A second chambermaid has come forth to accuse aging hipster The Marquis de Sade of whipping her. The pre-modernist author, whom many credit with anticipating Darwin, Social Darwinism, Krafft-Ebing, Nietzsche, Objectivism, Libertarianism, Anarcho-Capitalism, and E. L. James, is already cooling his heels in the Bastille due to a Lettre De Cachet (King’s order without warrant or explanation). The court seems less troubled by Sade’s violence against commoners than his blasphemy, which is punishable by the guillotine.
Rumors have swirled around the aristocratic swinger for decades. As early as age 23, Sade was expelled from a bordello for “extreme behaviors unbecoming of this house’s reputation.” Throughout the years, he has been suspected of giving prostitutes les glissades du Micky; however, “les accords de non-divulgation” have kept The Marquis beyond the reach of what he calls “vulgar instruments of legal repression which should be employed only upon the common sort.”
The victim, Justine Trillet, claims Sade tied her to a divan and whipped her while reading overwrought philosophy. He then untied her and begged to be flogged himself. Instead, Justine frantically waved out the window. “You’re doing it wrong, fille retardée,” Sade exclaimed as Justine dashed down the stairwell.
Further mayhem ensued later that evening when Justine’s father, M. Trillet, rushed to the house (Sade's getaway estate at La Coste). Trillet attempted to shoot Sade at point-blank range, but the gun jammed. Trillet fled, but returned later that evening and successfully shot Sade’s morning delivery of baguettes and cream.
Already, a so-called “feminist” writer, Simone de Beauvoir, has penned an apologia, “Must We Burn Sade?” Beauvoir claims we must “understand” Sade’s behavior and that his novels “have social and literary importance.”
--Jenna Jayschool for Jezebel
UPDATE. Sade, through his lawyer, has responded:
I have long been of the opinion that insults dictated by jealousy, or by any other motive even more abject, which eventually reach our ears via the foul breath of a hack writer, should have no more effect upon a man of letters than the early morning sounds in the farmyard— the barking and the cackling— would have upon a sensible, peaceable traveler.
'Tis only a vile slanderer who thus casts wild aspersions upon a person's integrity without offering the slightest proof to buttress them. The group of servants at La Coste in those days were nature’s horror for their age and looks, and even if I did find them attractive, I would not that same night have violated their modesty. Also, how could I have possibly attempted to bribe them when, as my lawyer knows full well, I did not have a sol in my pocket. In short, this is nothing but a pack of slanders invented by M. Trillet. These accusations are stale and somewhat quaint, compared to the fever that rages throughout Paris at the moment.
To my prosecutors who now deprive me of my liberty, do not be so sanguine. We shall see who keeps his head in the end!