Quills Page #8

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.

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