Fear of De Sade

BARON: Stories about you go round all the most secret salons in France. I learnt everything from them. I’m a perfect disciple. I’ve heard them all, from what you did with poor Rose Keller on Easter Sunday (he gives a shrill little laugh

) right up to the fascinating night in Marseilles. It’s a legend already. And the baroness managed to get hold of the recipe.

VOICE: The baroness?

BARON:

It was she who brought the crushed Spanish fly.

VOICE: Crushed?

BARON:

According to the same formula you used.

VOICE: What formula?

BARON:

The aphrodisiac, man! Sorry . . . sir. The aniseed pastilles! The baroness got hold of the same formula you gave to the four prostitutes on the celebrated night in Marseilles – she didn’t tell me how. Don’t pretend you’re surprised! You’re amongst friends. To my shock, she asked to be initiated, and planned the party along the lines of yours. She wanted to follow your night in Marseilles step by step. You, your vassal Latour and the four prostitutes. We had to adapt ourselves to the circumstances, since I was caught unawares, and instead of four women we had to make do with two. There was a girl as well as the baroness. For the first time, the baroness wanted to take part at all costs – her, of all people, minx!, she was dying to take part in an orgy after so many years refusing sex, so long as there were no prostitutes to make up the group, as when I’d organised my parties myself. There were only four of us: the baroness, my cousin the Count of Suz, who appeared with her at the last moment and also insisted on taking part for the first time: Martine, the loveliest maid the count could ever dream of having, and me. If my reasoning is correct, they must be here in Charenton too. They must have arrived this morning, like me, or not long ago. Yesterday, perhaps. Or maybe they’ll be here tomorrow. If they’re also suspected. You must have seen them. At least two of them. Those who survived. Whoever’s not here is the dead one.

VOICE: The dead one?

BARON: The victim. It could equally be the baroness, or the count or even the lovely Martine, which would certainly be a terrible misfortune, an irreparable loss. I don’t even know which would be the worst denouement for me. If it’s the baroness, they might allege that I tried to get rid of her to marry the count’s maid. Or that I wanted to get my revenge for her chaste behaviour during all these years, for the humiliation she submitted me to with her chaste wifely refusals, and that I decided to punish her during the orgy, now that she was finally submitting to my desires. Anyone who doesn’t know the story, and doesn’t know about everything she’s put me through since we married, might think I went mad with jealousy when my own wife asked me to take part in an orgy, after telling me she’d been told about my debaucheries by my cousin, the Count of Suz – the truth is, he bears no blame in this matter at all, everything she found out about me she heard in Marseilles and Bordeaux – and that I decided to submit her to the worst punishments so that no such temptation should ever again enter her head. They might think I lost control and killed her, a bit dizzy perhaps from the effect of the aphrodisiacs – what a strange formula! – while she was frightenedly asking me what was going on, what these tortures were. They’ll say that the punishments I inflicted on her got out of my control, and that she finally died from the lashes I gave her. According to the same hypothesis, they can say that I killed the count for having revealed my nights of debauchery to the baroness, but it wasn’t him, I’ve already said that. Or that I killed the count to try and free Martine from his yoke. If Martine is the victim, my love – but it can’t be her! – they’ll surely say that I couldn’t bear seeing her in the hands of the count and the baroness all night long, and that I killed her out of jealousy, and if I swear once again that I was dreaming all the time – what a strange formula! – they’ll say I’m lying. I don’t remember anything. When I awoke in the morning, I found out that someone had died. Or rather, had been murdered. But I don’t know who. Nor do I know who the murderer was. They arrested me on suspicion of murder. And the others too. I imagine so, because I’ve not seen them yet. I didn’t see them when I woke up in the château. We’re all under suspicion, waiting to be tried, I imagine. In court, I couldn’t understand a thing. They were speaking a strange language. All those who were still alive are suspects, that’s what I heard. If at least I knew if the others are here, who’s here with me, I could find out who died. By process of elimination. Whoever’s not here is dead.