Quills (2000) Movie Script
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.
but guaranteed|to stimulate the senses.
The story|of Mademoiselle Renare,:
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 Renare 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.
- How easily, dear reader,
- one changes from predator...|- No.
- to prey.
And how swiftly|pleasure is taken from some...
and given to others.
There goes another one.
Your linens, please.
Your linens, please.
- Move yourself.|- We're going outside.
Come on, Pitou.|That's right.
- It's breakfast time.|Good morning.|- Good morning.
- I'm going outside.|- Go on.
Stop doing that. Everybody up.
Your linens, please.
- Psst.
- It's me.
Careful.|The ink's still wet.
Now, hurry.
- That you, Maddie ?
Yes, Mother.|Here are the dirty ones for you.
Just, uh-
Just taking|the bleached ones out to dry.
Aren't you|gonna give us a hand then ?
Bouchon!
Remember your manners.
Here it is.|It's the last chapter.
Monsieur Masse says|he'd like another manuscript|quick as he please.
- He can't print them fast enough.|- I'll pass the word on.
I'll pay you another visit with|a share of 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.
- Thank you.|- Marquis de Sade's Justine.
Latest edition, straight|from the printer's. Justine.
Marquis de Sade.|Justine.
"Our story concerns|a nymph named Justine,;
"as pretty a maid as ever|entered the nunnery,
- "with a body so firm and ripe...|- Come on, boy.
"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,
" 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.
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 ?
A rather notorious inmate|in her care.
I have the perfect|candidate for the job:
Dr. Royer-Collard,
a distinguished alienist|who's a staunchly moral man...
of impeccable character...
and iron resolve.
- My colleagues have|called me old-fashioned.
- Even barbaric.
But here we favor an aggressive|course of treatment.
- Quite.
I do not seek popularity|or renown, Monsieur Delbene.|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.
- This may not be pretty,
but it is mercy|just the same.
A few more months of this,|and he'll be fine.
- It is the emperor's hope...
that you bring your expertise,|your proficiency...
- to the asylum at Charenton.|- I'm much better now.
Charenton ? The administrator|there is quite well-loved, isn't he ?
He's young, an idealist.|You'll have to be politic.
- You know how|I define "idealism" ?
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|Columbe'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,
"waspink of the 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 a chisel, and he uses them|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,|so black with evil,
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're going to slander him,|then you don't deserve|to hear his stories.
I believe|she's sweet on him.
- That's what I think.|- It's not the marquis|she's sweet on, is it, Madeleine ?
They've 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.
It's administrative,|nothing more.
Please don't eat|the paint, Pasqual.
Ah, bravo, Dauphin.
It's far better to paint fires|than 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 want to know|about that silly book of yours.
What about my book ?
It sold like the devil.
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 from you.
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 another manuscript.
I've just the story.
Inspired by these|very surroundings.
The unhappy tale|of a virginal laundry lass,
a 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 administer 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 ?
Is it bullfinch or nightingale ?
- There's but one kind of bird|in a madhouse, Abbe.|- Oh, don't tell me.
- A loon. -
Sorry, I've heard|that one before.
- It's a long story, this one.
The climax comes|at a higher cost.
- You must sit on my lap.
- You demand a lot from your readers.
The story's thrilling conclusion|comes at a premium.
- What's that then ?|- Your maidenhead.
And then you must sew it up|as tightly as the day you were born,
and come back to me renewed|so I can deflower you a second time.
Some things belong on paper...
others in life.
Blessed fool who can't tell|the difference-
Mademoiselle LeClerc.
You're in the nick of time.
This old letch forgot himself.
He thought I was a character|in one of his nasty stories.
- Madeleine.|- Yes, Abbe ?
The next time you feel|the urge to visit the marquis...
I hope you'll come|to confession instead.
Care for a splash|of wine, Abbe ?
It's not even noon.
Conversation, like certain portions|of the anatomy,
always runs more smoothly|when it's lubricated.
This is a rare vintage from|an obscure village in Bordeaux.
Rather than crush the grape|underfoot, they place the fruit|on the belly of a bride,
reap its juices|when the young husband|steers his vessel into port.
Full-bodied flavor,|just a hint of wantonness.
Bottoms up.
It's from our own cellar.|I recognize the taste.
I should have told you|it was the blood of Christ.
You'd believe that,|wouldn't you ?
We treat you well enough here,|don't we, Marquis ?
Your very own feathered bed|in lieu of a straw mat.
Your antique writing desk,|all the way from La Coste.
Enough quills|to feather an ostrich-
Yes, yes, yes, dear heart, it's true.|You spoil me pink.
And in exchange, we ask only|that you follow the rules.
You know as well as I do,|you're not to entertain visitors|in your quarters.
I'm entertaining you now,|aren't I ?
Yes, but I'm not a beautiful,|young prospect ripe for corruption.
Don't be so sure.
Take your pen in hand,|Marquis.
Purge these wicked thoughts|of yours on paper.
Maybe they'll|govern you less in life.
I'll fill page after page,|my cherub.
I promise.
We're here, Doctor.|Mind your step, sir.
Good day, sir.|We've been expecting you.
Good. Very good.
Dr. Royer-Collard,|welcome to Charenton.
This may feel|a little awkward, my friend,
but it needn't be.
I've come merely|to oversee your work here.|Understood ?
- Of course.|- It's a formality. Truly.
Well, you're a man of science,|and I'm a man of God.
Charenton stands to profit|from us both, I'm certain.
I shall need an office on the grounds,|somewhere to store my things.
- This way.|- If you don't mind my asking,
why has the emperor taken|such sudden interest in my-
in our affairs ?
It seems a particular|patient of yours...|has captured his fancy.
I understand|he practices the very crimes|he preaches in his fiction.
Certainly not here.
- There were a few|indiscretions in his youth.|- "Indiscretions" ?
Abbe, please,|I have read his case history.
At 1 6, he violated|a servant girl with a crucifix.
After six months in a dungeon,|he mutilated a prostitute,
carving her flesh with a razor|and cauterizing the wounds|with hot wax.
I hope you'll judge him|by his progress here,
- No !|- not his past reputation.
I can't go on like this.|Why should this be happening to me ?
Once again, gentlemen.
I'm just a lowly cobbler.
I have been all my life.
And with this shoe,|I'm asking you to be a cobbler's wife.
It's a dreadful play,|a festering pustule|on the face of literature.
Why, the parchment it's written upon|isn't worthy to wipe my ass.
But you need not make it worse.|Say your lines with conviction,|my happy little shoemaker.
- Like a true actor.|- But I'm not an actor.|I'm a dyspeptic.
Just seduce her,|you goon !
He's actually made a great success|of our little theater.
There's seldom an empty seat,|not to mention its therapeutic value.
Playing dress-up|with cretins...
sounds like a symptom|of madness, not a cure.
Homo perversio:|a species that thrives in captivity.
Marquis, this is Dr. Royer-Collard.|He's joining us here in-
An advisory capacity.
Welcome to our humble|madhouse, Doctor.
I trust you'll|find yourself at home.
There he is, the new doctor.
Tell me, Abbe, why is he in your care|and not a proper prison ?
- His wife's influence.|- " His wife's" ?
Better to have an insane spouse|than a criminal one.
And he has never once|tried to escape ?
A man of his notoriety ?|He wouldn't last a day|on the streets without capture.
Besides, every wholesome thing|he might desire, he has at Charenton:;
a library filled|with the world's great books,
music lessons,|watercolor exercises.
What effect have all these amenities|had on his psyche ?
He no longer roars|or spits.
He no longer taunts the guards|or molests his fellow wards.
And his writing ?
- Ah, yes, that.|- Well ?
It's essential to his recovery,|a purgative for the toxins in his mind.
Do you favor|its publication ?
- For sale ? To the general public ?|- Yes. Yes.
No, certainly not.|It's unprintable.
All France is aghast at this book,|yet you've never heard of it.
Oh, dear God.
Silence the marquis,|or Charenton will be shut down|by order of the emperor.
"Shut down" ? But he's one|among some 200 wards.
You could try|my calming chair on him.
Or, perhaps,|try bleeding him with leeches.
Or maybe flog him|at the stake.
Why ? So he'll learn|to fear punishment...
rather than to see virtue|for its own rewards ?
Doctor, let me take up this matter|with the marquis myself.
- Chariton's my life's work.|- I am not without a heart.
But this book is a profound insult|to decent people everywhere.
Can you personally guarantee|this won't happen again ?
You have my word.
- What is it, Abbe ?|- The marquis has embarrassed us.
- From Napoleon himself.|- Why ? What's he done ?
He's been slipping manuscripts|to a publisher.
- He has ?
I placed my trust|too carelessly, Madeleine.
- This is a complete and utter...|- Oh.
disappointment.
Yes, it is.
The paper's cheap.|The type's too small.
What did you do,|bribe one of the guards ?
But you implored me to write|for curative purposes,|to stave off my madness.
But you've no right|to publish...
behind my back|without my sanction.
Have you truly read it,|or did you run straightaway|to the dog-eared pages ?
Oh, enough to discern|its tenor.
And ?
It's not even a proper novel.
It's nothing but an encyclopedia|of perversions.
Frankly, it even fails|as an exercise in craft.
Characters are wooden.|The dialogue is inane.
Not to mention the endless repetition|of words like "nipple" and "pikestaff."
There I was taxed,|it's true.
And such puny scope.
Nothing but the very worst|in man's nature.
I write of the great|eternal truths...
that bind together all mankind|the whole world over.
We eat, we shit, we fuck,|we kill and we die.
But we also fall in love.
We build cities,|we compose symphonies|and we endure.
Why not put that|in your books as well ?
It's a fiction,|not a moral treatise.
But isn't the duty of art|to elevate us above the beasts ?
I'd have thought that was|your duty, Abbe, not mine.
One more trick like this...
and I'll be forced|to revoke all your liberties.
It's that doctor fellow,|isn't it ?
He's come to usurp|your place here, hasn't he ?
Marquis, more than|your writing's at stake.
The ministry has threatened us|with closure.
Ah, they can't be serious !
Our future lies|in the stroke of your pen.
Mightier than the sword,|indeed.
Put yourself in my place. I have|your fellow patients to consider.
If Charenton folds, they have|no place to go, no manner|to clothe or feed themselves.
Fuck them ! They're half-wits !|Let them die on the streets|as nature intended !
You among them ?
If ever I showed you|a kind hand, Marquis,
if ever I granted you|walking privileges|on a spring day...
or slipped an extra pillow|beneath your door,
if ever I shared your wine,|laughed at your vulgarities|or humored you with argument,
then you will oblige me now...
for your sake...|and for all Charenton.
You've a touch|of the poet too.
Perhaps you should|take up the quill.
- Do I have your word ?|- Honestly, you cut me to the core.
What's the point of all your|valiant attempts at rehabilitation...
if, when I finally succumb,|when at long last I pledge|myself to righteous conduct,
you regard me|with nothing but suspicion ?
Have you no faith|in your own medicine ?
My, my.
At Charenton,|even the walls have eyes.
Don't they ?
Well ?
Well, I spoke to him|with reason and compassion,
the tools which|serve us best here.
- And ?|- He's sworn to obedience.
He's more than a patient, Doctor.|The marquis is my friend.
You keep strange|company, Abbe.
If you have the matter here|truly in hand,
- I have.|- then I have a friend|of my own to visit.
- Ah, Doctor.|- I've come for my bride.
- Oh, yes.
We've not expected you|for some time.
Simone has not yet|come of age.
I've taken a new post|at Charenton.
- I need the succor|only a wife can provide.|- Mmm, yes.
Simone...
you remember|Dr. Royer-Collard.
I'd not forget the man|to whom I was promised.
He's come to collect you.
Today ? This minute ?
I apologize, mademoiselle.
I had no time to write.
Be grateful, child.
In my experience, poor girls|who are orphaned never wed.
They wind up spinsters|or, worse still, nuns.
- Thank God that fortune|has spared you...
from such a fate.
Good-bye, Simone.
God bless you, Simone.
Let's move it !
The emperor wishes to assure|your comfort while at Charenton.
Consider the chateau a gift,
provided you're willing|to finance the necessary repairs.
Monsieur Prouix is the court's|most promising young architect.
He's at your disposal.
Of course, the place hasn't been|occupied since the Terror.
It has possibilities, yes ?
Simone ?
I am to live here ?
It belonged to|the Duke du Blangie,|a avowed monarchist.
The Jacobins|were most unforgiving.
His wife tried to escape.
They caught her here|on the stairs.
Set about her with bayonets.
There but for the grace|of God, eh, Doctor ?
I shed no tears for the past,|Monsieur Delbene.|I look to the future.
Monsieur Prouix.
We should quarry fresh marble,|don't you think ?
You must humor my wife|in all things.
If she wants Venetian glass,|she shall have it.
Italian tile, Dutch velvet-|Spare no expense.
But in her bedroom,|see to it that the door locks|from the outside...
and on her windows|are iron grates.
Bars, sir ?
In the convent,|Simone was spared|the world's temptations.
I will not allow her|to fall prey to them now.
She is a rare bird.
I intend to keep her caged.
Perhaps the sisters...
failed to instruct you...
in the ways of marriage.
The nightly duty...
of a wife...|to her husband.
- No.|- It's a scandal, truly.
He's a doctor pretending|to be a God-fearing man.
And that's not all.|He's far too old to marry her,|and she's far too young.
- Hasn't finished her schooling.|- Whisked away with barely a word.
- And that's not all.|- Tell me more.
The sweet little thing|is barely 1 6.
I say she's even younger,|only a child.
- That's not all the nuns told us.|- Tell me more.
Listen to this.
No.
- And that's not all.|- What else ?
She's not a coquette.|She's meant to be a nun.
- I swear.
- Tell me more.|- She came with a statue|of the Virgin Mary.
She arrived with a statue of|the Virgin Mary and a crucifix|around her neck from a convent.
Hmm. Tell me more.
He's old enough to have|fathered her twice over.
The hypocrite.
This has all the makings|of a farce.
Abbe de Coulmier,|you rascal.
Your comedies are|becoming quite the rage.|I had to claw my way to a ticket.
- I can hardly take-|- So expertly acted.
That charming young man|in last week's comedy-
I had no idea|he was an imbecile.
Everyone has talents|if we look for them.
- Yes, yes, I'm sure.|- Oh.
Isn't that the new doctor?|How thrilling for you.
- A renowned expert|right here at Charenton.|- Yes, indeed.
I will say one thing for him.|He has a beautiful daughter.
Enough of this bilge!
We're better than this.
Remember, gentlemen,|inside each of your... delicate minds,
your distinctive bodies,
art is waiting to be born !
So let's give the doctor|a performance tonight|I hope he'll remember forever.
And in front of them,|the marquis' wife.
Indeed.
Begging your pardon,|it's time to begin.
You !|You're the north wind.
Madames and monsieurs,
there's been a change|in tonight's program.
We will not be performing|The Happy Shoemaker.
- Instead,
we'd like to premiere|a new play...
in honor of the newly appointed|Dr. Royer-Collard...
and his lovely bride.
- A comedy entitled-
- Crimes of Love.|- The Crimes of Love.
Written by one of Charenton's|very own wards,
the Marquis de Sade !
Sister Senfone,|whither do we go,
passing over rivers,|canyons and snow ?
Hurry you,|for we must not tarry.
I deliver you now|to the man you shall marry.
When you have rested,|at your leisure,
he will coach you|in the ways of pleasure.
At last, she arrives,|my hard-won bride.
Hurry, my child,|and scurry inside.
There you'll find|such treasures await you.
Marzipan and meringue|to sate you.
Such gallantry in men|is sadly a rarity.
How lucky I am|to receive his charity.
Thank you, dear sister,|for abetting me so,
- bringing her here|to this secluded chateau.|- Quickly.
-Stand still and be quiet.|- Was that good ?
Little does she know|that terror's in store...
when I tutor her in|les crimes...
de l'amour.
Take this side of the curtain.|One, two, three-
Quickly, my suckling,|out of your clothes.
My scepter awaits.|How solid it grows.
- Stop it, I beg you.|Have pity I say.
You're not my lover.|You're a monstrous roue.
- Do as you're told.
-Stick your legs in the air.|- Leave at once.
- But it's just begun.|- Do as I say.
Madame.
It's true, I'm a pig.
And you've truffles down there.
- Oh, God !|Oh, God, what's this ?
- Such a wicked sensation.
A feeling somewhere|between shame and elation.
- Oh, God !
Use your tongue like a wand|in much the same manner|as Sister Semfone.
Leaving already ?|Of course, you've seen it all before.
I had a suspicion|the sister was sapphic.
I'd tell you more,|but it's simply too graphic.
Suffice it to say|she's a preference for lasses.
Even at Vespers,|she always made passes.
My darling, dainty morsel,|get on your back.|Let's try it dorsal !
I won't escape.|He wants to take me|in every way.
I'll plunder every lovely pore|till you're weak and cry,|" No more !"
- No, more, more !
Give me this !|More ! More !
Everybody, come forward quietly|for the next bit.
Then to prove you're truly mine,|I'll plunder you, darling,|from behind !
Yes, yes, yes,|let's do it.
And what of my lips ?|Will you soil them too ?
When you've broken|every other taboo ?
- ...every slippery hollow.
If you're obliging,|then you'll swallow!
Manners !
- Now that body has been|broken and swollen,|- Yes !
Lust, power and greed|are no longer-
Juliette !
Take him to the infirmary.|Maddie ?
- Has he hurt you ?|- His breath made my eyes run,|that's all.
- It's all right.
- Madeleine ?
Do you mean to take us|all down with you ?
Don't be absurd.
Disgraceful!
It's only a play.
- It was disgusting.
I wonder who's to blame,|the author or his muse ?
- It was fiction, of course.|- Of course.
- It was not inspired by circumstance.|- It certainly was not.
You ought to be ashamed, Abbe,
exploiting these pathetic cretins|for financial gain.
This is not our intention.
It was a freak show for tourists|and curiosity seekers.
Charenton is a sanatorium,|not a circus !
The theater is henceforth closed.
"Closed" ?
As for your friend,|playwright emeritus of the madhouse-
I'll do everything in my power-
Do more, or I shall be forced|to inform the ministry...
that the inmates are,|indeed, running the asylum.
Mmm. Mmm.
Well, I hope you're satisfied.
He shut down our theater.
He can't do that to me.
How can one man be so selfish ?
We merely held up a mirror.
Apparently,|he didn't like what he saw.
- What the devil are you|doing with my quills ?|- You've left me no choice.
I kept my promise.|I didn't publish.
Perhaps, in time,|you can earn them back.
You can't.
I've all the demons of hell|in my head.
My only salvation|is to vent them on paper.
Try reading for a change.
The writer who produces more|than he reads-
A sure mark of an amateur.
Here.
Start with the Bible.
It's cheerier|and more artfully written.
This monstrous God of yours ?
He strung up His very own son|like a side of veal.
I shudder to think|what He'd do to me.
Why are you doing this to me ?
Stop it.
I'll die of loneliness.
I've no company|but the characters I create.
Whores and pederasts !
You're better off|without them.
- I have a proposition.|- You always do.
Madeleine.|She's besotted with me.
She'd do anything I asked.|She could pay you a visit.
I don't know who you insult more,|her or me.
- Part the gates of heaven, as it were.|- That's enough !
You're too tense, darling.|You could do with a long,|slow screw.
Good night, Marquis.
Then bugger me !|Goddamn you, Abbe !
Have you no true sense|of my condition ?
Of its gravity ?
My writing is involuntary,|like the beating of my heart.
My constant erection !
I've done just as you bade me.
I've paid a visit|to the craftsmen.
He laughed|and called me a whore.
Took my money|just the same.
I don't know which|gives you greater pleasure:
the objects themselves...
or the humiliation I endure|procuring them on your behalf.
And last, but not least,
I brought you|some aniseed drops...
and some|chocolate pastilles.
Did you now, madame ?
They're filled with cream, yes ?
You know I shan't touch them|unless they're positively...
bursting,
erupting with cream.
What else have you brought|that I might nibble upon ?
- Donatien, you mustn't.|- Hmm ?
Tell me.|What other little treats ?
Shame on you, truly.
For fuck's sake, woman.|Bonbons ?
Am I to sit here gorging myself|on useless trifles,
sucking on your little sweetmeats,
when what I truly require,|what I truly need...
are a few quill pens,|perhaps a pot of ink ?
- Forgive me. I beg you.|- Don't you see ?
I've been raped.
- Far more egregiously than any|of my wretched characters.|- How was I to know, darling ?
How was I to tell you,|by writing a letter ?
With what, my asinine bride ?
I beg you, Donatien,
as your wife, your only ally,|you must stop making a monstrous|spectacle of yourself!
- You have come to lecture me ?|- To flaunt your deviance|in public upon a stage ?
They have put you up to this,|haven't they ?
You should court the doctor's favor,|not his contempt.
The doctor ? I ought to|carve my name into his backside|and fill the wounds with salt !
You're here, safe,|surrounded by brick and mortar.
My prison is far crueler.|It has no walls.
Everywhere I go,|they point and whisper.
At the opera, they hiss at me|when I take my box.
When I went to church, the priest|refused to even hear my confession.
He said I was already damned.
Why must I suffer|for your sins ?
That's the way|of all martyrs, isn't it ?
Give me back my anonymity.|That's all I ask.
Let me be invisible again.
You tell me, have you ever done anything|to secure my release ? No.
Have you petitioned|the courts ? Never !
- Sought an audience with the emperor ?|- How ? He refuses to see me !
It's a convenience|having your husband locked away.
You no longer have to hold your tongue|or hoist your skirts...
or crack your mouth so I can|put it to its one pleasurable use.
You're not my wife !|No, you're one of|my many jailors ! Out !
- What in God's name ?|- Take this cow away !
I can't look at her !
Perhaps you'll find a place for her|in the west wing among the hysterics !
Lock her up as well|so she knows how it feels !
The sow !
For a woman of humble origin,|your wife has refined tastes.
When I suggest granite for the foyer,|she's quick to counter|with Peruvian marble.
Peruvian marble.|It costs a fortune to import.
Whatever her heart desires,|Monsieur Prouix.
I would like nothing better than|to grant her every wish, sir,
but on the modest sum|you have accorded me-
I'm an architect,|not a magician.
I must see the doctor at once.
It's a matter|of dire urgency.
It is customary to write|and request an appointment.
Desperation has|driven me past etiquette,|all the way to frenzy.
My schedule is not subject|to the whim of lunatics.
I beg to differ, Doctor.|You work in a madhouse.
Your every waking moment|is governed by the insane.
I pray you, be succinct.
You're new to Charenton, yes ?
Perhaps you're not yet|familiar with my husband|and his unusual case.
With all due respect, madame,
all France is familiar|with your husband.
Would you grant me|a moment alone, please,|Monsieur Prouix ?
Humbly so.|Your servant, sir.
Uh, gentlemen.
Madame, please.
Good morning, madame.
I assume you've come here|to plead for clemency|on your husband's behalf.
You do, do you ?
It's my dearest hope, Doctor,
that he remain|entombed forever.
And that when at last|he perishes in the dank|bowels of your institution,
that he be left as carrion|for the rodents and the worms.
I stand corrected, madame.
If you can't cure him...
truly cure him...
then at least, I beg you,|harness the beast|that rages in his soul.
That is not easily done, madame.
You are aware, are you not,|that it costs a great deal...
to house your husband|at Charenton ?
I pay his stipend every month,|far more dutifully than I should.
But that barely covers|the cost of his room...
with nary a penny left over|for appropriate treatments:
opiates to quell his temper,
restraints to chasten him|when he misbehaves.
Perhaps, if you could|buttress your entreaties|with the means to oblige them-
I'm not a wealthy woman.
You have a pension,|haven't you ?
- From the sale of his books ?|- It's tainted money, Doctor.
- What a beautiful thought.|- What thought is that ?
That the ill-gotten funds|born of his degeneracy...
might now affect his salvation.
It's beyond perversity...
that honor should carry|a price tag.
Imagine...
old friends deigning|to kiss your hand again.
"Why, Marquise,|enchanted to see you again.
Welcome back from your long,|dark descent into the abyss of infamy."
Don't toy with me, Doctor.
Now is the time|to secure your epitaph:
"The benevolent Marquise,
Chariton's most revered|philanthropist"...
or "Satan's bride."
Rest assured, Marquise,
your generosity will speed your husband|ever faster towards a cure.
The Peruvian marble,|without question.
- I'm eternally in your debt.|- And I in yours, Marquise.
Doctor, can I impart to you|his cruelest trick ?
Of course.
Once, long ago...
in the folly of youth...
he made me love him.
Madeleine,|my sweet, can you smuggle me|a quill and some ink ?
I don't dare.
The doctor's got his eye on you|sharper than ever now.
Dr. Montalivet was,|politely put, diminutive.
When flaccid, his member|was little more than a bobbin.
And when inflamed,|it towered a mere four inches.
To compensate, he strove|to impress his ladylove|with a host of other endowments:;
fine wine, fresh game|and a house as large as his|other fortunes were small.
We've ceiling beams|en route from Provence.
And next week,|a muralist from Paris arrives...
to paint a trompe l'oeil|in the ballroom.
- Doesn't that please you ?|- Very much.
I would prefer brandy|in the salon...
where we can sit side by side|before the fire.
I'd rather read, thank you.
You prefer a book|to your husband's company ?
Well, no wonder.|I'm only flesh and blood.
That's no match, is it,|for the printed page, hmm ?
Good evening then.|Enjoy your solitude.
Your linens, please.
Your linens.
Now or never.
Voila !
Well, if you won't read it|to your own mother,
perhaps you ought not|to be reading it at all.
It's not your cup of tea, Mother.
Oh, go on, darling,|give it a read.
" Monsieur Bouloir was a man|whose erotic appetites...
"might discreetly be described|as... postmortem.
- "A habitue of cemeteries,
- "A habitue of cemeteries,
"his proudest conquest|was a maid...
six decades his senior,|deceased a dozen years."
- That's terrible.
Oh, that's too, too terrible.
Well, go on.
"The vigor with which|he made love...
Mm-hmm.
"caused her bones to dislodge.
- "Still...
"he granted her the highest compliment|he accorded any woman.
- Yes ?
Well worth the dig."
- You asked my name once.
It's Madeleine.
Sweet then, like the pastry.
Haven't you a name yourself?
Ride away with me someday.|Perhaps I'll tell you.
Your mother may be blind,|but you have a keen pair of eyes.
My mother is blind on account of|the lye in the laundry kettles.
Soaking sheets for lunatics|has cost this woman her sight.
- This could cost her far more.|- You'll get more from her|with kindness than-
What could cause|a tincture like this ?
- I'm only a laundress, not a detective.|- Now is not the time-
Perhaps your kettles|are stained with rust.
Or maybe the lye is rancid.
Or maybe,just maybe...
these sheets once belonged|to our friend the marquis.
We've over 200 beds.|They could have been anybody's.
With such a fine thread count,|decorated in his very own script ?
She's lying.|It shows in her face.
- We're clearing everything out.
- Almost done, sir.|- Remember, anything|he could fashion as a quill.
His entire room stripped bare.
So the doctor cracks his whip|and you dance !
My bed, gone.|Am I to freeze to death ?
Go on, take his rug.
- Take it.|- That's a Turkish weave, you idiot.
It costs more than|you'll earn in a lifetime.
- His chair.|- Fine. Take it. Take it all.
- Here.|- There you go.
And this-|Careful, it's slippery.
You've no idea|where it's been.
Let's not forget Mary,|sweet Mary,
the Jewish whore,|God's little harlot.
Virgin birth ? An entire religion|built on an oxymoron.
His wine.
From now on,|nothing but water at every meal.
- Water ?|- And your meat shall be deboned.
- Why this sudden torture ?|- Because your writing|continues unchecked.
- I didn't create this world of ours.|I only record it.|- Its horrors, perhaps.
Its darkest nightmares.|And to what end ?
- Nothing but your own|morbid gratification.|- No, I write what I see:
the endless procession|to the guillotine.
We're all lined up,|waiting for the crunch of the blade.
The rivers of blood are flowing|beneath our feet, Abbe.
I've been to hell,|young man.
You've only read about it.
I'm sorry, Marquis, truly.
These chastity vows of yours-|How strict are they ?
- Suppose you only put it|in her mouth ?
Pious little worm.
In conditions of adversity,|the artist flourishes.
Curious, aren't you ?
I fuckin' pleasure myself.|I can pleasure you too.
You don't know|what you're missing, darling.
I'm in search of a book.|Perhaps you know it.
I've only got one copy left.
Rescued it meself|from the bonfire.
Please hurry.|My husband locks the door at dusk.
Sweet little thing like you...
shouldn't be reading|such filth anyway.
I grew up in a convent, sir.
Everything I know in the world,|I owe to books.
To the young maidens|of the world,
wrest yourselves free|from the tyranny of virtue...
and taste without shame|the pleasures of the flesh.
Male power lies|in the clench of a fist,
but a woman's power|lies elsewhere:;
in the velvet cavity|betwixt her thighs.
It's late, Simone, darling.
Put your poems aside.
Breakfast.
Madeleine, I beg you-
What have they done to you now ?
Tortures so ugly,|so medieval...
even I haven't the words|to describe them.
- Go on.|- If you have an ounce|of pity in your heart,
throw caution aside...
and unlock my door.
God help me.
- I don't dare.|- Don't be a dunce, child.|I have a surprise for you.
Now open the friggin' door.
My newest book.
It starts at my left cuff...
and continues|right across my back.
The longest sentence,|you'll notice,
runs the entire length|of my inseam.
And it all completes itself...
at the base|of my right shoe.
- Oh, my. " Pikestaff' ?|- Yes.
- Yes.
- " Naked on a plate" ?|- Yes.
"One hundred unhurried tongues" ?
Yes.
- You're a genius !|- Yes !
Shh !
Go quickly...
so you won't be blamed|form misbehavior.
Maddie, you traffic with the devil,|you'll pay the devil's price.
- Sorry.|- Guards !
- Guards !|- Yes !
- Shh !|- You'll pay ! Guards !
Look what I've brought you,|my darlings.
- There's something written.|- Two chapters, one for each cheek.
My writing lives !
Take this beast|back to his cage !
Don't tell me.|You've come to read my trousers.
Don't keep me in suspense.|What will it be, 50 lashes ?|A night on the rack ?
I won't sully my hands|with him.
Nor should you.|That's the first rule|of politics, isn't it ?
The man who orders the execution|never drops the blade !
You're fortunate|they've forced me to punish you.
If it were up to the doctor,|you'd be flayed alive.
Well, the doctor is a man|after my own heart.
What in God's name|am I to do with you ?
T-The more I forbid,|the more you're provoked.
Strip.
Your britches as well.
You started this little game...
you finish it.
Or haven't you the courage ?
I thought not.
It's a potent aphrodisiac,
isn't it, dumpling ?
Having power|over another man.
Your wig.
You'll no longer|spread your insidious gospel.
From now on,
you will not even write|your own ignominious name.
Are your convictions|so fragile,
they cannot stand|in opposition to mine ?
Is your God so flimsy, so weak ?|For shame !
Don't flatter yourself, Marquis.
You're not the Antichrist.
You're nothing but a malcontent|who knows how to spell.
I saw her with my own eyes.
She put the key in the latch|just as proud as she pleased.
Free her now !
Leave her duly strung.
Maddie.
If only blood|will appease you,
then shed mine !
- Abbe, no.|- Go on.
Now !
That won't be necessary.
If you're going to|martyr yourself, Abbe,
do it for God,|not a chambermaid.
Now put your clothes back on.
Had I known|your taste in novels,
I never would have|taught you to read.
Don't say that.
Reading's my salvation.
But why must you indulge|in his pornography ?
It's a hard day's wages,|slaving away for madmen.
What I've seen in life,
it takes a lot|to hold my interest.
I put myself in his stories.
I play the parts.
- Each strumpet, each murderess.|- Oh, Maddie-
If I wasn't such a bad woman|on the page,
I'll hazard I couldn't be|such a good woman in life.
This is no place|for a child like you.
I'm sending you|away from here.
It would take the whole den|if you stop there.
It would take the whole den|if you stop there.
Now this is not good enough.|You understand ?
I refuse to pay-
We could line the walls|with Chinese silks.
Or, if you prefer,|a Florentine tapestry.
- Are you a literary man ?|- Excuse me ?
I do so admire men|with an appetite for...
books.
Madame, how could you ?
Have you actually|read this volume ?
I've memorized it.
There comes a time|in a young lady's life...
when she must|cast books aside...
and learn from experience.
That, monsieur...
requires a teacher.
Oh, yes, come on.|We'll have some fun.
- Maddie, what are you-
Is something wrong ?
Abbe, don't send me away,|I beg you.
I shouldn't refuse|your kindness...
but my heart's|held fast here.
By whom ?|The marquis ?
Mother's not|half so blind as you.
Oh, Madeleine.
There are certain feelings...|we must not voice.
Why not ?
They incite-
They incite us to act...
in ways...
we should not.
No.
What have I done ?
Go. Go back|to your room quickly.
You'll hate me now,|won't you ?
No. I love you, Madeleine...
as a child of God.
- Forgive me.
Madeleine.
- Maddie.
You don't fear|the marquis' sway on me.
You fear your own.
If you'd grant me a final favor,|I'd like to explain myself.
Don't come any closer, Abbe.|God's watching.
Maddie-
"Most esteemed|Dr. Royer-Collard,
"At long last|your chateau is complete.
"You will find everything|in its assigned place:
"the chintz draperies,|the English bell pulls,
"even the ivory doorstops.
"Only one detail is missing-
Your wife."
Tell him I'm no fool.
A prison is still a prison,
even with Chinese silks|and chandeliers.
" By the time you read this,|we'll be long gone.
Bound for England|or points beyond."
Tell him if he discovers|our whereabouts,
you'll slit your wrist|with a razor and I'll plunge|a hat pin through my heart.
You'd do that...|rather than forsake our love ?
No... but tell him I would.
Sign it... quickly.
Then you can ravish me again|on linens for which he so dearly paid.
And then, I beg you,
on the bearskin rug|in his study.
And finally,|as a crowning gesture,
we'll leave puddles of love|on the Peruvian marble.
Simone !
Simone ! Simone ?
Simone ?
Stop !
Stop ! I beg you !
I'll write dainty stories,|odes to virtue.
Children's verse.|I promise !
It excites you, doesn't it,|to hurt me thus ?
Look, you're solid as bone,|straining your trousers.
Don't you see,|you self-righteous fuck ?
The longer you continue|your vexations,
the deeper you root|my principles in my heart !
Haven't you seen...
a man naked before ?
The abbe's sending me away.
Yes.
Of course he is.
Marquis...
tell me one little story.
How do you propose|I do that ?
With dust upon the air ?
Whisper it to me now.
Child, that's far too dangerous.
I may never see you again.
Let me transcribe it for you,|something to remember you by.
This is neither the time|nor the place.
We've lost.
I never thought|I'd see you defeated.
There are thousands|of stories...
I would dearly love to tell.
Then tell me one.
Perhaps I can.
Tonight, place yourself|in the linen pantry...
with a bottle of ink|and a quill.
And then you shall|have a story...
that will make|the angels weep...
and the saints|all gasp for air.
Psst, she's here.
Dauphin. Dauphin.
Dauphin.
- Cleante. Cleante.
Psst, Cleante, are you ready ?
- Are you ready ?|- Marquis, is that you ?
For fuck's sake, who else would it be ?|Have you alerted the others ?
I'm no longer a man.
I awoke to discover|I turned into a sparrow.
- Is that so ?
Well, I awoke to discover|I'd turned into a cat !
If you don't do as I say,|I'll sink my little fangs|into your drumsticks...
and suck the marrow|straight out of your bones !
- Have you got that, little bird ?
At your service, Count.
To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for the most impure tale...
ever to spring|from the mind of man.
Off your hump.
Dauphin.|To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for the most...
impure tale ever told.
To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for an impure tale.
- Psst, Bouchon.|- Huh ?
To my beloved reader,|prepare yourself.
I have an impure tale to tell.
Prepare yourself.
- Bouchon ?
What did you say ?
Prepare yourself.|I've a tale, an impure tale.
Our story concerns|the prostitute, Fauchau,
whom nature had equipped...
with a tight and tiny fissure|between her thighs...
and the most finely|cleft ass ever molded...
by the hand of God.
Fauchau was a prostitute...
with a tight|and downy fissure...
between her thighs and-
The most finely cleft ass !
The most finely cleft ass.
- My glorious prose filtered|through the minds of the insane.
Who knows,|they might improve it.
It's about a harlot|named Fauchau.
It's about a harlot...
named Fauchau|with a downy fissure.
One day, Fauchau's first client|was a surgeon.
He ran his fingers|across her naked skin,
pulling apart|folds of flesh.
He ran his fingers|across her naked skin,
pulling apart folds of flesh.
Pulling at her folds and-
He ran his fingers|over her naked skin,
- pulling at her folds.
Feeling over her naked skin.
Her naked skin.
- Naked-|- Yes, I've got that bit.
"What shall I make ready ?"|asked Fauchau.
" My mouth, my ass...
or my succulent oyster ?"
What shall I make ready ?
My ass or my succulent oyster ?
" None !" cried the surgeon,|brandishing his scalpel.
- Yes ?|- Which hole ?
My mouth, my ass|or my succulent-
succulent oyster.
" For I'll carve new orifices|where there were none before."
- None-|- Cried the surgeon.
I'll carve new-new-new orifices|where there were none before.
With that, Fauchau expelled a scream|so extravagantly pitched...
that the surgeon was obliged|to tear out her tongue.
- Fauchau expelled a scream|of such extravagant pitch-
With that,|the extravagant bitch-
- screamed so loud-|- She screamed...
so long and so loud-
She screamed, so he felt|he should- He ought-
- To seal the wound,|he took a poker from the fire.|- A poker !
- To tear out her tongue.
-He took a poker from the fire.|-From the fire. From the fire !
He took a poker|from the fire.
From the fire.|From the fire.
He took a poker from the fire.
From the fire.
- Dauphin.|- From the fire.
- What's the next bit ?|- Bouchon, the words ?
- Tell me the words.|- Fire.
- Dauphin ?
- Dauphin ?
- Fire !|- What's the next bit ?
- Fire ! Fire.|- What's the next bit ?
- Fire ! Fire !|- Tell me the next bit !
- You must tell me the words.
- You must tell me the words.
- Fire !
Open all the doors !|Let the patients out!
Get some water !|Hurry ! Come on !
Get some water !
-Jesus ! What the hell|have you done ?
Where's that water ?
Get the beds !|Stomp them out!
- Fire ! Fire !
Fire ! Fire !
- Fire !
Where are you going with that ?
Bouchon ?
Bouchon ?
Remember your manners,|Bouchon.
- Don't-
- No ! No ! No !|- Madeleine.
- Madeleine !
- Madeleine !|- Madeleine !
- Madeleine!|- Madeleine !
Madeleine!
- Madeleine!|- Madeleine.
Madeleine! Madeleine!
Madeleine!
Madeleine! Madeleine!
- Maddie ?
Madeleine !
- Maddie !|- It's awful !
The devil's unleashed himself|upon us !
It's her fault !
Up the stairs !
No! No! No!
No ! No ! No !
- Maddie !
- Madeleine ! Madeleine !
We must save Charenton!|Keep the chain going !
We've got to stop it|before it gets to those beams !
- Get him off of me !
Pitou !
- Madeleine !|- Madeleine !
- Guards ! Guards !
Guards !
Brigitte.|Are you all right ?
Madeleine !
- Madeleine !
Madeleine !
Go ! Quickly !
Madeleine !
Where are you,|Maddie ?
"She screamed...
- so he felt he ought|to tear out her tongue."
Bouchon, wait !
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Abbe.|I couldn't help it.
No.
Oh, my God.
- No.
Oh, no.
Madeleine!
Now, now, don't be shy.
We've a nice surprise|just waiting for you.
There's a good boy.
Huh ?
Huh !|There's a good boy.
Huh ?
I'm sorry. Wait.
I promise I won't do it again.
I promise.
Of course,|we mustn't blame Bouchon.
He is merely one of nature's|experiments gone awry.
No discipline,|no conscience, no morality.
In fact, it is our duty...
to provide such things|on his behalf.
Is it not ?
As you say, Doctor.
He was so impressed|by the marquis' tale...
that he chose|to reenact it, yes ?
Upon a certain chambermaid.
Perhaps you would be so kind|as to remind me of her name.
I beg you, Doctor,|don't make me say it.
Her name, Abbe.
Madeleine.
Tell me, Abbe,
when you are called|before God,
how will you answer|for Madeleine's death ?
- Murderer.
Your words-
Your words drove Bouchon to-
Oh, for fuck's sake, Abbe !
Suppose one of your|precious inmates attempted|to walk on water and drowned ?
Would you condemn the Bible ?|I think not.
An innocent child is dead.
So many authors are denied|the gratification...
of a concrete response|to their work.
I'm blessed, am I not ?
It's no secret|that you loved her.
I wanted to fuck her, that's all.
- And did you ?|- It's not your province to ask.
- Why was it you never|took her by force ?|- Who's to say I did not ?
- Was it impotence ?|- Never !
Then... it must have been love.
I fucked her|countless times...
and all the while|she pleaded for more.
We inspected the body.
She died a virgin.
Give her...|a proper burial...
in the churchyard...
at my expense.
Do not inter...
her sweet body...
in the same ground...
as the devils who inhabit|this accursed place.
Your terrible secret revealed.
You're a man after all.
I've opium|to numb the pain.
Our intention is punitive.
If we numb the pain,|what's the point ?
Abbe de Coulmier.
I'm here.
Would that I were|so easily silenced.
There's a good boy.
My, my.
You have exceeded|my expectations.
Have I ? I'm not the first man God|has asked to shed blood in His name.
I will not be the last.
And will you|sleep soundly tonight ?
No, sir.
Plainly put,
I never expect to sleep again.
Don't send me away, Abbe.
Abbe. Abbe.
- Abbe-
Abbe. Abbe.
Abbe. Abbe.
Abbe! Abbe!
You best come quick, Abbe !
He's written|all over the walls.
Used his own filth.
- Made him self a kind of paint.|- Dear God.
- The stench !
- Free his mouth.|- You mustn't do that, sir.
I must grant him his last rites.|Give me your dagger.
Leave us.
- Shh.
I failed to save your soul in life.
I won't fail in death.
Dear Heavenly Father,
prove Your infinite mercy...
and open Your gates|to this man,
no less Your child|than any other.
There is...
in each of us...
such beauty...
and such abomination.
No man is exempt.
Forgive him.
Forgive us all.
Kiss the cross.
Marquis !
Marquis !
- No !
Welcome to Charenton, Abbe.
I'm pleased to have|the new post, sir.
Are you ?|Thank you.
I'm afraid our endowment|has shriveled to a mere pittance.
We are the laughingstock|of all France.
However, on a happier note,
the hospital is now|in my sole command.
My policy here is that|each man must earn his keep.
The Charenton Press, Abbe.
We produce books|for the discriminating collector.
The compulsive inmates|set the type.
The listless ones do the binding|and prepare the ink.
It's remarkable, Doctor.
The patients are|so subdued, so docile.
Yes, they are at peace.
They have the satisfaction that only|a hard day's labor can provide.
I don't believe it.
The Marquis de Sade ?|You're actually publishing his novels ?
Yes. Ever since|his unfortunate death,
there's been a surge|of interest in his works.
Of course, I will use the profits to|restore Charenton to its former glory.
Oh, Doctor.
We have a meeting|with Herr Becker at 4:00.
He wants to publish|a Swiss edition...
on gilded paper|bound in calfskin.
- Thank you, Charlotte.|- My pleasure.
Have a look at page 205.|I turned the corner down.
Come on, move.|On your left. Come on.
Next one. Go on.|Get these books onboard.
Come on!|Those boxes over there !
Move yourself. Right.
Right, old mate, that's it !|See you next week !
Of course, everything is not|quite as harmonious as it seems.
- I hope you have|a strong constitution.
My years tending lepers steeled me|for life's grisliest offerings.
We still have|a few lone incurables...
prone to violence|and perversion.
So...
you're my successor, yes ?
"Successor" ?
Oh.
Listen to me... Abbe,
and listen well.
I've stared|into the face of evil...
and I've lived|to tell the tale.
Now, I beg you, for your sake,|let me write it down.
Gibberish, my friend.|He rants and he raves.
If you've an ounce|of Christian charity,
then you'll bring me parchment,|ink and a quill.
You'll do no such thing.|This patient poses a grave|danger to himself and others.
Are you all right, sir ?
Do you not see, Abbe ?
Do you not see, Abbe ?
Some men|are beyond redemption.
No. Wait. Please.
Please bring mea quill.|Please ?
Wait. I'm sorry.
Goddamn you, Abbe !|A quill !
A quill.
Use it well.
You owe her that.
Beloved reader,
I leave you now with a tale|penned by the Abbe de Coulmier,
a man who found freedom|in the unlikeliest of places:;
at the bottom of an inkwell,
on the tip of a quill.
However, be forewarned,
its plot is blood-soaked,
its characters depraved,
and its themes...|unwholesome at best.
But in order to know virtue,
we must acquaint ourselves|with vice.
Only then can we know|the full measure of man.
So come.
I dare you.
Turn the page.
plucked from the pages|of history-
tarted up, true-
but guaranteed|to stimulate the senses.
but guaranteed|to stimulate the senses.
The story|of Mademoiselle Renare,:
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 Renare 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.
- How easily, dear reader,
- one changes from predator...|- No.
- to prey.
And how swiftly|pleasure is taken from some...
and given to others.
There goes another one.
Your linens, please.
Your linens, please.
- Move yourself.|- We're going outside.
Come on, Pitou.|That's right.
- It's breakfast time.|Good morning.|- Good morning.
- I'm going outside.|- Go on.
Stop doing that. Everybody up.
Your linens, please.
- Psst.
- It's me.
Careful.|The ink's still wet.
Now, hurry.
- That you, Maddie ?
Yes, Mother.|Here are the dirty ones for you.
Just, uh-
Just taking|the bleached ones out to dry.
Aren't you|gonna give us a hand then ?
Bouchon!
Remember your manners.
Here it is.|It's the last chapter.
Monsieur Masse says|he'd like another manuscript|quick as he please.
- He can't print them fast enough.|- I'll pass the word on.
I'll pay you another visit with|a share of 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.
- Thank you.|- Marquis de Sade's Justine.
Latest edition, straight|from the printer's. Justine.
Marquis de Sade.|Justine.
"Our story concerns|a nymph named Justine,;
"as pretty a maid as ever|entered the nunnery,
- "with a body so firm and ripe...|- Come on, boy.
"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,
" 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.
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 ?
A rather notorious inmate|in her care.
I have the perfect|candidate for the job:
Dr. Royer-Collard,
a distinguished alienist|who's a staunchly moral man...
of impeccable character...
and iron resolve.
- My colleagues have|called me old-fashioned.
- Even barbaric.
But here we favor an aggressive|course of treatment.
- Quite.
I do not seek popularity|or renown, Monsieur Delbene.|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.
- This may not be pretty,
but it is mercy|just the same.
A few more months of this,|and he'll be fine.
- It is the emperor's hope...
that you bring your expertise,|your proficiency...
- to the asylum at Charenton.|- I'm much better now.
Charenton ? The administrator|there is quite well-loved, isn't he ?
He's young, an idealist.|You'll have to be politic.
- You know how|I define "idealism" ?
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|Columbe'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,
"waspink of the 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 a chisel, and he uses them|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,|so black with evil,
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're going to slander him,|then you don't deserve|to hear his stories.
I believe|she's sweet on him.
- That's what I think.|- It's not the marquis|she's sweet on, is it, Madeleine ?
They've 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.
It's administrative,|nothing more.
Please don't eat|the paint, Pasqual.
Ah, bravo, Dauphin.
It's far better to paint fires|than 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 want to know|about that silly book of yours.
What about my book ?
It sold like the devil.
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 from you.
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 another manuscript.
I've just the story.
Inspired by these|very surroundings.
The unhappy tale|of a virginal laundry lass,
a 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 administer 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 ?
Is it bullfinch or nightingale ?
- There's but one kind of bird|in a madhouse, Abbe.|- Oh, don't tell me.
- A loon. -
Sorry, I've heard|that one before.
- It's a long story, this one.
The climax comes|at a higher cost.
- You must sit on my lap.
- You demand a lot from your readers.
The story's thrilling conclusion|comes at a premium.
- What's that then ?|- Your maidenhead.
And then you must sew it up|as tightly as the day you were born,
and come back to me renewed|so I can deflower you a second time.
Some things belong on paper...
others in life.
Blessed fool who can't tell|the difference-
Mademoiselle LeClerc.
You're in the nick of time.
This old letch forgot himself.
He thought I was a character|in one of his nasty stories.
- Madeleine.|- Yes, Abbe ?
The next time you feel|the urge to visit the marquis...
I hope you'll come|to confession instead.
Care for a splash|of wine, Abbe ?
It's not even noon.
Conversation, like certain portions|of the anatomy,
always runs more smoothly|when it's lubricated.
This is a rare vintage from|an obscure village in Bordeaux.
Rather than crush the grape|underfoot, they place the fruit|on the belly of a bride,
reap its juices|when the young husband|steers his vessel into port.
Full-bodied flavor,|just a hint of wantonness.
Bottoms up.
It's from our own cellar.|I recognize the taste.
I should have told you|it was the blood of Christ.
You'd believe that,|wouldn't you ?
We treat you well enough here,|don't we, Marquis ?
Your very own feathered bed|in lieu of a straw mat.
Your antique writing desk,|all the way from La Coste.
Enough quills|to feather an ostrich-
Yes, yes, yes, dear heart, it's true.|You spoil me pink.
And in exchange, we ask only|that you follow the rules.
You know as well as I do,|you're not to entertain visitors|in your quarters.
I'm entertaining you now,|aren't I ?
Yes, but I'm not a beautiful,|young prospect ripe for corruption.
Don't be so sure.
Take your pen in hand,|Marquis.
Purge these wicked thoughts|of yours on paper.
Maybe they'll|govern you less in life.
I'll fill page after page,|my cherub.
I promise.
We're here, Doctor.|Mind your step, sir.
Good day, sir.|We've been expecting you.
Good. Very good.
Dr. Royer-Collard,|welcome to Charenton.
This may feel|a little awkward, my friend,
but it needn't be.
I've come merely|to oversee your work here.|Understood ?
- Of course.|- It's a formality. Truly.
Well, you're a man of science,|and I'm a man of God.
Charenton stands to profit|from us both, I'm certain.
I shall need an office on the grounds,|somewhere to store my things.
- This way.|- If you don't mind my asking,
why has the emperor taken|such sudden interest in my-
in our affairs ?
It seems a particular|patient of yours...|has captured his fancy.
I understand|he practices the very crimes|he preaches in his fiction.
Certainly not here.
- There were a few|indiscretions in his youth.|- "Indiscretions" ?
Abbe, please,|I have read his case history.
At 1 6, he violated|a servant girl with a crucifix.
After six months in a dungeon,|he mutilated a prostitute,
carving her flesh with a razor|and cauterizing the wounds|with hot wax.
I hope you'll judge him|by his progress here,
- No !|- not his past reputation.
I can't go on like this.|Why should this be happening to me ?
Once again, gentlemen.
I'm just a lowly cobbler.
I have been all my life.
And with this shoe,|I'm asking you to be a cobbler's wife.
It's a dreadful play,|a festering pustule|on the face of literature.
Why, the parchment it's written upon|isn't worthy to wipe my ass.
But you need not make it worse.|Say your lines with conviction,|my happy little shoemaker.
- Like a true actor.|- But I'm not an actor.|I'm a dyspeptic.
Just seduce her,|you goon !
He's actually made a great success|of our little theater.
There's seldom an empty seat,|not to mention its therapeutic value.
Playing dress-up|with cretins...
sounds like a symptom|of madness, not a cure.
Homo perversio:|a species that thrives in captivity.
Marquis, this is Dr. Royer-Collard.|He's joining us here in-
An advisory capacity.
Welcome to our humble|madhouse, Doctor.
I trust you'll|find yourself at home.
There he is, the new doctor.
Tell me, Abbe, why is he in your care|and not a proper prison ?
- His wife's influence.|- " His wife's" ?
Better to have an insane spouse|than a criminal one.
And he has never once|tried to escape ?
A man of his notoriety ?|He wouldn't last a day|on the streets without capture.
Besides, every wholesome thing|he might desire, he has at Charenton:;
a library filled|with the world's great books,
music lessons,|watercolor exercises.
What effect have all these amenities|had on his psyche ?
He no longer roars|or spits.
He no longer taunts the guards|or molests his fellow wards.
And his writing ?
- Ah, yes, that.|- Well ?
It's essential to his recovery,|a purgative for the toxins in his mind.
Do you favor|its publication ?
- For sale ? To the general public ?|- Yes. Yes.
No, certainly not.|It's unprintable.
All France is aghast at this book,|yet you've never heard of it.
Oh, dear God.
Silence the marquis,|or Charenton will be shut down|by order of the emperor.
"Shut down" ? But he's one|among some 200 wards.
You could try|my calming chair on him.
Or, perhaps,|try bleeding him with leeches.
Or maybe flog him|at the stake.
Why ? So he'll learn|to fear punishment...
rather than to see virtue|for its own rewards ?
Doctor, let me take up this matter|with the marquis myself.
- Chariton's my life's work.|- I am not without a heart.
But this book is a profound insult|to decent people everywhere.
Can you personally guarantee|this won't happen again ?
You have my word.
- What is it, Abbe ?|- The marquis has embarrassed us.
- From Napoleon himself.|- Why ? What's he done ?
He's been slipping manuscripts|to a publisher.
- He has ?
I placed my trust|too carelessly, Madeleine.
- This is a complete and utter...|- Oh.
disappointment.
Yes, it is.
The paper's cheap.|The type's too small.
What did you do,|bribe one of the guards ?
But you implored me to write|for curative purposes,|to stave off my madness.
But you've no right|to publish...
behind my back|without my sanction.
Have you truly read it,|or did you run straightaway|to the dog-eared pages ?
Oh, enough to discern|its tenor.
And ?
It's not even a proper novel.
It's nothing but an encyclopedia|of perversions.
Frankly, it even fails|as an exercise in craft.
Characters are wooden.|The dialogue is inane.
Not to mention the endless repetition|of words like "nipple" and "pikestaff."
There I was taxed,|it's true.
And such puny scope.
Nothing but the very worst|in man's nature.
I write of the great|eternal truths...
that bind together all mankind|the whole world over.
We eat, we shit, we fuck,|we kill and we die.
But we also fall in love.
We build cities,|we compose symphonies|and we endure.
Why not put that|in your books as well ?
It's a fiction,|not a moral treatise.
But isn't the duty of art|to elevate us above the beasts ?
I'd have thought that was|your duty, Abbe, not mine.
One more trick like this...
and I'll be forced|to revoke all your liberties.
It's that doctor fellow,|isn't it ?
He's come to usurp|your place here, hasn't he ?
Marquis, more than|your writing's at stake.
The ministry has threatened us|with closure.
Ah, they can't be serious !
Our future lies|in the stroke of your pen.
Mightier than the sword,|indeed.
Put yourself in my place. I have|your fellow patients to consider.
If Charenton folds, they have|no place to go, no manner|to clothe or feed themselves.
Fuck them ! They're half-wits !|Let them die on the streets|as nature intended !
You among them ?
If ever I showed you|a kind hand, Marquis,
if ever I granted you|walking privileges|on a spring day...
or slipped an extra pillow|beneath your door,
if ever I shared your wine,|laughed at your vulgarities|or humored you with argument,
then you will oblige me now...
for your sake...|and for all Charenton.
You've a touch|of the poet too.
Perhaps you should|take up the quill.
- Do I have your word ?|- Honestly, you cut me to the core.
What's the point of all your|valiant attempts at rehabilitation...
if, when I finally succumb,|when at long last I pledge|myself to righteous conduct,
you regard me|with nothing but suspicion ?
Have you no faith|in your own medicine ?
My, my.
At Charenton,|even the walls have eyes.
Don't they ?
Well ?
Well, I spoke to him|with reason and compassion,
the tools which|serve us best here.
- And ?|- He's sworn to obedience.
He's more than a patient, Doctor.|The marquis is my friend.
You keep strange|company, Abbe.
If you have the matter here|truly in hand,
- I have.|- then I have a friend|of my own to visit.
- Ah, Doctor.|- I've come for my bride.
- Oh, yes.
We've not expected you|for some time.
Simone has not yet|come of age.
I've taken a new post|at Charenton.
- I need the succor|only a wife can provide.|- Mmm, yes.
Simone...
you remember|Dr. Royer-Collard.
I'd not forget the man|to whom I was promised.
He's come to collect you.
Today ? This minute ?
I apologize, mademoiselle.
I had no time to write.
Be grateful, child.
In my experience, poor girls|who are orphaned never wed.
They wind up spinsters|or, worse still, nuns.
- Thank God that fortune|has spared you...
from such a fate.
Good-bye, Simone.
God bless you, Simone.
Let's move it !
The emperor wishes to assure|your comfort while at Charenton.
Consider the chateau a gift,
provided you're willing|to finance the necessary repairs.
Monsieur Prouix is the court's|most promising young architect.
He's at your disposal.
Of course, the place hasn't been|occupied since the Terror.
It has possibilities, yes ?
Simone ?
I am to live here ?
It belonged to|the Duke du Blangie,|a avowed monarchist.
The Jacobins|were most unforgiving.
His wife tried to escape.
They caught her here|on the stairs.
Set about her with bayonets.
There but for the grace|of God, eh, Doctor ?
I shed no tears for the past,|Monsieur Delbene.|I look to the future.
Monsieur Prouix.
We should quarry fresh marble,|don't you think ?
You must humor my wife|in all things.
If she wants Venetian glass,|she shall have it.
Italian tile, Dutch velvet-|Spare no expense.
But in her bedroom,|see to it that the door locks|from the outside...
and on her windows|are iron grates.
Bars, sir ?
In the convent,|Simone was spared|the world's temptations.
I will not allow her|to fall prey to them now.
She is a rare bird.
I intend to keep her caged.
Perhaps the sisters...
failed to instruct you...
in the ways of marriage.
The nightly duty...
of a wife...|to her husband.
- No.|- It's a scandal, truly.
He's a doctor pretending|to be a God-fearing man.
And that's not all.|He's far too old to marry her,|and she's far too young.
- Hasn't finished her schooling.|- Whisked away with barely a word.
- And that's not all.|- Tell me more.
The sweet little thing|is barely 1 6.
I say she's even younger,|only a child.
- That's not all the nuns told us.|- Tell me more.
Listen to this.
No.
- And that's not all.|- What else ?
She's not a coquette.|She's meant to be a nun.
- I swear.
- Tell me more.|- She came with a statue|of the Virgin Mary.
She arrived with a statue of|the Virgin Mary and a crucifix|around her neck from a convent.
Hmm. Tell me more.
He's old enough to have|fathered her twice over.
The hypocrite.
This has all the makings|of a farce.
Abbe de Coulmier,|you rascal.
Your comedies are|becoming quite the rage.|I had to claw my way to a ticket.
- I can hardly take-|- So expertly acted.
That charming young man|in last week's comedy-
I had no idea|he was an imbecile.
Everyone has talents|if we look for them.
- Yes, yes, I'm sure.|- Oh.
Isn't that the new doctor?|How thrilling for you.
- A renowned expert|right here at Charenton.|- Yes, indeed.
I will say one thing for him.|He has a beautiful daughter.
Enough of this bilge!
We're better than this.
Remember, gentlemen,|inside each of your... delicate minds,
your distinctive bodies,
art is waiting to be born !
So let's give the doctor|a performance tonight|I hope he'll remember forever.
And in front of them,|the marquis' wife.
Indeed.
Begging your pardon,|it's time to begin.
You !|You're the north wind.
Madames and monsieurs,
there's been a change|in tonight's program.
We will not be performing|The Happy Shoemaker.
- Instead,
we'd like to premiere|a new play...
in honor of the newly appointed|Dr. Royer-Collard...
and his lovely bride.
- A comedy entitled-
- Crimes of Love.|- The Crimes of Love.
Written by one of Charenton's|very own wards,
the Marquis de Sade !
Sister Senfone,|whither do we go,
passing over rivers,|canyons and snow ?
Hurry you,|for we must not tarry.
I deliver you now|to the man you shall marry.
When you have rested,|at your leisure,
he will coach you|in the ways of pleasure.
At last, she arrives,|my hard-won bride.
Hurry, my child,|and scurry inside.
There you'll find|such treasures await you.
Marzipan and meringue|to sate you.
Such gallantry in men|is sadly a rarity.
How lucky I am|to receive his charity.
Thank you, dear sister,|for abetting me so,
- bringing her here|to this secluded chateau.|- Quickly.
-Stand still and be quiet.|- Was that good ?
Little does she know|that terror's in store...
when I tutor her in|les crimes...
de l'amour.
Take this side of the curtain.|One, two, three-
Quickly, my suckling,|out of your clothes.
My scepter awaits.|How solid it grows.
- Stop it, I beg you.|Have pity I say.
You're not my lover.|You're a monstrous roue.
- Do as you're told.
-Stick your legs in the air.|- Leave at once.
- But it's just begun.|- Do as I say.
Madame.
It's true, I'm a pig.
And you've truffles down there.
- Oh, God !|Oh, God, what's this ?
- Such a wicked sensation.
A feeling somewhere|between shame and elation.
- Oh, God !
Use your tongue like a wand|in much the same manner|as Sister Semfone.
Leaving already ?|Of course, you've seen it all before.
I had a suspicion|the sister was sapphic.
I'd tell you more,|but it's simply too graphic.
Suffice it to say|she's a preference for lasses.
Even at Vespers,|she always made passes.
My darling, dainty morsel,|get on your back.|Let's try it dorsal !
I won't escape.|He wants to take me|in every way.
I'll plunder every lovely pore|till you're weak and cry,|" No more !"
- No, more, more !
Give me this !|More ! More !
Everybody, come forward quietly|for the next bit.
Then to prove you're truly mine,|I'll plunder you, darling,|from behind !
Yes, yes, yes,|let's do it.
And what of my lips ?|Will you soil them too ?
When you've broken|every other taboo ?
- ...every slippery hollow.
If you're obliging,|then you'll swallow!
Manners !
- Now that body has been|broken and swollen,|- Yes !
Lust, power and greed|are no longer-
Juliette !
Take him to the infirmary.|Maddie ?
- Has he hurt you ?|- His breath made my eyes run,|that's all.
- It's all right.
- Madeleine ?
Do you mean to take us|all down with you ?
Don't be absurd.
Disgraceful!
It's only a play.
- It was disgusting.
I wonder who's to blame,|the author or his muse ?
- It was fiction, of course.|- Of course.
- It was not inspired by circumstance.|- It certainly was not.
You ought to be ashamed, Abbe,
exploiting these pathetic cretins|for financial gain.
This is not our intention.
It was a freak show for tourists|and curiosity seekers.
Charenton is a sanatorium,|not a circus !
The theater is henceforth closed.
"Closed" ?
As for your friend,|playwright emeritus of the madhouse-
I'll do everything in my power-
Do more, or I shall be forced|to inform the ministry...
that the inmates are,|indeed, running the asylum.
Mmm. Mmm.
Well, I hope you're satisfied.
He shut down our theater.
He can't do that to me.
How can one man be so selfish ?
We merely held up a mirror.
Apparently,|he didn't like what he saw.
- What the devil are you|doing with my quills ?|- You've left me no choice.
I kept my promise.|I didn't publish.
Perhaps, in time,|you can earn them back.
You can't.
I've all the demons of hell|in my head.
My only salvation|is to vent them on paper.
Try reading for a change.
The writer who produces more|than he reads-
A sure mark of an amateur.
Here.
Start with the Bible.
It's cheerier|and more artfully written.
This monstrous God of yours ?
He strung up His very own son|like a side of veal.
I shudder to think|what He'd do to me.
Why are you doing this to me ?
Stop it.
I'll die of loneliness.
I've no company|but the characters I create.
Whores and pederasts !
You're better off|without them.
- I have a proposition.|- You always do.
Madeleine.|She's besotted with me.
She'd do anything I asked.|She could pay you a visit.
I don't know who you insult more,|her or me.
- Part the gates of heaven, as it were.|- That's enough !
You're too tense, darling.|You could do with a long,|slow screw.
Good night, Marquis.
Then bugger me !|Goddamn you, Abbe !
Have you no true sense|of my condition ?
Of its gravity ?
My writing is involuntary,|like the beating of my heart.
My constant erection !
I've done just as you bade me.
I've paid a visit|to the craftsmen.
He laughed|and called me a whore.
Took my money|just the same.
I don't know which|gives you greater pleasure:
the objects themselves...
or the humiliation I endure|procuring them on your behalf.
And last, but not least,
I brought you|some aniseed drops...
and some|chocolate pastilles.
Did you now, madame ?
They're filled with cream, yes ?
You know I shan't touch them|unless they're positively...
bursting,
erupting with cream.
What else have you brought|that I might nibble upon ?
- Donatien, you mustn't.|- Hmm ?
Tell me.|What other little treats ?
Shame on you, truly.
For fuck's sake, woman.|Bonbons ?
Am I to sit here gorging myself|on useless trifles,
sucking on your little sweetmeats,
when what I truly require,|what I truly need...
are a few quill pens,|perhaps a pot of ink ?
- Forgive me. I beg you.|- Don't you see ?
I've been raped.
- Far more egregiously than any|of my wretched characters.|- How was I to know, darling ?
How was I to tell you,|by writing a letter ?
With what, my asinine bride ?
I beg you, Donatien,
as your wife, your only ally,|you must stop making a monstrous|spectacle of yourself!
- You have come to lecture me ?|- To flaunt your deviance|in public upon a stage ?
They have put you up to this,|haven't they ?
You should court the doctor's favor,|not his contempt.
The doctor ? I ought to|carve my name into his backside|and fill the wounds with salt !
You're here, safe,|surrounded by brick and mortar.
My prison is far crueler.|It has no walls.
Everywhere I go,|they point and whisper.
At the opera, they hiss at me|when I take my box.
When I went to church, the priest|refused to even hear my confession.
He said I was already damned.
Why must I suffer|for your sins ?
That's the way|of all martyrs, isn't it ?
Give me back my anonymity.|That's all I ask.
Let me be invisible again.
You tell me, have you ever done anything|to secure my release ? No.
Have you petitioned|the courts ? Never !
- Sought an audience with the emperor ?|- How ? He refuses to see me !
It's a convenience|having your husband locked away.
You no longer have to hold your tongue|or hoist your skirts...
or crack your mouth so I can|put it to its one pleasurable use.
You're not my wife !|No, you're one of|my many jailors ! Out !
- What in God's name ?|- Take this cow away !
I can't look at her !
Perhaps you'll find a place for her|in the west wing among the hysterics !
Lock her up as well|so she knows how it feels !
The sow !
For a woman of humble origin,|your wife has refined tastes.
When I suggest granite for the foyer,|she's quick to counter|with Peruvian marble.
Peruvian marble.|It costs a fortune to import.
Whatever her heart desires,|Monsieur Prouix.
I would like nothing better than|to grant her every wish, sir,
but on the modest sum|you have accorded me-
I'm an architect,|not a magician.
I must see the doctor at once.
It's a matter|of dire urgency.
It is customary to write|and request an appointment.
Desperation has|driven me past etiquette,|all the way to frenzy.
My schedule is not subject|to the whim of lunatics.
I beg to differ, Doctor.|You work in a madhouse.
Your every waking moment|is governed by the insane.
I pray you, be succinct.
You're new to Charenton, yes ?
Perhaps you're not yet|familiar with my husband|and his unusual case.
With all due respect, madame,
all France is familiar|with your husband.
Would you grant me|a moment alone, please,|Monsieur Prouix ?
Humbly so.|Your servant, sir.
Uh, gentlemen.
Madame, please.
Good morning, madame.
I assume you've come here|to plead for clemency|on your husband's behalf.
You do, do you ?
It's my dearest hope, Doctor,
that he remain|entombed forever.
And that when at last|he perishes in the dank|bowels of your institution,
that he be left as carrion|for the rodents and the worms.
I stand corrected, madame.
If you can't cure him...
truly cure him...
then at least, I beg you,|harness the beast|that rages in his soul.
That is not easily done, madame.
You are aware, are you not,|that it costs a great deal...
to house your husband|at Charenton ?
I pay his stipend every month,|far more dutifully than I should.
But that barely covers|the cost of his room...
with nary a penny left over|for appropriate treatments:
opiates to quell his temper,
restraints to chasten him|when he misbehaves.
Perhaps, if you could|buttress your entreaties|with the means to oblige them-
I'm not a wealthy woman.
You have a pension,|haven't you ?
- From the sale of his books ?|- It's tainted money, Doctor.
- What a beautiful thought.|- What thought is that ?
That the ill-gotten funds|born of his degeneracy...
might now affect his salvation.
It's beyond perversity...
that honor should carry|a price tag.
Imagine...
old friends deigning|to kiss your hand again.
"Why, Marquise,|enchanted to see you again.
Welcome back from your long,|dark descent into the abyss of infamy."
Don't toy with me, Doctor.
Now is the time|to secure your epitaph:
"The benevolent Marquise,
Chariton's most revered|philanthropist"...
or "Satan's bride."
Rest assured, Marquise,
your generosity will speed your husband|ever faster towards a cure.
The Peruvian marble,|without question.
- I'm eternally in your debt.|- And I in yours, Marquise.
Doctor, can I impart to you|his cruelest trick ?
Of course.
Once, long ago...
in the folly of youth...
he made me love him.
Madeleine,|my sweet, can you smuggle me|a quill and some ink ?
I don't dare.
The doctor's got his eye on you|sharper than ever now.
Dr. Montalivet was,|politely put, diminutive.
When flaccid, his member|was little more than a bobbin.
And when inflamed,|it towered a mere four inches.
To compensate, he strove|to impress his ladylove|with a host of other endowments:;
fine wine, fresh game|and a house as large as his|other fortunes were small.
We've ceiling beams|en route from Provence.
And next week,|a muralist from Paris arrives...
to paint a trompe l'oeil|in the ballroom.
- Doesn't that please you ?|- Very much.
I would prefer brandy|in the salon...
where we can sit side by side|before the fire.
I'd rather read, thank you.
You prefer a book|to your husband's company ?
Well, no wonder.|I'm only flesh and blood.
That's no match, is it,|for the printed page, hmm ?
Good evening then.|Enjoy your solitude.
Your linens, please.
Your linens.
Now or never.
Voila !
Well, if you won't read it|to your own mother,
perhaps you ought not|to be reading it at all.
It's not your cup of tea, Mother.
Oh, go on, darling,|give it a read.
" Monsieur Bouloir was a man|whose erotic appetites...
"might discreetly be described|as... postmortem.
- "A habitue of cemeteries,
- "A habitue of cemeteries,
"his proudest conquest|was a maid...
six decades his senior,|deceased a dozen years."
- That's terrible.
Oh, that's too, too terrible.
Well, go on.
"The vigor with which|he made love...
Mm-hmm.
"caused her bones to dislodge.
- "Still...
"he granted her the highest compliment|he accorded any woman.
- Yes ?
Well worth the dig."
- You asked my name once.
It's Madeleine.
Sweet then, like the pastry.
Haven't you a name yourself?
Ride away with me someday.|Perhaps I'll tell you.
Your mother may be blind,|but you have a keen pair of eyes.
My mother is blind on account of|the lye in the laundry kettles.
Soaking sheets for lunatics|has cost this woman her sight.
- This could cost her far more.|- You'll get more from her|with kindness than-
What could cause|a tincture like this ?
- I'm only a laundress, not a detective.|- Now is not the time-
Perhaps your kettles|are stained with rust.
Or maybe the lye is rancid.
Or maybe,just maybe...
these sheets once belonged|to our friend the marquis.
We've over 200 beds.|They could have been anybody's.
With such a fine thread count,|decorated in his very own script ?
She's lying.|It shows in her face.
- We're clearing everything out.
- Almost done, sir.|- Remember, anything|he could fashion as a quill.
His entire room stripped bare.
So the doctor cracks his whip|and you dance !
My bed, gone.|Am I to freeze to death ?
Go on, take his rug.
- Take it.|- That's a Turkish weave, you idiot.
It costs more than|you'll earn in a lifetime.
- His chair.|- Fine. Take it. Take it all.
- Here.|- There you go.
And this-|Careful, it's slippery.
You've no idea|where it's been.
Let's not forget Mary,|sweet Mary,
the Jewish whore,|God's little harlot.
Virgin birth ? An entire religion|built on an oxymoron.
His wine.
From now on,|nothing but water at every meal.
- Water ?|- And your meat shall be deboned.
- Why this sudden torture ?|- Because your writing|continues unchecked.
- I didn't create this world of ours.|I only record it.|- Its horrors, perhaps.
Its darkest nightmares.|And to what end ?
- Nothing but your own|morbid gratification.|- No, I write what I see:
the endless procession|to the guillotine.
We're all lined up,|waiting for the crunch of the blade.
The rivers of blood are flowing|beneath our feet, Abbe.
I've been to hell,|young man.
You've only read about it.
I'm sorry, Marquis, truly.
These chastity vows of yours-|How strict are they ?
- Suppose you only put it|in her mouth ?
Pious little worm.
In conditions of adversity,|the artist flourishes.
Curious, aren't you ?
I fuckin' pleasure myself.|I can pleasure you too.
You don't know|what you're missing, darling.
I'm in search of a book.|Perhaps you know it.
I've only got one copy left.
Rescued it meself|from the bonfire.
Please hurry.|My husband locks the door at dusk.
Sweet little thing like you...
shouldn't be reading|such filth anyway.
I grew up in a convent, sir.
Everything I know in the world,|I owe to books.
To the young maidens|of the world,
wrest yourselves free|from the tyranny of virtue...
and taste without shame|the pleasures of the flesh.
Male power lies|in the clench of a fist,
but a woman's power|lies elsewhere:;
in the velvet cavity|betwixt her thighs.
It's late, Simone, darling.
Put your poems aside.
Breakfast.
Madeleine, I beg you-
What have they done to you now ?
Tortures so ugly,|so medieval...
even I haven't the words|to describe them.
- Go on.|- If you have an ounce|of pity in your heart,
throw caution aside...
and unlock my door.
God help me.
- I don't dare.|- Don't be a dunce, child.|I have a surprise for you.
Now open the friggin' door.
My newest book.
It starts at my left cuff...
and continues|right across my back.
The longest sentence,|you'll notice,
runs the entire length|of my inseam.
And it all completes itself...
at the base|of my right shoe.
- Oh, my. " Pikestaff' ?|- Yes.
- Yes.
- " Naked on a plate" ?|- Yes.
"One hundred unhurried tongues" ?
Yes.
- You're a genius !|- Yes !
Shh !
Go quickly...
so you won't be blamed|form misbehavior.
Maddie, you traffic with the devil,|you'll pay the devil's price.
- Sorry.|- Guards !
- Guards !|- Yes !
- Shh !|- You'll pay ! Guards !
Look what I've brought you,|my darlings.
- There's something written.|- Two chapters, one for each cheek.
My writing lives !
Take this beast|back to his cage !
Don't tell me.|You've come to read my trousers.
Don't keep me in suspense.|What will it be, 50 lashes ?|A night on the rack ?
I won't sully my hands|with him.
Nor should you.|That's the first rule|of politics, isn't it ?
The man who orders the execution|never drops the blade !
You're fortunate|they've forced me to punish you.
If it were up to the doctor,|you'd be flayed alive.
Well, the doctor is a man|after my own heart.
What in God's name|am I to do with you ?
T-The more I forbid,|the more you're provoked.
Strip.
Your britches as well.
You started this little game...
you finish it.
Or haven't you the courage ?
I thought not.
It's a potent aphrodisiac,
isn't it, dumpling ?
Having power|over another man.
Your wig.
You'll no longer|spread your insidious gospel.
From now on,
you will not even write|your own ignominious name.
Are your convictions|so fragile,
they cannot stand|in opposition to mine ?
Is your God so flimsy, so weak ?|For shame !
Don't flatter yourself, Marquis.
You're not the Antichrist.
You're nothing but a malcontent|who knows how to spell.
I saw her with my own eyes.
She put the key in the latch|just as proud as she pleased.
Free her now !
Leave her duly strung.
Maddie.
If only blood|will appease you,
then shed mine !
- Abbe, no.|- Go on.
Now !
That won't be necessary.
If you're going to|martyr yourself, Abbe,
do it for God,|not a chambermaid.
Now put your clothes back on.
Had I known|your taste in novels,
I never would have|taught you to read.
Don't say that.
Reading's my salvation.
But why must you indulge|in his pornography ?
It's a hard day's wages,|slaving away for madmen.
What I've seen in life,
it takes a lot|to hold my interest.
I put myself in his stories.
I play the parts.
- Each strumpet, each murderess.|- Oh, Maddie-
If I wasn't such a bad woman|on the page,
I'll hazard I couldn't be|such a good woman in life.
This is no place|for a child like you.
I'm sending you|away from here.
It would take the whole den|if you stop there.
It would take the whole den|if you stop there.
Now this is not good enough.|You understand ?
I refuse to pay-
We could line the walls|with Chinese silks.
Or, if you prefer,|a Florentine tapestry.
- Are you a literary man ?|- Excuse me ?
I do so admire men|with an appetite for...
books.
Madame, how could you ?
Have you actually|read this volume ?
I've memorized it.
There comes a time|in a young lady's life...
when she must|cast books aside...
and learn from experience.
That, monsieur...
requires a teacher.
Oh, yes, come on.|We'll have some fun.
- Maddie, what are you-
Is something wrong ?
Abbe, don't send me away,|I beg you.
I shouldn't refuse|your kindness...
but my heart's|held fast here.
By whom ?|The marquis ?
Mother's not|half so blind as you.
Oh, Madeleine.
There are certain feelings...|we must not voice.
Why not ?
They incite-
They incite us to act...
in ways...
we should not.
No.
What have I done ?
Go. Go back|to your room quickly.
You'll hate me now,|won't you ?
No. I love you, Madeleine...
as a child of God.
- Forgive me.
Madeleine.
- Maddie.
You don't fear|the marquis' sway on me.
You fear your own.
If you'd grant me a final favor,|I'd like to explain myself.
Don't come any closer, Abbe.|God's watching.
Maddie-
"Most esteemed|Dr. Royer-Collard,
"At long last|your chateau is complete.
"You will find everything|in its assigned place:
"the chintz draperies,|the English bell pulls,
"even the ivory doorstops.
"Only one detail is missing-
Your wife."
Tell him I'm no fool.
A prison is still a prison,
even with Chinese silks|and chandeliers.
" By the time you read this,|we'll be long gone.
Bound for England|or points beyond."
Tell him if he discovers|our whereabouts,
you'll slit your wrist|with a razor and I'll plunge|a hat pin through my heart.
You'd do that...|rather than forsake our love ?
No... but tell him I would.
Sign it... quickly.
Then you can ravish me again|on linens for which he so dearly paid.
And then, I beg you,
on the bearskin rug|in his study.
And finally,|as a crowning gesture,
we'll leave puddles of love|on the Peruvian marble.
Simone !
Simone ! Simone ?
Simone ?
Stop !
Stop ! I beg you !
I'll write dainty stories,|odes to virtue.
Children's verse.|I promise !
It excites you, doesn't it,|to hurt me thus ?
Look, you're solid as bone,|straining your trousers.
Don't you see,|you self-righteous fuck ?
The longer you continue|your vexations,
the deeper you root|my principles in my heart !
Haven't you seen...
a man naked before ?
The abbe's sending me away.
Yes.
Of course he is.
Marquis...
tell me one little story.
How do you propose|I do that ?
With dust upon the air ?
Whisper it to me now.
Child, that's far too dangerous.
I may never see you again.
Let me transcribe it for you,|something to remember you by.
This is neither the time|nor the place.
We've lost.
I never thought|I'd see you defeated.
There are thousands|of stories...
I would dearly love to tell.
Then tell me one.
Perhaps I can.
Tonight, place yourself|in the linen pantry...
with a bottle of ink|and a quill.
And then you shall|have a story...
that will make|the angels weep...
and the saints|all gasp for air.
Psst, she's here.
Dauphin. Dauphin.
Dauphin.
- Cleante. Cleante.
Psst, Cleante, are you ready ?
- Are you ready ?|- Marquis, is that you ?
For fuck's sake, who else would it be ?|Have you alerted the others ?
I'm no longer a man.
I awoke to discover|I turned into a sparrow.
- Is that so ?
Well, I awoke to discover|I'd turned into a cat !
If you don't do as I say,|I'll sink my little fangs|into your drumsticks...
and suck the marrow|straight out of your bones !
- Have you got that, little bird ?
At your service, Count.
To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for the most impure tale...
ever to spring|from the mind of man.
Off your hump.
Dauphin.|To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for the most...
impure tale ever told.
To my beloved reader,
prepare yourself|for an impure tale.
- Psst, Bouchon.|- Huh ?
To my beloved reader,|prepare yourself.
I have an impure tale to tell.
Prepare yourself.
- Bouchon ?
What did you say ?
Prepare yourself.|I've a tale, an impure tale.
Our story concerns|the prostitute, Fauchau,
whom nature had equipped...
with a tight and tiny fissure|between her thighs...
and the most finely|cleft ass ever molded...
by the hand of God.
Fauchau was a prostitute...
with a tight|and downy fissure...
between her thighs and-
The most finely cleft ass !
The most finely cleft ass.
- My glorious prose filtered|through the minds of the insane.
Who knows,|they might improve it.
It's about a harlot|named Fauchau.
It's about a harlot...
named Fauchau|with a downy fissure.
One day, Fauchau's first client|was a surgeon.
He ran his fingers|across her naked skin,
pulling apart|folds of flesh.
He ran his fingers|across her naked skin,
pulling apart folds of flesh.
Pulling at her folds and-
He ran his fingers|over her naked skin,
- pulling at her folds.
Feeling over her naked skin.
Her naked skin.
- Naked-|- Yes, I've got that bit.
"What shall I make ready ?"|asked Fauchau.
" My mouth, my ass...
or my succulent oyster ?"
What shall I make ready ?
My ass or my succulent oyster ?
" None !" cried the surgeon,|brandishing his scalpel.
- Yes ?|- Which hole ?
My mouth, my ass|or my succulent-
succulent oyster.
" For I'll carve new orifices|where there were none before."
- None-|- Cried the surgeon.
I'll carve new-new-new orifices|where there were none before.
With that, Fauchau expelled a scream|so extravagantly pitched...
that the surgeon was obliged|to tear out her tongue.
- Fauchau expelled a scream|of such extravagant pitch-
With that,|the extravagant bitch-
- screamed so loud-|- She screamed...
so long and so loud-
She screamed, so he felt|he should- He ought-
- To seal the wound,|he took a poker from the fire.|- A poker !
- To tear out her tongue.
-He took a poker from the fire.|-From the fire. From the fire !
He took a poker|from the fire.
From the fire.|From the fire.
He took a poker from the fire.
From the fire.
- Dauphin.|- From the fire.
- What's the next bit ?|- Bouchon, the words ?
- Tell me the words.|- Fire.
- Dauphin ?
- Dauphin ?
- Fire !|- What's the next bit ?
- Fire ! Fire.|- What's the next bit ?
- Fire ! Fire !|- Tell me the next bit !
- You must tell me the words.
- You must tell me the words.
- Fire !
Open all the doors !|Let the patients out!
Get some water !|Hurry ! Come on !
Get some water !
-Jesus ! What the hell|have you done ?
Where's that water ?
Get the beds !|Stomp them out!
- Fire ! Fire !
Fire ! Fire !
- Fire !
Where are you going with that ?
Bouchon ?
Bouchon ?
Remember your manners,|Bouchon.
- Don't-
- No ! No ! No !|- Madeleine.
- Madeleine !
- Madeleine !|- Madeleine !
- Madeleine!|- Madeleine !
Madeleine!
- Madeleine!|- Madeleine.
Madeleine! Madeleine!
Madeleine!
Madeleine! Madeleine!
- Maddie ?
Madeleine !
- Maddie !|- It's awful !
The devil's unleashed himself|upon us !
It's her fault !
Up the stairs !
No! No! No!
No ! No ! No !
- Maddie !
- Madeleine ! Madeleine !
We must save Charenton!|Keep the chain going !
We've got to stop it|before it gets to those beams !
- Get him off of me !
Pitou !
- Madeleine !|- Madeleine !
- Guards ! Guards !
Guards !
Brigitte.|Are you all right ?
Madeleine !
- Madeleine !
Madeleine !
Go ! Quickly !
Madeleine !
Where are you,|Maddie ?
"She screamed...
- so he felt he ought|to tear out her tongue."
Bouchon, wait !
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Abbe.|I couldn't help it.
No.
Oh, my God.
- No.
Oh, no.
Madeleine!
Now, now, don't be shy.
We've a nice surprise|just waiting for you.
There's a good boy.
Huh ?
Huh !|There's a good boy.
Huh ?
I'm sorry. Wait.
I promise I won't do it again.
I promise.
Of course,|we mustn't blame Bouchon.
He is merely one of nature's|experiments gone awry.
No discipline,|no conscience, no morality.
In fact, it is our duty...
to provide such things|on his behalf.
Is it not ?
As you say, Doctor.
He was so impressed|by the marquis' tale...
that he chose|to reenact it, yes ?
Upon a certain chambermaid.
Perhaps you would be so kind|as to remind me of her name.
I beg you, Doctor,|don't make me say it.
Her name, Abbe.
Madeleine.
Tell me, Abbe,
when you are called|before God,
how will you answer|for Madeleine's death ?
- Murderer.
Your words-
Your words drove Bouchon to-
Oh, for fuck's sake, Abbe !
Suppose one of your|precious inmates attempted|to walk on water and drowned ?
Would you condemn the Bible ?|I think not.
An innocent child is dead.
So many authors are denied|the gratification...
of a concrete response|to their work.
I'm blessed, am I not ?
It's no secret|that you loved her.
I wanted to fuck her, that's all.
- And did you ?|- It's not your province to ask.
- Why was it you never|took her by force ?|- Who's to say I did not ?
- Was it impotence ?|- Never !
Then... it must have been love.
I fucked her|countless times...
and all the while|she pleaded for more.
We inspected the body.
She died a virgin.
Give her...|a proper burial...
in the churchyard...
at my expense.
Do not inter...
her sweet body...
in the same ground...
as the devils who inhabit|this accursed place.
Your terrible secret revealed.
You're a man after all.
I've opium|to numb the pain.
Our intention is punitive.
If we numb the pain,|what's the point ?
Abbe de Coulmier.
I'm here.
Would that I were|so easily silenced.
There's a good boy.
My, my.
You have exceeded|my expectations.
Have I ? I'm not the first man God|has asked to shed blood in His name.
I will not be the last.
And will you|sleep soundly tonight ?
No, sir.
Plainly put,
I never expect to sleep again.
Don't send me away, Abbe.
Abbe. Abbe.
- Abbe-
Abbe. Abbe.
Abbe. Abbe.
Abbe! Abbe!
You best come quick, Abbe !
He's written|all over the walls.
Used his own filth.
- Made him self a kind of paint.|- Dear God.
- The stench !
- Free his mouth.|- You mustn't do that, sir.
I must grant him his last rites.|Give me your dagger.
Leave us.
- Shh.
I failed to save your soul in life.
I won't fail in death.
Dear Heavenly Father,
prove Your infinite mercy...
and open Your gates|to this man,
no less Your child|than any other.
There is...
in each of us...
such beauty...
and such abomination.
No man is exempt.
Forgive him.
Forgive us all.
Kiss the cross.
Marquis !
Marquis !
- No !
Welcome to Charenton, Abbe.
I'm pleased to have|the new post, sir.
Are you ?|Thank you.
I'm afraid our endowment|has shriveled to a mere pittance.
We are the laughingstock|of all France.
However, on a happier note,
the hospital is now|in my sole command.
My policy here is that|each man must earn his keep.
The Charenton Press, Abbe.
We produce books|for the discriminating collector.
The compulsive inmates|set the type.
The listless ones do the binding|and prepare the ink.
It's remarkable, Doctor.
The patients are|so subdued, so docile.
Yes, they are at peace.
They have the satisfaction that only|a hard day's labor can provide.
I don't believe it.
The Marquis de Sade ?|You're actually publishing his novels ?
Yes. Ever since|his unfortunate death,
there's been a surge|of interest in his works.
Of course, I will use the profits to|restore Charenton to its former glory.
Oh, Doctor.
We have a meeting|with Herr Becker at 4:00.
He wants to publish|a Swiss edition...
on gilded paper|bound in calfskin.
- Thank you, Charlotte.|- My pleasure.
Have a look at page 205.|I turned the corner down.
Come on, move.|On your left. Come on.
Next one. Go on.|Get these books onboard.
Come on!|Those boxes over there !
Move yourself. Right.
Right, old mate, that's it !|See you next week !
Of course, everything is not|quite as harmonious as it seems.
- I hope you have|a strong constitution.
My years tending lepers steeled me|for life's grisliest offerings.
We still have|a few lone incurables...
prone to violence|and perversion.
So...
you're my successor, yes ?
"Successor" ?
Oh.
Listen to me... Abbe,
and listen well.
I've stared|into the face of evil...
and I've lived|to tell the tale.
Now, I beg you, for your sake,|let me write it down.
Gibberish, my friend.|He rants and he raves.
If you've an ounce|of Christian charity,
then you'll bring me parchment,|ink and a quill.
You'll do no such thing.|This patient poses a grave|danger to himself and others.
Are you all right, sir ?
Do you not see, Abbe ?
Do you not see, Abbe ?
Some men|are beyond redemption.
No. Wait. Please.
Please bring mea quill.|Please ?
Wait. I'm sorry.
Goddamn you, Abbe !|A quill !
A quill.
Use it well.
You owe her that.
Beloved reader,
I leave you now with a tale|penned by the Abbe de Coulmier,
a man who found freedom|in the unlikeliest of places:;
at the bottom of an inkwell,
on the tip of a quill.
However, be forewarned,
its plot is blood-soaked,
its characters depraved,
and its themes...|unwholesome at best.
But in order to know virtue,
we must acquaint ourselves|with vice.
Only then can we know|the full measure of man.
So come.
I dare you.
Turn the page.