Letters From Prison (15 page)

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.

7
. Sade doubtless means, “I still had more prison time to serve.”

8
. Gaufridy.

9
. That is, when he was brought back to Vincennes in August and reincarcerated in cell number 6.

8. To Madame de Sade

October 21, 1778

W
ell then, my dear friend, ’tis decided once and for all that, down to the very last moment, all of your letters will be for me so many knife thrusts. Ah! but good God, will you then never weary of this abominable torture, and do you absolutely want to force me, for my peace of mind, to ask to be deprived of what, one might suppose, ought only comfort and console me? ’Tis a most incredible persistence, that! Am I not already miserable enough at having been rearrested, at having to recommence my suffering all over again, and even worse than before, to see the best years of my life wasting away in perpetual irons, without you allowing, nay, striving, to open the wound again and again, by the damnable poison of your venomous letters? When she is with you, ask Mademoiselle Rousset whether I did not tell her that my greatest afflictions have come from no one but you . . . you from whom I ought to expect naught but comfort. ’Tis from you I received and receive the most telling hurts. But who in the world is the person so barbarous, so completely devoid of good sense, as to suggest such behavior to you? And what does he—or they—want unless ’tis to plunge me into despair? First off, ’tis not your mother who is behind it, of that I am now sure. She would be incapable of calculated horror to this nth degree. No soul that ever knew tenderness could have conceived it or even conceive of it. What does this mean:
“Your children have gone away for two years; I promised them that upon their return they would join us again, you and me, wherever we might be; they left satisfied they would see you in two years”?
I should greatly like you to be in my place, for only a month (without knowing ‘twas to be for so short a time), and have someone write you a sentence like that! You can flatter yourself that in the whole precious collection of lovely epistles I have been getting from you for nearly two years, you have not sent me any whose sharp angles have stuck any deeper into my flesh nor perhaps wrought such havoc in my mind as this, which for the last forty-eight hours it has been my misfortune to have before my eyes. Is there any amphibology, any logogriph, to match it, and did you heat it sufficiently in the forges of the infernal demon who inspired you to write it? He should be proud of his work. I had never yet felt such a deep distress, and that was the final touch needed to finish me off after all I have just suffered . . . And so it will never end and will therefore always be the same thing! In short, what do you mean by that sentence? In God’s name, if there is still a bit of pity left in your heart, if ’tis possible that you listen to it and for one moment free yourself from the demoniacal rage of the scoundrel who is guiding you
¹
—and who, say what you will, I know on very good authority to be never out of your sight—and be counseled (not by your mother, I know that) but by others, and by others than those who, I was warned of it, have hated me most cordially; if, I say, ’tis possible you can remove yourself for a moment from their tyrannical vindictiveness, do me the favor of explaining that sentence to me, in clear and simple terms, whether you intended thereby to advise me
that I shall get out of here only in two years?
Is that it? Then say so, say it at once. Oh! my God, yes, say it, and no more of this rubbing salt into my wounds and driving me crazy, making me frantic each time I lay eyes on one of your writings. At this point there can no longer be any reason for not letting me know my term. ’Tis clear it has been set, that ’tis a consequence of the verdict, and that like that verdict it has been set. I was informed of the one, why should I not be informed of the other? There is not any need to fiddle over the affair; it has been judged; there is no longer any consideration that might detain, no longer any secret efforts being made, no hidden scheme; in short, there is no longer anything except blatant wickedness that can stand in the way of granting what I so earnestly ask. Am I perhaps sentenced to such and such a term and you hope to whittle it down to some degree? Well, do not tell me what that “some degree” amounts to; I don’t wish to know. If it comes to pass, so much the better! Tell me the worst. That is all I ask of you. In a word, I beg you in the name of your children, in the name of all you hold most sacred, to deliver me from the horrible state I am in, and to inform me of my fate, no matter what it may be. I shall hear it and I shall hear it without complaining, and when I know what it is, however long it may be, my state of mind cannot but be less dreadful than the horrible uncertainty in which I now find myself. Must you absolutely speak in riddles? And is it set in stone that that is the only way you can express yourself? Very well: in your reply to this letter repeat to me:
that my children are gone for two years to Vallery; that you don’t know whether you’ve mentioned it to me, but in case you’ve forgotten to do so, you are hereby informing me.
Repeat that to me and I shall take it to mean that I have two more years here. Alas! dear God, ’tis only too likely that that is the enormous period I still must endure. If (as I dared hope) I had been exiled to my estates, since my children are at Vallery, who (assuming your mother’s permission) would have prevented me, a few months from now, from paying them a twenty-four hours’ visit, or at least from having them brought to me by the mail coach? The road is so nearby. And one way or another, I would have seen them then. ’Tis therefore clear, and clearer than daylight, that since they are for all intents and purposes on the road to Provence, and since you tell me I shall not see them for two years, therefore, I say, ’tis clear beyond all shadow of doubt that I shall not be traveling along that road for the next two years. Now, since ’tis impossible that, upon getting out of here, I shall go anywhere else than home, since to prevent me from going home would be ruinous, ’tis therefore obvious that, as I shall not be permitted to take the road to Provence for the next two years, that means I shall not be released from here for another two years. This relentless succession of consequences leads us unavoidably to the point, and after having fairly clearly given me to understand that, you therefore risk nothing by telling me that a little more positively, and at least allowing me to get straight in my poor mind something that is not one whit improved by being handled the way it is being handled, not by a long shot, you may be sure. Speak out then, speak out, for once in your life speak out clearly! I beg of you to do so, or you will end up reducing me to the final depths of despair.

Shall I tell you about the sad little castle in the air I have been building? Alas! I shall tell you about it, however much you may mock me for doing so; but what do you expect me to do here except lay my plans and give birth to fantasies?

Someone, and most assuredly a well-informed someone, whom I shall not name because he does not want to be compromised, in a word then, a man of substance and a very gallant man to boot, told me
that the court had dealt with my affair in accordance with the views of the minister.
’Tis therefore clear that they also concurred on the sentence. Now, when the court pronounced three years’ absence from Marseilles, in all probability that was the term the minister had in mind for my punishment, too. And so I said to myself: there will be three years in irons, but those three years will be
at the most six months in prison and the rest in exile on my estate.
That did not appear doubtful to me. Judge for yourself therefore the enormous impact your letter had upon me when it arrived. All the while I was free I could not refrain from holding to that opinion, and that verdict of three years was even one of the things which served most to reassure me, for indeed, from the moment there had been agreement between the ministry and the court, how could it make any sense that the court would forbid me from setting foot in Marseilles for three years unless it was certain that during those three years I might have the possibility of going there? It is in the context of this eventuality, I said to myself, that the court pronounced the sentence it laid down. Consequently, I shall therefore be free, for, if the intent was to keep me captive this whole time, what would be the purpose of this further restriction? It would be absurd, preposterous, beyond belief. Once it knows the king, by holding me prisoner, will effectively prevent me from going to Marseilles, why does the court therefore forbid me from going there? This excess of penalties is downright foolishness. Why, by so doing, go and mar a verdict? For that alone makes it look slightly suspicious. And it serves no useful purpose. When one has locked up a person inside a room, the custom is not to shout to him through the door:
“Sir, I forbid you to walk out.”
‘Twould be a stupid persiflage, which one cannot imagine coming from our good gentlemen of Aix.
²
And yet, if the king’s order is to thus bind me for three years, that is precisely what the judges have done. Therefore, when I was free nothing (and I said it and wrote it to everyone down there) encouraged me more in the belief I was to remain free than this verdict. And once I was rearrested, applying the same analyses, this same verdict persuaded me even more strongly that the king’s chains could not last for three years, since the court had imposed its own verdict for that same period, and because it once again does not stand to reason that the latter would impose its restrictions when it saw that the former had already done so. That, I repeat, is a duplication of penalties, which is absolutely inadmissible. Hence it is clear: either I must be free and without restriction before three years are out, or else the high court of Aix has committed a blunder. And starting from that premise, I believe that it was quite reasonable to estimate six months in prison and a few more months in exile or, at the worst, exile for all the rest of the three years, ridiculous as that would have been. Assuming which, judge if you will the overwhelming effect of your letter suddenly hinting at two years behind bars without counting the exile. That is why I’m in such a frightful state and why I ask upon bended knee that you speak clearly to me.

And here’s a little letter for those poor little creatures I love more than you can believe. Were I to be set free tomorrow, I would still find it a terrible torture knowing I must be another two years without seeing them. I was scarce prepared for this. I was right when all last year I dreamed that when I next saw them they would be all grown up. Ah, good God! Surely they’ll not recognize me. ’Tis hardly worthwhile having children if you have no opportunity ever to enjoy them; for ’tis now the moment when they give true pleasure; later on, nothing but trouble. I ask you most earnestly to offer your mother and father my heartfelt thanks for the latest kindnesses they are bestowing upon those poor children. I cannot tell you how much this both pains and pleases me, for I find we are like those poor creatures who, in the presence of those who take care of their children, weep tears of gratitude and at the same time tears of despair at being deprived of their own through lack of fortune, and prevented from giving them the care they would like. I do not know whether my comparison will strike you in the way it affects me, nor do I know what name I could give the tears I shed as I write this.

What do you mean when you say that our eldest has promise of being employed after these two years of study? But, my dear friend, he will then be only thirteen, and at thirteen one’s proper place is in an academy. Even assuming someone was recommending him, could he take up some position before he completed his schooling?
³

In due course, you will explain that to me. Send your mother my thousand good wishes, if you will. Please assure her and reassure her of my fondness and my respect. I dare not write to her, since she does not read my letters, but I would consider it a great favor, and a great comfort to me in my misery, if you could soften her heart, and get her permission for me to write her.
⁴
Let her judge me as I am since my return here . . . but why with such delay? because, alas! I was not enlightened until two days before my unfortunate catastrophe. But let her judge me since this return, and she will see whether or not I am true to my word.