"Sade, Marquis De - The 120 Days Of Sodom 3" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marquis de Sade)

will be so kind as to judge what I intend to omit from what I am going to
tell you . . . and you will, I trust, dispense me from having to say more
about myself.
Lucile's mother had just fallen into a state of the most wretched
poverty, and it was only by the most extraordinary stroke of chance that
this charming girl, who had received no news at all of her mother since
having fled her house, now learned of her extreme distress: one of our
street scouts - hard in pursuit of some young girl for a client who shared
the tastes and designs of the Marquis de Mesanges, for a client, that is to
say, who was eager to make an outright and final purchase - one of our
scouts came in to report to me, as I was lying in bed with Lucile, that she
had chanced upon a little fifteen-year-old, without question a maid,
extremely pretty, and, she said, closely resembling Mademoiselle Lucile;
yes, she went on, they were like two peas in a pod, but this little girl
she'd found was in such bedraggled condition that she'd have to be kept and
fattened for several days before she'd be fit to market. And thereupon she
gave a description of the aged woman with whom the child had been
discovered, and of the frightful indigence wherein that mother lay; from
certain traits, details of age and appearance, from all she heard
concerning the daughter, Lucile had a secret feeling the persons being
discussed might well be her own mother and sister. She knew she had left
home when the latter was still very young, hence it was hard to be sure of
the thing, and she asked my permission to go and verify her suspicions.
At this point my infernal mind conceived a little horror; its effect
was to set my body afire. Telling the street scout to leave the room, and
being unable to resist the fury raging in my blood, I began by entreating
Lucile to frig me. Then, halting halfway through the operation:
"Why do you want to go to see that old woman?" I asked Lucile; "what do
you propose to do?"
"Why, but don't you see," said Lucile, whose heart was still
undeveloped, "there are certain things that one is expected to do . . . I
ought to help her if I can, and above all if she turns out to be my
mother."
"Idiot," I muttered, thrusting her away from me, "go sacrifice alone to
your disgusting popular prejudices, and for not daring to brave them, go
lose the most incredibly fine opportunity to irritate your senses by a
horror that would make you discharge for a decade."
Bewildered by my words, Lucile stared at me, and I saw I had to explain
this philosophy to her, for she apparently had not the vaguest
understanding of it. I therefore did lecture her, I made her comprehend the
vileness, the baseness of the ties wherewith they seek to bind us to the
author of our days; I demonstrated to her that for having carried us in her
womb, instead of deserving some gratitude, a mother merits naught but hate,
since 'twas for her pleasure alone and at the risk of exposing us to all
the ills and sorrows the world holds in store for us that she brought us
into the light, with the sole object of satisfying her brutal lubricity. To
this I added roughly everything one might deem helpful in supporting the
doctrine which same right-thinking dictates, and which the heart urges when
it is not cluttered up with stupidities imbibed in the nursery.
"And what matters it to you," I added, "whether that creature be happy