Quills Page #2

No one's forcing you to listen.

" He gazed upon her Venus mound,

her flaxen quim,|the winking eye of God."

You've been in his quarters,|haven't you ?

Once or twice.

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

He's a writer, not a madman.

- What's he doing in here then ?|- Murder.

That's not so.

He writes books so wicked,|so black with evil,

that one man killed his wife|after reading them.

And two young mothers|miscarried their babies.

I'd say that's murder enough.

If you're going to slander him,|then you don't deserve|to hear his stories.

I believe|she's sweet on him.

- That's what I think.|- It's not the marquis|she's sweet on, is it, Madeleine ?

They've no right sending someone|to sit on your shoulder.

I work for you.|I won't take orders from a stranger.

You needn't worry.

It's administrative,|nothing more.

Please don't eat|the paint, Pasqual.

Ah, bravo, Dauphin.

It's far better to paint fires|than to set them, isn't it ?

Yes.

Wonderful.

Fresh linens.

Fresh linens.

I'm hungry for a proper visit.

- Don't start.|- Go ahead. You've a key.

Slip it through|my tiny hole.

Marquis ?

Where did you get to then ?

Marquis ?

- Well- Did I frighten you ?

Frighten me ? That's a good one.|I'm twice as quick as you are.

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

What about my book ?

It sold like the devil.

Then they started|burning it.

That's the peril of composing|such incendiary prose.

If only these coins purchased|your other talents too.

There's something else|I want from you.

You've already|stolen my heart...

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,

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