Quills

Dear Reader:

I've a naughty little tale to tell...

...plucked from the pages of history. Tarted up, true.

But guaranteed to stimulate the senses.

The story of Mademoiselle Renard...

...a ravishing young aristocrat...

... whose sexual proclivities ran the gamut from winsome to bestial.

Who doesn't dream of indulging every spasm of lust...

...feeding each depraved hunger?

Owing to her noble birth...

...Mademoiselle Renard was granted full immunity to do just that.

Inflicting pain and pleasure with equal zest...

...until one day...

...Mademoiselle found herself at the mercy of a man...

...every bit as perverse as she.

A man whose skill in the art of pain...

...exceeded her own.

No!

No, please.

How easily, dear Reader...

...one changes from predator...

... to prey.

And how swiftly pleasure is taken from some...

...and given to others.

Your linens, please.

Your linens, please.

- Morning. - Morning.

Your linens, please.

Psst.

It's me.

Careful. The ink's still wet.

Now, hurry.

That you, Maddy?

Yes, Mother.

Here are the dirty ones for you.

Just, ah... .

Just taking the bleached ones out to dry.

Aren't you gonna give us a hand, then?

Give her the ball.

Catch it.

Good. Catch.

Everybody run.

Bouchon!

Remember your manners.

Here it is.

The last chapter.

Monsieur Masse wants another manuscript, quickly.

He can't print them fast enough.

- I'll tell him. - I'll visit you...

- ...with the profits, once it's sold. - I'll be waiting.

Perhaps one day you'll tell me your name.

All right, we're all clear.

Marquis de Sade, Justine, latest edition.

Straight from the printers. Justine. Marquis de Sade. Justine.

"Our story concerns a nymph named Justine...

...as pretty a maid as ever entered a nunnery...

...with a body so firm and ripe...

...it seemed a shame to commit it to God.

One morning, the bishop placed his hand upon her thigh.

'Holy Father,' cried she.

'I've come to confess my sins, not commit them anew.'

Heedless, the old priest turned her over on his knee...

...and lifted her skirts high above her hips...

...exposing the pink flesh of her backside.

There, between the orbs of her dimpled ass...

...lay a blushing rosebud...

...begging to be...

...plucked.

Before Justine could wrestle from his grasp...

...this most ungodly man took a communion wafer...

...the body of our Lord Jesus Christ...

...and placed it on the girl's twitching orifice. "

Must I, Your Majesty?

"As he loosened his manhood from beneath his robes...

...the bishop muttered a Latin prayer.

And then, with a mighty thrust...

...drove it into her very entrails. "

The novel's lewd subject matter and its overripe style...

...reveal it to be the work of the Marquis de Sade.

He composes his prose from inside a madhouse.

Enough!

Seize every copy.

We'll torch them all on the palace lawn, in full public view!

As for the author, shoot him.

A note of caution, sire.

We all remember what happened to Robespierre, Danton and Marat.

Put the Marquis to death and history might even regard you as a despot.

- But I am history. - Of course, Your Majesty.

Nevertheless, cure the Marquis de Sade.

Succeed where countless physicians and priests have failed.

No one can fault Napoleon...

...for bringing a man to his senses.

Might I suggest an appraisal at the Asylum of Charenton...

...and the rather notorious inmate in her care?

I have the perfect candidate for the job.

Dr. Royer-Collard, a distinguished alienist.

He's a staunchly moral man of impeccable character...

...and iron resolve.

My colleagues have called me old-fashioned, even barbaric.

But here at the Hotel Dieu we favor an aggressive course of treatment.

Quite.

I do not seek popularity or renown.

Mine is a higher mission:

To take God's tiny blunders and those He has forsaken...

...and condition them with the same force, the same rigor...

...one would employ to train a feral dog or a wild stallion.

It may not be pretty, but it is mercy just the same.

A few more months of this and he'll be fine.

It's the emperor's dearest hope that you bring your expertise...

...your proficiency to the Asylum of Charenton.

Charenton? The administrator there is quite well-loved, isn't he?

He's young, an idealist. You'll have to be politic.

Do you know how I define "idealism," Monsieur Delbene?

"Youth's final luxury. "

Not so hard.

Don't force it.

Let the quill guide you.

Good.

Slowly.

We mustn't just copy the words.

It's important that we know what they mean.

St. Augustine tells us that angels and demons walk among us on the earth.

And that sometimes, they jointly inhabit the soul of a single man.

Then how can we know who is truly good...

...and who is evil?

Well, we can't.

All we can do is guard against our own corruption.

So you'll practice reading tonight on your own for me?

"And so the professor lifted Colombe's skirt...

...high above her waist.

'Let me be your tutor,' said he, 'in the ways of love.'

With that, he slid her pantalettes down...

...down, down over her knees...

...and there, nestled between her legs...

...as pink as a tulip, as slick as an eel--"

We oughtn't to be reading his nasty stories.

No one's forcing you to listen.

"--he gazed upon her Venus mound...

...her flaxen quim...

...the winking eye of God. "

You've been in his quarters, haven't you?

Once or twice.

I hear he's got a whetstone and chisel he uses to sharpen his teeth.

- He's a writer, not a madman. - What's he doing in here then?

Murder.

That's not so!

He writes books so wicked that one man killed his wife after reading them.

And two young mothers miscarried their babies!

I'd say that's murder enough.

If you slander him, you don't deserve to hear his stories.

I think she's sweet on him. That's what I think.

It's not the Marquis she's sweet on. Is it, Madeleine?

They have no right...

...sending someone to sit on your shoulder.

I work for you. I won't take orders from a stranger.

You needn't worry, Valcour.

It's administrative.

Nothing more.

Please don't eat the paint, Pascal.

Bravo, Dauphin!

It's far better to paint fires then to set them, isn't it?

Yes.

Wonderful.

Fresh linens.

Fresh linens.

I'm hungry for a proper visit. - Don't start!

Go ahead, you've a key. Slip it through my tiny hole.

Marquis?

Where did you get to, then?

Marquis?

Well?

Did I frighten you?

Frighten me? That's a good one!

I'm twice as quick as you are.

I suppose you're curious about your silly book.

What about my book?

It sold like the devil!

And then they started burning it.

That's the peril of composing such incendiary prose.

If only these coins purchased your other talents too.

- There's something else I want. - You've already stolen my heart...

...as well as another prominent organ, south of the equator.

Your publisher says I'm not to leave without a new manuscript.

I've just the story.

Inspired by these very surroundings.

The unhappy tale of a virginal laundry lass.

The darling of the lower wards, where they entomb the criminally insane.

- Is it awfully violent? - Most assuredly.

- Is it terribly erotic? - Fiendishly so.

But it comes with a price.

A kiss for each page.

Must I give them directly or might I blow them?

The price, my coquette, is every bit as firm...

...as I am.

Oh, you.

You talk the same as you write.

Hello.

So, what are we today, Cleante?

A bullfinch or a nightingale?

There's but one kind of bird in a madhouse, abbé.