Quills Page #3

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 sh*t, we f***,|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.

F*** 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,

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