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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Choisy had not imagined that Rose de Montprofit's feelings would lead her to such extremities.
— Does she love me really that much? he wondered. And she a former dancer: usually dancers are not so spiteful or at least spite does not take such sanguinary forms.
Placed between an ex-mistress who would perhaps attempt to murder him, having failed the first time, and another mistress with such extraordinary sensuality, Choisy began to find his stay in Rome unpleasant and even dangerous. The sittings at the Conclave continued without any sign that they would come to an end. True, there had been no scandal, but the threat was still there. Choisy even had the impression that Lydie was expecting such an incident to happen again, for the blood had given her an appetite for it.
She was now unconcerned with public opinion and even felt proud to show herself with Choisy in society.
The result was that Choisy was now the object of a competition among women that could very well lead to a drama. He could not venture into a salon without having a lot of women flirting around him. And that, of course, only made Lydie more possessive than ever.
— Did you see that woman Genoa, she told Choisy. She wouldn't hesitate to wear a dress with the neckline as low as her navel, to try to seduce you. And that French girl-what is she doing in Rome anyway? Women are not admitted in conclaves. And did you see the way she looked at you. Shameful I call it.
Choisy protested as a matter of course. And he was naturally innocent, as he did absolutely nothing to encourage women, for indeed, he had quite enough with Lydie, who consumed all his energy. He had lost not only all his physical energy but also the mental stimulation necessary for love-making. When he saw Lydie undress with unseemly haste, she no longer looked to him like a nude model who could inspire painters and sculptors, but rather like a devilish female, and he started criticising to himself her too pronounced curves. As for the sight of her sex, it assumed an obscene aspect that disgusted him.
But Lydie failed to diagnose Choisy's disgust. She taunted him for his “local” laziness, and it began to become more and more difficult for her to make his sex stiffen for the benefit of her insatiable sex.
She had finally condescended to use her fingers to caress Choisy's sex and make him stiff enough for her taste. But it was becoming more and more difficult and one night, she got nothing out of her caresses, except a cramp in her fingers. So she started abusing him.
— So you've become an angel, have you? At your age, it's a shame. Do you intend going into retirement like an old soldier?
— I think I've deserved it, I've proved myself enough as it is, Choisy answered, not in the least humiliated by Lydie's biting remark.
— You haven't proved yourself long, as you say, a mere three of four weeks. Call that endurance!
— If you had been less demanding I could have gone on, Choisy retorted.
— Enough! she cried, exasperated, you fooled me. For you I broke my widowhood. What's going to become of me now?
— Get married again.
— With whom? With a man like you who will soon be emptied and flaccid like you. You're a criminal.
— But Uppa, your bull of a husband — I forbid you to insult his memory. Go into retirement since you're good for nothing now.
