Quills Page #5

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 f***in' 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.

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