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  'What's wrong with you, Agnes?' I demand of her.

  'I really don't know.'

  'For the last week, something has come over you. You are completely different. You used to laugh and be so much fun, but now you just look out into space and sigh. Tell me what's wrong. Or don't you trust me, who loves you so much?'

  She flushes. 'You do love me? If only that were so.'

  'Have I offended you?' I ask, taking her hand.

  'Please leave me. I don't feel well.'

  She rises.

  'I see that you are afraid of me. Perhaps I am hateful to you. I think it is about time for me to leave.'

  'You're not going?' she cries.

  Poor child. She's mine. No further effort is needed. I shall soon have her.

  The head of the novices provides me with a good opportunity a few days later. You will recall that she is a good friend. The choir is supposed to sing a motet, but the music-master does not come, and so she confides Agnes to me for the rehearsal.

  As soon as the good sister closes the door on us, I resume my attack: 'Lovely Agnes, are you always so cruel?'

  She lowers her eyes.

  'How unhappy I am. Only God knows how much.' She raises her hands to heaven.

  'Agnes, you have made tears come to my eyes.'

  'What do you think about me. I have been crying my heart out.'

  Her tears fall fast and heavy.

  'Let us console each other. If we don't, I shall die.'

  'No,' she sobs. 'You cannot die. It is I who shall have to.'

  I take her and put her on my knee with her head against my face.

  'Agnes, it is only you whom I love. Tell me that you love me, too.'

  'You wicked man, how can you have any doubt about that?'

  Her mouth grazes my lips. The child does not recognize the significance of the outbursts of her heart. Her hour is come. I cover her with kisses. I transfer into her heart the fire that is devouring me. I make her drunk with caresses and kisses. When I remove the last of the veils, I am stunned by the treasures that are revealed. Modesty no longer holds me back. She no longer knows what she is doing. Like a flash of lightning, I strip her bare. The scream that Agnes lets escape is the signal of my victory.

  You are probably thinking, fool that you are, that she makes a painful face and puts on airs and that she is despising me as her rapist. On the contrary, she thanks me from the bottom of her heart, the poor child. It is true that I merit the praise, for the fortress is damnably difficult to take.

  Afterwards we begin work on her part in the motet. When the Mother Superior returns, Agnes is singing with the voice of an angel. As for myself, I am scorched and scalded. But twelve hours of repose heal my scars.

  What a way to spend your time.

  What do you mean, you fault-finder?

  I'm scolding you because you are wasting your time without getting any money.

  Oh, I forgot to tell you that the Abbess was the soul of generosity. No woman has ever been so bountiful. Now that your fears are calmed, let me continue with the account of my exploits.

  Sisters Agatha and Rose are deserving of my homage. The elder cannot be more than eighteen. The former, possessed of an irrepressible spirit, has the devil in her flesh. Rose is more thoughtful but gay at the same time. These two children are united by a mutual understanding. The Abbess, whose jewels they are, told me in confidence that more than once she allowed them in her bed to appease their desires. The excesses they gave themselves up to! When I give them dancing instruction, we do all sorts of silly things.

  'Sisters,' I say one day, 'would you be good enough to show me the games you play with each other.'

  'What games?' demands Agatha as Rose blushes.

  'If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you.'

  'Well, Rose, I think he means hide-and-seek.' She begins to giggle.

  'There's nothing hidden,' I tell them sternly. 'I saw everything.

  'What?' asks Rose in consternation. 'You saw? Agatha, we are lost.' Both begin to weep.

  'Dry your tears,' I order them. 'I promise I won't say a word.'

  That reassures them somewhat. Besides, what they have done is considered in a convent only a little sin.

  'But how were you able to spy on us?' Agatha timidly asks me.

  'I really didn't see you. A little genie told me what you were doing.'

  'A genie?' she exclaims.

  'A genie?' echoes Rose.

  'Yes, a genie who comes to me every day. (I can barely stifle my roars of laughter.) I'll introduce you to him on the condition that you teach me your game and that you listen to what he has to say.'

  'What? Does he speak, and how?'

  'We talk to each other in sign language. I'll explain later.'

  'Let's see.'

  'Yes, let's see,' chimes in Rose.

  'Easy,' I warn them. 'Wait until I summon him. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to show me your game...'

  (I had my reasons, but never has my jinni been so recalcitrant. I did my best to spur him to action, but nothing occurred. Finally, the imp arrived. Here is what happened. I produce the Monsignor, which makes Agatha's eye pop. She springs towards it.)

  'Oh, Rose, I have it in my hand. Look at how beautifully it is fashioned. But it doesn't have any nose!'

  'Help me to hold it lest it flyaway.'

  Rose clutches it.

  'How quickly it came.' She tries to unhinge it. 'Young ladies, just a moment. Don't you see that it is just a little snail. It's in its shell.'

  'That's so,' Rose says. 'Look at it in its cushion.'

  'I've never seen a snail like this one,' Agatha comments.

  'It's probably from China.'

  'Where are its feelers?'

  I am dying of fear lest I should be emancipated in their tender hands.

  'I think he wishes to speak,' I tell them.

  'We would like to hear him,' they reply.

  'I have to warn you that if you get him angry, he will go away and never return. Now, mum's the word.'

  I grasp Agatha and throw her on the bed. She is a brave little thing, not uttering a word. In a moment, I have her skirt up to her waist. Wild with curiosity, Rose flutters around.

  'Agatha, is he speaking?'

  'Oh, yes. I have never heard such eloquence. I don't think I can stand it any more.'

  'What is he saying?'

  It goes without saying that she has other things to do than reply. The little she-devil wiggles so divinely that I am about to begin all over again, when Rose, unable to contain herself any longer, grabs me. The overheated perspiring genie emerges from the carnage and begins to work on Agatha's companion. Although she is not as vivacious, she is almost mad with voluptuousness. But she has that rare quality I have always appreciated in a woman - the door of the sanctuary closes after the sacrifice without leaving me time to go limp. By now, neither of them is plying me with questions. They are in a state of utter ecstasy. As for myself, I take keen enjoyment in their confusion. We no longer speak of the game. They realize that they have been fooled, but they hold me no grudge.

  I am at the peak of bliss, although somewhat fatigued. Every time I consider giving up the game, the devil comes out of his hiding-place and spurs me to new efforts.

  Life becomes heaven and hell. You remember that three goddesses fought for one apple. Well, imagine what it is like when twenty little eager nuns compete for one man.

  My friend, you have no idea of a female republic whose doge is the Abbess. The majority of the girls have been enrolled in the celestial militia against their wills. Although they are the wives of an ethereal being, they still have corporeal desires. The result is a charnel revolt, a conflict between the senses and reason, between the Creator and the creature. All that stimulates the passions, irritates desires and inflames imagination. That is why the girls get spasms and nervous attacks. They can't be praying all the time.

  The normal object of their adoration is the confessor. If there are tw
o, they share the fold, each hating the other cordially. If there is only one, the lambs fight among themselves for his favours.

  'What! Over an old monk?'

  'Yes. Over an old monk. They would do anything for him, for at least he is of flesh rather than wood or metal.'

  Consequently, in these abodes of peace and innocence, one enjoys all the comforts of hell.

  If only you knew the ruses the girls employ to sneak their lovers over the walls. I could tell you of the horrors of the despotism the vicious old women wield over their charges. There take place orgies worthy of being described by Aretino. When they are married, they have been initiated into every vice imaginable.

  The murmurs of discontent are becoming louder. The governing body holds a session. Fault is found with the Abbess who demands that her tastes and pleasures be respected. The reverend mothers are all ears as they eavesdrop. The little innocents are trembling with fear. The way they all look at me leads me to believe that I'll be the scapegoat. For fear of losing me, the Abbess stoutly defends me. The complaints are brought to the attention of the Bishop and thick-witted priest, who announces that he is coming in person to restore order in a house into which Belial has insinuated himself. I am ready to face him, but my dear Abbess persuades me that if I stay, she will be ruined. Loaded with sugar and gold, I make my departure. There is scarcely a dry eye when I leave.

  The House of Borgia

  Cesare stretched himself at ease on the red plush couch which had been put at his disposal. Around him, his principal officers shared with their leader the privilege of being the guest of the Chief Councillor of the city. Outside, the cannon was quiet, the citadel comfortably besieged. Full-scale assault operations could wait until tomorrow. The army needed rest and a little entertainment.

  Throughout the city the brothels were doing fine, wine-flushed business. And any woman who showed herself willing was feeling the full pent-up strength following days of abstinence on the part of the visitors between her thighs. But, as usual, Cesare had forbidden violence. Any man reported stealing a citizen's unwilling wife or raping a reluctant maiden would be made an example of for all the town to see.

  Within the mansion of the Chief Councillor, gypsy music was playing. A band of well-dressed nomads were strumming their guitars and tambourines. There was controlled passion in the music and in the dark, gypsy faces. There was ill-controlled passion, too, in the loins of Cesare's officers. This man, their host, had promised them, later, the full benefits of the high-class brothel which was virtually his harem. They were anxious to relieve this ache of longing in their lower regions.

  Cesare toyed with his glass, sipping the rich, sweet wine with which his host had bolstered a magnificent meal. He was thinking of Lucrezia, wishing she were here, now, so that they could retire to a quiet nook and enjoy each other with the furious abandon of the days before he had left for the French Court.

  'How do you like my gypsy orchestra?' his host asked, leaning across from his neighbouring couch.

  'Excellent, excellent, but they look a little domesticated.'

  'You mean they are well dressed, well fed? But of course. They have become quite famous these last few months. Everybody is paying big prices to have them play and dance. Their days of dirt and rags are over.'

  He swallowed a glass of wine in one long draught.

  'But if you talk of domestication, wait until you see Maria. Domestication! I'd like to see the man who could domesticate her. Violence, passion, sensuality! They ripple in her limbs when she dances, they reach to you from her breasts, they writhe in her buttocks. And yet she's not for sale. Oh, they've tried to rape her - many a man in torment. But she carries a stiletto and knows how to use it, they say. She's a proud one. I have to rush to my mistress in excitement after she's danced, and then I try to imagine she's the divine Maria who won't be bought.'

  Cesare listened, idly swishing the wine in his refilled glass and letting the music flow in him. The old dotard, he was thinking; the thought that he couldn't have her would make him pay grovelling homage to the ugliest old whore.

  'Well, when does this proud creature deign to appear?' he asked.

  'Immediately if you so wish it.'

  The host clapped his hands and gave orders to a servant, who disappeared, gliding over the rich carpets which covered the tiled floor, into the other rooms which led off from a portico at the far end of the main dining hall.

  After a few minutes, he reappeared, gave a few whispered instructions to the leader of the gypsy orchestra and withdrew.

  The music changed suddenly to a wild, passionate flamenco in true Spanish style, the notes hurtling and gyrating one after the other in a loud, fiery torrent. There was a sudden strumming of chords and then a lowering of tempo and pitch. The guest officers glanced up from their conversation and wine. There was a foreboding in the music which immediately attracted all attention. While they stared, not knowing quite what to expect, but certain that something was going to happen, a figure danced slowly in from the shadows of the portico, a shadowy movement at first, growing into a flame of red and black, becoming a beautiful girl who swayed sensually in before the gypsy band which accompanied her.

  There was an instant tension in the assembly. Men who had been engaged in, at least, the semblance of war for more than a week or two, flushed over with the tightening of desire. Cesare put down the glass with which he had been describing circles in the air.

  'You hardly exaggerated,' he said quietly and in some surprise.

  'Almost worth a stiletto in the ribs if one could be certain of achieving one's fill before the death blow, eh?' chuckled his host.

  Cesare Borgia didn't reply. His thoughts were away on the hips that revolved gently, the breasts that were taut from her upstretched, slender brown arms. Her face seemed to spark and blaze with pride and a controlled sensuality; her dark hair swept back, dropping, long onto her shoulders; broad brow over dark, almond eyes, a straight nose which flared lightly at the nostrils, long, full lips which opened often in intense concentration as she danced, a good, clear chin which was round and smooth under her mouth; and then the neck, long and unexpectedly well-developed as she came forward into the light, full and with the slight ridge of a vein; below the black lace frill of the tight-bodiced red dress she wore, the breasts which forced out the yielding stuff in strong, taut lines, the slim waist which moved and writhed inside the dress, the skirt tight over her hips, enclosing her buttocks in a tight embrace and then flaring out loosely around her thighs to permit her freedom of movement.

  'Superb, superb,' Cesare murmured aloud and his host smiled with a pleasure that conflicted with his mask of almost miserable longing.

  The music gathered in crescendo and the girl made a full, twirling tour of the room, skimming the tables of the spectators with her flying skirt. She seemed to see nobody. At times her face was serene and ethereal, at others working with passion as if she were in the throes of sexual intercourse. The men seemed to come to life, out of the still, electric petrification her arrival had induced. They slithered forward on their couches the better to see. There were odd comments of coarse appreciation uttered without a withdrawal of the eyes watching her every movement, every crease and tension of every part of her body under the flaming silk dress.

  The Duke of Valentinois watched with the others. He felt his heart pounding and that empty sucking in his stomach. She was as beautiful as Lucrezia, this Maria, the gypsy; as beautiful at the other end of the scale, each of them perfection of their own kind.

  His eyes ran over her avidly. As she swayed toward his end of the room, slim arms flowering in the light of the candles around the walls, he watched her breasts, full and alive under the slender covering. They bulged and moved in unison with her movement. The points of her nipples jutted, large and voluptuous from the summits of the warm mounds of flesh behind them. He let his glance fall, taking in the slim waist, so slim that it moved all by itself inside the dress as if it wanted no part of these prote
cting clothes. And then the tight containment of those hips, the rounded belly, which could be cupped with a hand, the protrusion of hipbones, well-fleshed and bulging against the silk, the lines of the strong, sexual thighs and then the slim, lightly-muscled calves that twirled below the whirl of the skirts.

  'Beautiful, beautiful,' Cesare whispered.

  His host leaned toward him, hotly.

  'You must forgive me,' he muttered. 'I can't bear to stay. It is a mistake for me to be here at all and I must take my leave in a few moments. If there is anything you or your officers require of me, you have only to ask my servants. They will show you to your quarters and to the source of your future enjoyment.'

  His breath had come with difficulty and when Cesare looked at him he saw that his face was almost crimson and his eyes drawn in anguish.

  'My poor Chief Councillor,' he whispered sympathetically, 'I understand your predicament. To have such a delight within your house and be unable to sip of the ecstasy she promises is hard indeed. But I crave one boon before you leave - that I may be permitted to try my gallantry with the lady.'

  There was a note of envy in the Chief Councillor's tone as he gazed into Cesare's handsome, commanding face.

  'By all means,' he said, 'and I wish you success. Perhaps a conquest would soften her heart toward others who would give their souls to share her bed. I will see that she joins you alone after the entertainment and that you are not disturbed.'

  With that the Chief Councillor rose, not waiting even to hear his guest's thanks, and slipped from the banquet hall as if he were afraid he would in some way disgrace himself if he delayed his exit a single second.

  Grinning to himself, Cesare turned back to the spectacle. The music was throbbing, drugging the room with its heavy insistence. The girl had her back to him, arms high above her head, hips swaying, heels tapping on the marble floor. The outlines of her buttocks pressed and relaxed in firm ovals against the seat of the dress. Each seemed to move of its own accord, rounded and naked, inviting lustful attack. She whirled and flitted forward with flying, little steps, toward Cesare's table. Her eyes seemed to catch his for an instant. He held them and they bored back at him until slowly he dropped his gaze and stared meaningfully at the triangular crease of her dress between her thighs. When he glanced up again, her eyes were still on him, but flicked away immediately, her head bowing to the ground in concentration.