The Mystified Magistrate

by Marquis de Sade

  “I am most pleased to see you so reasonable,” said Delgatz, accompanying him to the little bachelor’s quarters he occupied when he had no designs on his wife, “and I urge you to continue being so. If you do, you will soon feel the positive results.”

  The following day, the ice baths were repeated: during the entire time this treatment was in effect, the judge did not have to be reminded of the necessity to restrict his activities, and the lovely girl who was his wife and yet not his wife was at least able to take uninterrupted advantage, during this interval, of all of love’s pleasures in the arms of her charming d’Elbène. At length, however, after two more weeks had gone by, Fontanis, once again feeling fit as a fiddle, began to pay court to his wife.

  “Oh, really, Monsieur,” this petite person said to him when she saw that further postponement was quite out of the question, “my mind is preoccupied with all sorts of matters other than love. Look at this letter I have just received, Monsieur. I’m ruined!”

  Saying which, she handed her a husband a letter in which he read that the Château de Téroze, which was located four leagues from the château in which they were staying, in a little frequented section of the Fontainebleau Forest—it was the revenue from this estate that constituted his wife’s dowry—had for the past six months been haunted. The ghosts living there, the letter went on, made a frightful noise, were harmful to the farmer, were causing the value of the land to decrease at an alarming rate—and unless something was done about it, neither the judge nor his good wife would ever touch a penny from it.

  “This is terrible news,” said the judge, handing back the letter. “But can’t we ask your father to give us something other than this wretched castle?”

  “And what do you suggest he give us, Monsieur? I must remind you that I am only a younger daughter. My father gave my sister a handsome dowry when she married. It would be unseemly for me to ask for something else; we must make do with what we have and try to put it to rights.”

  “But your father was fully aware of this shortcoming in the dowry when he gave you to me in marriage.”

  “I confess he did. But he did not believe the situation to be all that bad, and besides, this fact in no wise detracts from the value of the gift; it merely delays our reaping the benefits to be derived from it.”

  “And does the marquis know about this?”

  “Yes, but he does not dare talk to you about it.”

  “He is wrong. It is quite clear that we must discuss the matter together as reasonable men.”

  D’Olincourt was summoned and, when asked, could only acknowledge that such indeed was the situation. The upshot of all this was that they mutually agreed that, despite whatever dangers the decision might present, the simplest solution was to repair to the château and spend two or three days there, to straighten things out and see just how much revenue could be salvaged from the property.

  “Do you have a modicum of courage, Judge?”

  “Me? That all depends,” said Fontanis. “In our profession, courage is a virtue rarely required.”

  “I am fully aware of that,” said the marquis. “All you need is ferociousness. The same goes for this virtue as for all the others: you know how to despoil them so thoroughly that you never take from them anything save that which spoils them.”

  “There you go again, Marquis, indulging in your sarcasms. Let us speak together as reasonable men, I beg of you, and save our spite for another time.”

  “All right, then, here is what we must do: we must go and spend a few days in the Château de Téroze, destroy the ghosts, straighten out the matter of income to be derived from your tenant farmer, and then come back and have you sleep with your wife.”

  “Just a moment, Monsieur, not quite so fast. Have you thought of the dangers involved if we start hobnobbing with such people? Proper proceedings, followed by a decree, would be a far better way of dealing with this whole matter.”

  “Here we go again with proceedings and decrees … Why don’t you also excommunicate, the way the priests do? Atrocious weapons of tyranny and stupidity! When will all these cockroaches in their petticoats, all these cads in their morning coats, all these votaries of Themis and the Virgin Mary, stop thinking that their insolent prattle and ridiculous papers can have the slightest effect on the world? If you do not realize it already, Brother, let me remind you that ‘tis not with scraps of paper such as these that one can hope to get the best of knaves as determined as these seem to be, but with swords, powder, and bullets. Make up your mind, therefore, either to die of hunger or to muster up the courage to fight them in this manner.”

  “My dear Marquis, you reason like a colonel of dragoons. Allow me to look at matters with the practiced eye of a man of law whose person, inviolate and of prime importance to the State, never exposes itself to danger without due and proper consideration.”

  “Your person of prime importance to the State, Judge! It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good laugh, but I can see that you really want to inveigle a fit of laughter from me. Pray tell, how did you ever get the idea that someone generally of humble birth, an individual always in revolt against all the good that his master may desire, serving neither his purse nor his person, in constant conflict with all his good intentions, a person whose sole task is to foment division among private parties, to keep alive the divisiveness already abroad in the kingdom, to annoy and harass its citizens … how, I repeat, can you imagine that such a person can ever be ‘important’ to the State?”

  “I refuse to become involved in any conversation where the other party merely wants to vent his spleen.”

  “All right, my friend, I agree: let’s stick to the facts. If you were to spend a month thinking about this adventure, if you were ridiculous enough to ask your doddering old colleagues to give their opinion about it, I would still tell you that there is no other way of straightening out this problem save to go and take up residence in the very place where people are trying to do us in.”

  The judge continued to haggle, to defend his viewpoint by a thousand paradoxes each more absurd and more arrogant than the other, until at last he came to the same conclusion as the marquis, namely that they would both leave the following day, together with two footmen from the Château d’Olincourt. The judge, we have said, asked for La Brie, why God only knows, but he had a great deal of confidence in the boy. D’Olincourt, all too aware of the important matters that were destined to keep La Brie at the castle during their absence, replied that it would be impossible to take him, and the following day, at dawn, they made their preparations for departure. The ladies, who had risen for the purpose of seeing them off, outfitted the judge in an old suit of armor they had found in the castle. His young wife personally placed the helmet on his head, wished him all sorts of good luck, and bade him return with all due haste so as to receive from her hand the laurels he was going to cull. He embraced her tenderly, mounted his horse, and followed the marquis.

  In spite of the fact that the people in the neighborhood had been forewarned of the masquerade that was due to pass by, the gaunt judge in his military accouter-ment looked so absolutely ridiculous that he was followed from one château to the next with bursts of laughter and hooting. His sole comfort was the colonel who, coming over to him from time to time, with a serious expression on his face, said to him:

  “You see, my friend, the present world is but a farce. At times an actor, at times the audience, either we judge what is transpiring onstage or we find ourselves upon it.”

  “True. But on this one we are being booed,” the judge said.

  “You don’t say?” the marquis replied phlegmatically.

  “I do indeed,” Fontanis retorted, “and you must admit it’s hard to take.”

  “What!” said d’Olincourt. “You mean to tell me that you are not used to these minor disasters? Don’t you realize that the public is also hooting at you each time you commit one of your stupidities from your lily-livered bench, emblazoned as it is with fleur
s-de-lis?13 Of course, since you, in your profession, are made to be scoffed at, dressed as you are in that grotesque manner that makes people laugh the moment they see you, how can you imagine that, with so many unfavorable things on one side, you will be forgiven your stupidities on the other?”

  “You do not love the lawyer’s robe, Marquis.”

  “I cannot say I do, Judge. I am only well disposed toward what is useful or pragmatic: any person whose only talent is to fabricate gods, or to kill men, seems to me a priori worthy only of public indignation, and ought to be either jeered at or sentenced to hard labor. Don’t you think, my friend, that with the two excellent arms with which Nature has endowed you, you would be infinitely more useful behind a plow than perched on a bench in a court of justice? In the first instance you would do honor to all the faculties that you have received from Heaven, whereas in the second you but sully them.”

  “But you must admit the necessity of having judges.”

  “It would be far better to have naught but virtues, one could acquire them without judges; with judges, we run roughshod over them.”

  “And how do you expect a State to be governed?…”

  “By three or four simple laws filed in the royal palace and upheld in each class by the elderly of that class. In such wise would each class have its peers, and it would not befall a gentleman who is accused to suffer the frightful shame of being judged and sentenced by scurvy fellows like you, who are so prodigiously far from being his equal.”

  “Oh, that is something we could argue about at great length …”

  “Not at great length,” said the marquis, “for here we are at the Château de Téroze.”

  They entered the château; the tenant-farmer appeared; he took the gentlemen’s horses, and then they repaired to a room where they discussed the distressing things going on in the castle.

  Every night a terrible noise could be heard throughout the house, without anyone being able to figure out where it was coming from. They had lain in wait; they had spent several nights in the house; several peasants in the employ of the tenant-farmer had, the story went, been badly beaten, and no one was any longer inclined to expose himself to further danger. But just what they suspected it was impossible to say. The rumor going round was, very simply, that the ghost was the spirit of a former tenant-farmer of this house who had had the misfortune to lose his life unjustly on the gallows, and who had sworn that he would come back every night and make a terrible din until he had the satisfaction of wringing the neck of a judge within the confines of this selfsame house.

  “My dear Marquis,” said the judge, reaching the door, “it seems to me that my presence here is rather useless. We are quite unaccustomed to this kind of revenge, and we, like doctors, prefer to kill indiscriminately whoever we so chose, without our having any trouble on the part of the deceased.”

  “Not so fast, Brother, not so fast,” said d’Olincourt, stopping the judge, who was ready to leave. “Let us do this good man the honor of hearing him out.” Then, turning to the tenant-farmer: “Is that all, Master Pierre? Haven’t you any other details to pass on to us about this strange event? And does this spirit have a bone to pick with all judges in general?”

  “No, Monsieur,” Pierre replied. “The other day he left a written message on a table in which he said that he harbored no ill will against anyone save dishonest judges. Any honest judge has nothing to fear from him, but he will be unsparing with those who, motivated solely by despotism, stupidity, or a desire for revenge, have sacrificed their fellow man to the baseness of their passions.”

  “There, you can see that I must leave,” said the judge with dismay, “there is no place in this house where I can feel sure of being out of harm’s way.”

  “Ah, you scoundrel,” said the marquis, “at long last your crimes are beginning to make you tremble in your boots. All the people you have disgraced, or sent into exile for ten years over a party of well-paid girls, all the base conniving with families of which you are guilty, the filthy lucre you have accepted in order to send some nobleman to his ruin, and all the other poor wretches sacrificed to your rage or ineptitude: these are the ghosts coming back to haunt you, are they not? What would you not give at present to have been an upright and honorable man all your life! May this cruel situation one day serve to teach you a lesson, may you realize beforehand how unbearable a weight is a guilty conscience and that there is not a single happiness in the world, no matter how great it may have seemed to us, that can compare to one’s peace of mind and the profound pleasures of virtue.”

  “My dear Marquis,” said the judge, with tears welling up into his eyes, “I beg your forgiveness. I am a ruined man. I beg you not to sacrifice me to these evil spirits, but rather allow me to return to your beloved sister, who is pining away waiting for me. She will never forgive you if you persist in subjecting me to such mischief”

  “Coward! How right they are to say that cowardice always goes hand in hand with duplicity and treachery … No, you shall not leave; it’s too late to turn back. My sister’s only dowry is this castle. If you wish to take advantage of it, it must be purged of the rogues who are despoiling it. Vanquish or die: there is no middle ground.”

  “I beg to differ with you, my dear brother, but there is a middle ground, and that is to beat a quick retreat and give up all thought of deriving any profit from this property.”

  “Milksop! Is this how you show your love for my sister! You prefer to see her languish in poverty rather than fight to free her inheritance from the ghostly ties that bind it… Do you want me to tell her, when we get back, that these are the sentiments you proclaim!”

  “Good Lord! To what terrible straits have I been reduced!”

  “Come, come now, get a grip on yourself, and be prepared for whatever they may expect of us.”

  Dinner was served; the marquis insisted that the judge dine in his full suit of armor. Master Pierre joined them for dinner, and said that there was absolutely nothing to fear prior to eleven o’clock, but that from then until dawn the place was uninhabitable.

  “And yet we shall not abandon it,” said the marquis. “And here with me is a brave comrade-in-arms on whom I count as I do on myself. I am positive he will not desert me.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” said Fontanis. “I must confess that I’m a bit like Caesar. With me courage is like a woman: fickle and unpredictable.”

  Meanwhile, the time was spent in walking and surveying the surrounding area, and in going through the tenant-farmer’s books. At nightfall, the marquis, the judge, and two servants repaired to the château.

  The judge had a large room which looked directly onto two miserable towers, the very view of which was enough to make one shake in one’s boots. According to all reports, it was from these towers, in fact, that the ghost began his rounds. Thus he was going to have a first crack at him. A man of courage would have been delighted at that happy prospect, but the judge, who like all judges everywhere in the world, but especially the judges of Provence, was anything but a man of courage, had such a cowardly reaction upon learning this piece of news that they were obliged to change his clothes from head to foot: never had any medicine acted more promptly. In spite of this, they dressed him again, suited him up in his garb of armor, put two revolvers on a table in his bedroom, placed a lance at least fifteen feet long in his hands, lighted three or four candles, and left him to his own devices.

  “O you poor wretch, Fontanis,” he cried as soon as he found himself alone, “what evil spirit has got you into such a scrape? Couldn’t you have managed to find, in your own bailiwick, a girl as good as she, one who would not have given you all this trouble? But it was she you wanted, poor Judge, you set your cap for her, my friend, and look where it got you: you were tempted by the idea of a marriage in Paris and look at the results…. Péchaire* you may die here like a dog, without even having a chance to consummate your marriage, or giving up the ghost properly by receiving the l
ast rites from a priest… These damned unbelievers, with their equity, their laws of Nature, and their munificence, they think that paradise ought to be opened up to them once they have pronounced these three lofty words … let us have less equity, less Nature, less charity: rather let us decree, let us exile, let us burn; let us break them upon the wheel and go to mass—’tis a far better system than all that other.

  “This d’Olincourt seems passionately interested in the trial of the nobleman we sentenced last year. There must be some connection I didn’t know about… But damn it, wasn’t it a scandalous affair? Didn’t a thirteen-year-old valet we bribed come and tell us, because we wanted him to tell us, that this poor fellow was murdering whores in his château? Didn’t he come and tell us a Bluebeard kind of tale that no nanny would be caught dead relating to one of her charges? When we are dealing with a crime as momentous as the murder of a prostitute, an offense proven beyond any shadow of a doubt for the simple reason that you have the written deposition of a thirteen-year-old child whom we have had whipped with a hundred lashes because he didn’t want to say what we wanted him to say, it seems to me that we did not act with undue leniency when we decided to act as we did … Do you mean to tell me that we need a hundred witnesses to make certain a crime has been committed, when one informer ought to suffice? And what about our learned colleagues from Toulouse: did they have any such scruples when they had Calas broken on the wheel? If we were to punish only those crimes of which we are absolutely sure, we would have the pleasure of dragging our fellow men to the gallows no more than four times a century, and only by so doing do we manage to make ourselves respected. I should like someone to tell me what kind of a court we would have whose funds would be constantly available for the needs of the State, a court which would never remonstrate, which would record every edict and never kill anyone … I’ll tell you what it would be: it would be a collection of dolts, the laughingstock of the country … Don’t lose heart, Judge, try and keep your pecker up: you only did what you had to do, my friend. Let the sworn enemies of the judiciary shout all they want, they will not destroy it. Our power, built upon the weakness of kings, will last as long as the empire; God’s will, as far as kings are concerned, is that this power should not end up overthrowing them; a few more misfortunes like those that marked the reign of Charles VII can only lead to the ultimate destruction of the monarchy and its replacement by that republican form of government which, placing us on the pinnacle of power as was the Senate in Venice, will at least deliver into our hands the chains with which we are burning to grind down the people.”