The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER FIVE

Despite his energetic nocturnal peregrinations, Father Lawrence wakened from his no doubt happy and fully appeased slumbers not much later than dawn. I know this because, although I was still dolefully locked in my tiny metal prison, the good Father betook himself downstairs to the dining room of the inn and seated himself heavily at a table. The violent jolt which occurred when his sinewy posterior came into contact with his chair served to waken me in turn. Thereupon I heard him smack his hand upon the table and exclaim in stentorian tones “Hola! Is there anyone about? The sun has already risen in the heavens, the winds blow angrily across the Channel, and here am I, a lonely English priest, in need of sustenance before I leave your fair shores!”

A few moments later, I heard a bustling from a distance and then the sound of hurrying footsteps, and next the landlord's meek and deferential voice: “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I did not know your habits. For the most part, my clientele does not breakfast here, but takes only the dejeuner and the evening meal.”

“It is small wonder, then, that Old Boney lost his most important battle to the Duke of Wellington,” Father Lawrence answered in a jovial tone. “Why, man, without the first meal of the day the staunchest of mortals is likely to feel faint, to have a clouding of the brain, a torpor of the blood, a flux of the liver and, in a word, lose all that vital sanguinity which stirs the senses to the most audacious feasts of valor and of virtue. But since I have roused you from your drowsy bed, good landlord, and hence, to work. First, though, what news is there of the Channel?”

“The very worse, I fear, Your Eminence,” the landlord continued to flatter the English ecclesiastic. “The waters are whipped by a northerly wind, and it is not yet safe for a vessel to leave the docks.”

“No matter,” Father Lawrence remarked in right good humor, “so long as the winds and the water becalm themselves by eventide, when my frail and trusting ward and I shall embark for my native land. So much for that. What fare have you for a hungry man this dawning?”

What a rogue of parts was this estimable Father Lawrence! I infinitely preferred him to the guileful and stealthy fat French prelate of the little hamlet which we had just quitted. How unblushingly unabashed he was, of a truth. Here he sat, haranguing his host, when but a few hours ago he had enjoyed the most licentious fornication with the landlord's only daughter! But I perceived his tack: by the very means of his loud and compelling speech, Father Lawrence utterly banished the vaguest hints his host might have conjectured as to the possibility of a clandestine tryst between his charming baggage of a daughter and this cheerful priest. For surely, if the ordinary man were to engage in a bout of fucking with so winsome and passionately complaisant a wench as this Georgette, he would surely show some signs of fatigue so early on the morning after the consummation of his desires. Evidently, Father Lawrence's vacation in the heart of Provence had so thoroughly rested him and imbued him with boundless energy that he showed not the faintest sign of any lassitude which all to many men display after their cocks have emitted ample tributary flow in homage of the Goddess Venus.

“I shall have to prepare your repast myself, I fear,” the landlord apologized. “If you will not be too demanding, I shall try to appease Your Eminence's hunger with an omelette, into which I shall stir some savory morsels of jambon, some crusty bread and, of course, our best wine.”

“Well, well, it will do for the nonce,” Father Lawrence agreed. “But bring it quickly, and first of all the wine. I have journeyed here from a little village where the harvest of the grapes taught me that when the fruit is sweetest and ripest, it must be plucked.”

“Your Eminence is surely wise, and how well Your Eminence speaks our beautiful language,” the landlord propitiated him.

“You must never believe, my good host,” my unsuspecting jailer retorted with a hearty laugh, “that because a man wears the black cassock and hat of Mother Church, he must needs be a lackluster, sorrowful creature forever at his beads and paternosters. As for myself, I manage to enjoy all the pleasures that life can provide a man still in his fettle, and yet I do not slacken one whit in my spiritual tithes to those parishioners who depend upon me for comfort and guidance. Indeed, were I to remain on your shores, I might well turn my hand to converting those who may still believe that he who wears the black raiment of the holy order is certain to be a gloomy pessimist who takes no comfort from such things as good wine, good food and the pleasure of hearing the timid confessions of nervous females. Bring me your best wine, then, my good host, and share a glass with me to drink a toast to the honesty of the priesthood!”

“With the greatest of pleasure, Your Grace,” the landlord exclaimed, and again I heard the scurrying of feet as he undoubtedly hastened to fetch the bottle which had been requisitioned.

It would have been the most exquisite of ironies if the landlord's daughter had now appeared on the scene to serve her father's guest who was one and the same man who had fucked her so imperiously but a few hours hence. And since the charming Georgette was at least half the age of Father Lawrence, one would ordinarily have assumed that her resilience and durability would have been twice as great, so that she would have been upon the scene at an even earlier hour. But such was not the case. The toast was drunk, and then the landlord hastened off again to prepare the omelette with bits of tender ham, which he presently set piping hot before his honored guest.

From the movement of Father Lawrence's arms and shoulders which had their eventual effect upon me in my locket-prison, I was certain that he was attacking his food with the same exemplary vitality which his massive and stalwart cock had displayed in prying into Georgette's hot, churning cunthole.

At any rate, he must have done full justice to the ample breakfast served him by his obsequious host, for the landlord remarked that it did his heart a great pleasure to watch a patron take food and drink with such gusto.

Father Lawrence popped this off by remarking, “it has always been my philosophy, Monsieur my host, to show gratitude for the blessings, however temporal, which the Good Lord sends to us poor sinners. The trick is, to be sure, to have the wisdom and the integrity to distinguish between those bounties which are the Lord's and those which come from Caesar or Mammon. Too many of us, I fear, are led astray because we cannot divine the demarcation line between virtue and vice.”

Again, despite my deplorable situation, I found amusement in his pithy commentaries by which he unabashedly justified whatever he enjoyed doing. The fact was that I had begun to believe that he actually credenced his very own words, and hence entered into the spirit as well as the act with a zest of gusto which the French innkeeper had already discerned.

I anticipated that he would require a constitutional after so hearty a repast, and such was exactly the case. Nothing would do but that he must walk through the cobbled streets of Calais to continue this thorough leave-taking of la belle France. He made numerous stops along the way, doubtless to peer into shop-windows, and each time I was jiggled about most rudely in the metal locket. I reflected that perhaps this was my own temporal punishment, this being incarcerated in a nest of silken pussyhairs, to remind me that I had spent so many of my days and nights in the most intimate association with that kind of verdure, both of the male and female species. Perhaps the Lord of Fleas was sermonizing me for my curious penchant. And I must confess that by now I was so saturated with the perfumed distillation of Laurette's golden lovedown that I longed to be elsewhere if only for a change of scent and venue as well.

The good Father Lawrence stopped at last for quite a long time, so that I wondered what new vistas as pleasure he was contemplating all this while. I suddenly heard a man accost him in short French: “Would M'sieu desire a little entertainment, early though it be in the day? The sky is so dark and the wind is so tumultuous, ma foi, that it might as well be night, being the proper time for such diversions as I can offer M'sieu.”

“Do you speak of fleshy enticement, my good sir?” The English ecclesiastic at once demanded.

“Je parle de l'amour,” was the reply.

“You speak of love, do you? Is this a free dispensation, or is there a tariff placed upon it?” my unsuspecting jailer pursued.

“But nothing in life that is really worthwhile is free, M'sieu l'Anglais.”

“It grieves me to hear you speak in such an unenlightened manner, my unknown friend,” Father Lawrence retorted in flawless French, “because I could stand here till doomsday and expound unnumerable joys which are part of our daily lot and which do not cost as so much as a sou or a centime. As an example, I give you the simple pleasure of spitting or clearing one's throat or blowing one's nose. There is no tax on any of these manifestations, yet each provides an exquisite pleasure at the moment. But to get down to particulars, what had you in mind when you spoke to me, recognizing me as you did as English and a stranger to your historic city?”

“It so happens, M'sieu, that in my Christian charity I have allowed two pretty young sisters from the country to occupy my room. They had come to Calais to seek their brother, who was a sailor on one of the vessels which put forth from our docks, sometimes to carry cargo, other times to war upon our enemies. Unhappily, they learned that their brother had been captured when his ship was boarding Algerian pirates off the coast of Gibraltar. They wept and implored me to help them earn the passage money which would take them to go before the Bey of Algiers to intercede for their brother's release. He is so badly needed to till the soil back at their old mother's firm in Beaulieu, that they would willingly sacrifice themselves in his exchange.”

“Now this is truly a marvel of Christian martyrdom,” Father Lawrence rejoined. And since I spend my last hours of vacation before I begin my new assignment in London, I would be happy to contribute alms to so praiseworthy a venture. I have but one question to ask of you: has* either of them the French or Italian pox?”

I heard the Frenchman utter a gasp of horror which, whether feigned or not, sounded utterly convincing: 'Mordieu! I would not dare to offer to M'sieu tainted merchandise, for that would be against the basic law of hospitality to foreigners.”

“From what I have observed in my few travels,” Father Lawrence somewhat dryly observed, “that is generally the last law which is adhered to. But no matter. Though I wear the cassock of my holy order, I am a man of parts sufficiently to discover for myself whether a young female is or is not afflicted so heinously. Take me to these two charming sisters, then, mon bon garcon!”

Once again my rude buffeting resumed, which told me that the good Father was striding onward in the company of the man who had accosted him. It was not a long walk, but I was thoroughly sick of my prison by this time, as you may well imagine. I decided that despite my over-familiarity with Laurette's cunny-fleece, it was the lesser of two evils rather than not to have it all, since it shielded me somewhat, and I am lean by flea-ish standards and am therefore more prone to hurt when I am rudely jostled.

“If M'sieu will do me the honor of going up this one flight of stairs, I will lead him to the demoiselles.” the Frenchman purred.

“I am glad that you did not say pucelles instead,” was the good Father's sardonic riposte, “for that would indicate that you were trying to palm them off on me as pure virgins, when you are simply attempting to make them whore for your fee.”

“Ah, but that is an insult! Does M'sieu take me for a macquereau?”

I do not take you for anything, my good fellow, but I simply wish to make sure that you do not take me,” was the taunting rebuke which Father Lawrence administered.

I then felt him ascend the stairs, the pocket of his cassock moving energetically as he took them resolutely – precisely the way he fucked or ate. There was nothing indecisive about my unsuspecting jailer, and a grudging admiration for him had already been born in my somewhat cynical heart.

“At this door, M'sieu,” the man said disdainfully, obviously irked by Father Lawrence's intonation that he was nothing more than a pimp.

I heard the turn of the knob of a door, I followed Father Lawrence willy-nilly, and then he stopped and stood still. “They are indeed enchanting. Leave us now, that I may hear their confession and determine what bounty will best serve them both in their sorrowful circumstances,” he told the man.

“But, M'sieu, we have not yet discussed my fee.”

“Nor will we, by all that is holy, until I have had an opportunity to listen to their story and to decide for myself whether it is what you have prompted and concocted or whether it comes from their very heart.”

And he added: “You have but to look at me to see that you will not be cheated, if a fee is indeed due for having led me to two deserving souls.”

There was a pause, and then the door closed with something of a slam. Father Lawrence had once again proved himself the master of a complicated situation. And then he spoke, his voice kindly and soothing, in a tone he seemed to reserve for the female ear rather than for the male's: “I speak your language, Mademoiselles. You have no need to fear me. I depart this night for London where I shall be attached to a holy seminary. I was told that you were in great need of aid.”

“Why, that is indeed true, M'sieu,” replied a charming voice that was elegantly low-pitched and retained a quality of huskiness which many men, I have found, find titillating to their cocks because it suggests the most lascivious intimacies between the sheets.

“Is it true that your brother has been abducted by the Bey of Algiers?” Father Lawrence pursued.

“Oui, oui, c'est bien vrai,” the low, husky voice told him with an effusive emotion that it could not conceal. “We had come, you must understand, from our little village where we and Jean, our brother, were born. We found at the docks a grizzled sailor who had been saved from shipwreck when the wicked Algerian pirates had attacked. He told us that poor Jean was seized by a dozen of the swarthy Moors and borne off onto their pirate ship, which then at once set sail. This sailor told us that the vessel of the pirates flew the flag of the mighty Bey, who is the scourge of all honest French and English seafarers. So Louisette and I, whose name is Denise, vowed that we would go to Algiers and on our knees implore that sovereign to take pity on our youth and purity and to accept us instead of Jean as his slaves.”

“From my first glimpse of you charming demoiselles,” Father Lawrence gallantly interposed, “my opinion is that the Bey would be vastly over-reimbursed for such an exchange. There would be two of you to your brother's one, which in itself would not be fair dealing. But since each of you is breathtakingly delicious, you would actually not so much be sacrificing yourselves as paying the Bey an unheard-of price to redeem your brother.”

“We are honest girls, M'sieu, even though we are but fifteen years old. Denise is my twin, but I am the older by an hour from my mother's womb,” Louisette now vouchsafed.

“Not yet your twin, since there is such a divergence in the two of you,” Father Lawrence declared. “And what enchanting contrast do my wind-sore eyes behold in you. You, Denise, with wheat-colored hair that falls to your waist and whose fringe of curls form a Gothic arch over your pristine and lovely forehead, with the pale pink skin which is so appetizingly fresh. And your sister Louisette, whose hair is the color of copper and falls even longer, nearly to her graciously rounded hips, yet of slimmer waist and longer legs though my vision is impaired. And her skin is the hue of rich, thickly curdled cream. But what was this man to you, my daughters? You may confide in me as you would to your own spiritual pere.”

“You are an English priest? Oh, how good it is to come upon a man of righteousness in a wicked city like Calais,” the husky-voiced Denise, exclaimed. “The man, who told us that his name was Edouard Daradier, saw us talking with the old sailor who had been with poor Jean. He offered us lodging and food and drink until we could find some charitable sea captain to take us on to Gibraltar, where we could make communication with one of the Bey's agents and implore an audience with that despotic lord.”

“He has not yet put you to any employment, my daughters?”

“He did say,” Louisette, who had been quite silent up to now, piped up, “that we had already cost him ten francs for our keep in these past three days, and that this night he would require us to earn our keep and to recompense him for what he has already spent. He wishes to bring men here to caress and fondle us.”

“Oh, oh the wicked, shameless rogue!” Father Lawrence thundered, sounding like an avenging angel. “It is well that I dismissed him, for were he in my presence now, I should smite him as David smote Goliath and let him totter from his false pedestal of charity and mercy which he professed to me not a few moments ago. Oh, my daughters, it is providence that brings me to you. Will you not accompany me and my ward Marisia to England so that you may take shelter and refuge in the holy seminary where I shall labor to save souls? There, I am certain that the Father Superior, when he hears of your misfortunes, will find some way to restore your brother Jean to you.”

“Oh, that would be so wonderful, and we should be so grateful, mon pere!” cried husky-voiced Denise.

“Then come, my daughters. We will go back to the inn where I am lodging and will further discuss your new life. Have no fear of this man who sought to earn money from your lovely flesh. He will be eternally damned. Now come.”

Without any demurral, the young sisters followed Father Lawrence downstairs. Outside the door, he was momentarily halted by the French pimp – for I mistake not that this man was precisely that – but Father Lawrence thundered forth so vitriolic a sermon on the veniality of sinful man (adding that he would call the gendarmes) that the man ran off rather than stand up to this stout-hearted English ecclesiastic.

“Each of you take an arm of mine, my children,” Father Lawrence said benevolently, “and we shall walk down the streets of Calais with smiles upon our faces, and with joy and humility in my heart that I have brought two more souls to the fold of righteousness.”