Letters From Prison Read online

  4. Sade’s 1772 flight, after the warrant for his arrest and the sentence in absentia following the Marseilles affair, ended only five years later when he was arrested in February 1777.

  5. During Sade’s short-lived freedom at La Coste, during July and August 1778, rumors that his trusted friend and longtime attorney Gaufridy was actually working against him—and probably for Madame de Montreuil—reached Sade and he immediately assumed the worst. Thus Gaufridy’s acts became, in Sade’s mind, “execrations.”

  6. Mademoiselle Du Plan, a dancer from Marseilles whom Sade engaged late in 1774 as governess at La Coste. Her duties during that orgiastic winter were doubtless far broader.

  7. Sade is referring to his post, passed on to him by his father, as lieutenant for the provinces of Bresse, Bugey, Gex, and Valromey.

  8. Sade exaggerates. In a subsequent letter to his cousin he says, regarding the sale of that title: “It’s simply a transfer of title. It was sold for what it was worth.”

  9. That is, his latest arrest; despite his words, he holds the présidente responsible.

  10. Canon Vidal of the neighboring village of Oppède. He was Sade’s close friend and confidant.

  11. “Behaved well” is not quite accurate. Sade is referring to Gaufridy’s journey to Marseilles, during the Aix trial in July, to wine and dine the five prostitutes, as well as the apothecaries and surgeons whose testimony relative to the “poisoning” was paramount. In other words, to pay them off.

  12. That is, to the trial, where the accused and the accusers came face to face.

  13. He is referring to Gaufridy.

  14. Count de la Tour, governor of the duchy of Savoy. Sade was under his benign jurisdiction during his incarceration at the Fortress of Miolans.

  15. The Sades’ steward for their Mazan property.

  16. Maître Reinaud was Sade’s attorney in the Midi and represented him in the Aix appeal.

  17. Gaufridy, whose home and office were in that town.

  18. A storeroom on the third floor. Sade had intended that it be fitted out as a secret hiding place, where no one could find him. Obviously, the work was never done, doubtless for lack of funds.

  19. Sade was by now so notorious, from the scandal sheets and local word of mouth, that he was a major celebrity. It was as if Satan were passing through.

  20. The infamous cell number 6, which Sade claimed unlivable. Sade began referring to himself as “Monsieur le Six,” Mr. Six.

  21. As noted, Sade could not have cared less about his loss of the royal charge or commission; again, he is simply playing on Renée-Pélagie’s heartstrings.

  22. Madame de Sade’s uncle.

  7. To Madame de Sade

  October 4, 1778

  So, ‘twill be erasures, crossing out words, and every possible sort of scrawl that are going to replace the torture wheels! If, as you say, you are most eager to calm me down, to please me, and other highblown phrases that flow from the pen without coming from the heart, if, I say, you are so bent on pleasing me, please be so kind as to spare me as well these erasures which I am willing to wager are your work and not someone else’s, because some of them that I have deciphered are too indifferent to have been produced by anyone other than you and your charming adviser. They are further signals,1 are they not? Well, I implore you, spare me such signals, for I solemnly declare I shall return every one of your letters wherein even the slightest hint of a signal appears. You wish to convince me that ’tis not you doing them? Well then, I am going to offer you a means to avoid inflicting that torture upon me. Send your rough drafts to the scribbler,2 as one sends shoes to a bootblack; let the scribbler scribble away in peace, then return the scribbles to you. After which, you will make a clean copy, and I shall have no more erasures. If you had a little more spirit, I would tell you to go find the person who takes it upon himself to edit your letters and ask him by what right he arrogates unto himself this permission, when you speak neither about the king nor about the government, which are the only subjects that are forbidden. But you are not one to do that. Far be it from you to show such disrespect for Sir Scribbler! But while we are on the subject of this little gentleman, do go some fine morning and pay a visit to his master, I beg of you, and ask whether ‘twas following his orders that he informed Marais of everything I wrote, both to you and to your mother, during the last three weeks before my departure for Aix, adding, in a bantering tone that fits him to a T: “You see how he goes on and on. One can tell he’s a prisoner.” Marais said—and he said it in the presence of the same four witnesses I have cited in connection with his insolent behavior in my house— that the person who receives my letters at police headquarters had shown him two or three in which I most urgently requested both of my mother-in-law and of M. Le Noir, not to be escorted by him.3 And that this secretary, with whom he was close, told him everything and showed him everything. That is what Marais said in no uncertain terms, adding several days later, when he talked to me personally, that it was for no other reason he had been in a foul mood and his behavior had been what it had been. Then he told me that this scribbler, who out of decency I prefer not to call by any other name, hell-bent to see me behind bars again, since he probably earns some fee from his scribbling (it keeps leading back to my bootblack comparison; M. Shoe Brush is never pleased to see his business decline); that this scribbler, I say, had hied himself off to see Madame de Montreuil, and from her slyly (for he is a sly one, the scribbler!) wormed out of her some clarification regarding the name of a certain Vidal, whom they feared might cause trouble as they went through Valence; that he had proceeded with much art (for he is artful, this scribbler is!) in order to discover what he wanted, considering that the said Lady de Montreuil had no desire to see me recaptured; and that finally he had learned this and passed it on posthaste to the aforementioned Marais. So much for the facts! The truth of which should convince you that I am not making them up, and also make you see the extent to which subordinates whom their superiors believe are deserving of their greatest confidence, abuse it to perform the darkest deeds the moment they glimpse the slightest gain therefrom. Would you be so kind, without wasting your time over the second item—which I brought up merely to show you I am aware of it—as to betake yourself to see M. Le Noir and talk to him about the first matter only, essentially to lodge a protest against the behavior of the man who, entrusted by him with my letters, purveys their full contents to third and fourth parties, and then gloats over them. If this letter does not come into your hands, and if I receive no positive reply from you upon this article, then ’tis clear that Martin Scribbler will have scribbled and consequently feels guilty, since he is standing in the way of my complaints against him getting through. Then I shall know what I have to do. Never in my life have I been at a loss about how to punish insolents of that class, as long as I have found walking sticks to buy.

  In the most recent operations of the animal I have just been referring to, I have managed to decipher only one word: certificates. I have no idea what that means. But if it refers to Marais, as it appears from the preceding lines, ’tis not astonishing that his dear friend the Scribbler would have scribbled that. All those beggars are alike, therefore always back one another up. Speaking of which, I am reminded of an altogether charming little remark you made. ‘Twas with reference to the four hundred thousand francs: “I am ready to pay them the moment you are let out, otherwise not.” But when I am let out, shall it still be your responsibility to sign and settle accounts? I thought it would be mine. You can see all the implications that your execrable phrases are forever leaving in their wake. And the word otherwise, where did you come up with that? Otherwise: that is to say, you foresee and cleverly imply there might be a situation where I shall not be let out. You see how deftly comforting you are in your letters! And then you come and tell me that you do not understand why I can be upset by them, that all you ‘re trying to do is soothe me, to calm me down, etc.! Come, come now, Madame! your behavior toward me is horrifyin
g. If you had any possible way of telling me, you add on another page, how long my term is to be, you would do so; but your silence will shorten it, and your zeal is no less keen, etc. Yes, once again, you must have lost all sense of honor and humanity for you to dare write thus to your husband. Your behavior with me is execrable. And mark you well, as long as a drop of blood still flows in my veins I shall not forgive you. I shall dissemble, because I have been taught to do so, but for the rest of my life I shall consider you as a heartless and unfeeling woman, who is naught but a weathervane and is brought low by the slightest bump in the road; in a word, as a lump of wax that anyone can give whatever shape he likes. Your zeal, your efforts? Well now, shall we strike a bargain? I shall relieve you not only of your zeal and your efforts, but also of whatever they might produce. And I want you to tell me the worst I should expect. I am resigned to enduring every last day of it, if only I have the satisfaction of knowing what it is. Come, come! Madame, you are behaving shamefully, that is all I can say to you. Yet this great secret is not all that inviolable, since at La Coste you wrote me that ‘twas to be one year or three. Why can’t you repeat to me here what you told me there? All I ask of you is: which of the two is it? It seems to me you must surely be able to tell me that! And, once again, what could be the reasons preventing me from being told? At present, there are no longer any at all. It is impossible, absolutely impossible, that there be any except for your dreadful and black spitefulness, or rather your weakness and your humbleness vis-a-vis the scoundrels who are leading you down the garden path. You tell me that the name Albaret is an enigma for you. What then are two letters signed Bontoux, and disclaimed by the said Monsieur Bontoux4 that you sent me last year? They are indeed in Albaret’s handwriting, that you’ll not deny? Moreover, in the presence of the commandant of this Chateau, Monsieur de Bontoux positively denied having written them. Who did write them then? Until I have your explanation on that point will you get it out of my head that this strange dark fellow Albaret is not your adviser. Besides, Chauvin saw him at your house: he told me so.5 Thus it is useless to deny anything so obvious. You used to write to me in Provence: “Ah! dear God, oh, my good friend, you are upset by my letters. Verily, I know not why. You must have known that if I did not speak, ‘twas because I could not.” And when you were able to speak, when you wrote thirty letters in milk,6 why did you say nothing? And why were those mysterious letters even more stupid than the others? Eh? How do you explain that? You can’t: the only explanation is your unkindness or your weakness. Ah! it will take some time before my bitterness is gone. Mademoiselle Rousset has my permission to tell you how angry I was when I spoke of you to her, and how, despite her friendship for you, she was so surprised when I gave her the full rundown of your horrors that she could find no word to justify you. I am deeply sorry that I prevailed upon her to come to Paris. She is going to adopt your tone, your language; ’tis a good friend I shall lose. Would that I have never told her to come! “The most difficult part is over,” but what in the world do you mean by that? And what do you mean it to imply? You can see for yourself that, far from offering me the least comfort in your abominable letters, you seek only to drive me out of my mind. And do you expect to reap some benefit from all that? No, Madame, no, take my word for it! You are making my character even more bitter and me a thousand times worse than I ever was. Ah! my God, why is it you are incapable to judge what you are doing and see what you are turning me into! But that sentence “the most difficult part is over,” you wrote that to me at La Coste, I remember it well. Therefore, you already knew at the time that I still had something further to do?7 And if you did know, why did you not tell me? Why, far from urging most insistently that I not stay at La Coste, did you lull me into a false sense of security by saying, “I advise you to finish writing your book”? But that means you didn’t know . . . And if you didn’t know, why then did you say “the most difficult part is over”? I defy you to work your way out of that vicious circle. But to this you will not reply, isn’t that so? That’s the quickest solution, and Beau Scribbler will come to your rescue. “You’ll see. Someday you will realize that I love you,” you tell me in your most recent letter. Yes, the way you loved me at Aix, isn’t that true? And that lovely letter it took me two hours to understand, the one that began: “Well there, my dear friend, now do you doubt that I love you?” My God, I said to myself, what has become of me? I felt I was free. I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming . . . No, absolutely not. That wonderful love consisted of advising me to take certain measures that put my life at risk a thousand times over, and, what is more, you were unwilling to back me up! For to back me up, as soon as you knew there was still something that needed to be done—since you said that “the most difficult part is over”—to back me up, I say, you ought at the same time to have urged me most urgently to hie myself abroad, you ought to have sent me letters of credit and letters of recommendation, all that care of La Jeunesse, and my carriage. That is how one supports that kind of course of action, when one is of a mind to do so, and not by a banal letter, without a penny enclosed, and by a scoundrel of a business agent8 who, although in only five months’ time will owe you two thousand crowns, boldly offers you twelve louis. That, I say, is how you should have shown your love, Madame. And if the proofs of friendship that you tell me will be forthcoming are similar to the ones you have already shown me, do me the favor of opting for indifference. In a word, it appears from what you wrote to me yesterday that if you tell me what my term will be, it shall not help me one whit, and that if you remain silent, I shall be the better for it. Well, I repeat once again that on this subject I do prefer to know. In a word, I beseech you to tell me. Or I shall curse you as the lowest of creatures, and consider you, having refused me once again, a monster upon whom I shall never lay eyes again as long as I live. These two trunks of Mademoiselle Rousset’s, what do they mean? I bet one of them is for you, and that you are having your belongings sent up from La Coste. Tell me. And if ’tis so, and since you seem so bound and determined to explain things these days, explain to me why you have had my portrait sent up? Why did you send for the livery habits? And why have you sold my carriage?. . . Eh! Tell me, give me the whole story without any of your shilly-shallying. Tell me that I still have a long time to suffer, and that all this was a way, done in your own inimitable manner, of making me understand it. Oh! good God, why did I have the misfortune of going to Provence to find out all that I found out there, and see there all I saw? If Mademoiselle Rousset was destined to come back to Provence with me, and if I did not have a long time to spend here, she would not have brought such a considerable amount of luggage! But she sees that ’tis to be long and makes her arrangements accordingly. “Do not worry. Do not be upset.” What! you told me all that when I had sixteen months of suffering ahead of me. Those are your eternal phrases! Of course they didn’t calm me, far from it. From now on, when I ask you something, kindly refrain from answering: “We will bring it up with the minister.” Because no minister is needed for me to have a better cell, for me to be allowed some fresh air, for me to have some writing paper. There are regulations for all that. Thus ’tis merely a matter of telling me quite plainly: “You’ll have it in this or that amount of a time.” As for my cell, ’tis a very great act of dishonesty was done me when mine was changed.9 ’Tis one more act to add to the others, and one I shall remember. Not only shall I be unable to have a fire throughout the winter, but, to boot, I am devoured by rats and mice, which keep me from getting a single minute of rest all night long. I have just spent six sleepless nights in a row, and when I ask if they would kindly have a cat put into the next room to destroy them, they answer that animals are forbidden. To which I respond: “Why, fools that you are, if animals are forbidden, rats and mice should be forbidden, too.” To which they reply: “That’s different.” You see what the regulations in this execrable hovel are like, all of which tend to make the prisoner’s life ever more miserable, not one of them aimed at alleviating it. Since
more suffering lay ahead, at least they should have allowed it to happen in Paris or Aix. That was all I asked. But no, Vincennes is all the rage! That is all they have to say. May those who keep me here, those who had me put here, and those who do not want to tell me for how much time I am to be here, all die a thousand times over. That is my last wish.

  1. As noted, Sade became convinced his wife’s letters were filled with secret signals, meant to evade the censor’s pen and to reveal something important to him that she could not say openly, such as when he would be released, the most burning question for Sade as for any prisoner. Renée-Pélagie denied she ever resorted to such signals; Sade simply refused to believe her.

  2. That is, to Monsieur Boucher, Sade’s personal censor at Vincennes.

  3. From Paris to the Aix appeals trial.

  4. A lawyer engaged by Madame de Montreuil to help Sade in his appeals case in Aix. Bontoux’s strong recommendation—perhaps instigated by Madame de Montreuil—was that Sade enter a plea of insanity, which he steadfastly refused to do.

  5. Pierre Chauvin, Sade’s steward at La Coste.

  6. In an attempt to circumvent the censor’s gaze, Madame de Sade resorted to writing, often between the lines, in invisible ink, to impart important information or advice. This “secret writing” was quite apart from the so-called signals Sade thought he detected in her letters.