Open post.
Despite her lingering weariness, an exhaustion of both body and spirit, Gabrielle has not been sleeping well. The third time her dreams wake her, she finds ink and paper and creeps downstairs to write.
Sade, mon ami,
I live. When last I wrote you, I was condemned. Now I am free, in a place without a name. Do not ask me for an explanation (if ever this letter reaches you! For all I know, you may never read it) for I can give you none; I have none myself.
If I knew where this place is, I would say you should come. You would be safe here, and free. There is a man here who would like to meet you, and for my part I must admit it would be wonderful to see a familiar face. We could write of Landa, and perhaps I would not always be thinking of --
One would think, now I have a soft bed and fresh clothes and a place to work, that I would rest well, that I would be glad. At times I am, but at others -- I told you, did I not, that my mother taught me her tolerance for difficulty, her ability to go on and not lament one's losses? But my mother went mad when my father died. Who knows if I have learned that, too? I dream such dreams! Bound wrists and the flash of a blade in the sun. I see Olympe's face, and I see my own when they told me she was dead. I see what you saw, the streets of Paris a river of blood. I see you pacing in your cell, and -- of all things! -- I wonder who will bring you your chocolate now, who will bring you books, who will paint for you the scenes in your head!
Every day, I grow to understand you more.
At last she is too weary to continue, and sets her letter aside, drifting off to sleep there on the couch. When morning comes, she is still there, wrapped in her dressing gown and dreaming restless dreams.
Typist: The letter can be read by any puppets nosy enough to pick it up, of course.
Sade, mon ami,
I live. When last I wrote you, I was condemned. Now I am free, in a place without a name. Do not ask me for an explanation (if ever this letter reaches you! For all I know, you may never read it) for I can give you none; I have none myself.
If I knew where this place is, I would say you should come. You would be safe here, and free. There is a man here who would like to meet you, and for my part I must admit it would be wonderful to see a familiar face. We could write of Landa, and perhaps I would not always be thinking of --
One would think, now I have a soft bed and fresh clothes and a place to work, that I would rest well, that I would be glad. At times I am, but at others -- I told you, did I not, that my mother taught me her tolerance for difficulty, her ability to go on and not lament one's losses? But my mother went mad when my father died. Who knows if I have learned that, too? I dream such dreams! Bound wrists and the flash of a blade in the sun. I see Olympe's face, and I see my own when they told me she was dead. I see what you saw, the streets of Paris a river of blood. I see you pacing in your cell, and -- of all things! -- I wonder who will bring you your chocolate now, who will bring you books, who will paint for you the scenes in your head!
Every day, I grow to understand you more.
At last she is too weary to continue, and sets her letter aside, drifting off to sleep there on the couch. When morning comes, she is still there, wrapped in her dressing gown and dreaming restless dreams.
Typist: The letter can be read by any puppets nosy enough to pick it up, of course.