“I celebrated mass,” the stupid ninny bragged, laughing wholeheartedly. “Yes, by God, I celebrated mass like a real priest while Father Gabriel was out giving a sound thrashing to that rascal Renoult. Browbeat the man, that’s what he did, my pet, what do you think of that? Raised welts on his head and shoulders, he told me. I bet those welts on his forehead are by now the size of goose eggs, my love. What a funny story that is, don’t you find? I tell you, those with bumps on their heads make me laugh! … And what about you, my sweet, what were you up to while I was saying mass?”
“Ah! my friend,” the provost’s wife replied, “it would seem that both of us were inspired by heaven today. We were both filled with celestial elements and neither one of us knew it! While you were saying mass, I was reciting that lovely prayer the Virgin gave to the angel Gabriel when he appeared unto her and told her she would be with child through the intervention of the Holy Ghost. Oh, my friend, we are on the road to salvation, of that I am sure, and will remain there just so long as both of us keep on performing such good works.”
*A municipal employee roughly the equivalent of a bailiff.
THIEVES AND SWINDLERS
As far back as anyone can remember, there has been in Paris a class of men who insinuate themselves into all segments of society and whose sole profession is to live off others. Nothing is more clever or more cunning than the various and sundry schemes of these evil men and women, who, one way or another, will go to any lengths to snare innocent victims in their nets. While the main body of this army works in the city itself, various detachments flutter about on the outskirts, scattered about throughout the length and breadth of the countryside, generally traveling from one place to another by public coach.
These grim but undeniably accurate facts having been established, let us now turn our attention to the naive young lady who it will sadden us to the point of tears to see fall into the hands of such ignominious people.
Rosette de Farville, the daughter of a solid bourgeois from the city of Rouen in western France, had nagged her father so long and so insistently that he had finally relented and given her permission to go to Paris at Carnival time1 and stay with her uncle Mathieu, a wealthy money-lender who lived on the rue Quincampoix.2 Though more than a trifle naive, Rosette, who was well into her nineteenth year, was as pretty as a picture, with blond hair and lovely blue eyes, skin that was dazzlingly white, and a bosom that, though concealed beneath a light layer of gauze, promised to anyone with practiced eyes that what remained hidden from view was at least the equal of what one could discern.
The parting of father and daughter was tearful; it was the first time his daughter had left the paternal nest. She was a good girl, she was fully capable of looking out for herself, she was staying with a kindly relative, she would be back in time before Easter: all these arguments were reassuring to her father. But on the other hand, Rosette was extremely pretty. Rosette was a trusting soul, and she was going to a city known to be dangerous for any of the fair sex from the provinces who landed there full of innocence and a goodly portion of virtue.
Still in all, the girl set off, taking with her a wardrobe that would enable her to cut a fine figure in Paris in her modest circle, not to mention a considerable quantity of jewelry and presents not only for her Uncle Mathieu himself but also for his daughters, her cousins Adelaide and Sophie. Her father embraced her, bade her a fond farewell, and asked the coachman to keep an eye on her throughout the trip. The driver cracked his whip; tears were shed on both sides as the coach drove off. But it must be said that a father’s tender feelings for his children are stronger and deeper than the reverse. Nature is such that it allows young offspring to discover pleasures that turn their heads, various social diversions that, without meaning to, distance them from their parents and, in their hearts, chill those feelings of tenderness that, for both parents, is more focused, more ardent, and far more sincere. Parents are well aware of this fatal indifference on the part of their children who, turning their backs on the pleasurable experiences of their youth, can come to look upon their parents as no more or no less than the sacred vessels to whom they owe their existence.
Rosette was no exception to that general rule of Nature, and her tears were soon dry as her thoughts focused on the pleasures that awaited her in Paris. She wasted no time in introducing herself to the other passengers who were headed there and who, she assumed, knew the city far better than she. Her first question was to find out in what part of Paris the rue Quincampoix was located.
“Why, that’s in my part of town,” said a tall, well-built fellow who, because of the kind of uniform he was wearing and his imposing tone of voice, had been dominating the conversation in the carriage as it jolted along.
“What, Monsieur, you mean to say you actually live on the rue Quincampoix?”
“I do, and have for some twenty years now.”
“Oh! Then you must know my Uncle Mathieu.”
“Monsieur Mathieu is your uncle, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, indeed. I’m his niece, and I’m on my way to see him. I’m going to spend the rest of the winter with him and my two cousins, Adelaide and Sophie, whom I’m sure you know as well.”
“Of course I know them! In fact, Monsieur Mathieu is my next-door neighbor and, it just so happens, I’ve been in love with one of his daughters these past five years.”
“You’re in love with one of my cousins! I’ll bet it’s Sophie.”
“No, as a matter of fact it’s Adelaide. Have you ever seen a more beautiful face in your life?”
“That’s what everybody in Rouen says … I can’t say for myself, I must confess, for I’ve never actually seen them myself. This is my first visit to the capital.”
“Ah, so you don’t know your cousins, eh? And I bet you’ve never laid eyes on your uncle either?”
“Good lord no! He left Rouen the same year I was born and never came back.”
“He’s a very proper gentleman, I can assure you of that, and he’ll be delighted to have you.”
“It’s a lovely house, I understand.”
“It is indeed, though he rents out part of it. He only keeps the apartment on the second floor for himself.”
“And the ground floor too, I think.”
“Quite right. And as I understand it, one room on the top floor as well.”
“Oh, I know he’s quite a wealthy man, but I assure you I won’t disgrace him while I’m under his roof. Look: here’s a hundred double louts my father gave me to buy clothes with, so that I’ll be as fashionable as any young lady in town and my cousins won’t ever be ashamed of me. And look at these earrings I’m bringing for my cousin Adelaide—the sister you’re in love with. They’re worth at least a hundred louts. And this necklace I’m bringing as a present to Sophie: it’s worth just as much as the earrings. And that’s not all: this little gold box, which contains a miniature portrait of my mother, was just yesterday valued at fifty louts. It’s a present from my father to Uncle Mathieu. Taken all together, between the money and the jewels, plus my own clothes, I’m sure I have more than five hundred louts’ worth with me.”
“You needn’t have gone to such lengths to be welcome at your Uncle Mathieu’s,” said the swindler, casting a greedy eye at the lovely young lady and her louts. “The mere presence of your company will mean far more to him, I’m sure, than all these little baubles.”
“That may well be. Still in all, my father’s a firm believer in doing things right, and he doesn’t want anyone to look down their nose at us just because we’re country folk.”
“The truth is, Mademoiselle, you’re such pleasant company that if I had my way I’d make you stay on in Paris and convince your uncle to have his son marry you.”
“His son! He doesn’t have a son.”
“I mean his nephew. You know, the very tall young man …”
“Who, Charles?”
“That’s the one, Charles! My closest friend, par-bleau!”
“You mea
n you knew Charles, Monsieur?”
“Knew him is an understatement, Mademoiselle. Why, as I said he’s my closest friend. Knew him, know him: in fact, he’s the only reason I’m going to Paris.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Monsieur. Poor Charles is dead. From the time I was a little girl I was supposed to marry him. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but I was always told he was a lovely man. Then he got it into his head to join the army, went off to war, and was killed.”
“All well and good, Mademoiselle. I can see that my fondest wish is about to come true. They have a major surprise in store for you in Paris, Mademoiselle, of that you may be sure. Charles is not dead, as everyone thought. He came back six months ago, safe and sound. He wrote me and announced he was getting married. And that’s doubtless why you’re being sent to Paris. Four days from now you and Charles will be man and wife, and all those presents you’re carrying are actually wedding presents.”
“You know, Monsieur,” Rosette replied, “what you’re saying makes all sorts of sense. Putting your conjectures together with some remarks my father made these past few days, which now come back to me, I can see that everything you said is completely plausible. Just think: getting married in Paris! Oh, Monsieur, it gives me goose bumps! But if that happens, then you must marry cousin Adelaide without delay. I’ll do my best to talk her into it. What a handsome foursome we’ll make!”
Such was the tone and tenor of the conversation between the good, sweet Rosette and the no-good scoundrel who was sounding her out as the carriage rocked along and whose sole intent was to take full advantage of the poor inexperienced lass who had unburdened herself to him with total candor. What a rich haul for this band of libertines: five hundred louts and a pretty young girl to boot! Tell me in all truth, which of your senses would not be tickled by such an appealing prospect?
As they were nearing Pontoise,3 the crook said:
“I have a great idea, Mademoiselle. I’ll get out here, hire a horse, and dash off to your uncle’s to announce your impending arrival. That way the whole family will come out to greet you, I’m sure, and you won’t feel so alone or intimidated at arriving in this great city.”
The plan is agreed to, the pseudo-gentleman hops down, hires a horse, and races off to forewarn the actors he had chosen for his forthcoming play: he rehearses them as to their roles, and when they are ready two carriages bear the pseudo-family to Saint Denis,4 where they repair to the local inn. When Rosette’s carriage arrives, her former traveling companion, the head swindler, takes charge of the introductions: Uncle Mathieu, Charles, tall and impressive in his army uniform, and Rosette’s two charming cousins.
Embraces are exchanged all around, the young Normandy lass delivers her father’s letters, the good Monsieur Mathieu weeps tears of joy upon learning his brother is in good health. In Paris, Rosette is made to understand, one distributes presents as soon as one meets. In any event, Rosette, more than anxious to display the full extent of her father’s generosity, hurriedly hands them over to each party in turn. Further embraces all around, more proffered thanks, after which the party proceeds to the scoundrel’s headquarters, which they tell our unsuspecting beauty is on the rue Quincampoix. They arrive at a respectable enough house, Mademoiselle Farville is shown to her room, her trunk is brought up to her, and then they all announce they are famished and sit down at the table. As they dine, they make sure to serve Rosette more to drink than is good for her. Used as she is to drinking only cider, Rosette is easily persuaded that Champagne is made out of Paris apples and she happily drinks all they pour until she is high as a kite. Once she is utterly defenseless, they strip her stark naked and our band of lowlife scoundrels, assured now that she is bereft of all her possessions except those with which Nature had endowed her, desiring to leave not even these intact or unsullied, spend the entire night defiling them in one way or another to their heart’s content.
Finally, pleased that they had got from the poor girl all that could be got, satisfied that they have stolen from her not only her reason but her honor and money as well, cover her with a tattered coat and, before the break of dawn, go and deposit her on the top steps of the Saint-Roche Church.5
Opening her eyes at the first light of dawn, the poor girl, more than upset by the appalling state in which she finds herself, gingerly feels herself all over, wondering whether she is in fact alive or dead. The local riffraff gather around her and for a long while make sport of her, but finally someone takes pity and responds to her request to be taken to the police station. There she relates her sad story, asks that they write to her father and that she be given shelter somewhere until he responds. The superintendent of police, seeing how frank and honest the girl’s remarks are, takes her into his own home until her father arrives from Normandy. Generous tears are shed on both sides, after which he takes his darling daughter home, where she remains for the rest of her days, having not the slightest desire, it is said, ever to see the civilized capital of France again.
THE GASCON WIT
An army officer from the region of Gascony1 had, during the reign of Louis XIV, obtained from the king a special stipend of 150 pistoles for services rendered. With the royal order in hand, he barged into Monsieur Colbert’s2 quarters, without any advance warning, and found the minister dining with several other notables of the court.
“Which of you gentlemen,” said the officer, in an accent that immediately betrayed his province of origin, “which of you, if you don’t mind my asking, is Monsieur Colbert?”
“I am, good Sir,” responded the minister. “How may I be of service to you?”
“A piddling matter, Monsieur, simply a bonus of 150 pistoles that I should like to have cashed forthwith.”
Monsieur Colbert, who immediately realized that here was a fellow they might have some fun with, asked if he would mind too much if they finished their dinner, and, to temper the officer’s impatience, invited him to join them at table.
“With great pleasure,” replied the native of Gascony, “especially since I haven’t yet had dinner.”
Once the meal was over, the minister, who had meanwhile sent up a note to the chief paymaster, told the officer that he could go upstairs to the office, where his money would be awaiting him. The soldier arrived, but the paymaster counted out only one hundred pistoles.
“Are you joking, Monsieur,” he said to the clerk, “or are you blind? Can’t you see that my requisition is for 150 pistolesr
“Sir,” the paymaster responded, “I can see very well that your requisition is for 150 pistoles, but I deducted fifty for the cost of your dinner with the minister.”
“Cadedisf3 Upon my word! Fifty pistoles! Why, at my inn they only charge me twenty sous for dinner.”
“I’m sure they do. But there you don’t have the distinct advantage of dining with the minister.”
“You’re right,” said the Gascon. “That being the case, Monsieur, keep your money. Tell the minister that tomorrow evening I’ll be back for dinner with one of my friends. That way we’ll be even.”
The Gascon’s reply, and the practical joke that had occasioned it, made the rounds of the court the next day and was soon forgotten. They promptly added fifty pistoles to the officer’s payout and sent him on his way. He went home to Gascony, where he sang the praises not only of Monsieur Colbert’s dinner but indeed of the entire Versailles court, and especially the way they appreciated the sharp wit and spirit of the natives of Gascony.
And so I take my leave, Dear Reader May health and happiness be yours, as our forefathers were wont to say after finishing their tale. Why not emulate their courtesy and candor? And so I shall say to you, Dear Reader, may good health, wealth, and pleasure be your lot. If my modest efforts have brought you a modicum of pleasure, then kindly give this volume a privileged spot on your bookshelf. And if I have bored you, than accept my sincere apologies and cast me into the fire without further ado.
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
1. Sade’s wife, who was allowed to visit him in prison once a month, wrote in a letter dated May 25, 1787, that her husband was in fair health but growing “very fat,” essentially because the authorities constantly denied him the right to daily walks to punish him for his recalcitrant acts or words.
2. Sade’s father-in-law, Monsieur de Montreuil, had also been a chief judge of the Paris Cour des Aides, and one of his archrivals was the chief judge of the Paris Criminal Court, Judge Maupeou. Four years before Sade’s sentence by the Aix court (that is, 1768), Maupeou was instrumental in having Sade arrested for another crime d’amour, the so-called Arcueil affair, and had personally signed the sentence committing him to prison for it. Again in Aix, Maupeou made his influence personally felt to strike a double blow: revenge against his hated rival, Sade’s father-in-law, and against Sade himself, whom Maupeou rightly saw as an entrenched and unrepentant rebel against society and the state.
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