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"Dans les clartes les frissons, o perreries!" --Mallarme
To gain admittance to the Black Mass Felicite had lied
to the Abbe Dufrense in saying she was a virgin. Rumor,
if not experience, should have given the Abbe his doubts,
but how often fools choose their own delusions. Her life
in Paris up to that point had been, if not uneventful, then
prosaic when compared to her desires. Nothing had occurred
with any of her lovers to match the ecstatic longings which
propelled her body in such fashion as to make M. Debussy
in 1901 write in _La Revue Blanche_ that she seemed perfectly
wild, almost depraved, as Swanilda in an otherwise despicable
performance of _Coppolia_. Later the composer was to share
more lascivious thoughts to Felicite in a letter delivered
one evening after the ballet, which, because he bored her,
she promptly made public. Her hungers were sublime, she
felt, and she dared not, for the sake of her art, squander
them. Yet outside of the dance she found little way to fulfillment.
The gossip of previous decades had brought the Abbe Dufrense
much notoriety. Lucie Claraz had mentioned his name in conjunction
with that of Charles Steckelin and Huysmans had reportedly
captured his perversions in prose. When Felicite visited
the aging Dufrense that summer of '02 she found the old
Abbe's apartment on the rue Rollin adorned with all sorts
of strange mementos: charts of the Heavens traced in the
blood of doves, an autograph of Madame de Montespan; a brick
from de Retz's castle of Champtoce sur Loire. Such souvenirs
did not impress Felicite for she thought them vulgar, seeing
them as little more than cheese set out to lure widows and
Americans, as the rats they were. However, there was a certain
feral coldness to the Abbe's eyes that she, in moments of
solitude, had glimpsed in her own petite soul, and which
persuaded her that he might indeed prove a pathway to evil.
She refrained from allowing him to seduce her, though, because
she was saving herself for an even more savage flame.
That next Sunday she was invited, for a slight fee, to
attend the Mass. There were approximately twenty people,
robed and solemn, listening to the excommunicated Abbe recite
his blasphemous litany. Felicite, wearing the same dark
velvet robe as the others, passed the time during the long
incantations by holding her bare feet in first position
and half-consciously performing, as if by reflex, little
demi-plies. Her heart danced in fervent excitement to the
clatter of bells which signified that time for the sacrifice
was near.
As the ritual progressed, though, she grew disappointed.
The meeting was not at midnight in the ruined churchyard
or infested catacomb she had hoped for, but was instead
held in the middle of the afternoon in the comfortable home
of an acolyte in Passy. Likewise the orgiastic ceremony
which erupted upon the Abbe's finishing his desecration
of the Host offered little in the way of arousal. She thought
the worshippers bourgeois and ugly as they wriggled on the
burgundy-colored carpet, their well-fed bodies like red,
fat worms gorged on flesh. So, in a way, she remained as
virginal as when she arrived for when the Abbe approached
her, snarling, "Felicite, He calls for you," she scratched
his face savagely and ran.
She spent the remainder of the evening lounging in her
bed, reading a recent Nicholas Carter mystery, _A Princess
of Crime_, that did not amuse her. The book's cover showed
the master detective, arch and sanctimonious, holding a
mirror to the face of the eponymous girl, who flinched from
the sight, as if finally apprehending the meaning of her
own gaze. This picture gave Felicite great pleasure. Imagining
herself as the villainess of the piece she conjured little
diabolical scenes that annotated the action of the story.
Nick Carter, in disguise, stumbles upon a lair of Satanic
devotees who writhe around in imitation of the torments
of hell as she, the Princess of Crime, waits in the center
of that debauched storm. Seeing her naked except for a garland
of flowers that bind her wrists and ankles to a large X-shaped
beam, M. Carter's Anglo-Saxon fortitude is unable to withstand
the temptation of her small breasts and open legs. He buries
his face in the chestnut hair of her glistening _chatte_
then arises to ravish her with his fantastical cock, howling
her name wildly. "Divine Lucifera!"
Relaxed after the reverie she called for Bernadette to
draw her bath. When she mentioned to the maid where she
had passed the day the superstitious girl recoiled and crossed
herself urgently. "Why would you go to such a place, Mademoiselle?
With such a man as this?"
Felicite answered as she settled into the cool bath, her
pink nipples floating above the water like little flower
buds on a placid pond. "The question, Nanette, is not why
would I go, but why did I flee?"
Morning brought the usual noisy bustle beneath Felicite's
window. A mother-of-pearl colored sunrise spread across
the 9th arrondissement as if the sky were a gigantic shell
split open by the dull knife of daybreak to reveal not some
trivial gem, but instead a quivering, sentient clump of
sea-flesh, a more lasting sort of treasure. Felicite had
slept poorly and consequently felt irritable. The coffee
was too hot, the pastries stale, Bernadette's singing, as
she folded linens upstairs, off-key and sentimental. There
were rehearsals later in the day but until then Felicite
was alone with her ill-favor. Her mood was not lifted by
the letter that arrived by messenger around eight a.m. It
was from the Abbe Dufrense.
"My darling Felicite," he wrote. "You are indeed a most
chaste and lovely creature. Please do not fear. I beseech
you to call on me again."
Followed by his signature and an odd crimson sigil at the
bottom. She considered giving the letter to Bernadette,
to be destroyed like the other mash notes which came her
way most every morning, but thought better of it upon reflection.
There were no other avenues she knew to follow to damnation,
so, in spite of his company of bourgeoisie, she decided
to visit him again. Her rehearsal was at noon, there was
no time beforehand to waste wandering through the darkness
of the narrow rue Rollin so she had the messenger wait while
she drafted a quick reply. She stated conclusively that
under no circumstances did she wish to see the Abbe again.
Smiling at her spite she dispatched the messenger.
Then it was time to prepare for the dance. She stretched
her lithe body in the white sunlight of her room. Pale as
the day itself she moved automatically through her arabesques
as her magnificent feet and strong legs swirled their own,
more potent sigils, in the cream-colored air.
The rehearsal that day was the usual wretched mess. The
orchestra might as well have been playing ragtime so shambling
was their tempo. Dancers clomped around one another like
mules swamped in honey. She expressed her displeasure by
leaping straight up into the air, where she hovered, her
legs perfectly pointed, her arms arched outward to her sides
and above her, like floating niveous wings, like argent
weightless flame. The ballet master and the entire troop
paused in that minuscule eternity with her, that second
or two that seemed hours. When she descended they stood
gaping at her improvisation, awed by her skill.
After regaining his senses the ballet master started shouting,"You
conceited whore," he screamed. "This is not some jazz hall!
You may not do whatever you wish." He began stamping his
feet on the floorboards, throwing papers in the air and
flogging his once-handsome head with his hands. He made
such a grand ass of himself that all the young ladies began
to hide their mouths behind slender hands, laughing at his
little show. Though neither hurt nor amused by his outburst
Felicite was aggrieved enough by the entire debacle to say,
"Proceed without me," before departing the Opera house.
Having the remainder of the day she made her way to the
Abbe's home. He did not seem surprised to see her. "Ah,
Mme. Agilente come in, do come in," he said, smacking his
lips.
He provided her with atrocious tea and terrible little
cakes that tasted like they had been soaked in civet. The
scratches on his left cheek had not yet healed and when
he saw her staring at the jagged scabs he placed his hand
to his face and smiled. "Perhaps you would be so kind as
to explain why you fled yesterday?" he asked.
She leaned back in her chair. The time for coyness was
over. "I found your retinue appalling," she explained.
"Not to put too fine a point to it, my dear, but perhaps
you were expecting, how shall we say, atmosphere?"
She poured the contents of her tea cup into a potted palm
beside her chair. "Perhaps."
He revealed his teeth. "This I can provide," he said.
Not wishing to be taken for some silly romantic, she lost
her temper, saying, "Damn you and your atmosphere. You and
your confidence game for your middle class friends. I want
the real thing. Don't you see? I want to give myself to
Him." She was standing, leaning across the table toward
the idiotic man, her hands grasping wildly at the organdy
tablecloth.
He recoiled slightly from her, then spread his hands before
him in an attempt at appeasement. "I can not help you, Mme.
Though that I could. You have seen right through me." His
eyes sparkled with a condescending smile, as if this were
only a game, only for show.
She flung the teapot at him. The ceramic, painted with
trite violets, crashed into his body, spraying him with
hot tea. He fell back in his chair with an impotent squeal.
"Phony!" she cried. "Faker!" She threw all that was at hand's
reach at him, cakes and plates and a squat, ugly sugar bowl,
crying, "Who? Who can show me, then? Tell me who?" Each
piece she threw bounced off his crouching body, causing
him to produce more sad outbursts of pain. She had no semblance
of thought left, only the desire to hurt him forever as
she floated in this timeless moment of rage.
Grabbing a bunch of pink felicite parmantiers that he had
placed, a little too cleverly, in a vase on the table between
them she began whipping his face ferociously with the flowers.
The stems bent from the force of her blows and the tiny
daggers of thorns began producing many small beads of blood
on his cheeks and nose until the weak old man's withered
arms were held up as if in surrender, covering his sobbing
eyes.
He was weeping so convulsively that she realized she must
be the closest thing to the Devil he had ever seen. "Quirion,"
he sobbed. "Charles Quirion will help you."
"Where?" she snarled. "Where is he?" Dropping the broken
roses she slashed at his face with her nails, as if they
were razors, tearing open the tiny sores that marred him.
Dark, glorious hate surged through her every vein.
"The cafe Colombe," he wept. "Oh sweet God, please, he
can be found at the cafe Colombe."
She left the Abbe Dufrense then, curled on the floor, his
face covered in blood and tears.
Charles Quirion's name was familiar to her. He was a painter
living in Montmartre who had given up his brushes to begin
experimenting with kinetoscopes. For a while he had assisted
Melies in making little fantasies, little shadow plays that
moved across nacreous sheets draped across stages of variety
halls. Felicite had seen a few of the phantasmagorias. They
struck her as trivial. Not like dance, not like actual movement,
which one could feel in one's own muscle and bone when one
watched a brilliant performer; these little lifeless specks
of light seemed to her to be little more than animate corpses.
Still, if M. Quirion had true conversation with the Devil
she would sit through a thousand such flickers, if need
be.
She found him outside the cafe Colombe. Though they had
never been introduced, she recognized him instantly, perhaps
through intuition or perhaps through some more diabolical
intervention. "Please, M. Quirion," she said, sitting at
his tables. "I am in need of your help." The frivolous coterie
of friends about him laughed, poked him in the ribs, offered
their own services for her needs.
"Bastards," she hissed. "I am not speaking to you."
Quirion neither smiled, nor laughed, and seemed to be merely
imitating politeness when he said, "If I can help you, you
may be sure I will."
"In private."
He finished his absinthe slowly and lighting an American
brand of cigarette stood from the table. "Until this evening,"
he said upon departing his circle. Felicite flashed his
friends her most charming smile before making a savage gesture
at the cretins.
Quirion lived not far from the cafe at an apartment on
6 rue Cortot and as they walked up the steps of his home
he asked, "Have we met, Mademoiselle?"
"We have not."
"And you are certain I am who you are looking for?"
"I am."
He opened the door of his apartment. The attic room was
full of white air, light, and other than a large camera
beside the couch was nearly empty. "Then, please, tell me.
How may I assist you?"
"I am," she said, "looking for the Devil."
"And you think I am he?"
"Please, I am not in the mood for word play."
He poured some wine. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Felicite Aiglente."
Her fame was well known. "Is there not a performance tonight?"
"Shit on the performance. Will you help me?"
"And what do you propose to do with the Devil when you
find him?"
"That, Charles, is between he and I."
"You will do whatever I ask of you?"
"I will."
"He may destroy you."
"I am prepared for that."
"Take off your clothes."
Soon her clothing was in a pile around her feet. She arched
her back a little, causing the tight muscles across her
belly to ripple. The room was warm and a purple flush of
excitement spread across her tiny breasts. "Is screwing
you part of the Devil's bargain?" she asked, raising an
eyebrow.
"Sadly, Felicite,no, but you may certainly add me to your
list of admirers." He sat staring at her for a long while,
finishing a cigarette, then he went to the cupboard. When
he returned he held an ornate silver bowl.
"Piss," he said.
She did not turn from his gaze as she crouched. A trembling
archway of clear, diamond-sparkling liquid released from
her quim and fell with an empty ringing echo into the container.
A beautiful ray of arousal seemed to go upwards inside her
from the dark, open crescent of her vagina up to her stomach
and heart, emanating as invisible light from her mouth and
eyes.
"Good," Charles said. "Hand me the bowl."
After she did so he dipped three fingers in the hot pee
then pressed the wet balls of his fingers on her forehead,
making a burning upside down cross. "You are without shame,"
he whispered. "That is good. Now tell me, why do you wish
to meet the Devil?"
She had known the answer to that a long time. "Because
I am evil," she said.
"Of this," he replied, "I have no doubt. Please place your
hands behind your back."
As she did so he moved behind her. She heard the rustling
of the rope before she felt the coarse texture of the hemp
cutting into her wrists. A moan escaped her lips, her throat
fell back. Her long brown hair came unkempt and tumbled
about her neck and shoulders. "He shall fuck you like no
other," Charles murmured into her ear as he tightened the
knots. He ran his fingers along the contour of her asshole,
continuing, "You have never had a lover like this, Felicite."
The hot odor of lust wafted from her pussy and armpits,
filling the room with the glorious scent, like acrid sweat,
like warmed blood. "Yes," she whispered. "Bring him to me."
Charles made one last rough tightening of the rope before
dropping his hand between her legs, playing with the wet
petals of her vulva. "Call for him," he said. "Call for
him and He will come to you."
"Lucifer," she said softly. "Beelzebub. Satan. . . " Her
body shivered with each word.
There was no folderol like with the Abbe, no other incantation,
no carefully contrived sacrilege. Passion was the Devil's
true requisite. The Prince of this world appeared in a slow
flash of white, as if the atmosphere consisted of folds
of burning milk. First to appear were His hands, two square,
large hands, shining with three-inch sharpened nails. Next
was His voice, which spoke from her inner ear but also came
from every corner of Charles' empty room, speaking her name.
And lastly the enormous upward scythe of his penis. She
never saw His face.
Charles was in the corner, his head buried beneath a shroud
as he cranked at the handle of his camera. Felicite breathed
slowly as the Devil placed His cruel hands on her protruding
hips and pressed His scaly body next to hers. His cock came
almost to her breasts and she felt thrilled by His presence,
by the anticipation of the unspeakable. She was through
with waiting. Urgently she cursed Him, demanding for Him
to fuck her into infinite Hell.
Like a dart of slow, cold fire the thick head of his smoky
cock moved through her. He whispered a strange language
into the cleft of her throat as her pussy contracted around
Him. He was cruel, vicious, all majestic virility. She tore
at his flesh with her teeth then sucked at the rich blood
that welled from the sores, becoming intoxicated. If the
use of her hands had been possible she would have ripped
him apart. "Forever," she repeated. "Forever. Forever."
But this could not be. For even the Devil has His limits.
There was an eruption of great fiery semen inside her body,
which nearly blinded her with pain and bliss at once. Her
body shook as if the Universe tore apart beneath her. He
ran his claws over her body while emitting a thunderous
growl of satisfaction. Then He left as impossibly as He
had arrived.
Felicite, though, remained ecstatic, inviolable. "Now,
Charles, now, it is up to you," she said. Her wild eyes
were shining as sharply as the Devil's nails.
Charles peeked out from behind his camera and appeared
shocked, as if he had never seen such a thing as his Master
sated. She smiled. "Untie me," she said. Charles obeyed.
She tore at his clothes, his chest and neck, pushing him
to the floor. She straddled over his body and grabbed the
base of his prick, guiding him, while kissing his beautiful
mouth, into the unlimitable heart of her dripping body.
The room seemed to spin with endless flashing colors bursting
into her field of view. And though Quirion was no Nicholas
Carter, to be sure, Felicite still felt great pleasure at
his attention.
Somehow she managed to make it to the Opera Garnier by
six. There were flowers, jewels, detestable chocolates strewn
around her dressing room, each item adorned with letters
of profuse apology for that afternoon's fiasco. She demanded
the stage manager clear the room. No apologies accepted.
Still, the dance remained supreme in her life, nothing else
could exploit the splendid meanness of her soul and body.
Everyone else, including the Prince of Darkness, remained
mere spectators.
The show was, as to be expected, execrable. Nevertheless,
after the dance was over and she stood, arms draped in roses,
curtseying in the clear, white light of the stage, everyone
in the audience agreed that Felicite had performed like
an angel that night.
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