalt the human form was spoiled by creases, uneven stitching, and tight followed loose, and big turned into small.

The general effect was poor indeed, but my mother wore those dresses, which her new husband often complemented and lauded, with great obstinance, like a snub to the onlooker. She wore it despite knowing the general effect, how pretentious they look and how childish the execution was.

I pitied her and at once admired her for her courage, which, however, was now turning into something more sinister, for she seemed to have become blind to the world. She walked the earth not seeing what was patent before her eyes, but, like an actor, or a mad person, strolled through the stage imagining what wasn't there.

Her voice often trailed off, when she spoke to you. It was unusual for her not to hear you. And it seemed, when you called her back to reality, that you were causing her a great pain.

I knew she perceive her situation, how low she had fallen from her previous glory, but that she had decided to divorce herself from it, and that she wished not to be reminded of it, if she could help it.

For a few days, my mother would drop the subject of marriage; then, she would mention it again. Her attitude, which normally was aloof and rather insensitive to what passed around her, then would become quite animated, and it would be hard to share her from that point that seemed to inflame her to obsession.

'Mother, I don't know where we could find all these suitors you're talking about,' I said, wishing to make light of her latest remark on the topic.

I felt quite timid in this regard. I didn't want to voice my opinion, which amounted to a complete disinterest for marriage at that point, for no other reason than fear of upsetting my mother, who I was now beginning to consider a sort of invalid.

'That is right,' my mother said. 'I cannot leave these things to a child… Or to a man,' she added turning to her husband. 'No, no, no, no, no, no – Oh, my God, how much time have I wasted! – I must begin my search.'

'Here?' I added jokingly, trying to postpone any real progress on the matter, 'in this forsaken place? What kind of husband do you expect me to find here?'

I regretted that last remark, for I noticed my stepfather's face stiffened, as he perceived my full opinion of him.

My mother too paused for a moment, mulling over those words. Then, she added with some force

'You will find what we can find. We are here, and we will make the most of it.'

Then, all energy left her, and she resumed her meagre dinner, without paying any attention to me, Mr. Martin, or Cosette. However, from time to time, I noticed that she would bite her lips, and her eyes would move around, like some small cog in a machine that reveals much greater revolutions inside the mechanism.

Meanwhile, as my mother began to set in motion her research, I still spent my days at Mr. Martin's store. These passed in the same dull atmosphere, perchance broken by the visit of one of his customers, forever haggling over price, and forever finding fault with whatever was put before them.

Cosette, who always complained about being overwork, was nonetheless incapable of repose. She was often shuffling around, dusting, rearranging, straightening, and mumbling another complaint under her breath.

Mr. Martin sat at his desk, maybe going over his books, or reading a crumpled newspaper – these were often a few days old and lasted him a couple more. When he was in the mood for it, he would tell me again about his bucket of buttons, or of some other edifying story, of which he was the ultimate hero, never tempted by frivolous purchases or plagued by flaws of character.

I could not to anything but listen and stare at the wall before me, wondering if it wasn't indeed better to allow my mother to marry me away to some poor shopkeeper. Any change to this routine seemed better than the tedium I was subjected to. Also, as my faculties were so poorly stimulated, I believed that the memories of my past were becoming duller: I was slowly forgetting about all the adventures I had had so far, all the men and women I had had the pleasure of being pleased by, all the little infractions I had committed.

I then began to wonder if my initial impression, that I had formed back at my ancestral home, that every human being is secretly a dirty, happy swine, hellbent on having his sexual urges discharged at any opportunity, and that civilisation is a poor attempt at hiding this fact, was either erroneous, as a general principle, or if it had no application in that boring, unchanging portion of the country I presently inhabited.

I had known men who were attracted by women in the most unconventional state, pregnant, old, or ugly. And women who had found great arousal in the most unnatural copulations, be it through their mouths, vaginas, and anuses, and in the company of man, woman, object, or any multiplication of the three.

I too had learned that, once you forget any principle that might discourage you from any activity, any situation, any bedfellow, any sort of caress had been able to provoke a great upheaval of my senses.

And I had discovered that the release of these secret desires is the sole true guide in a person's life. The judge will rush through a verdict to be allowed an hour at his mistress's house; the statesman will make the government fall, if this means an opportunity to enjoy the company of his favourite lover.

But where was this urge now?

Apart from the noisy coupling of my mother and Mr. Martin each night, I saw no trace of that peculiar instinct I have spoken of.

And yet, I was not mistaken.

One day, as Mr. Martin and I were sitting at the desk, he asked me whether I needed some jewellery.

'Your mother assures me she will soon bring home some young men for you to be introduced to. You might need some ornament for these occasions.'

I confessed I possessed none, having lost all my belongings when I left the institute.

'Ah, yes. These things cost money, don't they?' he mused. 'I have learned that, if one desires something, there's always a trade to be made to obtain it.'

I gazed at him and noticed that particular look he had had before. He was now studying me with great attention.

'You know, the dresses I have bought you truly suit your figure. I understand fabric more than most, after all,' he said without lifting his eyes from me.

'Mr. Martin,' I said, 'if I understand you correctly, I believe you are suggesting that some little errand could earn me some little rewards.'

He smiled pleased, caressing his paunch.

'You do possess a mind for commerce, after all,' he chortled.

He gave me one last, assessing look, and announced:

'Cosette, I'm going to show Eloise the rolls from Toulouse. They're all the way at the back. Will you mind the store?'

Cosette muttered a few curses, which meant she would take care of things while we looked at the rolls from Toulouse.

I know not what possessed Hubert to out his passion that day. Possibly, the knowledge that that opportunity would soon vanish once I was married and that, whether I consented or not, I would soon leave his house, and I could neither tempt him nor remind him of his proposal, after that.

I also don't know what prompted me to accept. While I knew the bond between my mother and Hubert, I believe that the boredom and the fear of becoming as empty and devoid of spirit as my mother had become were sufficient to achieve that effect.

Mr. Martin took me to a large room at the back of the store, where many items were kept.

The room was dark, with only a few rays of dirty sunlight filtering through small airing vents cut in the walls.

I had no time to adjust my sight to the dusk, when I felt Mr. Martin's hands on my breasts, groping nervously, and I heard his laboured voice breathe out:

'Oh, my! What great and lovely bags you hold!'

I laughed at this awkward compliment.

Hi belly was pressing on my back, and his hands were holding me close, now running along my stomach, my sides, and searching between my legs, underneath the thick fabric of my skirt.

It was the night in which all cows are black, as some German phrased it. Those hands, those coarse caresses, those words, after the long fast, renewed my appetite.

Who cared what that man looked like!

I turned around, and I began to feel him, untangling and unbuttoning and unfastening and unbuckling, until I managed to open the top of his trousers and free his natural jewels.

'A nice neckless, Mr. Martin. Is that agreed?' I asked.

'Name your price…' he said. Then he added: 'As long as…'

I didn't let him finish that sentence and to pose any condition.

'Oh, my girl!' he exclaimed once his dick was in my mouth.

Mr. Martin, my mother's new husband, seemed pretty tickled by what I had begun to do. He uttered various exclamations as I moved along his organ:

'Oh – oh, oh! – that tickled… – That might work…'

But, as much as I tried, with licks and kisses and sucks, he could not achieve the hardness required for the deed.

'One moment… – Almost there… – Maybe a bit more over there…'

After a few minutes of these ineffective attempts, just when I was about to suggest that we rescheduled that failed attempt, the door of the room we were in opened, and Cosette walked in.

'Mr. Martin, where are you?' she asked.

She peered through the darkness, then she said:

'What is she doing to you? Ah… I see.'

The old woman, instead of rushing out, as any decent person would have done, came closer.

'Mr. Martin, the old Godard wants to know if you still have that wool from Britanny, and if you can sharpen the price if he buys twice as much. He also demanded credit.'

'Uh…' Hubert hesitated, 'Cosette, we're a little busy at the moment…'

'I can see,' Cosette replied in a matter-of-fact way, 'get that going, we have customers waiting.'

I was all the while sucking on the flaccid appendage and was curious to see which way the situation would turn.

'I'll be a minute…' my stepfather said, a little flustered.

'It might take a little more,' I said, smiling to myself at this drole situation, which I perceived to be quite comic.

'Of course,' Cosette said, now addressing me, 'I'm not surprised: he fucks the Countess each night and now he's drained.'

'Well, can't he… can't produce any more juice?' I asked, now interested in hearing the opinion of this old woman, who was prepared to converse without any consideration to her employer's embarrassing state.

'At his age, it's a miracle, he can still get it up. Now, let's see…'

'Oh!' Mr. Martin yelped.

The old woman had moved a hand between his buttocks and was now massaging his testicles and that tender part that led to the anus.

'Come on, miss, keep going!' Cosette instructed me.

I smirked and then tried again to infuse some vigour into Mr. Martin's manhood.

'I believe she knows the way!' the man exulted.

And, in truth, I perceived the first signs of turgidity and some growth in that organ I held between my lips.

'Now, this might do it,' Cosette added.

'Ah! Cosette! I'm a man… not a woman! Don't you know?' Hubert cried out.

'It's an old remedy: two fingers up the arse will cure many illnesses. They will make a man virile, a woman fertile. They will cure a common cold; they will rid you of migraines, sore throat, and cachexia. Do you agree, miss?' she asked in her tart voice.

I said, in a more muffled tone, for my mouth was now quite full of that stubby cock the man was furnished with, that, while I had never used it for the common cold, I had certainly learned to appreciate that activity as a general tonic, a restorative of the mental faculties, and a fortifier of the animal spirits.

'I'm glad these old customs are not forgotten in the younger generations,' the old woman replied.

In all this, Mr. Martin was now quite animated and, with his old employee fingering him behind, and me fellating him on the front, declared himself ready for the mount.

'Eloise, spread your legs! Cosette, don't stop! We'll get to our customer in no time.'

I then lay on top of various drapes that were quite comfortable, lifted my skirts, open my thighs and awaited.

Presently, Mr. Martin was on top of me. He was heavy and rotund. His hands grabbed me firmly.

I felt his short and stubby cock enter me and move quickly back and forth.

This activity, so rushed and clumsy and executed with such poor tools, was such an unexpected and odd diversion from our monotony and made me nonetheless smile.

I wrapped my arms around my lover's shoulders and held him firm with my legs.

'Come on, boss!' Cosette encouraged him, her fingers well buried in his behind.

'Come on, Mr. Martin!' I giggled.

Mr. Martin was only capable of broken words:

'Oh, oh! – I've never – Ah, deeper! – That will do!'

'Just don't come inside her, boss!'

'You're right, Cosette!' he gasped.

'Come on, Mr. Martin, off you go,' she ordered, as he dismounted me, and Cosette took charge of the ending of our activities.

I heard the noise of her hand moving fast, shaking, while Mr. Martin let out strangled moans.

'Not on the Italian silk!' he begged, finally, when he saw the direction she was carelessly aiming his cannon at.

The old woman sighed and put Mr. Martin's dick in her mouth and, as he groaned loudly, allowed him to come in there.

'Cosette, who knew?' he said, then sighed and added: 'Who knew that all women are capable of such miracles?'

The old woman dusted herself and sighed again:

'Let's go. Godard awaits. Work, work… Always work. Cosette unload the delivery cart! Cosette sweep the floor! Cosette, can I jerk off in your mouth! Always Cosette…'

And, without interrupting this litany, she walked out, followed by Mr. Martin, who hobbled along, trying to tuck his shirt into his trousers.

'Godard can have his damn wool,' my stepfather said, 'but I'll be damned if I give him any discount. And asking for a discount… Who does he think I am?'

That night, I was presented with a little chain to wear at the neck with a medal of Saint Homobonus. It was not the ladylike ornament I had hoped for, but, in that time of great impecunity, where only the essential was allowed, it made me quite proud.

My mother gave it a quick, assessing look.

'She will need a few things, now that you've decided to make her debut. I thought that might improve her case,' said Hubert.

My mother hesitated:

'Yes – I hadn't thought of that. We shall see tomorrow night.'

'What's tomorrow night?' I asked.

'Your first suitor,' she explained.

I demanded more information, but my mother said it was not my business to know and dismissed any further enquiries.

She was not interested whether I was satisfied with her choice.

I was meant to say yes.

The process of marrying me out was to be smooth and swift.

In all of this, Hubert could not look at me, if he could barely look at my mother. His conscience of thrifty, but ultimately honest merchant was pricking him.

Mother and Mr. Martin retired after dinner, leaving me busy with my thoughts and Cosette busy with a pile of dirty dishes.

Finally, the house echoed of my mother and Mr. Martin's voices:

'Do you want me to turn around?'

'No, I don't think so.'

'Then, what's the issue?'

'I don't know. It's never happened before, poupette, has it?'

'What if I…'

'Maybe I'm tired…'

'It's the same to me, if you don't want to.'

'Or…'

'Yes?'

'Have you ever put two fingers…'

Cosette stood up and, abandoning her dishes, while I marched into my room and put my head under the pillow until morning.