I touch the slit with my finger and Mademoiselle Hortense's looks grow more and more sensuous. My finger moved gently upward and inward, when she would open her thighs widely…

My trousers become uncomfortable. Mademoiselle throws one arm about my neck and presses tighter and still tighter as my finger moves faster and faster. I feel it slip all the way up the passage, which is in an amorous blaze. It becomes wet!

What is going to happen? Why nothing, it is all over. Mademoiselle Hortense would straighten up all at once and tap on my hand for form's sake. Her look was no longer intense. Pretty soon boxes would be quickly opened. I used to buy in this way, every fortnight on Thursdays, a pair of gloves. I had at one time many pairs of gloves.

It is time that I should return to my deliciously perfumed correspondence. Some days I found it quite voluminous, other days I had none. The day on which I started these memoirs, I found a tiny note awaiting me.

One Thursday for the reason just given, I remained later than usual at Mademoiselle's. On other days I only took the time to get my letters and exchange polite salutations with her.

Happy possessor of a loving message, I left the shop and walked with a quick step as far as the Rue Coq-Herron where I had a small room.

There, lying back in an easy chair, I could, without fear of interruption, devote myself entirely to the charms of a somewhat hazardous literature inspired by a little god called Cupid by some, but whom others insist upon calling Mammon.

Although each day seemed to repeat itself, yet it was always new to us and it was with the same trembling hand that I tore open the delicate envelope, and always with the same kind of emotion that I plunged into the perusal of a dear, capricious letter. I enjoyed at that time a pleasure that no doubt many persons would fail to understand. I unfolded the letter which read thus: