Quills

Dear reader,|I've a naughty little tale to tell,

plucked from the pages|of history-

tarted up, true-

but guaranteed|to stimulate the senses.

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...

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