He sat down at the table, jiggling me again in my metal prison, and the Widow Bernard served him a meal over which he exclaimed many times. There was a bottle of good red Beaujolais, extremely young, since the cork had been put to it at this last harvest, the harvest which had brought Laurette such unforeseen rapture and exalted status in the village.
I will not bore you, my appreciative reader, in recounting the homilies and platitudinous flattery which the two of them exchanged during that meal. Suffice it to say that each sought to wheedle the other into a radiant mood of well being, a kind of spiritual attunement for their night ahead. But when I felt myself jiggled again, it was because Father Lawrence had risen from the table, pushing back his chair, and then I heard him say in a firm voice (which nevertheless trembled with greedy anticipation): “Truly, a feast for the gourmet, my daughter! And now, before I say farewell to you, let me hear your confession so that I may shrive you of any sins that you have either committed or considered. Your bedroom, I believe, would be a fitting chapel for your orisons. Come, my daughter, let us retire.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Close the door, Your Reverence, do. When I am with you, I feel almost as I did when I was a trembling bride.” The Widow Bernard seemed to be in the grip of a powerful emotion once inside the portals of her bedchamber.
There was a sound of the closing of the door, and with it I was jiggled once again in my metal prison, now encased within the pocket of his cassock. I realized that now I should have to use my keenly developed sense of hearing in lieu of sight, since even a flea as gifted as I has not yet devised the power of peering through metal and, after that, a thickness of black cloth. So, dear reader, you, just as I did then, will have to supply your own fanciful imagery and join it to the accompanying dialogue which I faithfully remembered while Father Lawrence took his fond leave of the delectable matron.
“There, now, my daughter, it is done. Does it allay your trepidations?”
To this there was a stifled little giggle as the Widow Bernard retorted, “But not entirely, Your Reverence. My feelings are mixed at this very moment, for you see, I behold you now in the black cassock of your holy order, which reminds me of my frailties as a sinner. Yet at the same time, when I gaze upon your handsome features, dear Father Lawrence, I tremble inwardly with those forbidden sensations which are proper only to a dutifully married woman.”
I heard him cluck his tongue in a gentle reproof: “This is understandable, my daughter. And it is good that, as a true believer of the Faith, you stand in awe of the most sacrosanct mysteries which are handed down to us from the very top of Mount Sinai, when Moses received those tenets which were to guide the lives of all of us in the centuries to come. Truly, my black cassock is the symbol of Mother Church, who gathers into her arms all the penitents who seek her consolation and her forgiveness for their temporal as well as their spiritual sins. Yet, to continue the analogy, under this cassock beats the heart of a virile man who is all too well aware of these frailties of which you speak so self-consciously. In my ecclesiastical robes, I stand before you as the representative of Mother Church, to give you her blessing and to pray that you will be comforted in your sorrows and your affliction of being bereft of a suitable husband, who will know how within the scope of our righteous laws to ease your carnal pangs as a descendant of the Eve who must atone throughout the ages for having eaten the forbidden fruit in Eden.”
“Your words are so helpful, my dear Father Lawrence,” the Widow Bernard cooed, and then uttered a heartfelt sigh.
“I do my humble best, my daughter,” he responded. “And now it is as that representative that I stand before you, to take heed of your confessional, which shall always be private between us, since no confidence to a priest may ever be passed on to the laity. Tell me, daughter, have you sinned in aught since our last meeting?”
“Oh, no, Your Reverence! It is true that I scolded Madame Tilueil for having sent her little boy over to me with a basket of eggs which I needed to make this very cake you found so delicious just now, Your Reverence. I found three bad eggs, for which she had charged me the full price, and I am afraid that knowing these eggs were for your august palate, I lost my temper.”
“I will easily forgive you that, my daughter. You will say one Hail Mary before you close your eyes this night. Is there aught else?”
There was a moment's silence while the handsome widow pondered, and then a soft: “If it is a sin, Your Reverence, I missed you very much the other night. And last night, too. And – and it was as a man, not as a priest, that I longed for you. I know I have sinned grievously.”
“No, my daughter, only if you sought to console your disappointment with some man to whom you were not wed, would you then be in mortal sin.”
“Oh, no, Your Reverence. But I did dream that you were beside me in bed, fucking me with your becque.” (At this point, let me remind you, dear reader, the good Father and his beauteous landlady were speaking in French, and to facilitate matters I will merely furnish to you the English translation to ease your understanding of what took place. Now, the word becque is French, and a colloquialism which roughly corresponds to the English 'prick.')
“Did you manifest any other action than passively during this dream, my daughter?”
“No, Your Reverence, except that when I wakened, I found I had my finger in my con.” (Here again Madame Bernard used the French vulgarism for what in English is called 'cunny.')
“After due reflection, my daughter, I do not think you were really guilty of mortal sin. Your mind, like your body, was dormant while you were asleep, and your finger cannot be said to have committed a mortal sin simply by wandering at random over your fair person while your mind was in repose. I therefore absolve you. Now, is that the last?”
“I – I think so, Your Reverence. Are – are you really leaving Languecuisse tomorrow?”
“It is my destiny, my daughter. I have been assigned to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, and he who takes the bread of Mother Church must do her bidding. However, joyfully I may tell you that I bring to my new post a lovely and innocent candidate for righteousness, since the charming damsel Marisia, who as you will remember was the ward of the late Monsieur Villiers, will accompany me to take up her duties as a novice in our holy order.”
“Ah, Father Lawrence, what I would not give to be in her place and to be, indeed, of her tender years.”
“Let us remember that one of the commandments, my daughter, reproves you for coveting that which is not yours. It is Marisia's destiny, as it is mine to take her there, and undoubtedly for you there will be a place in heaven when your time is come. Yet since you are yet young and strong and spirited, my daughter, I shall be greatly surprised if, before another year is out, you do not exchange your widow's weeds for the costume of a joyous bride. And it is this benediction towards that ultimate happiness which I am come to give you now, both as a priest and as a man who appreciates your hospitality.”
Once again I could hear the Widow Bernard's stifled giggle, and I knew how greatly she had been impressed by the English ecclesiastic's sententious declamation. I was certain that she was impatient now, having received his absolution in his role of priest, to be the recipient of his massive cock's farewell joust within her burning cuntsheath.
“I am grateful for Your Reverence's good wishes. But alas, in a tiny village like this, it is not easy to find a worthy man who will mate with a widow no longer in the springtime of her youth. And you know that Laurette has captured that handsome devil of a Pierre Larrieu, whose ilk is none too common. Oh, Your Reverence, I shall pine in my bed alone at night and dream not only of you, but of a vigorous youth like Pierre. I know that I shall commit sin, because you will be away in London, perhaps never to return, and yet Pierre Larrieu will be only a little distance away from my humble cottage and my lonely bed.'*
“Then you must remember the counsel of good St. Paul, who said that it was far better to marry than to burn,” Father Lawrence immediately riposted. “You must make a diligent effort to suppress your urge to sin until you have found a suitable spouse who will accommodate your yearnings within the holy estate of matrimony. Yet, because, as a man, I know how you are suffering now – as a woman and not as a parishioner – I take pity on you my last night in Languecuisse. See, I am removing my cassock. Now there is no longer the priest – only the man.”
