Донасьен Альфонс Франсуа де Сад – Justine (страница 3)
To these horrors Madame de Lorsange added two or three infanticides. The fear of spoiling her attractive figure, strengthened by the necessity of hiding a double intrigue, several times encouraged her to have abortions; and these crimes, as undiscovered as the others, in no way hindered this clever and ambitious creature from daily finding new dupes and increasing, moment by moment, both her fortune and her crimes. It will thus be seen that it is, unfortunately, only too true that prosperity often accompanies crime, and that from the very bosom of the most deliberate corruption and debauchery men may gild the thread of life with that which they call happiness.
But, in order that this cruel and fatal truth should not alarm the reader, and in order that the sensibilities of honourable and righteous people may not be disturbed by our subsequent example of misfortune and misery relentlessly pursuing virtue, let us immediately state that this prosperity of crime is only apparent, not real. Independently of the punishment certainly reserved by providence for those who have succeeded in this way, they also nourish in the depths of their hearts a worm which ceaselessly gnaws at them, and prevents them from enjoying the false glow of happiness which they would seize, leaving in its place only the rending memory of those crimes by which they attained it. With regard to the torment of virtue by misfortune, the unfortunate victim whom fate persecutes in this way has his conscience for consolation, and this, together with the secret joy he draws from his purity, soon compensates him for the injustice of men.
Such, then, was the state of the affairs of Madame de Lorsange when M. de Corville, a gentleman of fifty, and enjoying the position in society already described above, resolved to sacrifice himself entirely for this woman, attaching her life permanently with his own. Whether by his attention, his conduct, or the wisdom of Madame de Lorsange, he succeeded, and had been living with her for four years, entirely as with a legitimate wife, when they decided to spend several months during the summer on a superb estate he had lately purchased near Montargis. One evening in June, when the beauty of the weather had tempted them to wander as far as the town, they felt too tired to make their return on foot. Instead, they entered the inn where the Lyons coach makes a stop, intending to send a rider to the château to demand a carriage for their return. They were resting in a low, cool room opening on to the courtyard, when the aforesaid coach drew up before the inn. As it is natural enough to study the comings and goings of travellers – and there is no one who has not whiled away an idle moment with this form of entertainment when it has presented itself – Madame de Lorsange, followed by her lover, arose to watch the coachload of people enter the inn. The vehicle seemed to be empty, until one of the guards, in descending, received in his arms from one of his companions a young girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, wrapped in a miserable little calico cloak and bound like a criminal. A cry of horror and surprise escaped from Madame de Lorsange, at which the young girl, turning, revealed such a sweet and delicate countenance, such a slim and graceful figure, that M. de Corville and his mistress could not help being interested in the unfortunate creature. M. de Corville approached the guards and asked one of them what the unfortunate girl had done.
‘To tell the truth, Monsieur, she has been accused of three or four very serious crimes: robbery, murder and arson. But I must admit that both my companion and myself have never before felt such repugnance over the transport of a criminal – she is the most gentle creature, and seems to us unusually honest…’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed M. de Corville, ‘it seems to me that we have here another of those everyday blunders of the lower courts. And where,’ he continued, ‘was the offence committed?’
‘At a hostelry three leagues from Lyons. She was tried at Lyons and is being taken to Paris for confirmation of the sentence. She will, however, be taken back to Lyons for execution.’
Madame de Lorsange, who had drawn close and listened to this recital, whispered quietly to M. de Corville that she wished to hear the story of her misfortunes from the girl’s own lips. And M. de Corville, urged by the same desire, made himself known to the guards and asked if this would be possible.
As they were not at all opposed to the idea, it was decided that they should spend the night at Montargis, and two comfortable suites were placed at the disposal of the prisoner and her guardians. The nobleman accepting responsibility for her safety, she was untied and conducted to the apartments of the Comtesse. The guards retired to bed after an early supper, and when the unfortunate girl had been persuaded to take a little nourishment, Madame de Lorsange, unable to restrain the most intense interest, doubtless said to herself: ‘This wretched and probably innocent creature is treated as a criminal. On the other hand everything prospers around me – who, assuredly, am much more a criminal than she is!’
Madame de Lorsange, I say, as soon as she saw her young guest a little more at ease, a little consoled by the caresses and attentions lavished on her and the interest taken in her, induced her to describe in some detail the events which had brought such an honest and sensible-looking creature into such disastrous circumstances.
‘To tell you the story of my life, Madame,’ said the beautiful unfortunate, addressing the Comtesse, ‘is to offer you the most striking example of the misfortunes of innocence. It would be to accuse providence to complain of it – it would be a sort of crime, and I dare not do it…’
Tears flowed abundantly from the eyes of the poor girl. But, having given way to her emotions for a few moments, she regained control of herself and commenced her narrative in these terms.
You will permit me to conceal my name and birth, Madame; without being illustrious it is honourable, nor was I originally destined to the humiliation to which you now see me reduced. I lost my parents while quite young, and thought that, with the little money they left me, I could wait for satisfactory employment. I refused many offers of work because of their dubious nature. And so, without perceiving it, I exhausted my small capital in Paris – where I was born. The poorer I became, the more I found myself despised; the greater my need of assistance, the less did I expect to obtain any. But of all the trials I experienced during the early days of my unhappy situation, of all the horrible proposals made to me, I shall only tell you of the events which befell me at the home of Monsieur Dubourg, one of the wealthiest landlords in the capital. I was sent to him by the woman who kept the boarding-house where I was lodging, and she recommended him as a gentleman whose good name and riches could the most surely alleviate the rigours of my condition. After waiting a very long time in the ante-room of Monsieur Dubourg, I was at last introduced to him. This odd-looking creature, about forty-eight years old, had just got out of bed. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown which scarcely hid his disorder; and, when I entered, his servants were dressing his hair. He dismissed them immediately and asked me what I wished for.
‘Alas! sir,’ I replied, very much confused, ‘I am a poor orphan, and despite the fact that I’m not yet fourteen years of age, I am already acquainted with every shade of adversity. I come to beg your pity, to implore your compassion…’
And so I related to him every detail in the story of my misfortunes, the difficulty I had experienced in finding work, and the shame I felt about accepting any, especially as I had not been born into such a lowly position. I told him how my money had slowly gone, how I could not find employment, and how I hoped he would be able to offer me a means of livelihood. To be brief, I unburdened myself with all the eloquence dictated by misfortune; an eloquence which rises quickly in a simple and sensitive soul – yet one which is abhorrent to the mind of the opulent…
Monsieur Dubourg listened to me, indulging in many distractions the while. He then asked me if I had always been good.
‘I should neither be so poor nor so embarrassed, sir,’ I replied, ‘did I wish to cease being so.’
‘But,’ exclaimed Monsieur Dubourg, ‘by what right do you claim that the wealthy should assist you, while you refuse to be of service to them?’
‘Of what service do you pretend to speak, sir?’ I enquired, informing him that I desired nothing better than a chance to render those which decency and my age permitted.
He answered me at some length: ‘The services of a child like you are but little use for domestic purposes; you are neither old enough nor even strong enough for such a position as you wish. You had far better occupy yourself in pleasing men, and in trying to find some fellow who will consent to take care of you. All this virtue of which you make such a fuss is worthless in the world; you may bow continually at the foot of its altars, yet its vain incense will never feed you. What pleases men least, what they hold in the least esteem, and what they despise above all else, is the so-called wisdom of your sex. Here, in this world, my child, we value only what brings us profit or delight – and of what profit is a woman’s virtue to us? Her caprices and her disorders serve us and amuse us, but her chastity never interests us in the slightest. In other words, when men like us grant a request, it is always in the hope of receiving something in return. And how can a little girl like you repay what is done for her, unless she abandons herself completely to us, allowing us all that we may desire of her person?’