" Why," she said, "' tis all very simple. You handselled your niece before your schoolmate stuffed her, for I doubted whether all alone he would be able to manage the deflowering." I was enchanted. I had made mine the first fruits of the daughter emplanted one remote holiday in Marie Linguet' s cunt, but I dissimulated my joy: this augured well for the pleasures I had for ages held hopes of enjoying and whose hour of realization was arriving. I was nearing my objective.

The reader will recall that I spoke of two daughters: I said they were mine, or at least that they were my clandestine wife' s, for she used to declare that her veritable daughters had died while being suckled and that… and that… she would speak of the king… mention some princess… but she always lied a blue streak; one simply dared not believe a word she said.

Conquette Ingenue, my elder daughter, had no sooner reached her first youth than she stared to incite desires in me. While her mother, whose syphilis was not yet apparent, was off sleeping and fucking with some gallant or other, she would send little Conquette to keep me company in bed She had the world' s prettiest crack. I made a regular practice of kissing it every night, after having spread her thighs. She would fall into a light sleep and I would insert my tongue, but would refrain from licking; then I too would go quietly to sleep, having eased her onto her side, her buttocks against my thighs and my prick squeezed between her legs.

During the daytime I encunted either the mistress of a certain barrister, Monsieur Riviere, or a pretty hunchback, who always wore delightful shoes and who lived in the same building, or a woman who limped in both legs but who had a delicious face and was about to marry.