                        THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY

       As a result of these all-night bacchanals, exceedingly little
was accomplished on the twenty-second day of November; half the
customary exercises were forgot, at dinner Messieurs appeared to be in
a daze, and it was not until coffee they began to come somewhat to
their senses. The coffee was served them by Rosette and Sophie,
Zlamir and Giton. In an effort to return to his usual old self,
Curval had Giton shit, and the Duc swallowed Rosette's turd; the
Bishop had himself sucked by Sophie, Durcet by Zlamir, but no one
discharged. They moved dutifully into the auditorium; the matchless
Duclos, weak and quesy after the preceding day's excesses, took her
place with drooping eyelids, and her tales were so brief, they
contained so few episodes, were recounted so listlessly, that we have
taken it upon ourselves to supply them, and in the reader's behalf to
clarify the somewhat confused speech she made to our friends.
       In keeping with prescription, she recounted five passions: the
first was that of a man who used to have his ass frigged with a tin
dildo priorly charged with warm water, the which liquid was pumped
into his fundament at the same instant he ejaculated; nothing else was
required to obtain that effect, he needed no one else's ministry.
       The second man had the same mania, but was wont to use a far
greater number of instruments; initially, he called for a very minute
one, then gradually increased the caliber, ascending the scale by
small fractions of an inch until he reached a weapon with the
dimensions of a veritable fieldpiece, and only discharged upon
receiving a torrent from its muzzle.
       Far more of the mysterious was required to please the third
one's palate: at the outset of the game, he had an enormous instrument
introduced into his ass, then it was withdrawn, he would shit, would
eat what he had just rendered, and next he had to be flogged. The
flogging administered, it was time to reinsert the formidable device
in his rectum, then once again it was removed, and it was the whore's
turn to shit, and after that she picked up the whip again and lashed
him while he munched what she had done; a third time, yes, a third
time the instrument was driven home, and that, plus the girl's turd he
finished eating, was sufficient to complete his happiness.
       In her fourth tale, Duclos made mention of a man who would have
all his joints bound with strings; in order to make his discharge even
more delicious, his neck itself was compressed, and, half choking, he
would shoot his fuck squarely at the whore's asshole.
       And in her fifth, she referred to that individual who used to
tie a slender cord tightly to his glans; the girl, naked, would pass
the other end of the cord between her thighs, and walk away from him,
drawing the cord taut and offering the patient a full view of her ass;
he would then discharge.
       Truly exhausted after having fulfilled her task, the
storyteller begged to leave to retire, and she was allowed to. A few
moments were devoted to uttering smutty comments upon this and that,
and then the four libertines went to supper, but everyone felt the
effects of our two principal actors' disorderliness. At the orgies
they were also as prudent and restrained as 'twere possible for such
debauchees to be, and the entire household went more or less quietly
to bed.
