Quills

ROYER-COLLARD: Of course, everything's not as harmonious as it seems. I hope you've a strong constitution.

ABBE DU MAUPAS: My years tending the lepers at St. Emilion steeled me for life's grisliest offerings, Doctor.

ROYER-COLLARD: We've still a few lone incurables. Prone to violence, to perversion.

ABBE DU MAUPAS: I don't believe it. The Marquis de Sade? You're actually publishing his novels?

ROYER-COLLARD: Ever since his unfortunate death, there's been a surge of interest in his work. I'll use the profits to restore Charenton to her former glory.

ROYER-COLLARD: -- and the listless ones do the binding.

ABBE DU MAUPAS: It's remarkable, Doctor. The patients are so subdued; so docile.

ROYER-COLLARD: They've the satisfaction only a hard day's labor can provide.

ROYER-COLLARD: Welcome to Charenton, Abbe du Maupas.

ABBE DU MAUPAS: I'm pleased to have the new post, sir.

ROYER-COLLARD: I'm afraid that our endowment has shrivelled to a mere pittance; we're the laughing stock of all France. But -- on a happier note --

MADELEINE: If you're going to slander him, then you don't deserve to hear his stories --

CHARLOTTE: I think she's sweet on him, that's what I think.

CHARLOTTE: You've been to his quarters, haven't you?

MADELEINE: Once or twice.

CHARLOTTE: I hear he's got a whetstone and chisel, and he uses them to sharpen his teeth.

MADELEINE: He's a writer, not a madman.

CHARLOTTE: Then what's he doing here?

MADELEINE: "And so the Professor lifted Colombe'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 -- as pink as a tulip, as slick as an eel --"

CHARLOTTE: We oughtn't be reading his nasty stories --

MADELEINE: No one's forcing you to listen.

THE MARQUIS: "To seal the wound, he took a poker from the fire --"

CLEANTE: "...a poker... he took a poker from the fire..."

THE MARQUIS: "With that, Fanchon expelled a scream so extravagantly pitched, that the surgeon was obliged to tear out her tongue --"

CLEANTE: "With that, Fanchon expelled a scream so extravagantly pitched, that the surgeon was obliged to tear out her tongue --"

THE MARQUIS: "One day, Fanchon's first client was a surgeon. He ran his fingers across her naked skin, pulling apart folds of flesh, inspecting each and every follicle..."

CLEANTE: "One day, Fanchon was visited by a surgeon. He ran his fingers across her naked skin, pulling apart folds of flesh, inspecting follicles..."

THE MARQUIS: Yes, well, I awoke to discover I'd turned into a cat. If you don't do as I say, I'll sink my little fangs into your drumsticks, and suck the marrow straight out of your bones.

CLEANTE: At your service, Count.

THE MARQUIS: Now give the signal.

CLEANTE: Marquis? Is that you?

THE MARQUIS: For fuck's sake, who else would it be? The witching hour's arrived; you've alerted the others, yes?

CLEANTE: I'm no longer a man! I awoke to discover I'd turned into a sparrow!

COULMIER: If you'd grant me a final favor, I'd like the chance to explain myself --

MADELEINE: Don't come any closer, Abbe. God's watching.

COULMIER: Go back to your room. Quickly.

MADELEINE: What? What've I done?

COULMIER: Don't come back, not tonight, not again --

MADELEINE: You'll hate me now, won't you?

COULMIER: Madeleine, I... there are certain things... feelings... we must not voice.

MADELEINE: Why not?

COULMIER: They incite us to act. In ways we should not... cannot... a lesson the Marquis would do well to learn.

MADELEINE: It's a sin against God for me to refuse your kindness. But my heart's held fast here...

COULMIER: By whom? The Marquis?

MADELEINE: Mother's not half so blind as you.

MADELEINE: Don't turn us out, Abbe.

COULMIER: "Turn you out?"

COULMIER: Charenton has changed; it's not safe for you here.

MADELEINE: I've you to look after me, haven't I?

COULMIER: The Doctor's a respected man, a friend of the court --

MADELEINE: I haven't been to see the Marquis for ages. And I won't -- ever again -- I swear it. I won't speak to him, I won't even utter his name --

COULMIER: Is that a promise you can truly keep?

COULMIER: In part, yes.

MADELEINE: He's not the man who's cast a shadow here.

MADELEINE: Ow!

COULMIER: But why heap such ghastly fantasies atop an already ghastly existence?

MADELEINE: I put myself in his stories. I play the parts. Each strumpet, each murderess.

COULMIER: Why not act the role of heroines instead? Queen Esther from the Bible, or St. Joan?

MADELEINE: If I wasn't such a bad woman on the page, Abbe, I'll hazard I couldn't be such a good woman in life.

COULMIER: Had I known your taste in novels, I never would've taught you to read.

MADELEINE: Don't say that; reading's my salvation.

COULMIER: But why must you indulge in his pornography?

MADELEINE: It's a hard day's wages, slaving away for madmen. What I've seen in life, it takes a lot to hold my interest.

MADELEINE: I was wrong to free him, but so are you -- for taking all his treasures -- his quills and his ink --

COULMIER: Not now, or we're both done for.

COULMIER: Has he hurt you?

MADELEINE: His stinking breath caused my eyes to run, that's all.

COULMIER: Madeleine --

MADELEINE: Yes, Abbe?

COULMIER: The next time you feel the urge to visit the Marquis, I hope you'll come to confession instead.

MADELEINE: Then how can we know who is truly good, and who is evil?

COULMIER: We can't. All we can do is guard against our own corruption.

COULMIER: Free his mouth.

VALCOUR: Mustn't do that, sir.

COULMIER: I must grant him his last rites.

VALCOUR: I don't take my orders from you; not anymore.

COULMIER: You'd deny a dying man his salvation?

VALCOUR: They've got no right, sending someone to sit on your shoulder. I work for you; I won't take orders from a stranger.

COULMIER: You needn't worry, Valcour. It's administrative, nothing more.

THE MARQUIS: Abbe de Coulmier!

COULMIER: I'm here.

THE MARQUIS: Surely you'll grant me a final word.

COULMIER: Of course.

THE MARQUIS: I dare you. Stab my flesh. Which one of us will bleed?

COULMIER: Tomorrow, we'll cut out your tongue.

THE MARQUIS: I FUCKED HER COUNTLESS TIMES! IN EVERY ORIFICE! AND ALL THE WHILE, SHE PLEAD FOR MORE --

COULMIER: We inspected the body, Marquis. She died a virgin.

THE MARQUIS: Don't confuse one organ with another --

COULMIER: I know, because I felt it myself --

THE MARQUIS: I WANTED TO FUCK HER, THAT'S ALL!

COULMIER: AND DID YOU?

THE MARQUIS: IT'S NOT YOUR PROVINCE TO ASK.

COULMIER: You're no stranger to rape, Marquis; and yet with her, you cooed. You courted. You begged.

THE MARQUIS: Go to hell!

COULMIER: Why was it you never took her by force?

THE MARQUIS: Who's to say I did not?

COULMIER: Was it impotence?

THE MARQUIS: NEVER!

COULMIER: Then it must've been love --

COULMIER: It's no secret that you loved her.

THE MARQUIS: Oh, that's rich -- coming from her lapdog --

COULMIER: I saw the longing in your eye --

THE MARQUIS: -- that was lust --

COULMIER: -- the passion in your heart --

THE MARQUIS: Oh, I'm to be blamed now, am I?

COULMIER: Your words drove Bouchon to --

THE MARQUIS: For fuck's sake, Abbe! What am I to do? Police my readers as you police me? Suppose one of your precious wards had attempted to walk on water and drowned? Would you condemn the Bible? I think not!

COULMIER: An innocent child is dead.

THE MARQUIS: So many authors are denied the gratification of a concrete response to their work. I am blessed, am I not?

THE MARQUIS: It's a potent aphrodisiac, isn't it? Power over another man.

COULMIER: Your wig. Remove your wig.

COULMIER: OFF WITH YOUR CLOTHES!

THE MARQUIS: Coulmier, you animal!

COULMIER: I DO NOT MEAN TO FLIRT, MARQUIS!

THE MARQUIS: Oh, but you must, my pumpkin! Sex without flirtation is merely rape!

COULMIER: NOW STRIP.

COULMIER: If it were up to the Doctor, you'd be flayed alive.

THE MARQUIS: A man after my own heart...

COULMIER: What in God's name am I to do with you? The more I forbid, the more you're provoked!

THE MARQUIS: I could be convinced to abandon my writing, quite voluntarily.

COULMIER: What on earth would that require?

THE MARQUIS: A night spent with the partner of my choice.

COULMIER: You expect me to pimp Madeleine?

THE MARQUIS: I wasn't talking about Madeleine.

THE MARQUIS: I DIDN'T CREATE THIS WORLD OF OURS! I ONLY RECORD IT!

COULMIER: Its horrors, perhaps! Its darkest nightmares! And to what end? Nothing but your own morbid gratification --

THE MARQUIS: Morbid gratification? NO! I write what I've seen; the endless procession to the chopping block. We're all lined up at the guillotine, waiting for the crunch of the blade. Rivers of blood are flowing beneath our feet, Abbe.

THE MARQUIS: WHY THIS SUDDEN TORTURE?

COULMIER: Because your writing continues, unchecked.

THE MARQUIS: Virgin birth -- ha! An entire religion, built on an oxymoron!

COULMIER: Orvolle. His wine. From now on, nothing but water at every meal --

THE MARQUIS: -- water! --

COULMIER: -- and your meat shall be de-boned.

THE MARQUIS: That's a Turkish weave, you numbskull; it costs more than you'll earn in your lifetime --

COULMIER: Valcour. His chair.

THE MARQUIS: My bed, gone! Am I to freeze to death?

COULMIER: His rug.

THE MARQUIS: And my chaise -- am I being denied the privilege of sitting -- of plopping down my ass --

THE MARQUIS: I have a proposition.

COULMIER: You always do.

THE MARQUIS: Madeleine. She's besotted with me; she'd do anything I ask. She could pay you a midnight visit --

COULMIER: I don't know who you insult more; her or me.

THE MARQUIS: "Part the gates of heaven," as it were --

COULMIER: That's enough.

THE MARQUIS: You're tense, darling. You could use a long, slow screw.

COULMIER: Good day, Marquis.

THE MARQUIS: THEN BUGGER ME!

THE MARQUIS: I'll die of loneliness! I've no company but the characters I create --

COULMIER: Whores and pederasts? You're better off without them.

COULMIER: Start with the Bible; it's cheerier, and more artfully written.

THE MARQUIS: That monstrous God of yours? He strung up his very own son like a side of veal; I shudder to think what He'd do to me.

COULMIER: You know what sacrilege is, don't you? The last refuge of the failed provocateur.

COULMIER: Perhaps -- in time -- you'll earn them back through good behavior --

THE MARQUIS: You can't --! You mustn't --! I've all the demons of hell in my head; my only salvation is to vent them on paper --

COULMIER: Try reading, for a change. The writer who produces more than he reads? The sure mark of an amateur.

THE MARQUIS: What the devil --

COULMIER: If you won't be true to your word, then you've left me no choice.

THE MARQUIS: He can't do that to me.

COULMIER: How can one man possibly be so selfish?

THE MARQUIS: We held a mirror up to the Doctor, and -- apparently -- he didn't like what he saw.

COULMIER: You mean to take us all down with you?

THE MARQUIS: Don't be absurd; it's only a play.

COULMIER: If you only mean to dupe me again --

THE MARQUIS: 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?

THE MARQUIS: You've a touch of the poet, too; perhaps you should take up the quill.

COULMIER: Do I have your word?

THE MARQUIS: Yes! It is! The paper's cheap, the type's too small --

COULMIER: What did you do? Bribe one of the guards?

THE MARQUIS: But you implored me to write! For curative purposes, to stave off my madness --

COULMIER: But you've no right to publish! Behind my back, without my sanction!

THE MARQUIS: Have you truly read the book in question? Or did you run -- straightaway -- to the dog-eared pages?

COULMIER: Enough to discern its tenor.

THE MARQUIS: And --?

COULMIER: It's not even a proper novel! It's nothing but an encyclopedia of perversions! Frankly, it even fails as an exercise in craft. The characters are wooden; the dialogue is inane. Not to mention the endless repetition of words like "nipple" and "pikestaff" --

THE MARQUIS: There I was taxed; it's true.

COULMIER: And such puny scope! Nothing but the very worst in man's nature!

THE MARQUIS: I write of the great, eternal truths that bind together all mankind! The whole world over, we eat, we shit, we fuck, we kill and we die.

COULMIER: But we also fall in love; we build cities, we compose symphonies, and we endure. Why not put that in your books as well?

THE MARQUIS: It's a fiction, not a moral treatise.

COULMIER: But isn't that the duty of art? To elevate us above the beast?

THE MARQUIS: I thought that was your duty, Abbe, not mine.

COULMIER: One more trick like this, and I'll be forced to revoke all your liberties!

THE MARQUIS: It's that Doctor fellow, isn't it? He's come to usurp your place here, hasn't he?

COULMIER: More than your writing's at stake. The Ministry has threatened us with closure.

THE MARQUIS: They can't be serious.

COULMIER: Our future lies in the stroke of your pen.

THE MARQUIS: Mightier than the sword indeed.

COULMIER: Put yourself in my place. I've your fellow patients to consider. If Charenton falls, they've no place to go. No manner in which to clothe or feed themselves --

THE MARQUIS: Fuck 'em! They're half-wits and pinheads. Let 'em die on the streets, as Nature intended.

COULMIER: You among them?

COULMIER: Take your pen in hand, Marquis. Purge these wicked thoughts of yours on paper; maybe they'll govern you less in life.

THE MARQUIS: I'll fill page after page, I promise.

THE MARQUIS: I should've told you it was the blood of Christ; you'd believe that, wouldn't you?

COULMIER: We treat you well enough here, don't we Marquis? Your very own featherbed, in lieu of a straw mat. Your antique writing desk, all the way from LaCoste. Enough quills to feather an ostrich --

THE MARQUIS: It's true, dear-heart, you've spoiled me pink.

COULMIER: In exchange, we ask only that you follow the rules. Now you know as well as I do... you're not to entertain visitors in your quarters.

THE MARQUIS: I'm entertaining you now, aren't I?

COULMIER: I'm not a beautiful young prospect, ripe for corruption.

THE MARQUIS: Don't be so sure.

THE MARQUIS: Care for a splash of wine, Abbe?

COULMIER: It's not even noon --

THE MARQUIS: Conversation, like certain portions of the anatomy, always runs more smoothly when it's lubricated.

COULMIER: I've stared into the face of evil... ...and I've lived to tell the tale. Now... for your own sake... let me write it down.

ROYER-COLLARD: Gibberish, my friend. He rants and he raves --

ROYER-COLLARD: My, my. You have exceeded my expectations.

COULMIER: And my own.

ROYER-COLLARD: How is the patient faring?

COULMIER: Poorly.

ROYER-COLLARD: And you? It must've been an ordeal.

COULMIER: I'm not the first man God has asked to shed blood in His name. I will not be the last.

ROYER-COLLARD: Will you sleep soundly tonight?

COULMIER: No, sir. Plainly put, I never expect to sleep again.

ROYER-COLLARD: Perhaps you'll be so kind as to remind me of her name...

COULMIER: I beg you, Doctor, don't make me say it.

ROYER-COLLARD: HER NAME, ABBE.

COULMIER: As you say, Doctor.

ROYER-COLLARD: He was so impressed with the Marquis' tale that he chose to re-enact it, yes?

COULMIER: If only blood will appease you, then shed mine.

ROYER-COLLARD: You'd suffer in her stead?

ROYER-COLLARD: He'll do no such thing.

COULMIER: It's a weak man who tests his mettle on the backs of children --

ROYER-COLLARD: This child let loose the beast from its cage --

COULMIER: Madeleine's not wicked. It's the Marquis who's corrupted her. That's not her fault; it's mine.

COULMIER: You'll get more from her with kindness than you will with force.

ROYER-COLLARD: What could cause a tincture like this?

COULMIER: I'll do everything in my power --

ROYER-COLLARD: Do more. Otherwise, I'll be forced to report to the Ministry that the inmates are indeed running the asylum.

ROYER-COLLARD: You ought to be ashamed, Abbe. Exploiting those drooling, pathetic cretins for financial gain --

COULMIER: That's not our intent --

ROYER-COLLARD: -- a veritable freak show for tourists and curiosity seekers. Charenton is a sanatorium; she is not a circus. The theater is henceforth closed. As for your avowed friend -- playwright emeritus of the madhouse --

COULMIER: It was fiction, of course.

ROYER-COLLARD: Of course.

COULMIER: It was not inspired by circumstance.

ROYER-COLLARD: No. It most certainly was not.

COULMIER: Madame Bougival; Mademoiselle Clairwil -- and of course -- the Marquis' wife --

ROYER-COLLARD: Oh indeed?

COULMIER: He's more than a patient, Doctor; the Marquis is my friend --

ROYER-COLLARD: You keep strange company, Abbe. But if you truly have matters in hand here --

COULMIER: I have.

ROYER-COLLARD: -- then I've friends of my own to visit.

ROYER-COLLARD: Well?

COULMIER: I spoke to him with reason and compassion; the tools which serve us best here.

ROYER-COLLARD: And --?

COULMIER: He's sworn to obedience.

COULMIER: On the contrary. Let me take up this matter with the Marquis myself --

ROYER-COLLARD: And place my reputation at stake?

COULMIER: Charenton is my life's work. To have her wrested from beneath me now --

ROYER-COLLARD: Unless we set Charenton on a straight and narrow course, she'll be shut down forever by order of the Emperor.

COULMIER: Shut down?

ROYER-COLLARD: In their eyes, the Marquis is the surest barometer of your progress here.

COULMIER: But he's one among some two hundred wards --

ROYER-COLLARD: Have you tried bleeding him with leeches? The calming chair? Maybe you should flog him at the stake?

COULMIER: Why? So he'll learn to fear punishment, rather than pursue virtue for its own reward?

ROYER-COLLARD: You're a sentimental man.

COULMIER: A practical man, sir. Given the Marquis' unusual tastes, a sound thrashing on bare flesh may not qualify as a deterrent.

ROYER-COLLARD: You find this amusing, do you?

COULMIER: You have to believe me, I had no idea --

ROYER-COLLARD: All France is aghast at this book, yet you've not heard of it?

COULMIER: I've taken vows to live my life within these walls; not outside them.

ROYER-COLLARD: Abbe, I admire you; I do. You've a conviction... an idealism... peculiar to the very young. And so I'll be candid. The Ministry has sent me here with the most explicit... the most severe instructions.

COULMIER: Yes?

COULMIER: Oh. That.

ROYER-COLLARD: Well...?

COULMIER: It's essential to his recovery; a purgative for the toxins in his mind.

ROYER-COLLARD: Do you favor its publication?

COULMIER: For sale? To the general public? Certainly not; it's unprintable.

COULMIER: Besides, every wholesome thing he might desire, he has at Charenton. A library, filled with the world's great books, music lessons, watercolor exercises --

ROYER-COLLARD: What is the impact of all these amenities upon his psyche?

COULMIER: He no longer roars or spits. He no longer taunts the guards or molests his fellow wards --

ROYER-COLLARD: And his writing?

ROYER-COLLARD: And he's never once attempted escape?

COULMIER: A man of his notoriety? He wouldn't last a day on the streets without capture.

ROYER-COLLARD: Why is he in your care, and not a proper prison?

COULMIER: His wife's influence.

ROYER-COLLARD: His wife's?

COULMIER: Better to have an insane spouse than a criminal one.

COULMIER: He's made a great success of our Little Theater; there's seldom an empty seat. Not to mention its therapeutic value.

ROYER-COLLARD: Playing dress-up with cretins? That sounds like a symptom of madness; not its cure.

ROYER-COLLARD: Indiscretions, Abbe? Please. I've read his case history. At sixteen, he violated a serving girl with a crucifix. After six months in the dungeon at Vincennes, he mutilated a prostitute, cutting her flesh with a razor, then cauterizing the wounds with wax --

COULMIER: I hope you'll judge him by his progress here, and not his past reputation.

ROYER-COLLARD: I understand he practices the very crimes he preaches in his fiction.

COULMIER: A few indiscretions in his youth.

COULMIER: Dr. Royer-Collard? May I be the first to welcome you to Charenton --

ROYER-COLLARD: This may feel a tad awkward, my friend, but it needn't be. I've merely come to oversee your work here; understood?

COULMIER: Of course.

ROYER-COLLARD: It's a formality; truly.

COULMIER: You're a man of Science; I'm a man of God. Charenton stands to profit from us both, I'm certain.

ROYER-COLLARD: I'll need an office on the grounds; someplace to store my things.

COULMIER: If you don't mind my asking... why has the Emperor taken such sudden interest in my... our... affairs?

ROYER-COLLARD: It seems a particular patient of yours has captured his fancy.

NAPOLEON: As for the author... shoot him.

DELBEN: A word of caution, Sire: we all remember what happened to Robespierre, Danton and Marat. Put the Marquis to death, and history might even regard you as a despot.

NAPOLEON: But I am history.

DELBEN: Of course, Your Highness. Nevertheless... cure the Marquis de Sade... succeed, where countless physicians and priests have failed...

NAPOLEON: Yes?

DELBEN: No one can fault Napoleon for merely bringing a man to his senses.

DELBEN: "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 --"

NAPOLEON: Enough!

DELBEN: His wife was trying to escape; they caught her on the stair, and set upon her with bayonets. "There but for the grace of God"... eh, Doctor?

ROYER-COLLARD: I don't shed tears over the past, Monsieur Delben; I look to the future.

ROYER-COLLARD: Charenton? The administrator there is quite well-loved, is he not?

DELBEN: I'm afraid so; he's an idealist. You'll have to be politic.

ROYER-COLLARD: Do you know how I define "idealism," Monsieur Delben?

ROYER-COLLARD: But here at the Hotel Dieu we favor an... aggressive... course of treatment.

DELBEN: Quite.

ROYER-COLLARD: I don't seek popularity or renown, Monsieur Delben. Mine is a higher mission.

MADELEINE: You asked my name once; it's Madeleine.

HORSEMAN: Sweet, then? Like the pastry?

MADELEINE: Here it is; the last chapter.

HORSEMAN: Monsieur Masse says he'd like another manuscript, quick as you please. He's got himself three presses, and he can't print 'em fast enough.

MADELEINE: I'll pass the word on, then.

HORSEMAN: I'll pay you another visit, with a share of the profits, once its sold.

MADELEINE: I'll be waiting.

HORSEMAN: Maybe someday you'll tell me your name.

LIBERTINE: I'll plunder every lovely pore until you're week and cry "no more!"

INGENUE: I tremble with fear! You're bound to pound the quivering lips of my Venus mound!

LIBERTINE: And then -- to prove your truly mine -- I'll plunder you, darling, from behind!

INGENUE: What of my lips, will you soil them too? When you've broken every other taboo?

LIBERTINE: I'll fill every slippery hollow; if you're obliging, then you'll swallow!

LIBERTINE: My darling, Eugenie, dainty morsel! Get on your back! Let's try it dorsal!

INGENUE: Was ever a man more risqu? He wants to take me every way!

LIBERTINE: Quickly, my suckling, out of your clothes! My scepter awaits; how solid it grows!

INGENUE: Stop, I beg you! Have pity, I say! You're not my lover; you're a monstrous rou!

LIBERTINE: 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!

INGENUE: Such gallantry in men is -- sadly -- a rarity; How lucky I am to receive his charity!

MADAME LECLERC: You're more than a priest; you're an angel! Ain't he, Maddy?

MADELEINE: It's because of the Marquis, isn't it?

MADELEINE: I'm only a laundress; not a detective.

MADAME LECLERC: Now's not the time to be cheeky, Maddy.

MADELEINE: "A habitu of cemeteries, his proudest conquest was a maid six decades his senior, deceased a dozen years."

MADAME LECLERC: Oh, it's terrible! It's too, too terrible! Well. Go on.

MADELEINE: "The vigor with which he made love caused her bones to dislodge. Still, he granted her the highest compliment he accorded any woman..."

MADAME LECLERC: Yes?

MADELEINE: "Well worth the dig!"

MADAME LECLERC: If you won't read it to your own Mama, then perhaps you ought not to be reading it at all.

MADELEINE: It's not your cup of tea, Mama.

MADAME LECLERC: Come now, darling, give it a read.

MADELEINE: ...yes, I've got that bit...

THE MARQUIS: "What shall I ready?" asked Fanchon. "My mouth, my ass or my succulent oyster?"

MADELEINE: Yes; that's it! A final volley from us both!

THE MARQUIS: Go on, child.

MADELEINE: Tomorrow night, whisper a new tale to your neighbor, Cleante. He'll whisper it to his neighbor Dauphin, who'll whisper it to his neighbor Franval --

THE MARQUIS: -- who'll whisper it to Bouchon --

MADELEINE: -- whose cell lies next to the linen cabinet! There, armed with a quill of my own, I'll commit it to paper!

THE MARQUIS: Yes! You shall. Of course you shall --

MADELEINE: A tale more horrible than all the rest combined!

THE MARQUIS: Something to make the angels weep, and the Saints to gasp for air...

MADELEINE: It needn't be; not if you've another story.

THE MARQUIS: How do you propose I write it? With dust, upon the air?

MADELEINE: You could whisper it through the walls of your cell.

MADELEINE: The Abbe's sending me away. He fears for me here, what with the likes of you --

THE MARQUIS: Don't be fooled, Madeleine! He fears for himself. He's like a man starving, and you -- ha! -- you're like a pork chop dolloped with heavy cream --

MADELEINE: He's a man of God; he's true to his vows.

THE MARQUIS: First and foremost, he's a MAN. You remind him of that fact, and he resents you for it.

MADELEINE: I must say, in your novels you stoke the most unrealistic expectations.

THE MARQUIS: You're far crueler than I, my sweet.

THE MARQUIS: Surely you've seen a man naked.

MADELEINE: It's only been described to me. In your books.

MADELEINE: They've taken your clothes?

THE MARQUIS: They decreed me a savage, and now they have made me one.

THE MARQUIS: My newest book begins at my right cuff, continues across my back, and completes itself at the base of my left shoe...

MADELEINE: I don't believe it!

MADELEINE: What have they done to you now?

THE MARQUIS: Tortures so arcane, so medieval, even I haven't the words to describe them. If you've an ounce of pity in your heart, you'll throw caution aside, and unlock my door...

THE MARQUIS: The story's thrilling conclusion comes at a premium.

MADELEINE: What's that then?

MADELEINE: It's a long story, this one.

THE MARQUIS: The climax comes at a higher cost; you must sit on my lap.

MADELEINE: You demand a lot from your readers, you do.

THE MARQUIS: A kiss for each page.

MADELEINE: Must I administer them directly, or might I blow them?

THE MARQUIS: The price, my coquette, is every bit as firm as I am...

MADELEINE: Oh, you. You talk same as you write.

THE MARQUIS: The unhappy tale of a virginal laundry lass, the darling of the lower wards, where they entomb the criminally insane.

MADELEINE: Is it awfully violent?

THE MARQUIS: Most assuredly.

MADELEINE: Is it terribly erotic?

THE MARQUIS: Fiendishly so.

THE MARQUIS: If only these coins purchased your other talents, too.

MADELEINE: There's something else I want from you.

THE MARQUIS: You've already stolen my heart, as well as another more prominent organ, south of the Equator...

MADELEINE: Your publisher says I'm not to leave without a new manuscript.

THE MARQUIS: I've just the story... inspired by these very surroundings....

THE MARQUIS: The peril of composing such incendiary prose...

MADELEINE: I put myself at life and limb. Surely that's worth a few louis.

THE MARQUIS: Did I frighten you?

MADELEINE: You? Frighten me? That's a good one! I'm twice as fast as you are. Who'd have thought such a spent body can still boast such a fertile mind?

THE MARQUIS: It's the only frontier I have left, plumcake.

MADELEINE: I suppose you want to know about that silly book of yours.

THE MARQUIS: I'm hungry for a proper visit.

MADELEINE: Don't start --

THE MARQUIS: Go ahead; you've a key. Slip it through my tiny hole...

MONSIEUR PROUIX: "...your wife."

SIMONE: Tell him I'm no fool. A prison's still a prison, even with Chinese silk and chandeliers.

MONSIEUR PROUIX: "By the time you read this, we'll be long gone; bound for England or points beyond..."

SIMONE: Tell him -- if he uncovers our whereabouts -- you'll slit your wrists with a razor, and I'll plunge a hat- pin through my heart.

MONSIEUR PROUIX: You'd do that, rather than forsake our love?

SIMONE: No. But tell him I would.

RENEE PELAGIE: Public scorn carries a terrible sting. Trust me. I'm a woman who knows.

ROYER-COLLARD: It's libelous; you wouldn't dare.

RENEE PELAGIE: And why not? My fortune, siphoned away. My reputation, past repair. I've nothing left to lose. Silence my husband, or you'll come to know an infamy to rival his own.

ROYER-COLLARD: You've no right to assault me in this fashion; I'll call for my footman. I'll have you removed --

RENEE PELAGIE: Am I a cursed woman, Doctor? Must I be betrayed by every man I meet --

ROYER-COLLARD: This is neither the time nor the place --

RENEE PELAGIE: If only you'd remained true to our contract! Opiates, for his nerves! Restraints! The man warrants a bed of nails --

ROYER-COLLARD: I can say, with the utmost sincerity, that every franc you've given me has been put to sterling use.

ROYER-COLLARD: Good God, Marquise --

RENEE PELAGIE: I'm on the brink of bankruptcy; my husband's resources are all but exhausted. And to what end, I ask you?

RENEE PELAGIE: I am eternally in your debt.

ROYER-COLLARD: And I in yours.

RENEE PELAGIE: Doctor... Can I impart to you his cruelest trick?

ROYER-COLLARD: Of course.

RENEE PELAGIE: Once... long ago... in the folly of youth... he made me love him.

RENEE PELAGIE: Don't toy with me, Doctor.

ROYER-COLLARD: Now is the time to secure your epitaph. The benevolent Marquise, Charenton's most revered philanthropist... or Satan's Bride.

ROYER-COLLARD: If you're truly determined to step out of the shadow of your husband's celebrity --

RENEE PELAGIE: Oh, but I am!

ROYER-COLLARD: -- words alone are insufficient.

RENEE PELAGIE: It's beyond perversity. That honor should carry a price tag...

ROYER-COLLARD: Perhaps if you were to buttress your entreaties with the means to oblige them...

RENEE PELAGIE: I am not a wealthy woman.

ROYER-COLLARD: But you've a pension, haven't you, from the sale of his books?

RENEE PELAGIE: It's tainted money, Doctor.

ROYER-COLLARD: What a beautiful thought, Marquise.

RENEE PELAGIE: What thought is that?

ROYER-COLLARD: That ill-gotten funds, borne of his degeneracy, might now effect his salvation.

ROYER-COLLARD: You're aware, are you not, that it costs a great deal to house your husband at Charenton...

RENEE PELAGIE: I pay his stipend every month, far more dutifully than I should.

ROYER-COLLARD: That barely covers the cost of his room. There's nary a penny left over for appropriate treatments. Opiates to quell his temper. Restraints to chasten him when he misbehaves.

ROYER-COLLARD: I assume you've come to plead for clemency on your husband's behalf.

RENEE PELAGIE: Oh you do, do you? It is my dearest hope, Doctor, that he remain entombed forever, and that when at last he perishes in the dank bowels of your institution, he be left as carrion for the rodents and the worms.

RENEE PELAGIE: I beg to differ, Doctor. You work in a madhouse. Your every waking moment is governed by the insane.

ROYER-COLLARD: I pray you: be succinct.

RENEE PELAGIE: You're new to Charenton, yes? Perhaps you're not yet familiar with my husband, and his unusual case.

ROYER-COLLARD: With all due respect, Madame, all France is familiar with your husband. Grant us a moment alone, won't you, Monsieur Prouix?

ROYER-COLLARD: It is customary to write first, and request an appointment --

RENEE PELAGIE: Desperation has driven me past etiquette, all the way to frenzy.

ROYER-COLLARD: My schedule is not subject to the whims of lunatics.

THE MARQUIS: Tell me; have you done anything to secure my release? NO! Have you petitioned the court? NEVER! Sought audience with the Emperor --

RENEE PELAGIE: He refuses to be seen in my company! He blanches at the mention of your name --

THE MARQUIS: It's a convenience, isn't it, having your husband locked away! You no longer have to hold your tongue, or hoist your skirts! Or crack your mouth, so I can put it to its one pleasurable use! YOU'RE NOT MY WIFE, NO! YOU'RE ONE AMONG MY MANY JAILERS, AREN'T YOU?

RENEE PELAGIE: Everywhere I go, they point and whisper! At the opera, they hiss at me when I take my box. When I went to church... the priest refused to even hear my confession; he said I was already damned! Why must I suffer for your sins?

THE MARQUIS: It's the way of all martyrs, isn't it?

RENEE PELAGIE: Give me back my anonymity, that's all I ask! Let me be invisible again!

RENEE PELAGIE: I beg you, Donatien... as your wife... your only ally... you must stop making such a monstrous spectacle of yourself.

THE MARQUIS: You've come to lecture me?

RENEE PELAGIE: To flaunt your deviance in public? Upon a stage?

THE MARQUIS: They've put you up to this, haven't they?

RENEE PELAGIE: You ought to court the Doctor's favor, not his contempt.

RENEE PELAGIE: How was I to know, my darling?

THE MARQUIS: How was I to tell you? By writing a letter? WITH WHAT, MY ASININE BRIDE?

THE MARQUIS: For fuck's sake, woman! BONBONS? I'm to sit here, gorging myself on useless trifles, sucking down your little sweetmeats, when what I truly need -- what I truly require -- are a few quill pens? Perhaps a pot of ink?

RENEE PELAGIE: Forgive me, I beg you --

THE MARQUIS: Hm? Tell me. What other treats?

RENEE PELAGIE: ....shame on you, truly...

ROYER-COLLARD: Doesn't that please you?

SIMONE: Very much.

ROYER-COLLARD: I'd prefer to have our brandy in the salon. There we can sit... side-by- side... before the fire.

SIMONE: I'd rather read, thank-you.

ROYER-COLLARD: You prefer a book to your husband's company?

ROYER-COLLARD: Leave at once --

SIMONE: But it's just begun --

ROYER-COLLARD: Do as I say.