And now, may I further ask that this entire arrangement be kept shrouded in complete silence? What need is there for the public to have news of my affairs? The officer of the mounted constabulary, or whoever might be designated as his deputy, seem to me the only persons who need to be informed, the timing being left to your discretion. It will be a simple matter to enjoin these people to silence. After all the misfortunes I have suffered in this province, is it not understandable that I greatly desire to resurface there with the appearance, if not the reality, of being a free man? From this kind of restriction of movement that will be imposed upon me there may even result some slight positive good in the eyes of the local population, who, not knowing why I am so seemingly attentive to local matters, will perhaps little by little bestow upon me once again the esteem and respect whereof my misfortunes have stripped me. When from an accident one can easily reap some positive good, why would one hesitate to do so? I leave that reflection to your extreme sagacity, Monsieur, being convinced that if you find it fair and equitable, your many kindnesses on my behalf will convince the minister to allow this plan to be implemented, especially since it seems to me to have no possible negative implications. My respect for the king’s letter will be in no wise diminished, even though its contents not be known to the world at large or that I go so far as to deny its very existence, and the officer of the mounted constabulary will still be available to report upon the accuracy and promptitude of my conduct.
Allow me now if I may, Monsieur, to broach the question of my desire not to travel under guard, and as for my time of departure and the route I shall follow, that it be made a matter of my word of honor, as will my request to see my children before I leave and the urgent necessity both my wife and I feel that we repair to my estates as early as possible. Let us, if you would be so kind, take up each of these articles in the same order I have set them out for you.
First article: travel on my word of honor.
You are infinitely too fair-minded, Monsieur, not to agree that to have me taken under police escort to the very place where I myself desire to go is the most pointless thing in the world. When I broke free of my bonds, ‘twas to my estates that I repaired.5 What would be the purpose therefore of having me return there under guard? ‘Twould be both a needless expense imposed on me and an overabundance of means that are quite unnecessary to the occasion.
Second article: concerning the departure and the route to be followed.
Everyone knows how many days it takes to travel from Paris to Apt in Provence. I ask that I not be forced to travel too rapidly, both because my current state of health will not allow it and because I have not traveled in some time now and have lost the habit. Let us suppose that I was allowed to travel to La Coste, near Apt, from the first to the fourteenth of June, which is allowing for four days more than the normal travel time for such a voyage, the details of which we shall shortly set forth. Monsieur de Rougemont signs me out on June 1st; if one wants to verify each one of my nightly stopovers, one can enlist whatever number of brigadiers of the mounted constabulary to do so, and then Monsieur Blancard can attest to my arrival at my estate on the fourteenth. That, it seems to me, would fulfill the letter of the law. If further security is deemed necessary, that means having me followed, as I have already said. But I must confess that I would have good reason to be deeply pained to see that, from the very start, one might suppose me capable of making so light of a tie to which I shall be bound for far longer than the mere length of the voyage itself. But on that score I shall abide by whatever you decide, as I have already said. All I am doing is making a request, in no wise laying down any conditions, and my heart is filled with only gratitude, nothing more.
Third article: to see my children.
’Tis in this article that will be found the explanation for the four extra days I have requested.
’Tis most urgently that I ask to see my children, and here is what I think would be more fair and equitable both to maintain my security and to fulfill my desire not to have the children moved too far from the place where they are being brought up, which is near Fontainebleau. Thus the site where we might meet could be either Melun, which is the post stop directly beyond Fontainebleau, or Nemours, which is the stop just before. For argument’s sake, let us say Nemours. The boys’ governess will bring them there from Fontainebleau, my wife will bring her daughter from her end, and I shall arrive there from Vincennes; and the appointed day will be that same day when I am scheduled to be released, the voyage by post between Vincennes and Nemours being infinitely easy, no matter how leisurely the pace. Once there, I shall report forthwith to the brigadier of the mounted constabulary, who can vouch for my arrival and with whom, twice a day thereafter, I shall promptly check in until my departure, concerning which, when those four days I will be spending with my children will have come to an end, he can also verify that I have indeed left in the direction of Provence rather than in any other direction; moreover, since I shall be free both within our lodgings and in the city itself, my wife and I may well decide to take our children out for a breath of fresh air. For, as far as my having a police escort, I had not pondered that properly when the question was raised the other day. For first of all, if as I trust they take me at my word, there will be no more need for a guard at Nemours than there will be anywhere else along the rest of the route. For if it so happened that I were to remain for three or four days in one inn along the way, that should pose no greater a problem than if I were to stay a single extra night in the other inns along the way: ’tis absolutely one and the same. Therefore it is simply a formality, a matter of bending the rules so that the voyage is a trifle longer. The other evenings I shall report to the brigadier only once, since I shall be on my way again the following morning. But for the initial sojourn6 I shall report in eight times,7 since I shall be there for four days. And moreover, Monsieur, allow me if you will to address myself for a moment only to your heart. A guard . . . a third party, between a father and his children! What an obstacle! What an incredible impediment to the free flow of those delightful tears that Nature dictates in such precious moments as these! Tears which, if I may be so bold, are in themselves sufficient to reawaken in any sensitive soul both remorse for one’s past misdeeds and the voice of virtue. Ah, Monsieur! do not stand in the way of those tears! they will be more persuasive than all the locks of Vincennes. Do let them flow unimpeded, let them be received in the bosom of these beloved children, with no one but their mother for witness. I shall almost forgo the divine pleasure that I keep promising myself will result from those tears if they were to be witnessed by, or chilled by, either shackles of any kind or by the odious presence of any persons whose only talent lies in provoking them.
Fourth article: the necessity for my wife to be in my estates with me.
Let us pass now to the last article, which sets forth why my wife is needed with me in my estates.
As far as my business affairs are concerned, though she may well be less able to manage our affairs than I, for the simple reason that, hers being a decent soul quite incapable of even imagining evil, she cannot fancy that anyone would or could ever desire to act in a dishonest manner against her; yet she is more up-to-date than I, having held the rudder alone for almost ten years now: during the period both of my sentence in absentia8 and my detention itself, she was the person in full charge of our affairs. Therefore it is quite impossible for me to undertake anything without her counsel and advice. Even to imagine that we might exchange counsel by letter at a distance of a hundred and fifty leagues9 is excessive, both for her and me. We would have to spend entire days and nights writing back and forth, and besides, no letter is ever worth an opinion, a piece of advice, given on the spot. Such advice, such an opinion, often determines one’s decision relative to some important matter, such as the offer of a lease, where a man of goodwill wants to be taken at his word and who, if asked for a delay before a reply is forthcoming, might well rescind his offer. In closing this matter, Monsi
eur, let no one accuse me, in what I am about to say, either of ill will or of trying to lay down the law. But if my wife does not come with me, then as far as my estates are concerned I can manage them no better there than I could were I still in Vincennes or the Tower of Crest.
May I be so bold, Monsieur—and this is only between you and me—as to set forth one other reason more important for my peace of mind, the general tranquillity of both my heart and mind, than for the immediate necessities whereof I spoke? This heart, which you have been kind enough to let me bare to you, has, over the period I have been separated from her,10 been filled with remorse at not having recognized the full degree of tenderness, of attachment to her various duties, of love for her children, in short, of all her many virtues which I scarcely deserved and which I so sorely misjudged. And as I was in the throes of this remorse, a frightful notion would sometimes seize hold of me. What if I were to have the misfortune of losing her without ever having had the chance to make amends! And that cruel idea straightway plunged me into the very depths of the most painful despair. The hope of this sincere return toward an object so worthy of all the feelings with which my soul is filled, the hope of making amends, so long overdue, that presently seem possible; could I refrain from confessing to you that the desire to take advantage of this opportunity is one of the fiercest I have ever felt? Ah! Monsieur, ‘twould be to acknowledge but poorly all your many kindnesses toward me if I were to refrain from thus opening my heart to you in all candor, which I trust you will understand stems from my frightful situation. Yes, Monsieur, I wish to see her, to love her, to dry her tears that my misdeeds have caused her to shed, and to experience at long last that gentle and peaceful state that no man can know except through virtue, and that virtue only truly prepares him for in the sweet pleasures of Hymen.
Please forgive me, Monsieur, for so many details and so much sincerity. The day before yesterday you led me to believe that I was confiding only in a father or a friend. This comforting illusion has been the moving force behind this letter, a letter that is the work of my heart and which yours, surely, will not disavow. Yet I end it by beseeching you to do your utmost to convince everyone concerned to acquiesce completely to all my most urgent requests, and by swearing to you, as I would at the foot of an altar, that they will never have any reason to regret having done so. ’Tis with these true feelings, to which I add my most profound gratitude, that I have the honor of being, Monsieur, your most humble and most obedient servant.
de Sade
1. Following Sade’s letter of April 12, police chief Le Noir paid Sade a visit in Vincennes six days later.
2. Gaufridy.
3. The Comtat was not officially part of France but, since the fourteenth century, a papal territory within France. Therefore Sade is making the point that the king’s authority would not obtain there.
4. About twelve miles.
5. Sade is referring to his escape, despite the presence of four armed guards, on his way back from his appeals trial in Aix on July 17, 1778. After his escape he repaired, as he notes, to La Coste.
6. That is, the days when he will be with his children.
7. Morning and evening.
8. The Marseilles sentence.
9. Roughly the distance between Paris and La Coste.
10. Renée-Pélagie.
42. To Mademoiselle de Rousset
[April 20-25, 1781]
After having spent my week working like a brute, so as not to take unfair advantage of the ten days of respite I had asked for, I flattered myself that I at least might, like the maker of heaven and earth, take Sunday as a day of rest. And I must say in all honesty that I needed that rest. Badly. And lo and behold! who should arrive from Montélimar but a young man still wet behind the ears to force me to write. So, my dear young lady, you can read into this letter whatever you like, for I have neither the strength to compose it nor the mind to make it coherent.
How is it possible that a person as bright and full of common sense as you . . . you who has seen with your own eyes the very properties of which I speak, how can you say, or be quoted as saying, that I can manage my affairs from Montélimar? In truth, that is an ineptitude on your part which I will find impossible to forgive, unless it turns out you are simply echoing someone else’s words. But it smacks too much of the same old tune for me to be fooled or taken in by it. Everything that emanates from that source is so obvious that one can divine the contents of the letter even before one breaks the seal. My business affairs from Montélimar! I can manage my affairs from Montélimar to the exact same degree that I can manage them from the Vincennes dungeon. My business affairs are such that they can only be taken care of on the spot. Even were I to be exiled to my chateau at La Coste, but not allowed to visit all my other premises, the task would be impossible. And you well know that when the slaves of la présidente came looking for me to serve up the second or the fourth of her little cannibalistic banquets,1 I was on my way to Saumane. You heard me say to Pepin2 day after day: “Impossible, Monsieur, to see and make up my mind about all that except on the spot. I must go there.” ’Tis not by listening to some business adviser’s report, telling me as much or as little as he deems suitable, that I can properly conduct my affairs. In fact, chances are that by so doing I would harm more than help, basing any decision upon what he chooses to tell me . . . I believe him . . . I take him at his word . . . I agree, and I sign, and am therefore bound by that decision. To put some semblance of order in all that, not only must one be physically present but one must also pay the least heed to one’s business adviser. In any given matter, one must speak to everyone involved, listen to what they all have to say, see both enemies and friends, then combine all that with what your adviser has to say, and come up with a decision that is both wise and equitable. Do you want an example of what I am saying, one I believe you will find incontestable, an example you witnessed with your very own eyes?
Let us suppose that the situation is precisely the same as it was when you came to see me at La Coste, and let us further imagine that I am at Montélimar and Gaufridy comes to see me there, in order to set forth that same matter and ask that I make my decision. Now let us see how it might go.
“Monsieur,” he begins by saying, “Chauvin3 is the most honest man on the face of the earth. I cannot find a single fault in the way he manages the farm. His conduct, in short, is impeccable. When you come to La Coste, you may find there are those who speak ill of him, but you should pay them no heed, they are his enemies. In consideration for which, Monsieur, I have renewed his lease. At a slight loss, to be sure, but as a man of honor I had no other choice.”
What do I do, I who see and hear only Gaufridy, I who am bound and confined to my noble prison in Montélimar, I who can see neither the lands themselves nor the peasants who dwell thereon, neither the friends nor the enemies of Chauvin? I assure Monsieur Gaufridy that he is right, that Chauvin has behaved like an angel, and as a result I sign the new lease and am bound to honor it. Then let us suppose further that I arrive at La Coste and what do I learn? I have made a completely stupid mistake, and I did so because it pleases Madame la présidente de Montreuil not to be content with ten years of vengeance and therefore, irrespective of whether or not it leads to the ruin of my children, her rage, which knows no bounds or reason, perforce demands even greater revenge.
Let this single example, Mademoiselle, suffice to convince you once and for all that it is absolutely impossible to manage my affairs properly other than on the premises, and further, that I need to be physically present for several successive months at each property to make sure that everything is back on track. It is therefore clear that making decisions from Montélimar will result in nothing but absurdities, and that chances are I shall in all likelihood not only make matters even worse than they were but perhaps to such a degree that they become irreparable both for me and for my children.
Either Gaufridy is an honest man or he is not. If he is, then he can very well manage without me;
and if he is not, then I ought to manage without him, in which case I need to be on the premises. There: I’ve had my say on the matter, short and to the point, but sufficiently I trust to make you understand, when you are of a mind to see through your own eyes rather than through those of the villainous beast who poisons my life, that it is physically and morally impossible for me to do anything from Montélimar except the same silly songs and dances that I have been doing here. I hereby declare to you that that will be my sole occupation, and in consequence I give you my most solemn word of honor that I have no intention whatsoever of getting involved in any matters other than those that I have been attending to here. Therefore, it is perfectly useless that Gaufridy be made to come here. I declare by all that’s holy that not only shall I refuse to see him but that, if I am forced to do so, I shall see him with the sole purpose of heaping upon him all the abuse at my command, and showering him with all the invectives that such a rogue deserves—for it was as a rogue, and as a traitor, knowing full well what fate had in store for me, that he came to eat at my table and drink my wine—you were there, you saw him— without warning me of the thunderbolt poised above my head, ready to strike, and in connection of which, if I may be allowed to use this expression, the villainous beggar was preparing the sulphur.4 No, I shall never forgive those who betrayed me, nor shall I ever lay eyes on them as long as I live. If my affair5 had been such that it lasted for six months, or even a year, and that that was the price I had to pay to atone for it, yes, I might have forgotten, but when it undermines both my mind and my health, when it dishonors forever both me and my children, when in a word it results—as you will see—in the most frightful problems for the future, those who in any way had a hand in it are two-faced, double-dealing liars whom I shall loathe with all my heart and soul to my dying day. The only person I shall hold exempt is my wife, who I know also betrayed me, but she has been taken in by what people told her and would otherwise never have done what she has, of that I would swear by thrusting my hand into a flame. As you can see, I am fully capable of doing her that justice. The methods they are proposing to take with me are shameful; they are odious; they are disgraceful. What is the sense of making a spectacle of me by exiling me to the property of one of my cousins? It is mine that needs tending, not his. Have I not been sufficiently paraded about, have I not been sufficiently displayed throughout Provence and the neighboring provinces? Have I not been sufficiently talked about over the past ten years? Is it not time to extinguish the flames rather than fan them anew? There is but one fury, a fury escaped from hell to the detriment of my children and me, who may have a different view on all this. And moreover, shouldn’t she— this unworthy woman—know that the more she focuses attention on me the more she focuses it in reverse measure upon herself and upon everything that concerns her? Our interests are too closely bound together in all this for her not to understand the importance of curbing the public’s mordant curiosity about me, which can only redound to her discredit. But she is a monster, who has delivered herself over to people who are robbing her blind and laughing at her behind her back, to police lackeys, to ne’er-do-wells dragged in off the street, and a whole host of others who, if she had the slightest self-respect, she would have prevented from making any contact with even the least of her servants. Here is her advice. And Monsieur de Sartine,6 my worst enemy on the face of the earth, the man to whom I owe my life’s every misfortune, and who, at a time in my life when I ought to have turned a tiger’s head—twenty years old, newly married, having at that youthful age already fought for my country in six campaigns, leaving for Fontainebleau to meet with a minister who had just promised me a regiment of the king’s men— yes, I dare say, in a situation that would have turned the head of a tiger, caught me in this situation,7 which he viewed as a rung on the ladder of his fortune, and brought me low, sacrificed me solely to make people say: “What an excellent police lieutenant! He plays no favorites!” And so it was that I was delivered over to him and his ilk! And so it was that I am placed in the hands of scoundrels who dispose of my honor, my fortune, and that of my children. Poor unfortunate creatures! One day you will realize how right I was. May my letters fall into your hands and teach you the truth, and may you learn therefrom both how much your father8 loved you and how your enemies were stabbing you in the back!
Letters From Prison Page 29
