Brandon, however, could not realise this, and partly that he might be always with her and undisturbed by society, he took a house in a small village in Scotland.
There they lived happily some months; indeed Brandon would have been hard to please if he had not been satisfied with the skilful love-making of Maud, who was always ready for his assaults, and was continually devising fresh methods, each of which seemed better than the last to entranced Brandon.
He made sketches in the neighbourhood, and some of these sketches attracted the attention of a riche amateur, who gave him a commission to execute a series of views of Swiss scenery. Brandon was very far from being a rich man, and he found that it would be impossible for him to take Maud with him.
“It will be awfully lonely for me,” said Maud, “and when I think that I shall not feel your big baton between my legs for three or four months, I could cry. But there is no help for it, and I promise you on my word of honour that I will wait for your return and live quite chastely all the time. I will not ask the same of you, for I know what men are, and they have laid down the comfortable theory that a married man may go with as many women as he likes, but a married woman must have no one but her husband. So I expect you will put your big machine into a good many pretty Swiss girls before you come back.
“My dear Maud,” said her husband, “that is a popular delusion about the Swiss girls, they are, as a rule, abominably ugly, but if they were not I should not touch them, for I could never hope to meet one as pretty as you, of as good a poke.”
Whether Brandon kept his word is very doubtful, but he certainly never found any Swiss girl who was to be compared to Maud, and he was heartily glad when his last sketch was finished and he could return home, more especially as he had received a letter from Maud only a day or two before to say that she was very tired of sleeping alone, and that she had laid in a nice stock of birch rods.
Moreover she added that her crackers were in good working order, and able to crack his nut as often as he could put it there.
He was therefore looking forward to a pleasurable time, and had hurried home as fast as he could. But few of his friends even knew he was married, and he had pretended to his friend Lawrence that it was no petticoat business that had brought him to England and was taking him to Scotland.
Therefore when he took his place in the train his mind was still running on Maud, and the woman sitting opposite to him still further excited his sexual passions. He had not had a woman for at least three weeks, but he had committed so many infidelities that one or two more or less did not affect his conscience.
We have already seen what occurred between them until the time the train drew up with a sharp jerk, and had thrown the lady into his arms, and we will now continue the history from the moment at which we left it.
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Emile Zola, that clever French novel-writer and scatophile, in a book which has become famous, La Terre (The Soil), draws a fine picture of a scene of rape with violence.
It was in the month of October on a mild, damp day. The actors in this little drama were peasants. The rape took place in a field. Buteau was the brother-in-law of the woman he raped. The latter lived in his house with him and her sister, and aided them both in their field, and other occupations. The violated girl had a lover named Jean, who was very fond of her, and who came furtively now and again to see her. They contemplated marriage. Owing to misunderstandings with regard to the division of the family patrimony, Francoise did not get on very well with her brother-in-law and sister. They made her life in their house a little hell, and although she did not much care for her sweetheart, Jean, she intended to marry him as soon as possible to escape their tyranny. Buteau hated Jean, because the latter had once thrashed him and broken his arm. Readers who desire further details concerning the actors of this wonderful romance should study the book for themselves. We have discovered that the English edition of “La Terre” does not give a full, verbatim account of the French original, but, on the contrary omits the smartest, and of course, most interesting parts, which we deeply deplore.
“What had put Buteau into such a savage temper was, that while bringing his harrow back, he had seen Jean and Francoise hurrying away behind a wall. The girl, who had gone out on the pretence of getting some grass for her cows, had not yet returned, for she knew what kind of reception awaited her. The night was already falling, and Buteau, in a furious rage, went out every minute into the yard, and even on to the road, to see if the hussy were coming back. He swore at the top of his voice, and poured out a torrent of filthy language, without observing old Fouan, who was sitting on the stone bench, calming himself after the row, and enjoying the warm softness of the air, which made that sunny October like a spring month.
“The sound of clogs was heard coming up the slope, and Francoise made her appearance, bending double, for her shoulders were laden with an enormous bundle of grass, which she had tied up in an old cloth. She was panting and perspiring, almost hidden beneath her burden.
“'Ah! you blasted street-runner!' cried Buteau, 'do you think to make game of me, getting yourself polished off for the last two hours by your Jock, when there's work to be done here!'
“And tumbling her over on to the bundle of grass which had fallen down, he threw himself upon her just as Lisa, in her turn, was leaving the house with the intention of blackguarding him furiously.
“'Eh! Mary shit-the-bed, come along here, that I may kick your arse!.. You're not ashamed of yourself!' she cried.
“But Buteau had already seized hold of the girl under her petticoats, with both hands. His rage turned always to a sudden rush of lust. While he was trussing her up on the grass, he growled like a beast, half-choked, his face violet and blood-swollen.
“'You damned whore, it's got to be my turn, now… Though God's thunder burst, you'll have to go through it after t'other chap!'
“Then there was a furious struggle. Old Fouan could not see very well in the darkness. But he could still distinguish Lisa standing up, looking on, and letting matters go; while her man, wallowing, and thrust aside every second or two, was exhausting himself in vain, but still satisfying himself as well as he could, anyhow, no matter where.
“When it was done, Francoise managed with a last effort to get free, and then, choking and stuttering, she shouted:
“'You beast! you beast! you beast!.. You couldn't do it, that doesn't count… I don't care a rap! but you shall never have me, never I '
“She had triumphed; she took a wisp of grass, and wiped her leg, her whole body trembling the while, as if she were rather satisfied than otherwise at the obstinacy of her refusal. With a gesture of bravado, she threw the wisp of grass at her sister's feet.
“'Here, this belongs to you; it's not your fault if I give it you back.!'
“But Buteau had not yet given up the game.
“He called out to his wife: “You blasted lazy bitch! What's the use of your idly looking on?.. Why can't you help; catch hold of her legs, if you want me to do the job.'”
“Lisa stood aloof, motionless, some ten yards away, casting her eyes far away, and then bringing them back upon the couple before her, without a muscle of her face betraying the least emotion.
“But now that she was called upon by her husband, she showed not a moment's hesitation, and stepping forward seized hold of her sister's left leg, stretched it apart and sat herself upon it as if she had a mind to crush it. Francoise, nailed to the ground, gave herself up, her nerves broken, and her eyelids closed. But she retained full consciousness, and when Buteau had indeed possessed her, she was herself in her turn carried away in such a sharp voluptuous spasm, that she passionately clasped both her arms round his neck fit to choke him, giving forth a long convulsive cry.”
The history of rape is the history of humanity itself. Wherever man has found woman, he has sought by fair means or foul to throw her over on her back, and in nine cases out of ten woman has been content to rest there until the man has vigorously frictioned her. Between the white thighs of the woman is the most wonderful thing that
