Justine, Philosophy in the Bedroom, and Other Writings

  “My darling daughter,” said Franval, kissing this monster who had shown herself to be an all too apt pupil of his seductions, “I knew that I would find in you all the sentiments of love and steadfastness of purpose necessary to our mutual happiness. . . . Take this box. Death lies within its lid. . . .”

  Eugénie took the fatal box and repeated her promises to her father. Other decisions were taken: it was decided that Eugénie would await the outcome of the trial, and that the decision as to whether the projected crime would take place or not would be dependent upon whether the decision was for or against her father. . . . They took leave of each other, Franval went to pay a call upon his wife, and there carried audacity and deceit so far as to inundate her with his tears, the while receiving from this heavenly angel, without once giving himself away, the touching caresses so full of candor which she lavished upon him. Then, having been given her solemn promise that she would most assuredly remain in Alsace with Eugénie no matter what the outcome of his case, the scoundrel mounted his horse and rode away, leaving behind him the innocence and virtue which his crimes had sullied so long.

  Franval proceeded to Basel, and there procured lodgings, for at Basel he was safe from any legal actions that might be instituted against him and at the same time was as close to Valmor as one could possibly be, so that his letters might maintain Eugénie in the frame of mind he desired to keep her in while he was away. . . . Basel and Valmor were about twenty-five leagues apart, and although the road between them went through the Black Forest, communications were easy enough, so that he was able to receive news of his daughter once a week. As a measure of precaution, Franval brought an enormous sum of money with him, but more in paper than in cash. Let us leave him then, getting settled in Switzerland, and return to his wife.

  Nothing could have been purer or more sincere than this excellent woman’s intentions. She had promised her husband to remain in the country until he had given her further orders, and nothing in the world could have made her change her mind, as she was wont to assure Eugénie every day. . . . Unfortunately too far removed from her mother to place her trust in this worthy woman, still a party to Franval’s injustice—the seeds of which he nourished by his letters sent regularly once a week—Eugénie did not for a moment entertain the thought that she could have a worse enemy in the world than her mother. And yet there was nothing her mother did not do to try and break down the invincible antipathy that this ungrateful child kept buried deep in her heart. She showered friendship and caresses on her, she expressed tender satisfaction with her over her husband’s fortunate change of heart, she even went so far in her manifestations of gentleness and meekness as to thank Eugénie at times and give her all the credit for the happy conversion. And then she would grieve at being the innocent cause of the new calamities that were threatening Franval; far from accusing Eugénie, she put the entire onus on herself and, clasping Eugénie to her heart, she would tearfully ask her whether she could ever forgive her mother. . . . Eugénie’s heart remained hardened to these angelic advances, and her perverse soul was deaf to the voice of Nature, for vice had closed off every avenue by which one might reach her. . . . Coldly withdrawing from her mother’s arms, she would look at her with eyes that were often wild and would say to herself, by way of encouragement: How false this woman is . . . how full of deceit and treachery. The day she had me abducted she caressed me in exactly the same way. But these unjust reproaches were naught but the abominable sophisms with which crime steadies and supports itself whenever it tries to smother the conscience. Madame de Franval, whose motives in having Eugénie abducted were her own happiness and peace of mind, and in the interest of virtue, had, it is true, concealed her plans. But such pretense is condemned only by the guilty party who is deceived by it, and in no wise offends probity. Thus Eugénie resisted all her mother’s proffered tenderness because she wanted to commit an atrocity, and not in the least because of any wrongs on the part of a mother who had surely committed none with regard to her.

  Toward the end of the first month of their stay at Valmor, Madame de Farneille wrote to her daughter that her husband’s case was becoming increasingly serious and that, in view of the fear of an unfavorable decision by the court, the return of both Madame de Franval and Eugénie had become a matter of urgent necessity, not only to make an impression on the public, which was spreading the worst kind of gossip, but also to join forces with her and together seek some sort of arrangement that might be able to disarm the forces of justice, and answer for the culprit without sacrificing him.

  Madame de Franval, who had resolved not to conceal anything from her daughter, immediately showed her this letter. Staring coldly at her mother, Eugénie asked her evenly what she intended to do in view of this sad news?

  “I don’t know,” Madame de Franval replied. “But the fact is I wonder what good we are doing here? Would we not be serving my husband’s interests far better by taking my mother’s advice?”

  “’Tis you who are in full charge, Madame,” Eugénie replied. “My role is to obey, and you may rest assured of my obedience.”

  But Madame de Franval, clearly seeing from the curt manner of her daughter’s reply that she was dead set against it, told her that she was going to wait, that she would write again, and that Eugénie could be quite sure that if ever she were to fail to follow Franval’s intentions, it would only be when she was completely certain that she could serve him better in Paris than at Valmor.

  Another month passed in this manner, during which Franval continued to write both to his wife and daughter, and from whom he received letters that could not help but please him, since he saw in those from his wife naught but the most perfect acquiescence to his every desire, and in those from his daughter an unwavering determination to carry out the projected crime as soon as the turn of events required it, or whenever Madame de Franval seemed on the verge of complying with her mother’s solicitations.

  For, as Eugénie noted in one of her letters, “If I see in your wife naught but the qualities of honesty and candor, and if the friends working on your case in Paris succeed in bringing it to a happy conclusion, I shall turn over to you the task you have entrusted me and you can accomplish it yourself when we are together, if you deem it advisable then. But of course if you should in any case order me to act, and should find it indispensable that I do so, then I shall assume the full responsibility for it by myself, of that you may be sure.”

  In his reply, Franval approved of everything she reported to him, and these were the last two letters he received and sent. The following mail brought him no more. Franval grew worried. And when the succeeding mail proved equally unsatisfactory, he grew desperate, and since his natural restlessness no longer allowed him to wait for further mails, he immediately decided to pay a personal visit to Valmor to ascertain the reasons for the delays in the mails that were upsetting him so cruelly.

  He set off on horseback, followed by a faithful valet. He had calculated his voyage to arrive the second day, late enough at night not to be recognized by anyone. At the edge of the woods which surrounds the Valmor château and which, to the east, joins the Black Forest, six well-armed men stopped Franval and his servant and demanded their money. These rogues had been well informed; they knew with whom they were dealing and were fully aware that Franval, being implicated in an unpleasant affair, never traveled without his paper money and immense amounts of gold. . . . The servant resisted, and was laid out lifeless at the feet of his horse. Franval, drawing his sword, leapt to the ground and attacked these scurvy creatures. He wounded three of them, but found himself surrounded by the others. They stripped him of everything he had, without however being able to disarm him, and as soon as they had despoiled him the thieves escaped. Franval followed them, but the brigands had vanished so swiftly with their booty and horses that it was impossible to tell in which direction they had gone.

  The weather that night was miserable. The cutting blast of the north wind was accompanied by a drivi
ng hail—all the elements seemed to be conspiring against this poor wretch. There are perhaps cases in which Nature, revolted by the crimes of the person she is pursuing, desires to overwhelm him with all the scourges at Her command before drawing him back again into her bosom. . . . Franval, half-naked but still holding onto his sword, directed his footsteps as best he could away from this baleful place, and toward Valmor. But as he was ill-acquainted with this estate, which he had visited only the one time we have seen him there, he lost his way on the darkened roads of this forest with which he was totally unfamiliar. . . . Completely exhausted, and racked by pain and worry, tormented by the storm, he threw himself to the ground; and there the first tears he had ever shed in his life flowed abundantly from his eyes. . . .

  “Ill-fated man,” he cried out, “now is everything conspiring to crush me at last . . . to make me feel the pangs of remorse. It took the hand of disaster to pierce my heart. Deceived by the blandishments of good fortune, I should have always gone on failing to recognize it. Oh you, whom I have outraged so grievously, you who at this very moment are perhaps becoming the victim of my fury and barbarous plans, you my adorable wife . . . does the world, vainglorious of your existence, still possess you? Has the hand of Heaven put a stop to my horrors? . . . Eugénie! my too credulous daughter . . . too basely seduced by my abominable cunning . . . has Nature softened your heart? . . . Has she suspended the cruel effects of my ascendancy and your weakness? Is there still time? Is there still time, Just Heaven? . . .”

  Suddenly the plaintive and majestic sound of several pealing bells, rising sadly heavenward, came to add to the horror of his fate. . . . He was deeply affected . . . he grew terrified. . . .

  “What is this I hear?” he cried out, getting to his feet. “Barbarous daughter . . . is it death? . . . is it vengeance? . . . Are the Furies of hell come then to finish their work? Do these sounds announce to me . . .? Where am I? Can I hear them? . . . Finish, oh Heaven, finish the task of destroying the culprit. . . .”

  And, prostrating himself:

  “Almighty God, suffer me to join my voice to those who at this moment are imploring Thee . . . see my remorse and Thy power, and pardon me for disowning Thee. I beseech Thee to grant me this prayer, the first prayer I dare to direct at Thee! Supreme Being, preserve virtue, protect her who was Thy most beautiful image on this earth. I pray that these sounds, these mournful sounds, may not be those I fear and dread.”

  And Franval, completely distraught, no longer aware of what he was doing nor where he was going, his speech but an incoherent mumble, followed whatever path he chanced across. . . . He heard someone . . . he regained control of himself and listened. . . . It was a man on horseback.

  “Whoever you are,” Franval called out, advancing toward this man, “whoever you may be, take pity on a poor wretch whom pain and sorrow has rendered distraught. I am ready to take my own life. . . . Instruct me, help me, if you are a man, and a man of any compassion . . . deign to save me from myself.”

  “Good God!” replied a voice too well-known to poor Franval. “What! You here? . . . For the sake of all that is holy, leave, go away!”

  And Clervil—for ’twas he, this worthy mortal, who had escaped from Franval’s prison, whom fate had sent toward this miserable creature in the saddest moment of his life—Clervil jumped down off his horse and fell into the arms of his enemy.

  “So ’tis you, Monsieur,” Franval said, clasping the honorable man to his breast, “you upon whom I have wrought so many horrible acts which weigh so heavily on my conscience?”

  “Calm yourself, Monsieur, you must calm yourself. I put away from me all the misfortunes that have recently surrounded me, nor do I remember those which you wished to inflict upon me when Heaven allows me to serve you . . . and I am going to be of service to you, Monsieur, doubtless in a manner which will be rather cruel, but necessary. . . . Here, let us sit down at the foot of this cypress, for now its sinister boughs alone shall be a fitting wreath for you. Oh, my dear Franval, what reverses of fortune I must acquaint you with! . . . Weep, my friend, for tears will relieve you, and I must cause even more bitter tears to flow from your eyes. . . . Your days of delight are over . . . they have vanished as a dream. And all you have left to you are days of sorrow and grief.”

  “Oh, Monsieur, I understand you . . . those bells . . .”

  “Those bells are bearing the homage, the prayers of the inhabitants of Valmor to the feet of Almighty God, for He has allowed them to know an angel only so that they might pity and mourn her all the more.”

  At which point Franval, placing the tip of his sword at his heart, was about to cut the frail thread of his days, but Clervil forestalled this desperate act:

  “No, no, my friend,” he cried, “’tis not death that is needed, but reparation. Hear what I have to say, I have much to tell you, and to tell it, an atmosphere of calm is required.”

  “Very well, Monsieur, speak. I am listening. Plunge the dagger by slow degrees into my heart. It is only just that he who has tried to torment others should in his turn be oppressed.”

  “I shall be brief as regards myself, Monsieur,” Clervil said. “After several months of the frightful detention to which you subjected me, I was fortunate enough to move my guard to pity. I strongly advised him meticulously to conceal the injustice which you committed regarding me. He will not reveal it, my dear Franval, he will never reveal that secret.”

  “Oh, Monsieur . . .”

  “Hear me out. I repeat that I have much to tell you. Upon my return to Paris I learned of your sorry adventure . . . your departure. . . . I shared Madame de Farneille’s tears, which were more sincere than you ever believed. Together with this worthy lady, I conspired to persuade Madame de Franval to bring Eugénie back to us, her presence being more necessary in Paris than in Alsace. . . . You had forbidden her to leave Valmor . . . she obeyed you. She apprised us of these orders and of her reluctance to contradict them. She hesitated as long as she could. You were found guilty, Franval, and the sentence still stands. You have been sentenced to death as guilty of a highway murder. Neither Madame de Farneille’s entreaties nor the efforts of your family and friends could alter the decision of justice: you have been worsted . . . dishonored forever . . . you are ruined . . . all your goods and estates have been seized. . . .” (And in response to a second, violent movement on Franval’s part:) “Listen to me, Monsieur, hear me out, I say, I demand this of you in expiation of your crimes; I demand it too in the name of Heaven, which may still be moved to forgiveness by your repentance. At this time we wrote to Madame de Franval to apprise her of all this: her mother informed her that, as her presence had become absolutely indispensable, she was sending me to Valmor to persuade her once and for all to return to Paris. I set off immediately after the letter was posted, but unfortunately it reached Valmor before me. When I arrived, it was already too late; your horrible plot had succeeded only too well; I found Madame de Franval dying. . . . Oh, Monsieur, what base, what foul villainy! . . . But I am touched by your abject state, I shall refrain from reproaching you any further for your crimes. Let me tell you everything. Eugénie was unable to bear the sight, and when I arrived her repentance was already expressed by a flood of tears and bitter sobs. . . . Oh, Monsieur, how can I describe to you the cruel effect of this varied scene. Your wife, disfigured by convulsions of pain, was dying. . . . Eugénie, having been reclaimed by Nature, was uttering frightful cries, confessing her guilt, invoking death, wanting to kill herself, in turn falling at the feet of those whom she was imploring and fastening herself to the breast of her mother, trying desperately to revive her with her own breath, to warm her with her tears, to move her by the spectacle of her remorse; such, Monsieur, was the sinister scene that struck my eyes when I arrived at Valmor.

  “When I entered the house, Madame de Franval recognized me. She pressed my hands in hers, wet them with her tears, and uttered a few words which I had great difficulty hearing, for they could scarcely escape from her chest w
hich was constricted from the effects of the poison. She forgave you. . . . She implored Heaven’s forgiveness for you, and above all she asked for her daughter’s forgiveness. . . . See then, barbarous man, that the final thoughts, the final prayers of this woman whose heart you broke and whose virtue you vilified were yet for your happiness.

  “I gave her every care I could, and revived the flagging spirits of the servants to do the same, I called upon the most celebrated practitioners of medicine available . . . and I employed all my resources to console your Eugénie. Touched by the terrible state she was in, I felt I had no right to refuse her my consolations. But nothing succeeded. Your poor wife gave up the ghost amid such convulsions and torments as are impossible to describe. At that fatal moment, Monsieur, I witnessed one of the sudden effects of remorse which till then had been unknown to me. Eugénie threw herself on her mother and died at the same moment as she. We all thought she had merely fainted. . . . No, all her faculties were extinguished. The situation had produced such a shock to her vital organs that they had all ceased simultaneously to function, and she actually died from the violent impact of remorse, grief, and despair. . . . Yes, Monsieur, both are lost to you. And the bells which you yet hear pealing are celebrating simultaneously two creatures, both of whom were born to make you happy, whom your hideous crimes have made the victims of their attachment to you, and whose bloody images will pursue you to your grave.

  “Oh, my dear Franval, was I wrong then in times past to try and save you from the abyss into which your passions were plunging you? Will you still condemn, still cover with ridicule the votaries of virtue? And are virtue’s disciples wrong to burn incense at its altars when they see crime so surrounded by troubles and scourges?”