On the morning of January 10, 1879, like countless mornings before, Paris remained as bustling as ever.
As the sun pierced through the thick morning mist, a mixture of water vapor and coal dust, bringing some warm solace to the city's residents, Gibert Guillaume Mermet de Boan, the President of the "Parisian Society for the Promotion of Good Books" and head of the Paris Archdiocese, sat on the toilet in his opulent office at Notre Dame, leisurely enjoying his post-morning prayer relaxation.
The toilet was a high-end custom order from England the previous month, not only inlaid with ivory and silver but also featuring a seat covered in top-grade Russian fur, perfect for the cold season.
In summer, the toilet seat could be replaced with soft, breathable, silky silk, ensuring his delicate backside would not be pricked by any tiny splinters.
On the wall within his reach was a gilded shelf holding a stack of recent tabloids that the priests had just collected.
Of course, Bishop Gibert was not going to defile his noble 'exit' with these newspapers—as a renowned gourmet in Parisian high society, Gibert valued more than just the pleasure of his upper mouth.
He followed a long-standing French royal tradition: a cage outside the restroom contained a well-trained, pure white goose, and whenever he rang a bell, his male servant would bring the cage in.
Then he would pull out the goose's neck for the cleaning process.
This method offered extraordinary pleasure, combining the softness of down with the warmth of the goose's body.
Rabelais, in *Gargantua and Pantagruel*, once praised it as the noblest, most perfect, and most convenient method of wiping one's backside!
So these tabloids were purely for entertainment during his time in the restroom—of course, as the President of the "Parisian Society for the Promotion of Good Books," an upright gentleman who detested all unwholesome works, and the proposer of the "Act Against the Dissemination of Immoral Media," Bishop Gibert scrutinized these vulgar publications with a critical eye.
"Hehehe...hehehe...haha..." Joyful laughter occasionally wafted faintly from behind the tightly closed restroom door. André, the male servant waiting with the cage outside the door, also smiled, as it seemed His Lordship was having a good day.
Inside the restroom, Bishop Gibert put La Lanterne aside, 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 squeaks every night."]
"That's really well written!" Bishop Gibert recalled his joyful youth in a rural parish, where he was a friend to the women of the nearby villages—especially after His Majesty the Emperor had lost so many battles, leaving hundreds of thousands of young men dead abroad.
Upon becoming a bishop in Paris, opportunities for pleasure had diminished. Although he did have a few mistresses, they were more for, well, social needs...
In a good mood, Bishop Gibert decided to give La Lanterne a pass for now and not bother them at the "Public Morality Committee" anytime soon.
He then pulled out The Clamor. Gabriel, the owner of this newspaper, was a slippery character who often defaulted on the 'penance money' owed to the "Parisian Society for the Promotion of Good Books"... but The Clamor's content was always the most interesting.
At one point, it was banned for two weeks, making his time in the restroom quite boring.
Today's The Clamor seemed different? The front page featured an introduction—
[An Honest Parisian recently traveled to the provinces and heard many anecdotes in the countryside, which he recorded and submitted to this newspaper for the amusement of gentlemen and ladies. This newspaper believes that while these short stories are absurd, they possess a certain charm and can also serve as a warning to the world to guide one's words and actions with noble morality, so as not to become fodder for village gossip. Therefore, we spare no space and publish the full text in the 'Curiosities' section of the sub-page.]
"An Honest Parisian"? Was this Gabriel's new pseudonym? He often did this, which was how he repeatedly escaped punishment.
As for "guiding one's words and actions with noble morality," that was also his trick to cover up, and Bishop Gibert naturally scoffed at it.
However, his interest was clearly piqued, so he stopped browsing the scandalous news on the front page 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 cart. The farmer exclaimed, "My God, sir, that's double the public price!" The monk replied, "Our manure is different from others; it's all 'piled up solid' by the brothers, and one cart, when soaked, can be used as two!"]
Bishop Gibert was puzzled at first glance. What did that mean? What was "piled up solid"? He had never heard of any monastery having such a business.
But before he finished reading the second time, he realized what was going on and instantly froze there, his facial muscles and fingers starting to tremble uncontrollably, and even his voice began to quaver: "How dare he... How dare he..."
Although literary works depicting priests' philandering began in the Middle Ages, and the famous *Decameron* went to great lengths to sensationalize it, for hundreds of years, very few people dared to touch the subject matter in this story.
Bishop Gibert felt all the blood rush to his head, the veins on his forehead bulging, but his eyes couldn't help but look down—
[I met a devout Orleans weaver on the road, leading his young son to the local monastery, presumably to send the child to learn sacred doctrines. Along the way, the child let out a loud fart, and this simple worker actually burst into tears. I curiously asked, "Farting is common; why cry so bitterly?" He replied, "I thought that this child would never be able to fart so loudly again, how could I not be sad?"]
Bishop Gibert didn't need to read that one a second time; the color instantly drained from his face, turning it ashen, but his eyes were wide, almost popping out of their sockets: "Devil, devil, only a true devil would write such words!"
The third one was very short, and even if he tried to restrain his desire to look down, it had already entered his field of vision—
[When I was traveling in the countryside of Brittany, I shared a part of the journey with a priest and his young acolyte. Halfway, the priest went into the woods by the road to relieve himself but accidentally sat on a sapling, crying out in pain. The young acolyte, however, made the sign of the cross over his chest: "My God, is this the retribution you have sent?"]
Bishop Gibert momentarily forgot he was still on the toilet, stood up, and tried to walk forward...
The bishop's male servant, André, heard a scream from inside the restroom, mixed with anger and pain, and the sound of something crashing to the ground. Without hesitation, he quickly opened the door and went in.
The sight before him would be unforgettable for the rest of his life:
The esteemed Bishop Gibert Guillaume Mermet de Boan was prostrate on the ground, his large backside in the air, a column of blood gushing out like a small fountain, staining the expensive fur seat cushion.
André panicked: "Your Lordship, your hemorrhoids..."
Bishop Gibert could no longer hear what André was saying, only shouting: "I will report this to the Vatican! I will report this to the Vatican!"
With each shout, the "fountain" grew thicker and higher...