The French Affair Boxed Set

by Natasha Sparks

  The Marquis cocked his head. "Indeed. Perhaps I misjudged you. Very good. Very good indeed!" Clouds grew over his countenance. "Utter bilge of course. And much, much damage... The Revolution, the Terror... they have their roots in the damage that Russeau did. And yet, I cannot doubt that at the root of things, there is truth. For Janice, you see--as an American, I trust you know your Declaration of Independence--and Constituion?"

  "All men are created equal," she pronounced immediately.

  "Oh indeed. Equally base. Equally good and evil. And when a human is free--completely free--as a human spirit struggles to be--to ignore his base desires, his violence, his anger and such. In short, his animal nature. Why it's insane! And that is what I claim, Janice. That is my work! I flail against society. And when I am imprisoned, I flail with quill, ink and paper!"

  "You are free now. You seem to be in favor!" she said.

  "Hah! Could you have seen me but months ago! A penniless wretch!" He sniffed. "However, General Murat--the good General read JUSTINE and then PHILOSOPHY IN THE BEDROOM. He sought me out. We spoke at length. And now he is my patron!"

  "You are instructing him in the ways of love?"

  "In the ways of love and perverted love, for certain. He is enjoying his fantasies!"

  Janice thought back. That would certainly explain the medieval monk's outfit and all that rigmarole when he drugged her and tied her up for Napoleon.

  "Napoleon!" she said out loud.

  "Napoleon?" said the Marquis de Sade. "What of Napoleon Bonaparte?

  "He knows you are here?"

  "Oh, goodness. Of course not! Oh dear! And thank God!"

  "But Murat... he seemed to think..."

  "Oh perhaps eventually the First Consul may indulge my ways. But for now he is consumed in himself and his ambitions.”

  "But isn't he really the embodiment of the true ideals of the French Revolution?" asked Janice.

  The Marquis de Sade raised his eyebrows. His deep and glaring eyes turned full of fire for a moment.

  But then, suddenly, his face changed.

  "Please. Forgive me. I am a terrible host. And my goodness, it is time for me to be a good host! You are a wreck. You are dirty and unkempt. Even though your beauty still shines through, I feel you need a bit of a cleaning, true?"

  "I have to admit, yes--" Janice said. "I feel like a dirty, used rag."

  The Marquis de Sade steepled his hands again and leaned his fingers against his lips.

  "It is a sacrifice, Mademoiselle, but I must make it!"

  "Sacrifice!" she sat up in horror. She looked toward the door. "When the Marquis de Sade uses the word 'sacrifice' I cannot but be alarmed!"

  "Ah! Ah ha!" He laughed. He started to laugh heartily. He had to sit down. "Oh my. My reputation precedes me too well..."

  You wouldn't believe how much, thought Janice.

  "Oh no. As it happens, I have my baths late evenings. So soothing. So as it happens my parlor maids have made a hot bath available to me--" He pointed to the next room. "I was just referring to the sacrifice I would make in allowing you to take that bath, and wait until the morrow for mine."

  She laughed as well. "Forgive me. Marquis."

  "I have gone dirty for too many days myself, in prison and outside of prison, to care to impart that torture to anyone." He stood up and gestured airily with his right hand. "Come then. Use my bath. Relax. And then I shall bore you a bit more with our dialogue."

  "It is fascinating," said Janice. "But to tell you the truth, I simply have to take advantage of your offer. I should very much like to feel human again."

  "Please. Disrobe. Dip. Just in that chamber then. When you are ready, I shall bring you some reading material, yes? And of course, my own polite self, with which to discourse."

  Nervously, she pushed down on the armrests. She found the notion of a bath--oh blessed warm, sweet and steamy waters--gave her enough energy to push herself off and make the trip.

  "Don't hesitate. The water grows colder as we speak. There will be bath salts and ointments beside the tub."

  She found herself drifting as though in some dream from one chamber into another. The other chamber seemed to be a combination kitchen and bathroom (minus the toilet). To one side, by a stove, was a large oval-shaped tub. It was a wooden tub and steam streamed up through the cracks in a wooden cover. It looked for all the world, thought Janice, like the wooden tub in the famous picture of the dead Jean Paul Marat, slumped over his writing desk in a bathtub. Still, as promised, there were toiletry items on a table beside this bath, and also fresh linen nightclothes and clean towels. A scrub brush hung on its side.

  Oh delight. A scrub brush! Just what she needed. Her back could so use a massage of whatever nature.

  Quickly, Janice removed her clothes. Suddenly cold, she dipped her hand into the water and was thrilled to feel that it was hot, but not unbearably so. In fact, it was just right.

  Lifting the lid back on its hinge, she stepped over the edge and into the tub.

  Oh! Oh! My goodness, there were different sorts of orgasms... Surely, surely, yes! And this must be one of them.

  The heat of the water, enfolding about her, wasn’t just soothing. It focused her, and it focused her on a release from the tension of the evening. Gratefully, she slipped down into deep water (for the tub was filled up almost to the brim and it was a deep tub) and settled on the bottom. She looked down and could see her pink nipples bobbing on the surface, like sweet cherries atop a dark soda. With a sigh, she just closed her eyes for a moment, and smoothed her hand down her chest. Her smooth hands on her smooth, soft skin felt wonderful. She held her breasts for a moment, cuddled them. They were not large, but nor were they small. She felt as though they needed comforting, after all they'd been through, and oddly enough, they responded. She felt good and comfortable in her skin. Keeping her left hand on her left breast, she let her right hand travel further down. Down across belly button, circling it. This was a little secret of hers, one she only gave out to lovers after she felt close to them. She had a very sensitive naval. She played along the rim of her naval for a moment, and then let her forefinger penetrate it. An ‘innie’, no question, was this belly button. Far from an ‘outie’. She pushed harder and felt herself beginning to thrill and tingle. For idle moments she did this, and then found her left hand passing her right, slowly drifting down to her thighs. She stroked the skin of her upper thighs. Put a slippery finger on her mons--played with it for a moment.

  The result was pure relaxation. Ah, it felt so good, so very good...

  "Enjoying yourself, my dear?" came a voice.

  "Uhm. Oh yes. The water is so nice."

  "You had a very intent look on your face," said the Marquis. He held a couple of books in his hand. "Were you pleasuring yourself?"

  She found herself turning a bright scarlet. "My goodness. What--"

  He held up an admonishing hand. "It is of no matter. Perfectly normal. And most delightful." He pulled up a chair, and there, sat the books on his knee. "Now then, my dear. Are you feeling cleaner? More relaxed?"

  "Yes," said Janice, definitely wanting to change the subject. Her hands were now obediently and politely folded on her stomach.

  "We were speaking of Napoleon. And we were speaking of other things. Philosophy, perhaps?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, in these times, you must realize--especially since you are an American--that philosophy and ideas are a matter of life and death. Freedom! Freedom seeks to explode in the world as the sun rises in the east. And yet there are those in power and those who mindlessly toe the lines of social strictures... Yes... You see, that is what I am about. Oh yes... I am also about finding all kinds of pleasures of the flesh, but I feel there are spectrums unexplored."

  "Like pleasure through pain?"

  "Perhaps, perhaps. I do not necessarily take pleasure in most sorts of pain. I wish to torture and kill no one. No, not even your beloved Napoleon Bonaparte. But let us return to the French philosophers we w
ere speaking of before."

  "You mean Rousseu"

  "I do indeed mean Rousseu!" said the Marquis with a tone of utter disgust. "He and his ilk in their rebellion from the Church--in itself not a bad thing by the way, I assure you--have taken a ‘naturalistic course’. They believe that mankind, left to its own devices, is a naturally good and pure animal. Nonsense. Utter trash and nonsense!"

  "Oh yes. Rousseau and the social contract and all that."

  "A great Greek philosophers once said, ‘Know thyself’. I agree. But any human who knows himself--or herself--knows that as well as goodness and light, there are dark and animalistic urges in their heart. How can we deal with these? Why, first we must admit them. And then, within reason, experiment with them. Release them. But harm no one in the process. A form of play. And thus we can enjoy honesty with ourselves. And freedom!" He smiled. "I believe that the appropriate response to the present time is not conformity to the whim of some power hungry Corsican.

  Of course, Janice thought, he could not know of all the factors of Napoleon's reign. Nor all of the personality and brilliance of the great man. And to think! she pondered. She'd actually met him. And had almost invited him inside of her. That experience, even above all of her study and her intuition on the subject, had truly convinced her that Napoleon was a creature of great destiny. Moreover, it was also HER destiny. For under him, she could find her release. And over him, there was something... something she felt to the bottom of her soul was her own soul's destiny and purpose.

  That was, after all, why she was here? It must be. She could think of no other purpose.

  "I only know," she said. "That I loved him before I met him. And now, after I have met him, I love him more."

  There, she thought. That was honest and true.

  "Oh! Love! I see! How dare I fly in the face of love!" said the Marquis. "However, dear heart, I shall say that you perhaps are so young... and you perhaps have some difficulties... that might very well prevent a true view of things."

  "Oh?" she said. "You act as though you are some great seer."

  "I am approaching old age. And I have always, my dear Janice, been perceptive." He stood. He reached down and grabbed her breast gently. "You see, I noticed this." He played with her breast for a bit and then let his hand drift down further, down the slope of her abdomen to touch her buttocks a moment and then come back forward.

  He smelled of lavender, the Marquis did. He did not smell of lust, but instruction. She said nothing, but did not move. Or respond. It wasn't terribly erotic. It was as though a great old friendly reptile was fondling her, and that was all.

  His hand drifted down to her cunt, and with great skill, he inserted a finger.

  "Now, were you a normal woman, I could easily arouse you to great fervor if I wished. But you are not normal. I noted that with the corporal. When he was inside of you, I noted things about you I have seen in certain unfortunate women. They have difficulty. Difficulty--well, not so much in becoming aroused but in... achieving orgasm."

  He removed his finger, pulled his hand out of the water. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

  "And orgasm--well, for a woman, orgasm can be splendid indeed, Janice. Much more splendid than for a man, I suspect. I suspect, because quite simply I have never been, you see, a woman. But I understand women. And I understand the power that women can give great men. And the great power that great men can give women."

  "I'm glad you understand, Marquis."

  She wasn't sure why she said that. It just came out. His touch has been almost that of a medical doctor's. She took no offense in it. Especially now that it was all over.

  "Good. We perhaps should speak more of this later. I am, after all, always ready to hear good words about Napoleon Bonaparte. I quite assure you that General Murat showers me with them regularly. He truly worships the man! And why not? He has brought Murat glory, power... and much more perhaps!"

  "Does Murat own this chateau?" she asked.

  "Oh no. Not fully. It is a military thing... Bonaparte procured it immediately after his victory at Toulon. He is a master of organization, and presented the purchase with fellow officers and a retreat. He has not yet claimed to own the entire thing, although I am sure he fancies that he knows all that happens here.

  A mischievous light capered in his eyes.

  "How again did your association with General Murat begin?"

  "As I said, I was very much down and out. I lost my money and the power of my title long ago. However, the fruits of my imprisonment have gained, a certain notoriety. Here, for example. My most famous. JUSTINE. And here... CRIMES OF LOVE. Others as well. Yes and of course they are popular amongst the literate in the military who often have long periods of time on their hands with which to read. Murat, of course, read my books. It was a small matter for him, with his resources now, to find me. And here I now find myself. I am supposed to write more, but mostly I seem to be ‘instructing’.”

  "These are two of my favorites, and I have written much!" he seemed proud of that fact. "When I am in prison or the insane asylum--oh and I assure you I am not mad. That was arranged by my dear wife and mother-in-law to keep me out of prison!--when I have time and space and quills and ink--I write. And I shall tell you indeed," he lifted the lid of the tub and placed it over her, dry side up. "This is my most popular. Perhaps you might find it leisurely reading in the bath.”

  "JUSTINE. Yes, I have read it."

  "In America? Virginia?" The Marquis sounded disbelieving.

  "Yes. But then, remember, I get all I can of French literature. And I like the naughty sorts!"

  "Bah. It's not just about that! It's not simply... simply..." He said the word carefully... ‘Pornography!’"

  "Of course not. JUSTINE is a remarkable novel. It has a barb in it. It reminds me of Voltaire with plenty of sex."

  The Marquis beamed. "I am not always a fan of the fellow's philosophy, but his wit is wonderful." He stroked his chin, considering. He held up the book. "You are sure you read this?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you remember the plot?"

  "I do," she responded. In fact, she'd read the book several times. The plot concerns Justine, a 12-year-old maiden (‘As for Justine, aged as we have remarked, twelve’... ) who sets off, to make her way in France. It follows her until age 26, in her quest for virtue. She is presented with sexual lessons, hidden under a virtuous mask. The unfortunate situations include: the time when she seeks refuge and confession in a monastery, but is forced to become a sex slave to the monks, who subject her to orgies and despoilments, and similar rigors. When helping a gentleman who is robbed in a field, he takes her back to his chateau with promises of a post caring for his wife, but she is then confined in a cave and subject to much the same punishment. These punishments are mostly the same throughout, even when she goes to a judge to beg for mercy in her case as an arsonist, and then finds herself openly humiliated in court, unable to defend herself.

  Justine (Therese) and Juliette were the daughters of Monsieur de Bertole. Bertole was a widower banker who fell in love with another man's woman. The man, Monsieur de Noirseuil, in the interest of revenge, pretended to be his friend, and made sure he became bankrupt and eventually poisoned him, leaving the girls orphans. Juliette and Justine lived in a nunnery, where the Abbess of the nunnery corrupted Juliette (and attempted to corrupt Justine too). However, Justine was sweet and virtuous. When the Abbess found out about Bertole's death she threw both girls out. Juliette's story is told in another book, and Justine continues on in pursuit of virtue, beginning from becoming a maid in the house of the Usurer Harpin, which is where her troubles begin anew.

  In her search for work and shelter Justine constantly fell into the hands of rogues who would ravish and torture her and the people she makes friends with. Justine was falsely accused of theft by Harpin and sent to jail expecting execution. She had to ally herself with a Miss Dubois, a criminal who helped her to escape along with her band. In order to escape t
hey had to start a fire in the prison, in which 21 people died. After escaping the band of Dubois, Justine wanders off and accidentally trespasses upon the lands of The Count of Bressac.

  For long moments after she finished detailing the plot and analysis of Justine, the Marquis de Sade simply stared at Janice. There wasn't so much disbelief or astonishment, or even appreciation, but a kind of appraisement. It was as though he were asking himself just who was this woman--and coming up with some interesting possibilities.

  "I am flattered. Yes. Yes, that is Justine. However, my dear, have you read this one, eh?"

  He handed her the other book. It was called Juliette.

  "No."

  She'd heard of it of course. But she actually hadn't read it. In fact, now she was wondering to herself just how wise it had been to discourse the content of Justine so thoroughly. Not that anyone would believe her, but still she didn't want anyone to suspect that, not only was she from a different place, but a different time as well.

  "Good, good. I will tell you the plot so you can skip ahead to the more interesting parts at your own pace. I promise you--it will enlighten you."

  "Juliette. Justine's sister is raised in a convent. However, at age 13, she is seduced by a woman who immediately explains that morality, religion and other such concepts are meaningless. There are plenty of similar philosophical musings during the book, all attacking the ideas of God, morals, remorse, love, etc., the overall conclusion being that the only aim in life is ‘to enjoy oneself at no matter whose expense’. Juliette takes this to the extreme and manages to murder her way through numerous people, including various family members and friends.

  During Juliette's life from age 13 to about 30, the wanton anti-heroine engages in virtually every form of depravity and encounters a series of like-minded libertines. She meets the ferocious Clairwil, whose main passion is in murdering young men. She meets Saint Fond, a 50-year-old multi-millionaire who commits incest with his daughter, murders his father, tortures young girls to death on a daily basis and even plots an ambitious scheme to provoke a famine that will wipe out half the population of France!"