A French Independence Day

Stories filled the press of daily executions. The public squares and taverns were filled with stories of the Terror. Robespierre had sent deputies of the Convention as "representatives on mission" to oversee and enforce the Terror. With unlimited power they abused any who voiced opposition to the Committee. In Lyons, the Montagnard deputies used the military to bombard the city, renaming it the "Freed City." At Nantes, another representative on mission ordered thousands of suspected counterrevolutionaries onto barges. The barges were sunk and all were drowned in the Loire River.

Could virtue be both good and evil? Could one exist without the other? Is virtue divine? Is divinity both good and evil? I had so many questions now. The world I'd known had come crashing down around me. All that I valued—the divinity of Nature, the natural order of people and things—had all changed. I needed stability. A return to what I knew and believed. I sought someone who once shared my heart with the queen.

I hired a carriage after sending a letter from Paris to the Order of Petits Peres, the friars who operated the Charenton Asylum. I informed them that, in exchange for room and board, I would assist them by cleaning, cooking, and seeing to it that the patients were well looked after. They informed me that the fee for my travel would be paid upon arrival.

Once I had arrived, I requested the run of the floor where "citizen de Sade" was kept. It was one of the upper floors with much light and air. My room had a lock on the inside, whereas the patient's doors locked from without. I was given rudimentary medical training, meal and garden privileges, and a large handheld bell to use in the event of an emergency. The friars warned me of his outbursts. They informed me that a man would come to check on me frequently. De Sade's writings, they said, contained elements that were unmentionable to a good and humble woman.

Sade's was a corner room at the end of the hall with two windows. It was well furnished and comfortable. His family had paid the sum of 3,000 francs annually for his room and board. Had they not, he would surely be in prison, for he had authored many of the most scandalous novels in France. The most infamous among them wasJustine, ou les Malheurs de la Vertu.

I knocked lightly on his door. After hearing a low grunting sound, I opened it slowly. Balancing a tray with one hand, I shut the door behind me with the other. His back was to the door. Writing at his desk, I saw the top of the quill moving over his shoulder. Motioning with his other arm, he waved toward a place for the tray on the dinning table. I did so quietly. Then I stood, waiting for him to turn and look, but he did not. He just kept writing, his quill moving faster and faster, stopping only to dip it into the ink. I stood and waited patiently.

Finally he stopped. Placing the quill into its holder, he stretched his back and arms, arching to bend his muscles after the time spent hunched over in his poor writing posture.

"Your afternoon meal, my lord," I said meekly with my head down, eyes on the floor.

He sat still, staring straight ahead through the barred window. He did not move and said nothing for what seemed an eternity.

"Shall I take leave, my lord?"

"No," he said, still facing the window. "It has been so long since I have been addressed with such an exquisitely respectful tone. And by title...my sweet feminine creature, you speak without a foreign accent, yet you must be from afar, as you are obviously unaware of the current state of affairs in this land."

"I am aware, my lord. Shall I pour your wine?"

Turning now to face me, he queried, "I know you, do I not? Have I made your acquaintance?" He asked.

"Not formally, marquis. I was a servant to the queen. You came to play cards. Thereafter I came to visit you in the Bastille and accepted pages of writing for the queen's pleasure."

"Yes...yes, indeed. I do remember you!" Standing up, he walked over to the dining table. A slight limp—what appeared to be gout in his right ankle had set in. He was larger in the midsection than the last time I had seen him; his hair was still long and pulled back. It had receded a bit and started to turn, with streaks of gray. Stopping in front of me, he took my hand and kissed it lightly. Without letting go, he answered, "Yes my dear, I would indeed care for some wine."

From then on, I served him all his meals, changed his linens, and darned his clothing, as needed. He offered gratuities on occasion, mostly around holidays. I certainly spent more time with him than any other patient on the floor. We had short conversations at first, then much longer ones, as he was very knowledgeable on many subjects pertaining to religion, politics, philosophy, history, literature, and civil liberties. He seemed a pleasant man, but certainly eccentric, and quite arrogant. This was something to which I was accustomed, as most nobles possess these qualities to different degrees. He rarely had visitors, as Madame de Sade had received a legal separation and his son was commissioned as an officer in the service of the emperor.

Our republic had changed once more. I had learned to pay close attention to current events, as I was used to hearing them firsthand while serving at the queen's court. Now I was reading the newly emancipated press. The moderate Girondins had favored a constitutional monarchy—a weakened monarch, of course. The bourgeois Jacobins took many Girondins into their ranks at assembly to form a larger coalition against the radical left, which was now known as the "Mountain," since they all sat together on the higher back benches of the chamber. The Mountain had just dissolved the Committee on Public Safety and would not be silenced until it had assurance that there would be no king. A directory of five men was chosen by the assembly. This body was to fill the void of the monarch and create an oligarchical executive branch of government.

National elections were held shortly thereafter, and the literate males allowed to vote elected a slate of constitutional monarchists to the assembly. The people still wanted their king! This displeased the directory, and it simply declared the elections null and void. France had fallen into chaos once more. Uprisings began across the nation. The military was called in to quell the riots in the streets. This force was lead by a heroic general who had just returned victorious from Italy and the Middle East. He marched his army into the legislative chamber and ran those newly elected out of the building.

General Napoleon Bonaparte was then invited by one of the now disbanded directory to be part of a newly formed triumvirate with two others. Bonaparte was by far the most popular member of this new body and had the loyalty of the military. It did not take him long to dissolve the government, draft a new constitution, and declare himself emperor. Our grand revolution was now at an end.

The Marquis de Sade, as I alone called him, remained in the Charenton Asylum. He kept himself amused by writing and directing plays using the patients as actors. I did so enjoy the plays. The patients were always entertaining and the activity relieved them of worry and strife. I helped copy some of the scripts, and then stealthily handed them to the marquis's printer, who would meet me at the gate of the institution.

The marquis was always grateful for my devoted assistance and rewarded me handsomely with personal letters describing in intimate detail the wicked acts of debauchery he would perform on me, had he the opportunity without reprisal by the administration of the facility. Many times I encouraged him after receiving a letter, reminding him of my enjoyment in the queen's parlor that evening long ago. I would often untie the top of my blouse, held on now only by a corset, and lean forward for an extended amount of time when placing his food tray on the table before him, letting him leer at my feminine charms, enticing him further. Occasionally, he would grab me in a very rude and vulgar fashion. My only response was to wait until he kissed and groped me further before allowing me to leave. I never forgot to thank him daily for his crude and lascivious attention. As, if I did not, he would most certainly remind me.

There were times at the peak of the summer heat when I would slip into his room after midnight. One evening stands out in particular. Unable to sleep, and in quite a state of discontent, I awakened him with soft kisses on his chest while stroking him under the sheets. He slowly stirred from a wine-induced slumber and opened his eyes for me.

"Oh my child...you are indeed a visitor from paradise," he said. "And your touch is that of a muse of tenderness."

"My lord flatters me so. Your speech is divine and your written prose the work of a lecherous fiend!"

Breathing heavily, he pulled me into his bed. Careful not to make too much noise, I laid on top of him, as he was becoming weaker with age. If not for his wine and writing, he would most certainly perish. Placing him inside of me, I rode him up and down. Leaning forward, I whispered in his ear, "I could not help but take notice that the marquis was drunk and having a dream of excitement and arousal," I panted. "May I be so bold as to ask of the lurid images that had filled my lord's head this hot and moist evening?"

He held on to my hips as I rode slowly, then quick, and then slow again, not allowing him to climax.

"The thought of you, my dear; the image you had left in my mind today as you walked out, raising your dress so, revealing the roundness of your creamy white behind as you bent to splay it for me." His breath quickened, his hips bucking forward to meet my thrusts.

"Is that all you witnessed today, my lord?" I asked while quickening the pace.

"No, you wanton, cruel wench! You had arched your back inversely to display those precious nether lips that so exquisitely envelop me this very night!"

I moved faster still.

"I was forced to see but not touch, to perceive but not enjoy, until this late hour when you offer your return."

Lowering my chest to him, I let my breasts dangle in his face. Pounding hard enough to make a slapping sound on his pelvis, I felt an unearthly force rise within me. My breath was shortened and I was now unaware of the sounds we were making.

"Ohhhh..." moaned the marquis as he burst inside me. I shuddered and felt the warmth of his release travel high within. A wave of ticklish frenzy traveled from knee to head as I slowed. Nipples hardened, I leaned further in as he suckled and licked. I felt a warm drip run down from my sex as he softened and became flaccid once again. We remained in each other's arms a few moments longer and kissed some more. Then it was time to go back to my own room, lest I be found out in this compromising arrangement.

Eventually, others in the employ of the friars began to speak of an "unhealthy relationship" between de Sade and myself. The chief medical officer of Clarenton, Antoine-Athanase-Royer-Collard, described by letter to the Minister of Police how trying it was to have the "author of that infamous novelJustine" in the Charenton facility. "The man is not mad," he stated, "his only madness is that of vice." Royer-Callard recommended that the theater be shut down and that my marquis be transferred to a prison.

Although I was pleased when the decision was returned by the Minister of the Interior allowing him to remain at Charenton, I shuddered to think of his mental state once he was informed of the conditions of his detention: "That Monsieur de Sade be given complete and separate lodging so that he be barred from all communication with others...and that the greatest care be taken to prevent any use by him of pencils, pens, ink, or paper."

Sade's health continued to deteriorate. I believe his sickness accelerated once he was moved and his life became so solitary. Another was ordered to deliver his meals. I was told that he rarely ate them, and many times tossed his tray on the floor. He had grown very angry without his outlet of written composition. One could hear loud fits of rage emanating from his room almost nightly in his last days.

The son of the marquis had received an inheritance upon the death of his mother, Madame de Sade, and refused to pay the room and board of his father. Since so much was already owed by his estate, his last will was ignored and he was buried here in the Charenton cemetery. I offered the gratuities that he had given me over the years to pay for the burial, totaling sixty-five livres: twenty for the cross, ten for the coffin, six for the chapel, nine for candles, six for the chaplain, eight for the bearers, and six for the gravedigger.

I spend my remaining years here at the asylum. I now run all the social programs for the patients and I find this very rewarding. The patients are free of the politics and strife that had plagued our people for so long. I look back so fondly to the days of security and stability that I had grown to appreciate while in service to the queen, or to the strength of will I saw in the marquis.

There is no one I consider worthy to serve now. I go through my days at Charenton in memory of Trianon. I sometimes recall the parties and the decorations. Now, the biggest celebration in the land is on the fourteenth of July. On this day we honor the outraged Parisians who stormed the Bastille and gave such hope to the masses. The symbol of aristocratic government and corruption had fallen, and with it, all that I knew and understood.

As the rest of the population fills the streets with song, dance, and fireworks, I am charged with planning the menu for this holiday to be enjoyed by those deemed insane. Annually, I order the preparation of jambon persille—a ham in parsleyed aspic; ratatouille—a mélange of summer vegetables; and gratin dauphinoise—potatoes au gratin. And since this is a special thirty-year anniversary, a large cake layered with mousse au chocolat.

Our director has been very concerned about my overextension of the budget. He is especially worried that the dessert is not only very costly, but would affect the behavior of some of the patients, as many are on strict diets devoid of sweets and stimulating foods such as coffee or chocolate.

To this I informed him that "this is a most momentous occasion. The brave citizens that challenged royal authority should be remembered with only the best we have to offer. And with respect, my dear director, as for the health of the patients, it is only once per year."

He just shrugged his shoulders in approval and watched them eat.

Turning to the room filled with an insane citizenry of all ages and distinction, I remembered the one who lived in such splendor and had decided to share with the masses. Razing my arms to the feeding collective I roared, "Let them eat cake!"

──Dominic DiMilano