The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings

by Marquis de Sade

  We were wont to spend six months each year on a lovely country estate Madame de Lérince owned ten leagues from Paris. Monsieur de Saint-Prât often used to come and visit us there. Unfortunately for me, this particular year he was down with a siege of gout, which prevented him from joining us. I say unfortunately for me, Monsieur, because, quite naturally having a greater confidence in him than in his relative, I would have confessed to him certain things I could never bring myself to discover to others, the avowal of which would no doubt have warded off the fatal accident which befell me.

  Saint-Ange requested permission to join us on our journey, and as Madame de Dulfort also interceded in his behalf, his request was granted.

  All of us in our little group were concerned to know who this young man really was. Nothing very precise or substantial seemed to be known of his background or origins; Madame de Dulfort passed him off as the son of a provincial gentleman to whom she was related, whilst he, now and again forgetting what Madame de Dulfort had said, referred to himself as a native of Piedmont, a claim further reinforced by the manner in which he spoke Italian. He was of an age to embark upon a career, but thus far had not done so, nor did he seem so inclined. He had, moreover, a very pretty face, full worthy of being portrayed by an artist’s brush, had excellent manners, a conversation which was exceeding decent, and also appeared to be very well educated; but behind all this there lurked a prodigious vitality, a kind of impetuosity of character which at times frightened us.

  No sooner had we arrived at Madame de Lérince’s country estate than Monsieur de Saint-Ange, whose feelings had only grown more intense because of his efforts to curb them, found it impossible to conceal them any longer from me. I trembled . . . and yet managed to maintain sufficient composure to show him naught but pity.

  “In truth, Monsieur,” I said to him, “you must have a false opinion of your own worth, or else time must weigh heavy indeed upon your hands if you have enough to devote to someone twice your age. But even assuming I were foolish enough to hear you out, what foolish plans might you dare entertain regarding me?”

  “Plans to bind myself to you by the holiest of ties, Mademoiselle. How little esteem you must have for me, if you could even suspect I had any others!”

  “To be quite candid with you, Monsieur, I do not intend to offer the public the odd spectacle of a woman thirty-four marrying a child of seventeen.”

  “Ah! cruel woman, could you even conceive of such insignificant differences if in your heart there was a flame even one-thousandth as strong as the one that consumes mine?”

  “’Tis certain indeed, Monsieur, that, for my part, I am quite calm. . . . I have been so for many a year, and I trust I shall so remain for as long as God sees fit to prolong my days here on earth.”

  “You deprive me even of the hope that I might one day move your heart to pity.”

  “I shall go even further: I dare forbid you to speak to me any further of your mad projects.”

  “Ah! Florville, beautiful Florville, so you wish to make my life miserable?”

  “I wish it to be peaceful and happy.”

  “It can be so only with you.”

  “Yes. . . as long as you fail to rid yourself of the foolish sentiments you should never have conceived in the first place. Try to vanquish them, try to control yourself, and your tranquillity and composure will return.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You don’t want to; to succeed in the effort, we must separate. Let two years go by without seeing me, this agitation will disappear, you will forget me, and you will be happy.”

  “Ah, never, never . . . For me there will never be any happiness save at your feet. . . .”

  And as the other guests rejoined us at this moment, our first conversation concluded on this note.

  Three days later, Saint-Ange, having again contrived to see me alone, attempted to renew the conversation in the same vein as that of the earlier evening. This time, I was so stern in admonishing him to remain silent that tears rushed to his eyes. He turned from me abruptly, declaring that I was driving him to despair and that, if I continued to treat him in this manner, he would soon put an end to his life. . . . Then, retracing his steps like a man possessed:

  “Mademoiselle,” he said to me, “you do not know the soul you are outraging. . . . No, truly you do not. You must know that I am capable of resorting to the most extreme measures . . . measures which you perhaps cannot even imagine. . . . Yes, I shall resort to them a thousand times over rather than forgo the happiness of being yours.”

  And he withdrew in a state of dreadful agitation.

  I had never been more tempted than I was at that moment to confide in Madame de Lérince, but, I repeat, I was restrained by the fear of compromising this young man, and I said nothing.

  Saint-Ange spent the following week fleeing my presence; he scarcely addressed a word to me, and avoided me at table . . . in the salon . . . during our walks, probably in order to see whether this change in his conduct would make any impression upon me. Had I shared his feelings, this strategem would surely have worked, but this was so far from the case that I scarcely seemed to be aware of his tactics.

  At last he accosted me in a remote corner of the garden. . . .

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, his words ill concealing the violence of the feelings behind them, “I have finally managed to regain my self-composure . . . your counsels have had upon me the effect you desired and expected. . . . As you can see, I am again in complete control of myself. . . . My only purpose in getting you alone is to bid you my final adieu. . . . Yes, I’m going to leave you forever, Mademoiselle. . . . I’m going to flee from you . . . never again will you set eyes upon the man you loathe. . . oh! no, no, you will never see him again!”

  “I am pleased to hear of your plan, Monsieur, and would like to believe that you have at last come to your senses again. But,” I added, smiling, “your conversion appears to me as yet far from accomplished.”

  “Well, how would you have me be then, Mademoiselle, in order for me to convince you of my indifference?”

  “Quite different from the way I see you now.”

  “But at least after I have left . . . when my presence is no longer a painful burden to you, then will you perhaps believe in my return to that reason toward which all your efforts have been urging me?”

  “It is true that ’tis only your departure which will persuade me of your return to reason, and I shall never cease counseling you to adopt that course.”

  “Am I then such a frightful object for you?”

  “You, Sir, are a most amiable man, who ought to be devoting his time to conquests of another sort, and to leave in peace a woman for whom it is impossible to hear your pleas.”

  “And yet you will hear me,” he then said, in an absolute rage, “yes, cruel woman, no matter what you may say, you shall hear the sentiments of my inflamed heart, and you may rest assured that there is nothing in the world I shall not do, either to deserve you or to obtain you. . . . Nor should you believe in my departure,” he went on in great heat, “or my pretended departure. I dreamt that up merely to test you. . . . Me, leave you! Do you for one moment believe I could tear myself away from this place where you dwell? . . . Hate me, falsehearted creature, hate me, since such is my unhappy fate, but never hope to vanquish the love for you which burns within me. . . .”

  And as he spoke these last words, Saint-Ange was in such a state that, by some turn of fate I have never been able to understand, he succeeded in touching my heart, and I was obliged to turn away my head to hide my tears. I left him there in the thicket where he had managed to corner me. He made no effort to follow me; I heard him throw himself to the ground and give way to a fit of sobbing both frightful and completely uncontrolled. . . . And Monsieur, I must admit that, although I was quite certain that I did not entertain any feelings of love for this young man, I could not contain myself, and I in turn burst out sobbing, whether out of commiseration for him or from the memory
of my own earlier experiences.

  “Alas,” I said to myself, yielding to my sorrow, “those were the same words Senneval used. ’Twas in these very terms that he expressed his burning love for me . . . also in a garden. . . in a garden just like this one . . . did he not tell me he would love me forever . . . and did he not deceive me cruelly? Merciful Heaven! he was even the same age. . . . Ah! Senneval . . . Senneval . . . is’t you who are trying once again to destroy my peace of mind? Have you reappeared in this seductive guise only to drag me down again into the abyss? . . . Away, you coward! . . . away. . . I now loathe even your memory!”

  I wiped away my tears, and went to lock myself in my room till dinner time. Then I went downstairs . . . but Saint-Ange did not appear, but sent word that he was ill. The following day he was clever enough to reveal to me a face which seemed completely untroubled. I was taken in by appearances; I really believed that he had mustered sufficient strength to overcome his passion. I was mistaken; the treacherous scoundrel! . . . Alas, what am I saying, Monsieur? I owe him no more invectives. . . . All I owe him are my tears, and my remorse.

  Saint-Ange appeared so calm because he had laid his plans. Two days passed, and toward the evening of the third he publicly announced his departure. With Madame de Dulfort, his benefactress, he made arrangements concerning their common affairs in Paris.

  We all went to bed. . . . Forgive me, Monsieur, for the commotion this frightful tale arouses within me even before I have finished relating it: I can never call it to mind without trembling with horror.

  As it was exceeding warm, I had gone to bed almost naked. My maid had just left the room, and I had snuffed out the candle. . . . Unfortunately, a sewing basket had remained open on my bed, for I had just cut some material I was going to need the following day. Scarcely had my eyes begun to close than I heard a noise. . . . I quickly sat up. . . I felt myself seized by a hand. . . .

  “This time you’ll not escape me, Florville,” said Saint-Ange, for ’twas he; “forgive the immoderation of my passion, but make no effort to elude it: I must make you mine!”

  “Vile seducer!” I cried out, “leave this room immediately, or suffer the effects of my wrath. . . .”

  “The only thing which will make me suffer is not to have you, cruel girl,” the ardent young man went on, throwing himself upon me so skillfully and with such fury that before I knew what he was about the damage was done. . . .

  Incensed by his excessive audacity, and determined to resort to any measures rather than submit to it any longer, I threw him off me and seized a pair of scissors I had at the foot of the bed. My anger notwithstanding, I maintained control of myself and sought to wound him in the arm, much more in order to frighten him by this display of resolution on my part than to punish him as he deserved to be; feeling my movement, his own became redoubled in intensity.

  “Out, traitor!” I cried, thinking to strike him in the arm, “get out this minute, and blush at the crime you have committed! . . .”

  Oh! Monsieur, a fatal hand had guided my blows. . . . The poor young man uttered a piercing cry and fell to the floor. . . . I straightway lighted my candle and bent over him. . . . Merciful Heaven! I had struck him in the heart! He was dying! I threw myself on the bloody body. . . I pressed him to my troubled breast . . . my lips, pressed against his, tried to breathe life back into the expiring soul. I washed his wound with my tears. . . .

  “O you! whose only crime was to love me overmuch,” I said, despair having driven me to a state of frenzy, “did you deserve such punishment? Should you have lost your life at the hand of her for whom you would have sacrificed it gladly? Oh, poor, poor young man . . . the image of him whom I adored, if to love you would undo what I have done and restore you to life, know then, at this cruel moment, when unhappily you can no longer hear me, know, if there is still a breath of life left in your soul, that I would gladly sacrifice my own life if ’twould suffice to bring back yours. . . . Know that I was never indifferent to you . . . that I never saw you without a feeling of intense emotion, and that my feelings for you were perhaps far superior to those of the tender love which burned in your heart.”

  With these words, I collapsed upon the body of this unfortunate young man, and fell unconscious. My maid, having heard the commotion, entered the room, and revived me, then joined me in my efforts to bring Saint-Ange back to life. But it was all to no avail, alas! We left this fatal room, carefully locked the door behind us, we took the key with us and straightway fled to Paris, to Monsieur de Saint-Prât’s. . . . I had him awakened, handed him the key of this baleful room, and recounted to him my horrible adventure. He offered me sympathy, comforted me, and, despite his illness, immediately set out for Madame de Lérince’s house. As it was but a short distance from Paris to her country estate, all this transpired before the night was out. My protector reached his relative’s estate just as everyone was getting up, and before anyone knew what had happened during the night. Never have any friends, or any relatives, conducted themselves more nobly than in this circumstance: far from imitating those stupid or ferocious persons who, in such crucial moments, find pleasure only in making known whatever can damage or render unhappy those around them as well as themselves, in this instance the servants scarcely knew what had happened.

  “Well, now, Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle de Florville, breaking off her tale at this point because of the tears which were choking her, “will you now marry a girl capable of such a murder? Will you suffer in your arms a creature who deserves the full punishment of the law, a sorry creature who is constantly tormented by her crime and who, since the cruel moment when she committed it, has not spent a single peaceful night? No, Monsieur, not a single night has gone by that my poor victim has not appeared to me covered with the blood I caused to flow from his heart.”

  “Don’t be so upset, Mademoiselle, I beg of you,” quoth Monsieur de Courval, mingling his tears with those of that charming girl. “Given the sensitive soul wherewith Nature has endowed you, I understand your remorse. But there is not even the shadow of a crime in this fatal adventure. ’Tis without question a most terrible misfortune, but nothing more. There is nothing premeditated, nothing atrocious about it; simply the desire to ward off a most odious assault. . . in a word, a murder committed quite by chance, in self-defense. . . . Dismiss it from your mind, Mademoiselle, this I beg of you, nay, I demand it. The most rigorous tribunal would have done naught but wipe away your tears. Oh! how mistaken you were if you feared for a moment that an event such as this would deprive you of the rights to my heart which your qualities have assured you. No, fair Florville, no indeed: far from dishonoring you, this whole affair tends but to accentuate your virtues all the more brilliantly, it renders you ever more worthy of finding a comforting hand to help you forget your sorrows.”

  “The kind words you have just offered me,” Mademoiselle de Florville went on, “are the same as those Monsieur de Saint-Prât has expressed. But the great goodness both of you have shown me can in no wise stifle the pangs of my own conscience. No matter, Monsieur; let us proceed with our story; you must be anxious to learn how all this turns out.”

  Madame de Dulfort was no doubt deeply grieved: not only was this young man a most attractive person, he had come to her too highly recommended for her not to deplore his loss. None the less, she understood the wisdom of silence, she saw that scandal, though it would mean my ruin, would not bring her protégé back to life; and she said not a word.

  Despite the severity of her principles and the extreme probity of her morals, Madame de Lérince behaved even more admirably, if such were possible, for prudence and humanity are the distinctive characteristics of true piety. First she informed the household that during the night I had been foolish enough to wish to ride up to Paris, in order to take advantage of the pleasant weather; she added that she had been privy to this innocent caprice, that she had in fact approved of my act, as she herself had planned to drive to Paris to dine that same evening. Using this as a preten
se, she sent all her servants up to Paris. Once she was alone with Monsieur de Saint-Prât and her friend Madame de Dulfort, she sent for the priest. Madame de Lérince’s spiritual guide must have been as wise and enlightened as she: without further ado, he gave Madame de Dulfort an official certificate and, with the help of two of his servants, secretly and humanely interred the poor victim of my rage.

  Once this had been taken care of, everyone reappeared and was sworn to secrecy. Monsieur de Saint-Prât came to comfort me, revealing to me all that had just been done to bury my misdeed in the most profound oblivion. He seemed to want me to resume my life with Madame de Lérince as though nothing had happened. . . . She was fully disposed to receive me. . . . I could not bring myself to do it. Then he counseled me to seek distraction and amuse myself.

  Madame de Verquin, with whom, as I have mentioned before, I had never stopped corresponding, was still urging me to come and spend a few months with her. I mentioned this plan to her brother, he approved it, and a week later I set out for Lorraine. But the memory of my crime pursued me everywhere; nothing succeeded in restoring my peace of mind.

  I used to awake from a deep sleep and fancy I could still hear the moans and cries of poor Saint-Ange. I would see him lying at my feet covered with blood, he would reproach me for being cruel and assure me that the memory of this frightful act would haunt me to my dying day, and that I did not know the heart I had destroyed.