Quills Page #2

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 ?

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