Читать книгу Fear Of De Sade - Bernardo Carvalho - Страница 6

There’s not a chink of light anywhere. It’s not surprising that the Baron of LaChafoi, with all his forty-some years lived to the full, doesn’t see anyone when he opens his eyes. He doesn’t understand why he’s here. They’ve thrown him into a stone cell – he could tell from touching – and slammed the door. It all began a week before, when he was awakened after a night of debauchery and excess, surrounded by guards shouting insults and accusations. He could hardly remember where he was – and nothing of what had happened in the last few hours. Somebody had been murdered but they didn’t say who it was: ‘Everyone who is still alive is a suspect!’ they shouted. As a provincial nobleman who had survived the Revolution, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. But since the upstart Buonaparte had crowned himself Emperor, he had never been humiliated in such a fashion. They were probably talking about the other three who had taken part in the orgy, the baron concluded, without realising that, if there had been a murder, the most probable thing was that one of them was dead, and so there were only two left excluding him. That was what he underlined later to the tribunal – and it seems that it was that line of reasoning that determined what he later realised was his detention – insisting at the end that the last thing he remembered doing was swallowing the aphrodisiac in some aniseed pastilles. At no point on the agonising road which had led him in chains from the Château Lagrange, where he was found unconscious by the guards, to a local jail and to Bicêtre Prison in Paris, then on to the tribunal, and from there to the dark cell where he now found himself, did they bother to utter the victim’s name; since they didn’t reply to his questions, this explained why he had been taken for a madman for asking so many times who had died – ‘as if he didn’t know already’ – that was what they retorted, in a sarcastic, reproving tone which did nothing to alleviate his ignorance. Since he’d been woken by the guards, he hadn’t seen any of the other three, his fellow revellers, though he had already suspected, judging from his own fate, that since they were also suspects (at least the other two who must still be alive), they had probably ended up in the same place.

The situation was incomprehensible. Since they had woken him in the château – a ruin in point of fact, the only property left to him from all those taken by the Revolution and not returned under the Empire – until they had taken him to that dark cell, the baron not only didn’t know the victim’s identity and the details of the crime he was suspected of, but was ignorant of what people were saying around him. He didn’t understand anything. They persisted in calling him by a name that wasn’t his, although he never failed to point out that he had a noble title: ‘Pierre de LaChafoi, baron’. This, in spite of the years passed under the Terror, when, under questioning from all kinds of authorities, he learned to renege all his aristocratic attributes, and collaborated willingly, thanks to the advice of his cousin, the Count of Suz, with everything the Revolution had demanded of him. Now, since he was really under suspicion, when he was woken by the guards he acted as if, after the years of the Terror, he had recovered his pride in his aristocratic origins – which would have been seen as suicidal fifteen years ago – and corrected them every time they addressed him in that strange language; just as later he had to correct the man in white who had taken him to the cell that to the touch seemed made of stone. After uselessly groping round it to find a way out, he must have fallen into a deep, despondent sleep, because when he opened his eyes again in the darkness in which he could see nothing, and said to himself, in yet another of his tautological reasonings, and trying to remember how he had got there, that this must be quite usual, since there was no light anywhere, a high-pitched voice welcomed him with a gloomy: ‘At last!’

He wanted to believe that his eyes were still closed, and tried to open them again. As if they weren’t properly open, he opened them wider, as wide as he could. He still couldn’t see further than his nose. ‘Who’s there?’ he exclaimed, backing against the wall from fear. But the voice only replied: ‘If I were to tell you my name, you might not be able to bear the darkness, or my presence.’

BARON: Who are you?

VOICE: I prefer to spare you that.

BARON: What is this place?

VOICE: You must be joking.

BARON: No. Of course this isn’t a prison, though it seems just like one to me. I should be free by now. They didn’t prove anything. Where am I?

VOICE: There are other ways of punishing apart from prisons. Have you never heard of . . .

BARON: No! Not that! They’ve sent me to Charenton! How could they? Just because they had no proof. Is that the reason? Is that what they call a reason? The asylum was one of the possibilities put forward by the tribunal, but I told them I wasn’t mad! I’m not mad!

VOICE: That’s what they all say.

BARON: Charenton! It’s not possible! But isn’t it here that the Marquis de Sade is interned?

VOICE: Who?

BARON: De Sade! The marquis . . . That’s it! Charenton! At least that’s something. It’s my last chance. Luck must be on my side in some way.

VOICE: That’s the first time I’ve heard anything so stupid from someone who’s just arrived.

BARON: The marquis will be my salvation.

VOICE: There is no salvation.

BARON: Do you know why I’ve ended up here? I’m accused of murder.

VOICE: It happens to lots of people.

BARON: Only I’ve killed no one.

VOICE: That’s what they all say.

BARON: They don’t believe me, but the truth is that I don’t know who the murderer was – much less who died.

VOICE: It’s no accident they sent you here. Prisons are for murderers. The asylum is for madmen. Each to his own.

BARON: I’m not joking. You may not know who he is, you might not even recognise him if you’ve seen him, but if this is Charenton, as you say . . .

VOICE: I’ve said nothing.

BARON: . . . he must be among us. And he’s my salvation. I must find the marquis.

VOICE: If he’s really the one you’re looking for . . .

BARON: Years ago I heard that he puts on plays with the lunatics, that it’s part of the revolutionary treatment. Have you seen any? You must have been present at one of them. It seems it calms the lunatics. Is that so? It seems that people come from Paris just to see them. Of course they’re not going to let me meet him. They’ll do everything to stop that. But I mustn’t go crazy. Even in the worst moments, I’ve kept my head. I damn nearly lost it. I was saved at the last minute. Thanks to the Count of Suz. I’m not going to lose it now. I have to concentrate, concentrate. Who knows if the marquis might not be putting on one of those plays soon? If I’m in the audience, perhaps, when I recognise him on stage, I could have my say.

VOICE: Have your say?

BARON: I could get up and say what’s happened to me.

VOICE: Why don’t you tell the story now?

BARON: Only he can help me.

VOICE: No one can help you.

BARON: He could solve the riddle.

VOICE: What riddle?

BARON: The man’s the devil himself, he’s a genius.

VOICE: I’ve been here for a while and no one’s called me a genius.

BARON: That’s what he is. Tell me once and for all if you know how I can meet him. If you’ve seen him in the asylum. If there are any plays planned.

VOICE: Why don’t you tell your story now?

BARON: Please!

VOICE: How can I solve the riddle if I don’t know what it is? (silence)

BARON: Who are you?

VOICE: I tried to spare you, but since you insist . . .

BARON: Master?

VOICE: Master?

BARON: It’s not possible! I must be dreaming. Tell me it’s true! I can’t believe my ears. What luck! Then it’s true. You were chucked into this pigsty to be forgotten. After all you did for the Revolution. After everything you renounced. With me it was the same. They’ve not got the balls for the real Revolution. Now that you’re old, at the end of your life, they want to do away with your name, silence your reputation. I always wanted to meet you!

VOICE: What are you talking about? And then you tell me you’re not mad.

BARON: No, I’m not mad. See what happened to me for following in your footsteps.

VOICE: Let’s start from the premise that everyone has responsibility for himself, all right?

BARON: (enraptured) Master!

VOICE: Don’t call me master, you buffoon!

BARON: I can’t believe my eyes. Pity I can’t see you. You here, among us. Let me at least touch you.

VOICE: No! Don’t do that!

BARON: At last, someone who speaks my language. Only you can explain to me what went wrong. We followed your instructions to the letter.

VOICE: Instructions?

BARON: The aniseed pastilles.

VOICE: I never gave instructions to anyone. What pastilles?

BARON: The ones from the night in Marseilles, with the Spanish fly, the aphrodisiac, remember?

VOICE: You’re an idiot.

BARON: We did exactly the same thing! To tell the truth, it wasn’t me. But the baroness swore it was the same recipe.

VOICE: That’s all I needed! To share my room with a . . .

BARON: Baron, Baron of LaChafoi.

VOICE: Baron . . .

BARON: Only you can solve this mystery.

VOICE: What mystery?

BARON: Have you never heard of the night of Lagrange?

VOICE: What are you talking about?

BARON: From what I’ve been told, it was in all the important European papers.

VOICE: Once and for all, say what you’ve got to say.

BARON: I am a libertine.

VOICE: Ah!

BARON: Like you, master.

VOICE: Buffoon!

BARON: Stories about you go round all the most secret salons in France. I learnt everything from them. I’m a perfect disciple. I’ve heard them all, from what you did with poor Rose Keller on Easter Sunday (he gives a shrill little laugh) right up to the fascinating night in Marseilles. It’s a legend already. And the baroness managed to get hold of the recipe.

VOICE: The baroness?

BARON: It was she who brought the crushed Spanish fly.

VOICE: Crushed?

BARON: According to the same formula you used.

VOICE: What formula?

BARON: The aphrodisiac, man! Sorry . . . sir. The aniseed pastilles! The baroness got hold of the same formula you gave to the four prostitutes on the celebrated night in Marseilles – she didn’t tell me how. Don’t pretend you’re surprised! You’re amongst friends. To my shock, she asked to be initiated, and planned the party along the lines of yours. She wanted to follow your night in Marseilles step by step. You, your vassal Latour and the four prostitutes. We had to adapt ourselves to the circumstances, since I was caught unawares, and instead of four women we had to make do with two. There was a girl as well as the baroness. For the first time, the baroness wanted to take part at all costs – her, of all people, minx!, she was dying to take part in an orgy after so many years refusing sex, so long as there were no prostitutes to make up the group, as when I’d organised my parties myself. There were only four of us: the baroness, my cousin the Count of Suz, who appeared with her at the last moment and also insisted on taking part for the first time: Martine, the loveliest maid the count could ever dream of having, and me. If my reasoning is correct, they must be here in Charenton too. They must have arrived this morning, like me, or not long ago. Yesterday, perhaps. Or maybe they’ll be here tomorrow. If they’re also suspected. You must have seen them. At least two of them. Those who survived. Whoever’s not here is the dead one.

VOICE: The dead one?

BARON: The victim. It could equally be the baroness, or the count or even the lovely Martine, which would certainly be a terrible misfortune, an irreparable loss. I don’t even know which would be the worst denouement for me. If it’s the baroness, they might allege that I tried to get rid of her to marry the count’s maid. Or that I wanted to get my revenge for her chaste behaviour during all these years, for the humiliation she submitted me to with her chaste wifely refusals, and that I decided to punish her during the orgy, now that she was finally submitting to my desires. Anyone who doesn’t know the story, and doesn’t know about everything she’s put me through since we married, might think I went mad with jealousy when my own wife asked me to take part in an orgy, after telling me she’d been told about my debaucheries by my cousin, the Count of Suz – the truth is, he bears no blame in this matter at all, everything she found out about me she heard in Marseilles and Bordeaux – and that I decided to submit her to the worst punishments so that no such temptation should ever again enter her head. They might think I lost control and killed her, a bit dizzy perhaps from the effect of the aphrodisiacs – what a strange formula! – while she was frightenedly asking me what was going on, what these tortures were. They’ll say that the punishments I inflicted on her got out of my control, and that she finally died from the lashes I gave her. According to the same hypothesis, they can say that I killed the count for having revealed my nights of debauchery to the baroness, but it wasn’t him, I’ve already said that. Or that I killed the count to try and free Martine from his yoke. If Martine is the victim, my love – but it can’t be her! – they’ll surely say that I couldn’t bear seeing her in the hands of the count and the baroness all night long, and that I killed her out of jealousy, and if I swear once again that I was dreaming all the time – what a strange formula! – they’ll say I’m lying. I don’t remember anything. When I awoke in the morning, I found out that someone had died. Or rather, had been murdered. But I don’t know who. Nor do I know who the murderer was. They arrested me on suspicion of murder. And the others too. I imagine so, because I’ve not seen them yet. I didn’t see them when I woke up in the château. We’re all under suspicion, waiting to be tried, I imagine. In court, I couldn’t understand a thing. They were speaking a strange language. All those who were still alive are suspects, that’s what I heard. If at least I knew if the others are here, who’s here with me, I could find out who died. By process of elimination. Whoever’s not here is dead.

VOICE: You’re turning out to be a true son of the Enlightenment, my dear baron. If all those who survived are here, whoever’s not here must be dead. That’s logical. Apparently very logical. What’s not at all logical is being accused of murder and not knowing who’s been murdered. You have to be awake to enjoy the pleasure of murder, the greatest of all pleasures.

BARON: That’s what I’ve said a thousand times over. I’m telling you I didn’t kill anyone! I’m innocent! Or at least, as far as I know. I don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember was swallowing the Spanish fly paste, your formula.

VOICE: I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.

BARON: I’m not accusing you, but the baroness assured me she’d followed your recipe. I spent the night unconscious. When I came round, the crime had already been committed, so they told me, and I was being arrested. They think I’m mad because I don’t know who died, much less who did the killing. But they won’t tell me, either. That’s what my defence depends on! Can’t you see? I have to find out who died to deduce the murderer’s motives. Before they condemn me. Before they commit an injustice. Only you can help me uncover the crime, whose principal details are unknown to me. At least I’ll be able to make them believe that it wasn’t me if I can manage to explain what happened. But I don’t even know that. That’s what they’re trying to prevent. They don’t want me to know who died, because that way I won’t be able to defend myself either.

VOICE: And what proves it wasn’t you? That you’re not lying? The fact that you don’t remember doesn’t mean much. Who can tell if you’re not really mad, and committed the crime in a fit?

BARON: Master, I swear it!

VOICE: Don’t call me master!

BARON: I beg of you. My defence depends on you helping me.

VOICE: How can my help be of any use to you? And why be so sure that I’m prepared to help you?

BARON: You’re a man of the world. You’ve experienced many excesses. You’ve known women and men. Perhaps if I told you the whole story . . .

VOICE: Then what?

BARON: Well, perhaps together we could reach a solution.

VOICE: What? There is no solution!

BARON: A disinterested soul can see and interpret better.

VOICE: Who said I have a soul? And even if I had, why mine and not some other, any other?

BARON: Because you don’t believe in feelings.

VOICE: What?

BARON: I’m not a proper libertine. I’ve got love and jealousy against me. Not like you. I’m a worm, a miserable slave to my feelings. I suffer from love and jealousy. Depending on who the victim is – and that’s what I fear most – there’ll be no lack of motives to incriminate me. But you, master, are the only one who won’t take that into account. Your gaze is not only disinterested, but it ignores what they call the truth of feelings, which is no more than a great lie. You know that only the instincts tell the truth that hypocrites don’t want to hear. You’re the only one capable of reaching a right view of my story. You can ignore my feelings, which whatever they are have nothing to do with this crime, and unveil the real murderer, as well as giving me the arguments for my defence.

VOICE: And what, after all, is your story about?

BARON: My nuptials.

VOICE: You said it was a night of excess and debauchery.

BARON: Exactly. But for you to understand I have to go back to the afternoon I got a letter from the baroness, days after our first meeting, fifteen years ago, when she led me to understand that she also desired me and wanted to marry me, and prove with me that God doesn’t exist. Those were her words. I like women who know how to use words. It was the Count of Suz, my cousin and confidant, who brought me the letter, days after that first meeting. In fact, it was he who introduced the baroness to me, in what was left of his property. In the letter, she announced that she was leaving the country with her parents, emigrating to flee from the Terror. Suddenly, just like that. Apparently, nothing of this was planned when we were introduced to one another days before. In the letter, she explained nothing else. She only said she had to leave with her family. She begged patience of me. And for the sake of love I gave way. Out of despair, to see her again at the end of seven interminable months, I agreed to marry, which went against all my principles, and even against the Revolution; marrying a repentant émigrée only made my already delicate situation even more uncomfortable. At the end of seven months’ separation, I got a letter from her in which she agreed to return, to give way to my pleas and, at the risk of being taken for an emigrant, to suffer the punishment due to a traitor to the fatherland – she knew how to use her imagination to excite me! – so long as she could marry me. She said she was ready for anything for the sake of love. She would come back in secret, if that was needful. I am a slave to my feelings, and it didn’t take long for me to fall in love when the count introduced the baroness to me in what was left of his property. It only took a few hours. What a woman! When she disappeared into exile, my passion only grew. Passion makes one give way. I gave way again when, after fifteen years of marriage, she appeared, no more no less, in the château of Lagrange, in its ruins rather, the bit that was left when my other goods were confiscated, asking me for the first time to take part in one of the nights I had been organising in her absence. She spent the greater part of our fifteen years of marriage away from here. In Marseilles and Bordeaux, doing God knows what. Little did she know that this time, exceptionally, unlike all the other nights she had no doubt heard about in Marseilles and Bordeaux, there would be no orgy. I am a weak man. As I said, a slave to my feelings. And, with the baroness’s travels, after fifteen years together, fifteen years of debauchery, given over to my instincts, fifteen years no different from my bachelor existence, I ended up falling under the spell of a girl. That night was to be the second time we met.

At this moment, terrified by what he thinks is a vision, the baron interrupts his story.

BARON: Forgive me, sir, I know it’s dark, and I can’t see further than my nose, but I had the impression I saw you for a moment. (silence) I know it’s not possible, it can’t be true, but . . . (silence) I had the impression that you are . . . black?

VOICE: As you’ve realised, it’s dark. You must be hallucinating. It’s common. The darkness produces visions, makes you see things. In the darkness, everyone sees what they want to see.

BARON: Of course, of course . . . Well, when my cousin, the Count of Suz, introduced me to the baroness, in what was left of his property, on the eve of the Terror, I really was in need of a wife, more because of the pressure of circumstances, to save my own skin, since my fame was beginning to make me an easy target for enemies parading as revolutionaries. I was always reputed to be a libertine, marriage is against my principles, but the circumstances demanded I got married, so the count said. They never had the balls for the real Revolution, master, and it was through trying to follow its principles to the letter that I ended up being forced to save my skin by marriage. Well, it happened just at the right time, because she was beautiful. And she wasn’t getting any younger. She had to get married. She managed to persuade me after seven months’ absence, although marrying a repentant émigrée at that moment was riskier than staying a bachelor, for someone with my reputation.

VOICE: If she was so beautiful, why hadn’t she married yet?

BARON: The count told me she was demanding. It was thanks to him we got to know one another in what was left of his property, and we married seven months later, when I was already crazy, wanting to see her again, imploring her to come back from exile. She was very cunning. She was one of those women who know how to hook a man. She knew I was a libertine, and that I would steer clear of the prison of marriage until the last moment, and she knew how to conquer me. It was the perfect tactic. After insinuating herself and seducing me, with her little breasts tightly held in a silver corset, proposing that we should prove that God doesn’t exist, she disappeared for seven months, saying she had emigrated. A shabby excuse. She can’t have gone anywhere, because, if she really had emigrated, coming back would have demanded from her the very courage whose lack had pushed her to go. It’s obvious. I’m not stupid. She accounted for it by her passion for me. She said she would come back clandestinely. A shabby excuse. But a wonderful ploy for seduction. I admire that. I admire women who know how to use words and reach their objectives with patience. If she really had left the country, how would she not have problems in coming back seven months later? Not even with the count’s help, and his contacts, would she have been able to remain undetected. And all the letters she sent me? How did she manage that? She drove me crazy, begging her to come back immediately in secret letters which my cousin, the Count of Suz, managed to get to her, across frontiers and battle fronts, heaven knows how, and bringing me back her replies, minx!, spurring on my desire with the memory of her little breasts pressed into the silver corset I could no longer touch.

VOICE: Why did the count serve as intermediary?

BARON: Because he had contacts. He always had contacts. He’s a man of the moment. First, in the National Assembly. Then under the Terror and the Consulate. And now in the Empire. That was how he managed to save what was left of his lands, and the ruins of my château. He knows how to tack with the winds. Hither and thither, hither and thither. The truth is, he was her accomplice. He wanted to see us married. And he knew me! And gave me his advice. He wanted to help me.

VOICE: Why didn’t you go and see her where she was, if your desire was so great?

BARON: I couldn’t. I would be taken for an emigrant, a traitor, can’t you see? I would lose the château, the ruins left to me out of all my possessions. The guillotine would be waiting for me on my return. All the efforts I made to serve the Revolution, always under the guidance of the count, to save my skin and my château – the only thing I didn’t give to the Revolution of my own will – everything would have gone down the tubes. They were difficult times, you know. Maybe I could have seen her in her hiding-place, if I’d known where that was. But she didn’t tell me. Neither did the count. He said he couldn’t, for his own safety and that of the baroness. And mine! He said it was for my own good; he was protecting me from my own passions. So that I didn’t end up losing my head. It was part of her seduction tactics, no doubt about that. She wanted to be shrouded in mystery, minx! She couldn’t leave France and then come back again without suffering the consequences. What a scheme! And there’s nothing I admire more than someone who can cultivate someone else’s desires. She knew how to make me lose my head. The letters were our only contact. And the things she said to me! How she described the heat of her body awaiting mine, which never came, never came, of course, because she escaped, she was my will-o’-the-wisp, my insatiable desire. That was how she conquered me. After seven months were up, when I could no longer bear it, when she was already pure fantasy, she wrote that she could only meet me again if we were to be married, out of fear of what I might do, of what I could do with her after so many months of pent-up desire. She said she might come back to France, minx!, putting her life at risk, if it was to marry me. And I gave in, for love. The second time I saw her was at the altar.

Again, the baron interrupts himself; he rubs his eyes.

BARON: Forgive me, sir, but I’ve just had that vision again. I thought I saw you. Are you sure . . . ?

VOICE: I’ve already said they’re hallucinations. It’s not surprising when there’s not a chink of light anywhere. Go on with your story.

BARON: . . . When I saw her at the altar, there was no going back. I saw that she wasn’t the woman I’d imagined, of course. At the altar, they never are. And I knew. Marriage is one farce unmasking itself before another, in church, before God. After seven months of pure imagination, I had forgotten the reality I’d only seen once. But I was still blind. Only later, in the bedroom, could I see, in plain daylight, that I’d been betrayed by the cunning strategy she’d trapped me in, minx! The little breasts pressed into the silver corset were no longer there. She wasn’t ugly. No, far from it. She was just a woman, like any other, and not the goddess I’d imagined for seven months. More than anything, because she wanted nothing to do with me. She acted the role of wife unconvincingly, and whenever she could she kept clear of me. The marriage was never consummated. Quite to the contrary of what she wrote during those seven months of absence in her letters inflamed with desire, now all she wanted to do was keep her distance. It was as if suddenly she’d turned around, changed her mind. But that only drove me crazier. I was ready to do anything, to rape her if necessary, if she went on with this act. But before I had the chance, a week after the marriage, she had already gone back to Marseilles, sorting out family matters, as always. She knew how to bargain. She spent all her time keeping her accounts. She calculated everything. And that is what she did with me. She tricked me. The difference was that now she no longer needed to write letters. She was tied to me by marriage. She’d got what she wanted. She didn’t need to keep the flame of desire alive. During the fifteen years of marriage, we spent most of the time apart. You can’t take anything with you from this world, so make the most of it, and that’s what I’ve done. Straightaway I saw the convenience of the situation, and what she was proposing to me in her silent self-removal: proving that God doesn’t exist. I was to go on with my libertine existence and leave her in peace, and in exchange I’d have all the alibis of marriage, as would she. It was a kind of contract. She knew how to strike a deal. She got what she wanted. She was getting on. She needed to get married. The parties in the Lagrange château, what was left to me of the ruins, became famous, while the baroness spent her life in the city, taken up by her duties and business affairs, without bothering me. At least that was what she said, although more than once she was seen in Marseilles and Bordeaux, in elegant receptions and dinners, in the company of those people who are still having a good time in spite of the country’s collapse. They were fifteen years of a tacit agreement which was very convenient to me. Until I met Martine, the maid the Count of Suz couldn’t even dream about. The girl I told you about. I planned the Lagrange night only for her.

VOICE: And the count?

BARON: He appeared that night too, but only at the last moment.

VOICE: No, you numbskull! In those fifteen years! What happened to him in those fifteen years, after the Terror?