The Battle of Eve
O my soul, do not aspire to immortality,
but exhaust the realm of the possible.
—Pindar
Our Father who art in heaven
Stay there
And we’ll stay here on earth
At times so beautiful
With its seasons
With its years
Its beautiful girls . . .
—Jacques Prévert, Paroles
The following day, Ariane calls Emmanuelle, asking her to come over to her house. Easy to guess at the objective of such a visit! Emmanuelle begs off, pretending to be busy with errands for Jean. As soon as she hangs up, she asks herself the reason for her evasiveness: is it true that she doesn’t find Ariane tempting at all? Remembering the time the young Countess made a pass at her, Emmanuelle immediately feels her body responding. No doubt about it, she would enjoy Ariane’s caresses. Well, then, is she just being faithful to Bee? That does not seem so certain, either. . . . Her grief over the loss of Bee is already moving into a mythical dimension: it’s not her heart hurting so much, it’s her pride. Thus Emmanuelle arrives, a trifle superficially perhaps, at the conclusion that her indifference toward Ariane, at this moment, is merely a reflection of the curiosity and the attraction she has been feeling since the day before for that young girl she met by the garden gate: a mystery Mario had made no particular effort to clarify.
“Anna Maria Serguine,” that’s what he’d said. But who was she? Different, to be sure. . . . He had promised that she would come and visit Emmanuelle this very afternoon. And arrive she did, around three o’clock, in her distinctive automobile.
An annoyed frown appears on Emmanuelle’s face: it’s impossible to see the legs of this “archangel,” as she’s wearing slacks. . . . Can’t see her breasts either, so well covered are they by a shirtwaist, which is far from being as generously unbuttoned as Emmanuelle’s own. Yet it strikes her quite forcibly that a thoroughly clothed human form can be just as seductive as a naked one.
She stood there, staring at her visitor, not attempting to disguise her interest in the least. Anna Maria found it impossible to restrain an urge to laugh. Emmanuelle, confused, lowered her head.
“Am I being rude?” she asked.
“No, you’re just being honest.”
What did this Anna Maria know about her? Well, why not ask her:
“Why do you say that? Did Mario tell you that I like girls?”
And yet, at that moment, she felt no desire in that direction. She was suddenly timid, surprisingly enough, considering her customary ease and enterprise in making it with other beauties. Happily, the visitor responded with a total lack of embarrassment. It made Emmanuelle smile again.
“But of course. And the rest of it, too. That you’re quite insatiable!”
“Such a remark really makes me wonder what Mario’s been telling you!”
“But there’s no shortage of gossip, is there? Lots of wild escapades in native hovels, bouts of exhibitionism, frolicking in threesomes, God knows what else! I’ve probably forgotten at least three-quarters of it all.”
It didn’t bother Emmanuelle that Mario could be so indiscreet. In fact, she wanted him to make such publicity.
“And what do you think of it all?” she asked, with a matter-of-fact expression.
“Oh, it’s been a long time since I took anything my handsome cousin says at face value.”
Emmanuelle made a mental note: her visitor had quite tactfully circumnavigated the necessity to pass judgment on her conduct. But, out of some slight masochistic impulse perhaps, she had no intention of allowing herself to benefit from such delicate manners.
“What about me, then? Do you think it’s proper of me to . . . for instance, to cuckold my husband?”
“Not proper at all.”
Anna Maria’s relaxed tone and affectionate smile took the edge off the negative judgment.
“I hope you made Mario feel ashamed of it,” Emmanuelle said flippantly.
“No, I didn’t. There’s no reason to be angry with him.”
“There isn’t? With whom should I be angry, then?”
“With yourself, to be sure. Because it’s you who really enjoys those things.”
Emmanuelle registered that as a direct hit. She insisted, nevertheless, on the principle of the thing:
“But Mario and his theories aren’t one hundred percent altruistic, either.”
Anna Maria laughed again, a clear, pleasing peal. They had seated themselves, both straddling a little wooden bench under a gigantic tamarind, well protected from the scorching August sun by its fresh shade. They sat facing each other, both leaning forward, bracing themselves on their outstretched arms. Anna Maria wore a blue pants-and-shirtwaist outfit, whereas Emmanuelle was clad only in a minuscule bikini (you could see it whenever she moved one of her legs) under a thin lemon-colored sweater that set her breasts and nipples off to full advantage. The thick tresses of her hair fell over her cheeks and forehead: she shook them off, tossing her neck like a filly, or caught a few between her teeth and sucked on their ends for a couple of pensive seconds, moist-lipped, with a little frown. She gave Anna Maria the once-over again, without bothering to conceal her lust any more than the previous time. She found her incredibly beautiful: more beautiful than Ariane and her entourage of half-naked, pretty girls engaged in athletic pursuits, more so than Marie-Anne with her feline nipples and elfin eyes. More so than Bee. . . . Emmanuelle’s conscience gave her a little twinge. She tried to justify herself to herself: after all, those others, even Bee, were mere terrestrials—but Anna Maria wasn’t. It was obvious that she wasn’t! A secret arrival from another planet. . . . For a moment or two, Emmanuelle’s fancy roamed through the galaxies: just thinking about what the universe might not offer in terms of unknown beauty, way beyond somewhere, beyond the black abysses between the nebulae, filled her heart with painful longing. But Anna Maria’s amused voice brought her back to earth—and, after all, she told herself, there appeared to be plenty of fine occasions down here, too!
“Oh, Mario’s theories,” said the young girl, in reply to Emmanuelle’s last spoken words, “I know them, all right. What’s more, I approve of them.”
She relished Emmanuelle’s obvious surprise and continued, with gusto:
“I believe, just as he does, that the human race has to ‘denaturize’ itself: it has to go against nature, and go beyond it, detach itself from it. The voice of nature is merely the voice of sin.”
“That’s a term I’ve never yet caught Mario using,” Emmanuelle said, giggling.
Anna Maria smiled tolerantly.
“Haven’t you noticed how scared that poor boy is, of words? He’s quite bashful in relation to quite a number of things. Well, he’s an aristocrat, you know.”
They both laughed, this time in complete harmony.
“But you yourself, surely, are of noble birth?” Emmanuelle asked.
“Art school has made far nobler young ladies than I come down off their high horses.”
“Oh, I see! Where did you go? Rome?”
“No, not at all. Paris.”
“And here Mario was trying to convince me that you were a prude!”
“A prude? Well, that, too—which is not to say I ever was a prude—they’d have knocked that out of me, too, in the ateliers of that dear old Beaux-Arts.”
“And I imagined you as being capable of even worse atrocities: like virginity, chastity, morality, religion!”
“Really?” Anna Maria seemed delighted. “Not a bad guess: as a matter of fact, I am a virgin, I am continent, I take great care in all moral matters and in all those spectacular aspects of my condition—of being a child of God, a daughter of His Holy Church.”
She reveled in Emmanuelle’s disgusted mien.
“As I told you, your wild capers don’t bother me at all: but I didn’t say I was on your side,” she went on to explain. “On the contrary, I find it quite sad that you like to live this way. It’s similar to my reaction to nature: it doesn’t shock me, but I’m against it.”
“What kind of a girl are you?” asked Emmanuelle, rather harshly. “What really hurts most, is that you’re so damn beautiful!”
Anna Maria smiled gently.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re no frump yourself.”
Emmanuelle sighed. She felt far removed now from the kind of situation she had become so used to, where reciprocal admiration quite logically led to an intertwining of limbs, to lips against lips, nipples against nipples. Anna Maria seemed to make an effort to be sympathetic:
“It doesn’t seem right to you that a girl believes in God?” she inquired.
“Not merely that, it seems downright obscene. Unnatural.”
“But that’s just what I’m saying!” Anna Maria cheered. “It is fabulously unnatural! That’s what’s so great about it. Although it can be a bore sometimes. Because I, too, like anybody else, am capable of enjoying a little natural recreation. I wasn’t born pure in spirit.”
“So you’re telling me that you’re really quite sensual?”
“Do I look frigid?”
Emmanuelle refused to let outward appearances influence her.
“I don’t know.”
She hesitated, then said:
“But what do you do when you feel that way?”
“I just tell myself not to give in to the impulse.”
Emmanuelle grimaced with distaste.
“You don’t even make love to yourself, ever?”
Anna Maria didn’t look the least embarrassed.
“That happens, sometimes. But I always feel so bad afterward.”
“Why?”
Emmanuelle was truly indignant
“Because it’s sinful. Every time I give in to temptation, I regret it with all my being. Compared to the intensity of my remorse, the pleasure I’ve had isn’t worth mentioning. That’s just what’s so hateful, in nature: she likes to trap you, to take you in with her shams. A dazzle, an illusion, a sigh: how can you rejoice in what you must lose, so soon? Could one really become attached to that? And is it worth sacrificing all the rest, only to have that?”
“What rest?”
“What makes a human being a different thing from any other animal. Call it what you will: the spirit, the soul, hope.”
“But that isn’t the same thing at all!” Emmanuelle protested. “I have no intention of sacrificing my spirit, nor my soul, for that matter! As for hope, I have plenty of hope.”
“But what hope deserves that name, apart from the hope to see God one day? If you don’t believe in eternal life, you are in a state of despair.”
“I just believe in life, period. That’s more than enough. And I’m not desperate in the least. I’m the very contrary of that: I am happy. As for me, no remorse can ever ruin a day. I love having a good time, but that doesn’t prevent me from thinking about my soul. I enjoy my life, because it is all I am.”
“But why do you insist on confusing life itself with the sensations of your body? I marvel at happiness, at beauty, just like you: but true pleasure is not the pleasure of the body! It’s an entirely different thing from the accelerated heartbeat of an animal. Our life isn’t the same thing at all as the life of those pretty flowers. It is so much more beautiful. Our life has already left nature behind, it has detached itself from it, it soars far above earth. It is this life that saves us from the universe, ruled by death, by entropy. Mankind has evolved from the sweetness of the body to the sweetness of the soul.”
“I think that’s just fine,” said Emmanuelle, “but surely it’s enough to call that conscience, reason, poetry? And it isn’t opposed to the body at all. When I have an orgasm, it’s my spirit having an orgasm in my body: it’s not my body returning to some earlier, bestial state! You want the spirit to take pleasure only in itself. Why? Life is wonderful throughout, in the flesh as well as in spirit. Are those really two separate entities? You don’t want anyone to experience pleasure in this world: where should they then? And will it be so much better there? It doesn’t make sense, to go on looking for another world to accommodate a ‘soul’—which, after all, is exactly what makes us masters of this one.”
“It isn’t another world,” said Anna Maria.
Emmanuelle was dumbfounded. She didn’t believe her ears.
“Eternal life, though,” her guest continued, “doesn’t that notion tempt you in the least?”
“Of course it does! I would love life to be eternal! But not the way you’re driving at. Not in your paradise. I would not like to lead a life that has escaped away from earth. The only life everlasting I would like to experience would simply consist of going on with it in my present state! Not to grow old. Not to grow ugly. Not to die. Living is so great: and it’s the only miracle there is. The earth who has given us our life, the earth who one day will turn us cold as stones—it is hateful even to think of leaving her. The only way I can face the thought is to think, well, it is in spite of ourselves! It is not our fault! But why, why are you dreaming of a flight away from this world?”
“I’m not at all sure the world is such a wonderful place as you describe it. It is full of deception, killing, cold, hunger, disease. . . . There’s certainly a whole lot more suffering and ugliness than there is beauty and joy in it.”
“I’m not that stupid. I know that too. But that is exactly why I want all human beings to put their shoulders, all their powers, all their knowledge, all their dreams to the wheel, to help the earth, rather than sit around resigned to their misery and telling themselves that they’ll be rewarded in some hereafter! The pains they take to invent God, and the love and courage they need to then observe His laws—if they directed those toward loving the earth, toward making it so beautiful and so happy that no one would ever want to lose it again—then, perhaps, life could be good for all of us.”
It seemed to her that that was the longest speech she had ever made. Anna Maria’s eyes were scorching.
“Emmanuelle,” the young girl said, “you know so well what you want to make out of your life: have you ever thought what you’ll do about your death?”
For a moment, Emmanuelle remained silent, as if stunned. But then she almost shouted:
“Nothing at all! But why does that worry you? Oh, I know. Christians dream of nothing else but dying.”
“No, they don’t. They only want to turn death into a meaningful experience.”
Emmanuelle shrugged. Death was the supreme absurdity, the incomprehensible injustice, the irreparable accident. There was no meaning in death. She detested Anna Maria for taking such an interest in what would, one day, be the absolute abolition of Emmanuelle, the negation of Emmanuelle—even worse: anti-Emmanuelle is what it would be, the opposite of all that existed. And so she said, in a hoarse voice that sounded strange even to herself as it rose through her constricted throat and passed her lips, her eyes suddenly shining with tears:
“You should worry more about my life. When it comes, that thing, to put an end to everything: when I won’t, ever again, be able to see this world brimming with colors and stars, when I won’t ever know what others will discover in it, when all that will be beautiful, after I’m gone, won’t be there for me any more—that’s when it will be too late for you to take an interest in me, to love me, to want to get to know me. I, I, when I won’t be alive any more, I won’t know it if someone loves me, I won’t be able to see anything, hear anything, feel anything. I beseech you, don’t wait until I’m dead! I don’t want to be someone of whom they’ll discover, after he’s gone, that he—or she—was born to live, I don’t want to be turned into a legend! I feel enough pain already when I consider that there will be, later, equally, perhaps more beautiful days than the ones we have: that centuries and centuries will pass and that human beings will be awakened by other suns. . . . Perhaps I’ll die before growing old, grieving with all my heart, because I’ll be forced to leave this world that I’m now hoping for, anticipating before it has arrived. . . . I am sure it will! And I want so very much to share that world, this one, where all miracles are possible. But it’s true: I have to die. I’ll never know what I have been waiting for. I’ll be deprived of the only thing that counts. Things will continue their existence without me. Nothing will serve as consolation: even if there were a God, and another world, I wouldn’t want them! I do not want to trade in my world, my life, for anything: thus I know that I’ll have to lose everything. But at least I won’t have vegetated toward some pension, I won’t have sold my birthright for some spurious ecstasy and celestial asylum! I don’t want any security, any snug retreat. When my life will be stolen from me, leaving nothing, yes, I’ll weep and cry, I’ll wail in my sorrow, I’ll want all the world to hear! I’ll howl, because I won’t be able to go on living—not because of any regrets about the life I’ve had! No remorse, either, at having lived for nothing else but for my earth, which I’ll have to cease looking at, at the very moment of my most intense love for it. . . . My earth, whom I would love to touch one more time. I want to stay here. Nowhere else. With human beings. Not with God!”
Emmanuelle was not looking at Anna Maria any more, she was gazing at some remote point, through the tamarind branches. Then she suddenly turned back to her guest, letting her stare burrow right into her eyes, and her voice had an edge to it that was quite surprising:
“Death! Your God can’t know what death is, being immortal himself. Nor do the dead know anything about it, being in a state where they cannot know anything at all. There’s only us, only the living; no one else but us, to know what it is, that death.”
“I find your cousin quite annoying,” Emmanuelle complains to Mario that evening, speaking to him on the telephone. “I don’t particularly care to pass my time in theological discussions.”
“You have, indeed, better things to do.”
“She has no passion except for the great beyond.”
“Remember what Goethe said: that the true ideal is merely the spirit of reality.”
“You ought to tell that to her yourself. Yes, why don’t you unload a few of your precious nuggets of wisdom on her, too, instead of showering me with them?”
“Have you perchance already forgotten that the redemption of Anna Maria happens to be your task?”
“How do you expect me to accomplish that? I’ve never seduced any convent girls.”
“Well, doesn’t it sound exciting?”
“Not to me it doesn’t. I’m a simple girl. I love what comes naturally.”
“But you’re also in love with Anna Maria.”
Emmanuelle didn’t reply to that. As a matter of fact, she felt confused on that point. She sighed, loudly enough for the sound to be transmitted down the line.
“You’ll be rewarded for your persistence,” prophesied Mario, trying to sound reassuring.
“Her last name . . .”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes, you did. It intrigues me. It sounds like a Slavic version of your own. Isn’t she Italian?”
“She is. But my ancestors liked to fuck around, without paying too much attention to national frontiers. The sweet little bud Anna Maria flowered in Tuscany on a White Russian branch grafted onto an Alexandrian tree grown from a Cretan shoot transplanted to Byzantium.”
“All right, all right. I get the picture.”
“History knows only the fair lady gardener, never the male planter.”
“Listen, I don’t want to fall in love still one more time.”
“Well, then, do something about it. Have some fun. How about some little escapade?”
“I tried one, last night.”
“Tell me about it.”
Emmanuelle related their outing to the display of Siamese vulvas.
“Well, the next treat was this rather unattractive creature running through her clever repertoire. She pushed a hard-boiled egg into her cunt and brought it out from there a few seconds later in neat slices. Then she cut a banana the same way. After that, she stuck a lighted cigarette between her labia and walked around with it, blowing smoke rings. Finally, she stuck a Chinese paintbrush in there and inscribed, vertically, a whole poem on a silk ribbon—in artistic and extremely well-formed characters, I might add.”
“Banal,” said Mario. “You can see stuff like that even in Rome.”
“Then a Hindu appeared, wearing a turban, with an enormous erection protruding from his dhoti. He proceeded to hang all kinds of heavy objects on it, without it bending an inch.”
“Any well-endowed male could do as well. What rewards did he treat his inflexible member to?”
“I don’t know. He walked offstage with it still in the same state.”
“That sounds suspicious. In fact, it probably was an artificial prick. And then?”
“A young girl came on, clothed only in transparent veils. We were quite stunned to see how beautiful she was. From a basket, she produced a snake, at least six feet long, with ivory-colored scales, truly almost as gorgeous as herself. It seems they only come across one like it once every century, back in India. She danced with it, twining it around her arms, her neck, her waist. Then she stripped, veil by veil. The snake snuggled up between her breasts, coiled around them, tickled her nipples with its flickering tongue. It kissed her on the mouth, on the eyelids, and she seemed so excited that I was getting jealous. She let the snake put its head into her mouth, gently, and then she sucked it and kept it there for a long moment, her eyes closed. It seemed as if she was drinking. Then she unbuckled the golden belt that held up her last veil, round her hips, and stood there quite naked. As soon as that happened, the python slithered down to her belly, passed between her legs and up between her buttocks, coiled round her waist and proceeded toward her cunt. Its forked tongue started licking her clitoris with such quick strokes you could only see the surrounding air flicker a bit, the way you do when you watch an airplane propeller turning. The snake’s mistress moaned with pleasure, as assistants brought her some cushions and she lay down on them, upon her back, her legs spread wide apart in front of us: I could see her lower lips, quite dewy and rosy like a sea shell.”
“And the snake?”
“It went right into her: she used its head like a cock, made it disappear altogether: I was wondering how it could go on breathing.”
“She only put its head in?”
“Oh no, a good portion of its body went in, too. You could see its scales moving, see it vibrating, throughout its entire length. Maybe it was licking her inside, with that vibrant tongue.”
“Was it thick?”
“Thicker than any man’s cock. Almost as thick as my wrist. Its head was pointed, though: she had no trouble getting it in.”
“Then what happened?”
“The girl took hold of the snake’s body and pulled until its head reappeared, then she plunged it back in. She went on doing that I don’t know how many times. She was coming, too, by now, twisting and turning on those cushions as if she were a snake herself. She was gasping and screaming.”
“You too?”
“Oh! I wish I had a snake to make love to me like that!”
“I’ll give you one.”
“When it finally came out, she held it tight in her arms.”
“And then she left?”
“Yes. Jean told me that a lot of men go and visit her in her dressing room, every night.”
“You should have tried your luck with her.”
“I’d certainly have liked to. But the idea of standing in line with all those over-excited men put me off.”
“Well, that might’ve been an experience in itself.”
“Instead, I escaped into daydreaming.”
“What did you tell yourself?”
“Well, the usual: I made love to her, in making love to myself. But all I had were my fingers, instead of a snake.”
“And now you have no further desire for her?”
“Quite the contrary! I want her more than ever.”
“Because of her big reptilian friend?”
“No. It’s something else, it’s a new kind of itch. . . .”
“For what?”
“To make love with a woman and pay her for it.”
Mario let a couple of seconds pass in silence.
“Who would you like to do it with more: with Anna Maria, or with the python girl?”
“The python girl!”
She thought it over, then:
“I’m sure Anna Maria wouldn’t know what to do with a snake.”
Mario’s end of the line was silent; perhaps he was meditating. Emmanuelle took the initiative again.
“You say you’ll get me one?”
“Well, yes, I promised.”
“A white one?”
“His scales will be as soft as lips.”
“And he’ll know how to make love to me?”
“I’ll make myself personally responsible for his education.”
Emmanuelle giggled like a little girl.
“Tell me the rest of it,” urged Mario.
“The long line of teenage dancers came back, and then we took off.”
“You gave up so soon?”
“There wasn’t anything else to see,” Emmanuelle said, with a disenchanted little sigh.
“Well, it was up to you, then, to put on a little exhibition of your own.”
“Yes, but that didn’t work out.”
“How come?”
Emmanuelle told Mario about her sudden desire for Christopher, how she had asked her husband for permission, how he had granted it.
“I hope you’re pleased to hear all this?”
Mario was, and told her so. The event, he hastened to point out, was of an equal importance to the spiritual development of Emmanuelle as, in its time, the adoption of an erect posture had been to the previously quadruped human race. Well then, had the night of love with the houseguest proved satisfactory?
“There was no night of love with the houseguest,” Emmanuelle confessed, sounding neither contrite nor regretful.
“What?”
“When we got back to the house, I didn’t feel like it any more. I was sleepy. So, in front of his bedroom door, I kissed Christopher on both cheeks, then on the nose, and then just a little peck on his lips. And after that I just left him standing there—and pretty excited he looked, too!”
“Che peccato!” Mario lamented.
“But not all was lost. As soon as I was in bed, I did not feel sleepy any longer. So I made love to Jean! And it was quite a bit better than usual. Every time I had to yell a little, I thought of Christopher. I’ll wager that noise kept him awake for a long while, on the other side of the wall! But we didn’t mention him at all, Jean and I. We only talked about what a good time we were having. I don’t think I ever told my husband such obscene stuff as I did last night. Jean got into me in every possible way! He ended up falling asleep, but I still couldn’t, not even after all that fun. Once again I was getting hot thinking about Christopher, I felt like going into the next room and offering myself to him, still soaked and sweaty as I was with Jean’s love-making. But then I didn’t dare. I was too afraid I’d shock him. So I went on fondling myself, to the point where I can’t remember falling asleep, finally. The first thing I noticed again was hearing the two of them talking over breakfast! I myself didn’t get out of bed until noon. I didn’t put any clothes on, but had lunch with both of them quite naked on the terrace, to atone a little for leaving Christopher so high and dry earlier.”
“Ottimo,” Mario said approvingly. “Tonight you should just get into his bed and let him find you there when he comes in.”
“Can’t do it. He’s left.”
“Left?”
“For a couple of days, with Jean. You see, Jean told me over lunch that he’d received a telegram from the construction site, and that he would have to catch a plane to get there. And of course his young friend decided to go with him.”
“What a pity. Well, did you have time to mention that invitation to Jean, the one to Prince Orméaséna’s party?”
“No.”
“You didn’t dare to?”
“It wasn’t that. After last night, I wouldn’t be afraid to ask him for this further permission. But . . . I don’t know how to say it. . . .”
“His acquiescence would have taken away a bit of the pleasure you’ll have in giving yourself to others?”
“I’d like to go on deceiving him while I still can. Later, when he’ll allow me everything, I won’t have the opportunity.”
“You’ll do better than that. . . .”
He went on:
“Are you preparing yourself for the great moment, in a fitting manner?”
“What great moment?”
“The night of Maligâth.”
“Oh. Is it really so remarkable?”
“There you go again, acting high and mighty!”
“No, honestly! But it seems I’ve been doing such a lot of things already! What else is there to discover?”
“The joys of number. There’s a lot of them, you know, burning to explode inside you! The word’s out that you’ll be there. The very thought that the one whom they had thought the most inaccessible among women will make herself available to all comers seems to have gripped the males of this country like a fever!”
“Now, really! Is that your doing?”
“Well, surely it would be remiss to deprive those who most desire you of the torture and the delight of two days of fantasizing and despairing, by turns? The expectation of possessing you, isn’t it a form of happiness that’s almost equal to the fulfillment of that expectation? You yourself, aren’t you trembling and dreaming, too?”
“After what you’ve just told me, my dominant emotion is fear! I have no desire to see a veritable horde of rutting males fighting over my body. The very idea that those men, at this very moment, may be repeating my name to themselves. . . . And the things they must be saying . . . !”
Emmanuelle heard Mario laughing. She grew angry, to the point of tears:
“You think that is amusing, don’t you, to poke fun at me among your friends? I help you to be the success of the party, as you announce to them: ‘That little cunt, you know, the one that’s just arrived from France? God, I’ve really worked her over: what a silly little goose she was! Now that I’ve had my way with her, I’m passing her on to all of you. She’s still pretty fresh. And in return I hope you guys keep me in mind when you get into your next one!’”
“So I’ve had my way with you, have I?” Mario said gently.
As no reply was forthcoming, he went on:
“Except for that point, and your tone, which doesn’t catch my conversational style at all, plus the fact that I haven’t asked for any compensation, you certainly do get the picture. I’ve taken great pains to describe the freshness of your flesh, experienced by so few men as yet. One day you’ll be covered with another kind of glory, more desirable exactly for having had a hundred lovers: but at this moment it is your innocence that rouses the spirits! But it is necessary for you to savor, in advance, the masterpiece which you’ll make possible. Your as-yet-adolescent body, known only by your spouse and a few others in some insignificant apprentice tricks, will, tomorrow night, and for the first time, be pierced and exhausted by a great number of men, to whom it has been promised as a very special and most precious treat.”
Mario’s tone underwent a sudden change:
“You’re still a virgin, Emmanuelle! But after tomorrow night you won’t be one any longer, not in my opinion. It’ll be such an initiation for you, tomorrow night will! You’ll get to know something far more exciting than any Holy Grail! And you want me to remain quiet about it? You don’t want those who are in charge of this sacred experience to prepare themselves for it? Oh! but you’re gravely mistaken if you think that we sit around laughing at you, or that we talk about your body in a gross manner. There are few great things in this world that ever get freely offered to men: make no mistake, they know how to recognize them. You ought to understand, from what I’ve been telling you, that it’s no cabal of indignity and derision I’ve dedicated myself to subject you to, but that it is a great honor. I’m not delivering you up to anybody! It’s to you that I am offering a sacred rite, with its assembly, its procession, its etiquette, its solemnities, and its libations. Is it possible that you don’t comprehend this? Have I been spending all those days with you to no avail?”
Emmanuelle feels repentant. Let Mario rest assured: she would doubt no longer! She is in no danger of backsliding into ignorance. She’ll prove it to him the next night, at Maligâth. Let him tell his friends anything he wants to tell them about her, to help them enjoy her even more. She gives him her consent. Her body is ready for their bodies. She desires them all. She wants them all.
Having thus completed the long conversation, Emmanuelle goes to bed. The big bed seems very empty to her. The visions Mario has evoked keep passing and passing again on the screen behind her closed eyelids. Despite what she has told him, the anxiety’s still there. Her nerves are still on edge. She tries to fall asleep: time to think about those tribulations tomorrow. Right now she just wants some rest and oblivion. But it’s all in vain. The sense of apprehension keeps her awake.
Well, she knows what’ll work. She starts caressing herself. But, to her surprise, the orgasm eludes her. As far as she can remember, this has never happened before. Her fingers grow impatient, but her mind is elsewhere: a new temptation, of a previously unknown taste, both sweet and bitter, rises within her, feels hot in her throat. She tries to negate it. She resists. Quite a while. Until the struggle starts boring her and tires her: and with an aching feeling of abandon, a voluptuous softening of all parts, the heart beating with joy at accepted desire, she switches off the light, and slowly slides over to the edge of bed. She lets her left leg dangle over the side. Her cunt is pointing toward the door. Her hand moves toward the service bell on the bedside table. Then her fingers let go of it again, and her body spreads out, her breasts rise with a great deep breath of abandon, as she hears the houseboy opening the lattice door.