On the morning of January 10, 1879, like countless mornings before, Paris remained bustling.
As the sun parted the thick morning mist, a mixture of steam and coal dust, offering some warm comfort to the city's residents, Bishop Guibert-Guillaume-Merlin de Bohen, chairman of the "Paris Beneficial Books Association" and head of the Paris Archdiocese, was leisurely enjoying his relaxation time after morning prayers, seated on the toilet in the lavish bathroom of his office at Notre Dame.
This toilet was a high-end item custom-ordered from England last month, adorned not only with ivory and silver but also with a seat cushion covered in fine Russian fur, perfectly suited for such a cold season.
In summer, the seat cushion could be replaced with soft, breathable, silky smooth silk, ensuring his delicate posterior would not be pricked by any tiny splinters.
On the wall within his reach was a gilded shelf, holding a stack of recent tabloids freshly collected by the clergy.
Of course, Bishop Guibert wasn't using these newspapers to defile his noble exit – as a renowned gourmet in Parisian social circles, Guibert valued more than just the pleasures of his upper mouth.
He followed a long-standing tradition of the French monarchy, keeping a cage outside the toilet with a well-trained, pure white goose inside.
As soon as he rang a bell, his servant would bring the cage in.
He could then pull out the goose's neck to perform the cleaning ritual.
This method offered extraordinary pleasure, combining the softness of down with the goose's body temperature.
Rabelais, in Gargantua and Pantagruel, once highly praised this as the most noble, perfect, and convenient method of wiping one's posterior!
So these tabloids were purely for entertainment during his toilet time – of course, as the chairman of the "Paris Beneficial Books Association," an upright gentleman who detested all immoral works, and the proposer of the "Act Prohibiting the Dissemination of Immoral Media," Bishop Guibert scrutinized these vulgar publications with a critical eye.
"Hehehe… hehehe… haha…"
Merry laughter occasionally faintly echoed from behind the closed toilet door.
André, the servant waiting silently outside with the cage, also smiled; it seemed His Lordship was having a good day.
Inside the toilet, Bishop Guibert set aside Le Lanterne, having just been amused by a joke in it—
[A village woman curiously asked the priest:
"You're celibate, aren't you lonely?"
The priest smiled:
"The Holy Mother is with me!"
The village woman retorted:
"No wonder your bed creaks every night."]
Quite well written! Bishop Guibert recalled his happy days in a rural parish when he was younger, when he was the women's friend in nearby villages—especially after His Majesty the Emperor lost so many battles, leaving hundreds of thousands of young men dead abroad.
After becoming a bishop in Paris, opportunities for pleasure decreased.
Although he did have several mistresses, that was more, well, a social requirement...
In good spirits, Bishop Guibert decided to give Le Lanterne a pass for now and not bother them at the 'Public Morality Committee' in the near future.
Next, he pulled out Le Bruit.
Its owner, Gabriel, was a slippery character, often delaying the "penitence fees" due to the 'Paris Beneficial Books Association'... but Le Bruit's content was always the most entertaining.
Once, it was banned for two weeks, making his time in the toilet quite dull.
This issue of Le Bruit seemed different today?
Its front page featured an introduction—
[A decent Parisian recently traveled to the provinces, where he heard many anecdotes in the countryside.
He recorded them and submitted them to this newspaper for the amusement of gentlemen and ladies.
This newspaper believes that although these short stories are absurd, they possess a certain charm and can also serve as a warning to the world: only by guiding one's conduct with noble morals can one avoid becoming fodder for villagers' gossip.
Therefore, we spare no expense of space and publish the full text in the 'Curiosities' section of the sub-page.]
"A decent Parisian"?
Was this Gabriel's new pen name?
He often did this, which was how he escaped punishment time and again.
As for "guiding conduct with noble morals," that was merely his tactic to cover up his intentions, which Bishop Guibert, of course, scoffed at.
However, his interest was clearly piqued, so he stopped browsing the front-page scandals and directly turned to the 'Curiosities' section of the sub-page—
[A kind Burgundian farmer told me that last spring he needed to fertilize his wheat fields, so he went to a nearby monastery hoping to buy some manure.
The monk in charge received him and quoted a high price of 2 francs per cartload.
The farmer exclaimed, "Good heavens, sir, that's double the going rate!"
The monk replied, "Our manure is different from others; it's all "packed tight by the brothers," one cartload, when soaked, can be used as two!"]
Bishop Guibert was puzzled on his first read, what did this mean?
What was "packed tight by the brothers"?
He had never heard of any monastery having such a business.
But before he even finished the second reading, he realized what it meant, immediately freezing in place, his facial muscles and fingers starting to tremble uncontrollably, even his voice began to shake:
"How dare he... how dare he..."
Although literary works depicting clergy's dalliances began in the Middle Ages, with the famous Decameron rendering them in every conceivable way, for hundreds of years, very few dared to touch upon the subject matter in this particular story.
Bishop Guibert felt all the blood rush to his head, the veins on his forehead bulging, yet his eyes couldn't help but glance downwards—
[On the road, I met a devout textile worker from Orléans, leading his young son towards the local monastery, presumably to send the child to learn holy doctrines.
Along the way, the child let out a loud fart, and this simple worker actually burst into tears.
I curiously asked,
"Farting is a common thing, why cry so bitterly?"
He replied,
"I thought of how this child would never be able to fart so loudly again after this, how can I not be sad?"]
Bishop Guibert didn't need a second read for this one; the blood instantly drained from his face, turning it ashen white, but his eyes were bulging as if about to pop out of their sockets:
"Devil, devil, only a true devil would write such words!"
The third anecdote was very short, and even if he wanted to restrain his urge to read on, it had already entered his field of vision—
[While traveling in the countryside of Brittany, I accompanied a priest and his young acolyte for a stretch of the journey.
Midway, the priest went into the woods by the roadside to relieve himself but accidentally sat on a sapling, crying out in pain.
The young acolyte, however, crossed himself on the chest:
"God, is this your retribution?"]
Bishop Guibert momentarily forgot he was still on the toilet, standing up as if to walk forward...
André, the Bishop's servant, heard a scream from inside the toilet, filled with anger and pain, along with the sound of something crashing to the floor.
Disregarding everything else, he quickly opened the door and went in.
The sight before him was unforgettable:
The venerable Bishop Guibert-Guillaume-Merlin de Bohen was prostrate on the floor, his ample derrière sticking up, a jet of blood spurting out like a small fountain from there, staining the expensive fur cushion.
André panicked:
"Your Lordship, your hemorrhoids..."
Bishop Guibert could no longer clearly hear what André was saying, only shouting:
"I'll report this to the Holy See! I'll report this to the Holy See!"
With each shout, the "fountain" grew a little thicker and higher...
(End of Chapter)
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