Quills Page #5

He's been slipping manuscripts|to a publisher.

- He has ?

I placed my trust|too carelessly, Madeleine.

- This is a complete and utter...|- Oh.

disappointment.

Yes, it is.

The paper's cheap.|The type's too small.

What did you do,|bribe one of the guards ?

But you implored me to write|for curative purposes,|to stave off my madness.

But you've no right|to publish...

behind my back|without my sanction.

Have you truly read it,|or did you run straightaway|to the dog-eared pages ?

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 ?

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