Guidon at last fell silent. He wept; sought to straighten himself; his twistings became convulsions; he shook and trembled in spite of himself; his spasms changed to the rattle of agony and instead of youthful vigour they now drew out nothing but blood. What did it matter! The attempts recommenced. They swore to exhaust his strength, but, utterly out of breath over their shameful exertions, they now ceased their discordant outcries.
However, at the cries first uttered by the victim and his female tyrants, other villagers, male and female, had run from the cookshops and the dancing booths. Drunken and lewd-minded, as soon as they got an inkling of the affair going on, they applauded and rejoiced, finding the jest a right tasty one. They came in troops, made a circle, elbowing their way to have a better look. Couples who had gone aside, stopped their private sport to come and take part in the erotic clowning. Quite young urchins, the gutter-snipedom of Klaarvatsch, the torch-bearers at the serenades, lighted up the scene with their torches as they watched with wide agape mouth this atrocious mystery, whilst others mimicked its revolting indecency.
