Letters From Prison

  Supplement

  Finally, if Montélimar is for my own good, why hide from me the manner by which I’m to be taken there? After all the suffering I’ve endured, why all this difficulty explaining to me the details of my transfer? We’re not dealing with an affair of State here, and yet never has Damiens9 been more worried, more convoluted, more steeped in mystery. What? Because the words “government” and “minister” inflate that odious creature like a frog, I am obliged to spend my life as the dupe and the victim of her twisted machinations? If, I say, this Montélimar is to improve my lot, then why not come out and say so to my face? And if it is to better my situation, why take me there under guard? Who, if my lot is thereby improved, would doubt that I would go there of my own volition? But Monsieur Le Noir’s toadies must be bribed, is that not so?. . . Ah, yes indeed, ’tis thus that these gentlemen put into their pockets the million the king allots to the Paris police. They pocket it and make us pay. How unspeakable! And they hang a poor wretch who has stolen five sous! One more thing, Mademoiselle: I request that I not be taken there under guard. I shall never consent to pay these official escorts, I give you my word. Let me be shadowed, if they insist, I have no objection; and if I should deviate one iota from the agreed-upon itinerary, may all the mounted police of France swoop down upon me. But why escort me under guard? Why? Absolutely convinced that all they want is to steal another six or seven thousand francs from me, when I am offering an equivalent guarantee amount that will cost me no more than fifty louis. . . All that is nothing more than the police being overly zealous! . . . But what good does it do me to beg and beseech? Whenever I do, Monsieur de Rougemont says I’m trying to lay down the law! My initial response to that remark was that I was making a request, not trying to make any law, and I would be grateful if they would forthwith cease twisting my words to suit their own purposes. There are people who are delighted to have you feed them lines, since they’re completely incapable of making any up on their own. Et beatus . . .

  P.S. You know Latin.

  What do my advice and opinions matter? This morning I told Monsieur de Rougemont that I did not want to be transferred under guard, and if they absolutely insisted on doing so it would be necessary to tie me up and take me by force. And like the true gentleman he is, he replied—and I quote—“That should pose no problem!” So you can see, after such a remark, what does my opinion matter? They can come whenever they please, but until my dying breath I shall say and shall write unceasingly, that I never shall consent to be taken under guard, and if that should happen it will be in spite of me. Moreover, I shall always have it as proof positive that I am in no wise responsible for any payment thereof, for the very reason that I never consented to it of my own free will.

  A decent fellow, you say, will escort me there. What in the devil did you have in mind when you wrote that? You know just as well as I that people who exercise that profession can hardly be called “decent.” The insolent manner in which Inspector Marais conducted himself with respect to you should suffice to convince you on that score. Know, my lovely young lady, that there are no decent people who practice that profession. Those who do are riffraff straight off the streets, many of whom have barely escaped the hangman’s noose, such (to cite but one example) as a knave named Muron, who was chief of a band of thieves in Lyons and who is still very active in the profession today, or at least was until very recently. He escaped just as the police were moving in to arrest his men, and he was clever enough to disguise himself and volunteer for the army as soon as he was back in Lyons. And ‘twas there he was plucked to fulfill the noble post at Paris that you tell me is filled with decent and honest people. There you have a firsthand example, which I have witnessed myself, that can serve to show you in what high esteem this noble post is held in today’s world. Another example: an infantry officer discharged in ’48, when the war was over, as unfit for service, somehow managed, several years later at the start of the following war, to obtain a post of police inspector, in which guise he arrived one day in Strasbourg, acting as police escort for a prisoner. Unfortunately for him, his former regimental comrades-in-arms were stationed in that same city. The officers met, enticed their former, unsuspecting colleague into meeting them, whereupon they tore his uniform from his back and escorted him to the hillside fortifications at the edge of town, striking him with their canes and the flat of their swords the entire way. So you see, Mademoiselle, the high esteem in which these “decent people,” who comprise the noble body of which you speak, are held. And, in truth, one should have had by now one’s fill of subjecting me to such rascals. This woman10 so haughty in her use of the words “minister” and “government,” is far less so when it comes to her deeds, that is all I can say. But there is a proverb that goes: “The shoemaker always smells of leather.”

  “ ’Tis in order to put you to the test that you are being sent to Montélimar; your interest and your happiness will depend on how you pass that test.” Let me respond to that lovely sentence. First, I have been put to the test; there is no point in repeating it; they have seen how I behaved myself at La Coste during the time I thought myself free. Let them free me again, I shall behave in the same way, always with probity and as a man of honor and feeling, a good husband and good father, so long as I shall be free and in France. But so long as I am not free, I shall be as bad as I can be. That is an article of faith you can count on, and upon which I give you my word of honor.

  Moreover, how can they judge me at Montélimar? Either I shall be free or I shall not. If I am not, how judge a man who is confined to his room? If I am, the problem will be the same, for I shall not leave the premises. As you may well imagine, since I loathe making scenes as I loathe drawing people’s attention to me, I shall not exactly rush into public view, bearing the stigmata of my chains on my back. Therefore, how can anyone judge me? These so-called tests are pure sophisms, moreover, and I am going to convince you on that score with a word that will prove to you both that I am not a hypocrite and that I have no desire to impose my will, since I am going to let you in on this little secret. A man is cured or he is not: there is no in-between. If he is, he will act honorably; and if he is not he will be clever enough, knowing that everything depends on it, to curb himself for a certain period of time to make people believe he is cured. Then let the world judge him. That, Mademoiselle, is all nonsense, stupidity, protocol, I say to you, and to what end? To bribe the police lackeys, that is the sole and unique purpose.

  Therefore, perish the very thought that my self-interest and happiness are dependent upon Montélimar. I tell you once again, with no ill humor intended—I can say that I feel perhaps less ill-humored today than I have at any time in my life—that my intention is to leave France no later than six months after my release: there is nothing more certain in the world than that. Remember one circumstance: I was completely free at La Coste, and convinced that I would remain so. And to what use did I put that initial period of freedom? Within a fortnight of my release had I not already taken the first step toward implementing my plan? And as you may well recall, I urgently begged you to put me in contact with a certain consul you knew in the Barbary States. Check with Chauvin and ask him whether or not I had ordered him, the very next time he was going to Marseilles, to stop by La Coste, so that he could run a very important errand for me. If I had had a trifle more time, you would have known what that errand was: bring to La Coste the representative of one of those three countries, who is stationed in Marseilles,11 so that I could work out my arrangements with him. I was nevertheless free at that time, and unpressured, or so I thought. Yes, Mademoiselle, either there in the Barbary States or in Prussia is where the novel of my life will have its denouement. And you may be quite sure that I say it without any ill humor and without finishing the sentence with some sarcastic remark, which if I listened to my heart could quite easily, and quite naturally, be the case. So you can clearly see that everything they are doing is perfectly useless, and it would be infinitely preferable t
o let me profit from the few years I have left by making proper plans for my dismal old age—if indeed I have any—by granting me my freedom to tie up a few affairs essential to the welfare of my children, and then clear out as soon as possible. That would be infinitely better than making me waste my time, as they are presently doing, for if they are counting on my changing my mind, they had better know I never shall. My mind is made up whether I am free or behind bars, and I shall carry out my plans or I shall die in the effort, in which wise all that will be needed is six feet of earth: may God bring me soon to that blessed moment! I shall be free of more than my share of grief.

  Is there anything more charming in the world than your announcing to me that “they will take precautions to make sure my presence remains a secret during my transfer?” Well, now! What does that mean? ’Tis a lovely little mockery, that charming sentence. “Make sure my presence remains a secret during my transfer,” only to arrive with great fanfare in Montélimar! That’s a bit like that silly fool who, on his way to the ball at the Opera, donned his mask at the far end of the rue Saint-Honoré, only to take it off when he entered the ball. Do you realize that Madame de Montreuil’s advice sometimes contains glimmers of reason, flashes of wisdom that are truly frightening? Take care to conceal me the entire length of the voyage, then make public my presence in Montélimar after I arrive! Good God, imagine the mind capable of concocting such a plan! How do you imagine I’ll be viewed after that? And that they know ’tis me! Quite impossible!

  The only way to avoid making scenes, Mademoiselle, and the only reasonable way of proceeding, is simply to send me alone to my estates, on my word of honor. If they are afraid I might digress from my route, let them have a spy follow me, with orders to summon forth the entire constabulary to track me down if I should deviate one iota. It seems to me that what I offer is more than reasonable.

  Your Montélimar project is so prodigiously stupid, so unimaginative, so heavy-handed, so imbecilic, that I confess there are times when I find it impossible to cram it into my brain; at which point here is what I put in its place:

  At Montélimar, the police escort will tell me he has orders to bring me to my place of abode. And in that case here is all they want: to “escort me,” in order to make certain that I do not stop off anywhere, especially not in Paris or in Lyons; “escort me,” so that an inexperienced police escort can learn once again the ways and byways to my place of abode, and thereby know the various transfer points, for such is the high-minded thinking of la présidente: corrupt the vassals, corrupt the domestics, turn them into spies. Oh! When she has done that, you see, she fancies that is all it takes, and thinks she is holding all the cards. She has had that nasty little habit ever since her dear husband, the president, began betraying her, with his oh so minor infidelities’, she acted as if she were the jealous wife, the better to conceal her own whoring tendencies, and although she for her part never hesitated to help herself to whomsoever she fancied—the major proof of which, it is said, is that Madame de Sade is her only sure legitimate child of the twelve she has brought into this world—the better, therefore, I say, to conceal her own behavior, she corrupted the president’s valets, bribed spies to follow his carriage, etc., and ’tis from there that her obsession with spies, and police lackeys and police escorts derived. Yes, therein lies its origin. In return for which, ’tis therefore clear as the nose on your face that the only reason for all this would be to prevent me from stopping off somewhere along the route and to bribe some scoundrel to spy on me. Let us examine the futility of both projects. What is the use of taking so many precautions to keep me from stopping off in such and such a city, since as soon as I am set free, I shall be the master of my own movements to go back wherever I please, and you may be most sure I shall do just that. And what is the point of having spies on my premises since I have no intention of remaining there any longer than it takes to make my arrangements to go abroad for the rest of my life? Were I to recognize them as such—as spies, that is—or merely suspect them—I should break both their arms. La présidente has already forced me to take such action against two or three of her rogues in Paris, as I’m sure she remembers all too well! To start in again with new scandals, perhaps new troubles of one sort or another, that’s all. What! That wretched hussy won’t leave me alone once and for all in my life? She doesn’t want to understand that as long as I feel the slightest chain holding me back, I’ll commit one offensive act after another: haven’t I convinced her of that during the ten years it has pleased her to allow my affair to drag on? And is it for that reason she wants it to drag on even longer, so that she can accumulate further proof? No, I submit that never has a creature so dogged, so obsessed with evil as she, ever seen the light of day.

  And, why, therefore, do you not want me to write my family, and what do you understand by “my family”? The only family I acknowledge are those related to my father, and nothing on the face of the earth or in the heavens above could keep me from writing to or loving them. The more they remind me of an adored being,12 who would most surely not have allowed me to suffer as long as I have, the more they are near and dear to me, and if ever there is something I shall miss by leaving France it will be they and they alone. And I reply to you that my first effort will be to write them as soon as I can to tell them how much I love them. In short, Mademoiselle, here is the result of my reflection, broken down article by article. I place it at the end of my letter in order to make it easier to refer to whenever one so desires, all the more so since these will in all likelihood be my final reflections and final prayers.

  May they be read in that spirit, and not in the sense of laying down any laws, knowing full well that in my wretched state I am in no position to do so, and assuring you that were I in a position to do so, the first law I would lay down would be to have la présidente burned at the stake over a very slow flame.

  Summing Up

  1. I am ready and willing to leave,13 because I have no other choice and because, moreover, I have hopes to be better off than I am, in return for which I agree to leave whenever one would like, my only request being that I be given till Thursday to wind up what I have begun.

  2. I most insistently request that I not be guarded during my journey. If one absolutely insists on this score, I shall nonetheless leave, because I cannot resist force, but never shall I pay the police escort,14 and I shall take my revenge on those responsible for this scurrilous act by any and all means, including the worst I can dream up.

  3. I ask that I be allowed to go to my own estates and not to Montélimar, and if one insists on going through with the insipid and ridiculous project of Montélimar, I shall remain in my room throughout the voyage, without ever coming out, and as a result without ever offering anyone the sweet pleasure of judging me, and I give my word that not for one moment shall I attend to my business affairs, and I further request that Gaufridy be informed that under no circumstances should he come to see me, for if he dares do so he will be badly received.