Justine

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Justine
Marquis de Sade

‘Justine’ was the Marquis de Sade's first novella, written in 1787, whilst imprisoned for two weeks in the Bastille. Although published anonymously, de Sade was eventually indicted for blasphemy and obscenity (without trial) for the authorship of ‘Justine’ at the behest of Napoleon Bonaparte.Who suffers in the pursuit of desire?The Countess de Lorsange reveals her history, in a tavern, to a young woman named Therese; where a young girl and her sister fight a battle of morality. Set in a period before the French Revolution, Justine shows the battle of virtue versus vice, where earning your keep takes on fresh connotations, and a titled lady holds a lifetime of illicit secrets.

Justine

orThe Misfortunes of Virtue

D. A. F. Marquis De Sade

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#uf8d1053f-e1cc-547a-9f3a-9398693c8ad3)

Title Page (#u5a1596f3-6b40-5950-8dc6-7284b8a6901b)

Prologue (#u3a0a632b-62ce-5a0f-a884-a4a32bb9b9c8)

One (#uab06695b-32ad-52e3-9165-c609bd1f6abd)

Two (#ue1701f29-2781-50f4-943a-2f2081cc22d0)

Three (#ua14aec9f-41bf-5f77-8389-1a9a3da063a4)

Four (#u42fd6428-64c7-558a-9cc2-7cf7cb21a4b4)

Four(continued) (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Harper Perennial Forbidden Classics (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_475e09b0-2151-5e5c-ae7d-641b22b03418)

…A little less debauchery and he would have had his will of me; but the fires of Dubourg’s ardour were extinguished by the effervescence of his attempts.

One (#ulink_a60591a5-7db1-5569-8c53-464ede0117e4)

The triumph of philosophy would be to reveal, amply and lucidly, the means by which providence attains her ends over man; and, accordingly, it would trace those lines of conduct which might enable this unfortunate biped individual to avoid, while treading the thorny path of life, those bizarre caprices of a fate which has twenty different names, but which, as yet, has never clearly been defined.

For although we may fully respect our social conventions, and dutifully abide by the restrictions which education has imposed on us, it may unfortunately happen that through the perversity of others we encounter only the thorns of life, whilst the wicked gather nothing but roses. Things being so, is it not likely that those devoid of the resources of any firmly established virtues may well come to the conclusion suggested by such sad circumstances – that it were far better to abandon oneself to the torrent rather than resist it? Will it not be said that virtue, however fair she may be, becomes the worst cause one can espouse when she has grown so weak that she cannot struggle against vice? Will it not equally be said that, living in a century so thoroughly corrupt, the wisest course would be to follow in the steps of the majority? May we not expect some of our more educated folk to abuse the enlightenment they have acquired, saying with the angel Jesrad of Zadig that there is no evil which does not give birth to some good – adding that, since the imperfect constitution of our sorry world contains equal amounts of evil and of good, it is essential that its balance be maintained by the existence of equal numbers of good and wicked people. And will they not finally conclude that it is of no consequence in the general plan whether a man is good or wicked by preference; and that if misfortune persecutes virtue and prosperity almost always accompanies vice, things being equal in the sight of nature, it seems infinitely better to take one’s place among the wicked, who prosper, than among the virtuous, who perish.

Therefore it is important to guard against the sophisms of a dangerous philosophy, and essential to show how examples of unfortunate virtue, presented to a corrupted soul which still retains some wholesome principles, may lead that soul back to the way of godliness just as surely as if her narrow path had been bestrewn with the most brilliant honours and the most flattering of rewards. Doubtless it is cruel to have to describe, on the one hand, a host of misfortunes overwhelming a sweet and sensitive woman who has respected virtue above all else, and – on the other – the dazzling good fortune of one who has despised it throughout her life. But if some good springs from the picture of these fatalities, should one feel remorse for having recorded them? Can one regret the writing of a book wherein the wise reader, who fruitfully studies so useful a lesson of submission to the orders of providence, may grasp something of the development of its most secret mysteries, together with the salutary warning that it is often to bring us back to our duties that heaven strikes down at our side those who best fulfil her commandments?

Such are the thoughts which caused me to take up my pen; and it is in consideration of such motives that I beg the indulgence of my reader for the untrue philosophies placed in the mouths of several of my characters, and for the sometimes rather painful situations which, for truth’s sake, I am obliged to bring before his eyes.

Two (#ulink_b826bbae-5476-581e-a013-8d164bf7da80)

The Comtesse de Lorsange was one of those priestesses of Venus whose fortune lies in an enchanting figure, supported by considerable misconduct and trickery, and whose titles, however pompous they may be, are never found save in the archives of Cythera, forged by the impertinence which assures them, and upheld by the stupid credulity of those who accept them. Brunette, vivacious, attractively made, she had amazingly expressive dark eyes, was gifted with wit, and possessed, above all, that fashionable cynicism which adds another dash of spice to the passions, and which makes infinitely more tempting the woman in whom it is suspected. She had, moreover, received the best possible education. Daughter of a very rich merchant of the rue Saint-Honoré, she had been brought up, with a sister three years younger than herself, in one of the best convents in Paris; where, until she was fifteen years old, nothing in the way of good counsel, no good teacher, worthwhile book, or training in any desirable accomplishment, had been refused her. Nevertheless, at that age when such events are most fatal to the virtue of a young girl, she found herself deprived of everything in a single day. A shocking bankruptcy plunged her father into such a cruel situation that all he could do to escape the most sinister of circumstances was to fly speedily to England, leaving his daughters in the care of a wife who died of grief within eight days of his departure. One or two of their few remaining relatives deliberated on the fate of the girls, but as all that was left to them totalled a mere hundred crowns each, it was decided to give them their due, show them the door, and leave them mistresses of their own actions.

Madame de Lorsange, who at that time was known as Juliette, and whose wit and character were already almost as mature as they were when she had reached the age of thirty – which was her age at the time of our story – felt only pleasure at her freedom, and never for an instant dwelt on the cruel reverses which had broken her chains. Justine, her sister, however, just turned twelve, and of a sombre and melancholy turn of mind, was endowed with an unusual tenderness accompanied by a surprising sensitivity. In place of the polish and artfulness of Juliette, she possessed only that candour and good faith which were to lead her into so many traps, and thus felt all the horror of her position.

This young girl’s features were totally different from those of her sister. The one held just as much of artifice, flirtation, and guile, as the other did of delicacy, timidity, and the most admirable modesty. For Justine had a virginal air, great blue eyes gentle with concern, a clear dazzling complexion, a small slender body, a voice of touching softness, ivory teeth, and beautiful fair hair. These were the subtle charms of the younger sister, whose innocent grace and delicious features were so delicate and ethereal that they would escape the very brush which would depict them.

Each of the two were given twenty-four hours to leave the convent, and were left to provide for themselves, each with her hundred crowns, wherever and however they might choose. Juliette, enchanted at being her own mistress, wished for a moment to dry Justine’s tears; but realising that she would not succeed, set to scolding instead of consoling her, exclaiming that such behaviour was foolish, and that girls of their age, blessed with faces like theirs, had never starved to death. She cited, as an example, the daughter of one of their neighbours who, abandoning her paternal home, was now being kept in luxury by a rich landowner, and drove her own carriage around Paris. Justine expressed horror at such a pernicious example, and she said she would rather die than emulate it. Moreover she flatly refused to share a lodging with her sister, since it was obvious that this young woman had decided to follow the abominable way of life which she had so recently praised.

Thus the two sisters separated from each other without promise of any reunion, since their intentions were found to be so different. Could Juliette, who had pretensions to becoming a great lady, ever consent to see again a little girl whose low and virtuous inclinations would disgrace her? And, on her side, is it likely that Justine would wish to risk her morals in the company of a perverse creature who was about to become the victim of vile lubricity and general debauchery? Each, therefore, relying on her own resources, left the convent on the following day as had been agreed.

Justine, who as a child had been fawned over by her mother’s dressmaker, imagined that this woman would feel a natural sympathy for her position. She therefore sought her out, told her of her unfortunate position and, asking for work, was immediately thrown on to the street.

‘Oh heaven!’ cried the poor little creature, ‘must it be that the first step I take in the world leads me only to further miseries…This woman loved me once! Why, then, does she cast me away today?…Alas, it must be because I am orphaned and poor…Because I have no resources in the world, and because people are esteemed only by reason of the help or the pleasure which others hope to receive from them.’

Reflecting thus, Justine called on her parish priest and asked his advice. But the charitable ecclesiastic equivocally replied that it was impossible for him to give her any alms, as the parish was already overburdened, but that if she wished to serve him he would willingly provide her with board and lodging. In saying this, however, he passed his hand under her chin, and kissed her in a fashion much too worldly for a man of the Church. Justine, who understood his intentions all too well, quickly drew back, expressing herself as follows: ‘Sir, I am asking of you neither alms nor yet the position of a servant. I am not so far reduced from my recent position in society as to beg two such favours; all I ask of you is the advice of which my youth and my present misfortune stand so much in need. Yet you would have me buy it with a crime…’ The priest, insulted by this expression, opened the door and pushed her brutally on to the street. Thus Justine, twice repulsed on the first day of her isolation, walked into a house displaying a notice and rented a small furnished room, paying in advance. Here, at least, she was able to abandon herself in comfort to the grief caused not only by her situation but by the cruelty of the few individuals with whom her unlucky star had constrained her to have dealings.

Three (#ulink_14e02b7b-58d2-5c39-8ad7-793d9231551c)

With the reader’s permission we shall abandon our heroine for a while, leaving her in her obscure retreat. This will allow us to return to Juliette, whose career we will sum up as briefly as possible – indicating the means whereby, from her humble state as an orphan, she became within fifteen years a titled woman possessing an income of more than thirty thousand livres, the most magnificent jewels, two or three houses in the country as well as her residence in Paris, and – for the moment – the heart, the wealth, and the confidence of M. de Corville, a gentleman of the greatest influence, and a Counsellor of State who was about to enter the Ministry itself…

That her path had been thorny cannot be doubted, for it is only by the most severe and shameful of apprenticeships that such young women attain their success; and she who lies today in the bed of a prince, may still carry on her body the humiliating marks of the brutality of depraved libertines into whose hands she had once been thrown by her youth and her inexperience.

On leaving the convent, Juliette quickly went to find the woman she had once heard named by a corrupt friend from her neighbourhood, and whose address she had carefully kept. She arrived with abrupt unconcern, her bundle under her arm, her little dress in disorder, with the prettiest face in the world and the undeniable air of a schoolgirl. She told the woman her story, and begged her to protect her, just as, several years previously, she had protected her friend.

‘How old are you, my child?’ asked Madame du Buisson.

‘In a few days’ time I shall be fifteen, Madame.’

‘And nobody has ever…?’

‘Oh, no, Madame, I swear it to you!’

‘Nevertheless it is not unknown for convents to harbour a chaplain, a nun, or even a schoolfriend who…So I must be supplied with certain proofs!’

‘All that you need do is look for them, Madame…’

And du Buisson, fixing herself up with a pair of spectacles, and having verified the exact state of things, said to Juliette: ‘Well, my child, all you need do is stay here. But you must strictly observe my advice, show the utmost-compliance with my customs, be clean and neat, economical and candid so far as I am concerned, courteous towards your companions, and as dishonest and unscrupulous as you like with men. Then, a few years from now, you will be in a position to retire to a nicely furnished place of your own, with a servant, and such proficiency in the art you will have acquired in my establishment that you will have the means quickly to satisfy each and every desire you may wish.’

With these words la du Buisson seized Juliette’s little bundle, enquiring, at the same time, if she were absolutely without money. And Juliette having too frankly admitted that she had a hundred crowns, her new-found mama quickly took possession of them, assuring her young pupil that she would invest this small sum to her profit, and that it was unnecessary for a girl to have money, especially as it could be a means towards the indulgence of wickedness. Moreover, in such a corrupt century, any wise and highly-born young lady must carefully avoid anything which might cause her to fall into a trap. This sermon completed, the newcomer was introduced to her companions, taken to her room in the house, and from the following day her first-fruits were on sale. Within four months’ time the same merchandise had successively been sold to eighty different people, all of whom paid for it as new; and it was not until the end of this thorny novitiate that Juliette took out her patents as a lay-sister. From that moment, however, she was readily accepted as a daughter of the house, and entered the new novitiate of partaking in all its libidinous fatigues…If, excepting a few slight deviations, she had served nature during her early days in this place, she now forgot all natural laws and began to indulge in criminal researches, shameful pleasures, dark and crapulous orgies, scandalous and bizarre tastes and humiliating caprices – all of which arose, on the one hand, from a desire for pleasure without risk to health – and, on the other, from a pernicious satiety which so wearied her imagination that she could delight only in excess and revive herself only by way of lubricity…

Her morals were totally corrupted in this second school; and the triumphs of vice which she witnessed completed the degradation of her soul. She began to feel that she was born only for crime, and that she might as well cultivate only wealthy and important people rather than languish in a subordinate state wherein, though she committed the same faults and debased herself just as much, she could not hope to gain anything like the same profit. She was fortunate in pleasing an old and very much debauched nobleman, whose original intention had merely been the passing of a pleasantly salacious fifteen minutes. But she was clever enough to persuade him to keep her in magnificent style, and finally showed herself at the theatre or walking in company with the most aristocratic members of the Order of Cythera. She was admired, discussed, envied; and the roguish little cheat knew so well the art of grabbing what she wanted that within four years she had ruined three men, the poorest of whom had boasted an income of one hundred thousand crowns a year. Nothing more was necessary to establish her reputation. For the blindness of the present century is such that, the more one of these miserable creatures proves her dishonesty, the more envious men become of finding a place on her list. It would seem that the degree of her degradation and corruption becomes, in fact, the measure of those amorous feelings for her which men dare to proclaim.

Juliette had scarcely passed her twentieth year when the Comte de Lorsange, a forty-year-old nobleman from Anjou, became so infatuated by her that he determined to give her his name – not being rich enough to keep her. He allowed her an income of twelve thousand livres and assured her of the remainder of his fortune – a further eight thousand – if he died before she did. He also presented her with a house and servants, her own livery, and built up for her the kind of social importance which, within two or three years, caused people to forget the means by which she had attained such celebrity. This was the time when the wretched Juliette, forgetting all the sentiments due to her honourable birth and her excellent education, perverted by evil theories and dangerous books, anxious to be completely independent – to have a name, yet not be chained by it – began to ponder the criminal idea of shortening her husband’s life…The odious project once conceived, she nursed it, caressed it, and finally executed it with so much secrecy that she was, unfortunately, protected against all investigation. Thus she managed to bury, together with her troublesome husband, all traces of her heinous crime.

Free once more, and still a Countess, Madame de Lorsange resumed her former habits. But, considering herself something of an important figure in society, she maintained an outward appearance of decency. She was no longer a kept woman but a rich widow who gave delightful suppers to which the townspeople and the court were only too happy to be admitted. She was, we might say, a respectable woman who would go to bed with anyone for two hundred louis, or accept a lover on receipt of five hundred a month. Until her twenty-sixth year she continued to make brilliant conquests, ruining three ambassadors, four financiers, two bishops, and three Chevaliers of the Ordres du Roi; and, as the criminal rarely stops at his first crime – especially when it has been successful – the vicious and guilty Juliette blackened herself with two more of a similar nature. The first was committed in order that she might rob one of her lovers who had entrusted her with a considerable sum of money of which his family knew absolutely nothing; the second, in order that she might more speedily come by a legacy of a hundred thousand francs, which another of her adoring lovers had included in his will in the name of a third person, who was instructed to hand it over to the said lady after his friend’s decease.

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.

Four (#ulink_e9c66812-bc0b-5d0c-83e2-68cc3b588695)

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?’

‘Oh, sir!’ I replied, my heart grown heavy with sighs, ‘have honesty and benevolence altogether disappeared from the intentions of men?’

‘Very nearly,’ replied Dubourg; ‘people talk about them a great deal, yet why would you have things so? Don’t you realise that people have recovered from the mania of obliging gratis? – they have discovered that the pleasures of chastity are but the enjoyments of pride; and, as nothing is so rapidly dispersed, have come to prefer more genuine sensations. They realise, for example, that with a child like you, it is infinitely more profitable to reap, as the fruit of their monetary advances, all those pleasures offered by the refinements of lust, rather than the very chilly and unsatisfying ones of handing out alms for nothing. The knowledge of his reputation, enjoyed by a liberal, open-handed, and generous man, never equals in pleasure – even at the instant he enjoys such actions most intensely – the slightest delights of the senses.’

‘Oh, sir! When mankind is ruled by principles such as these, there can be nothing left for the unfortunate except to perish!’

‘What matter? The population of France is much greater than is necessary; providing its machine always has the same elasticity, what does it matter to the State whether its body is composed of a few more or a few less individuals?’

‘But do you believe that children can respect their fathers or their elders when they are ill-treated by them?’

‘What does it matter to a father whether the children who trouble him love him or not?’

‘It would, then, have been far better had we been smothered in our cradles!’

‘Certainly! – Such was once the custom in many countries; amongst the Greeks for instance; and such is the custom of the Chinese: in that country unfortunate children are exposed, or put to death. What is the good of letting such creatures live when they cannot rely on the assistance of their parents – either because these happen to be dead, or because they disclaim their offspring? If such children are allowed to live they only serve to overburden the State by increasing a population which is already too great. Bastards, orphans and deformed children should be condemned to death at birth; the first two classes because they no longer have anyone to watch over them and care for them – and because a childhood endured under such conditions may one day make them dangerous to society; the others because deformed weaklings can be of no use to society. All children coming within these categories are to society what excrescences become to the flesh: they nourish themselves on the sap of the healthy members, and at the same time weaken them causing them to degenerate. They might be compared with those parasitic plants and vegetables which, attaching themselves to healthy growths, completely spoil these by drawing off their nutritious essence. The funds collected to feed such scum are crying abuses; particularly those richly endowed establishments which are built for such creatures, and at such an expense! As if the human species was so exceedingly rare, so infinitely precious, that it becomes necessary to consider the welfare of its lowest segment! But let us leave the discussion of these policies of which you cannot, my child, comprehend a thing; and as for yourself, why complain of your predicament when the remedy lies within yourself?’

‘At what a price, gracious heaven!’

‘At the price of a mere chimera, a thing which has no value at all, other than the one which your pride places on it. Briefly,’ continued this barbarian, whilst rising and opening the door, ‘that is all I can do for you – If you can’t agree to my proposition, get out of my sight! I do not like beggars…’

My tears flowed; I could not hold them back any longer. Would you believe it, Madame? – they served only to increase the irritable temper of this man, instead of softening him. He slammed the door, and seizing me by the collar of my dress brutally told me that he was going to force me into doing that which I would not willingly grant him. At this cruel moment my misfortune lent me courage; I extricated myself from his arms and threw myself towards the door.

‘Loathsome man,’ I shouted as I ran; ‘may heaven, so grievously insulted by you, punish you as you deserve for your execrable cruelty and hardness of heart! You are worthy neither of those riches which you put to so vile a use, nor of the air which you breathe in a world stained by your barbarities.’

Reaching my lodgings I hastened to inform my landlady as to the kind of reception given me by the man to whose house she had sent me. But my surprise passed all bounds when I heard this female wretch load me with reproaches instead of sympathetically sharing my grief!

‘You mean little creature,’ she exclaimed in her rage; ‘do you imagine that men are foolish enough to bestow charity on little girls such as yourself without exacting the interest on their money? Monsieur Dubourg is too kind to have acted as he has done. Had I been in his position you would not have escaped from my room before I had satisfied my desires. However, since you do not wish to profit by the help I have offered, I can only let you dispose of yourself as you wish. You owe me rent – by tomorrow you must either pay me my money or go to prison!’

‘Madame, have pity on me…’

‘People starve through indulging in pity.’

‘But what would you have me do?’

‘You must return to Monsieur Dubourg – you must satisfy him, and bring me back some cash. I shall go and see him and make up, if I can, for your silly behaviour. I shall offer him your apologies. But mind you behave better next time!’

Ashamed and in despair at not knowing which path to take, seeing myself harshly repulsed by everyone, and without any other resource, I told Madame Desroches (that was my landlady’s name) that I was ready for everything in order to placate her. She went off to see the financier, and on her return informed me that she had experienced considerable difficulty in prevailing on him to grant me another chance – that only by dint of repeated entreaties had she persuaded him to see me again the following morning. She ended by warning me that I had better keep an eye on my conduct, for if I disappointed him again, or disobeyed him in the least, he would himself undertake the business of having me locked up for life.

Next day I arrived at the mansion quite excited. Dubourg was alone, and in a more indecent state than on the previous evening. Brutality, libertinism, all the marks of debauchery shone forth from his sullen features.

‘You have la Desroches to thank for my welcome,’ he grumbled in a harsh tone; ‘for it is only on her account that I condescend to grant you my kindness for a space. You should certainly feel undeserving of it after your conduct yesterday! Undress immediately! And if you offer anything like the slightest resistance to my desires, two men who are waiting in my ante-room will take you to a place which you will never leave again while there is life in your body…’

‘Oh, sir!’ I wept, throwing myself at the knees of this despicable man, ‘relent, allow yourself some mercy, I beseech you! I would rather die a thousand deaths than betray the principles I received during my childhood. Do you not realise that you will no sooner have accomplished your crime than the spectacle of my despair will overwhelm you with remorse…’

But the infamies to which Dubourg had abandoned himself whilst I spoke hindered me from proceeding further. I realised the folly of pretending to myself that I could affect a man who found my grief merely a vehicle for the increase of his horrible passions. He became more and more inflamed at my bitter accents, at my weeping and shuddering, relishing them with an inhumanity which frightened me, and further preparing himself for his criminal attempts. He rose to his feet, revealing himself to me in a state in which reason rarely triumphs, and during which the resistance of the object which causes such loss of reason is but an added stimulus to the delirium of the senses. He grasped me brutally; impetuously he tore away those veils which still concealed what he was burning to enjoy; then, in turn, he abused me, flattered me, caressed me, and treated me with contempt…Oh! what a picture! Almighty God, what a strange medley of hardness and mad unbridled lust! It seemed as if the Supreme Being, during the first of such circumstances in my life, wished to imprint eternally on my soul an image of all the horror I ought to feel for the kind of crime, or sin, which so often has its genesis in an abundance of evils similar to those with which I was threatened…But was there necessity for complaint at this hour? Certainly not – for I owed my very safety to his excesses…A little less debauchery and he would have had his will of me; but the fires of Dubourg’s ardour were extinguished by the effervescence of his attempts. Heaven avenged, on my behalf, all the assaults to which the monster tried to abandon himself – for the loss of his force before the sacrifice preserved me from becoming his victim.

Nevertheless, Dubourg only became the more insulting. He accused me of being the cause of his weakness, and wished to recompense himself by fresh outrages and abuses of an even more terrifying nature. There was nothing disgusting he did not say to me, nothing he did not attempt, nothing his vile imagination, the hardness of his nature, and his depraved morals did not cause him to undertake. But my awkwardness tired his patience, especially as I made not the slightest attempt to play up to him. You may well imagine that it required considerable fortitude on my part to lend myself in such a manner; nor has the passage of time been able to obliterate my remorse…Nothing, however, succeeded; his final attempts failed miserably; and my submission lost its power to inflame him. In vain he successively passed from tenderness to severity, from severity to tyranny, from glances of loving sympathy to the excesses of filth and lust. At length we were equally tired – a condition which fortunately persisted and prevented his being able to recover the ability necessary for truly dangerous attacks. He gave over, but made me promise to return the following day; and in order to be absolutely sure of this he paid me only the sum I owed la Desroches. And so I returned to the woman’s house exceedingly humbled by my adventure, and firmly decided, whatever might happen to me in the future, never to expose myself to this man a third time. I expressed these ideas to my landlady when paying her, and decried with maledictions the old rogue who had been capable of so cruelly taking advantage of my misery. Nevertheless, my curses, far from bringing on him the wrath of God, seemed only to bring him good fortune. Eight days later I learned that this notorious libertine had just received from the government a grant which increased his annual revenue to more than 400,000 livres. I was lost in reflections on this and similar inconsistencies of destiny, when a ray of hope seemed suddenly to lighten my heart.

La Desroches came to tell me that at last she had discovered a house where I would gladly be received, providing I conducted myself well therein.

‘Oh! Merciful heaven,’ I cried delightedly, flinging myself into her arms, ‘– that is the very condition I should myself lay down; do not doubt my decision for an instant – I accept the offer with pleasure…’

And so I left the home of Desroches for what I hoped would be a changed and better period of life.

My new master was an old usurer who had become rich not only by way of lending money, but also by robbing everyone with whom he came into contact – whenever he found it possible to do so safely and with impunity. He lived on the rue Quincampoix, in an apartment on the first floor, accompanied by an old mistress whom he called his wife and who was at least as wicked as he himself.

‘Sophie,’ said this miser to me (for that was the name I had assumed in order to conceal my own), ‘my dear Sophie, the first of the virtues necessary to anyone who lives in my house is that of honesty…And if ever I should find you appropriating to yourself the tenth part of one of my pennies, I shall have you hanged – hanged, do you understand, until it would be impossible to revive you! For if my wife and I are able to enjoy a few small pleasures in our old age, it is only because it is the fruit of our excessive labours and profound sobriety. By the way, my child, do you eat a lot?’

‘Only a few ounces of bread a day, sir,’ I replied; ‘together with a little water and some soup when I am lucky enough to be able to have it.’

‘Soup! Soup! – good heavens!’ exclaimed the old miser to his wife – ‘Let us bewail the extravagance of luxury and its progress in our times!’ Then he continued: ‘For a year this child has been looking for a job; for a year she has been dying of starvation; and at the same time she wants to eat soup! We ourselves have it only rarely – once every Sunday, to be precise – we who have worked ourselves like galley-slaves for forty years. You will receive three ounces of bread a day, my girl, half a bottle of river water, and every eighteen months one of my wife’s old dresses from which you can make your petticoats. At the end of a year, if we are satisfied with your services, and if your approach to economy corresponds with our own; if, in short, you order arrangements so that our domestic matters prosper, then we will pay you three crowns.