Archive of Our Own

One final inspection.

His little pocket watch ticked two o’clock. The Abbé frequently burned the midnight oil, as was his nature; oft discontent was he to sleep—particularly when so many misfits lay nestled neath his administration.

Charenton was not a quiet venue. In its daylight hours, the asylum was beset with shouts, clanking, the creaking of doors. At this hour, however, the chains rattled gentler than ever. It was as if the halls themselves were waiting, holding their breath for the sun.

There was an ill comfort in the Abbé’s nightly duties, noting each patient’s manner, state, breath—a familiar rhythm. Through the muffled dark he slunk, gazing into each stone cell.

Bouchon, Michete, both asleep. Obedient Franval, whose bedtime marked the hour better than the strictest clock. Behind the next door, his neighbor, Dauphin, writhing in a dreamlike pain.

At this, Coulmier’s brow softened with care. Expected, yes—even sleep could not quiet the Dauphin’s madness—but tragic all the same. All was as it should be.

Coulmier passed Cleante—a man usually wide awake and mumbling, but who, tonight, was asleep, wrapped so tightly in his rags that he resembled a plump pork sausage. A pleasant surprise.

What a blessing! And so, the Abbé found himself in a brief and unusual halcyon—that is, before he heard the thump. He turned his gaze towards the final door, hopes sinking like salt through a sieve. The door of the Marquis.

From behind the door, more noises. Shuffling. Jingling. The long drag of wood, the heavy swish of fabric. And then, to the Abbé’s abject dread: a self-satisfied exhale, two hands brushing together.

He looked up to God—one last, grasping prayer—and steeled his resolve. He crept closer. There he witnessed a specter, a fluttering bundle of white robes. Twirling, flitting, rummaging amongst his bedsheets—it was the Marquis, very much awake.

Coulmier turned away quickly. No! And he had been doing so well! Sleeping all the way through the night!

All was settled, he soothed. He would note the Marquis’ demeanor; thoroughly, impartially, he would note his manner, his state, his breath. Quickly, now. Let him return to bed quietly and unharmed.

The Abbé, imbued with a fresh sense of honor, turned back to the wretched door—and, within its small and banded aperture, met with one blinking eye. Coulmier stifled a yelp. The eye, widening ravenously, pulled from the frame. Five gleeful fingers snaked around the window-bars.

“Isn’t it bedtime for good little boys?”

The Marquis’ voice stretched beyond his confines.

“Say your prayers, kneel beside your bed… Gently, now! You mustn't miss a word!”

Deep in his throat, Coulmier made a noncommittal noise. He spoke smoothly, measured.

“Well, dear Marquis, it is nearing three. It’s to my understanding that you carry no pocket watch, nor a clock. We would be glad to provide one for you, provided it could curb your bedtime delinquency.”

“Generous, aren't we, poppet? A clock? Truly, you spoil me.”

His eyes glimmered, holding a joke. Miscreant, Coulmier warned himself.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll make arrangements in the morning.”

Behind lips, the Marquis ran his tongue, so serpentine and quick, across his teeth.

“I’ll let you to bed now. Good night.” The Abbé nodded respectfully. Coulmier pulled himself from the scene.

“Oh, jailer!” The Marquis grasped.

Coulmier dodged a hand. The Marquis waggled his fingers past him, in the radiant space around his head. Finally, mercifully, he relented.

“Those lovely locks of yours…” he purred. "I don’t just mean the ones on the door, of course.”

With horror, Coulmier watched him skitter across the floor, bare feet dancing, nymph-like. The Marquis crawled atop his bed, limbs stuttering; there, he balanced awkwardly, like some maladroit feline.

“Some say cracking an egg on the head stimulates hair growth. Though, in its stead, I’d prefer a pair of warm, willful thighs. How supple! How potent! What fertile growth springs from that clutch!”

He rocked back and forth, teetering upon the edge—a glint of concern in Coulmier’s eye—and he thrust himself back.

“I’m thrashing!” he called, writhing. “I’m obstreperous! Restrain me! Come and hold me down!”

That white nightgown, frothing like a venomous tide. Coulmier was overcome with malady.

Was it best to ignore him? Plug a stopper in his madness, clip each errant behavior at its root? Or was it more merciful to indulge him? To offer, in response to his rousing cries, a palliative touch. All this jousting, after all, was undoubtedly symptomatic, another oft-neglected yelp of boyhood.

The Abbé knew his purpose. There was a sanctity between caregivers and their sick. And the Marquis, as with every boundary—each sanctum—was determined to breach the whole of it.

At the rattling of keys in the lock, the Marquis’ thrashings subsided. He bolted upright, pacified.

“Coulmier, you scoundrel! The good doctor, sneaking into his prisoner’s bedchambers like some lascivious teen!”

“Hello, Marquis. I don’t mean to intrude.” He locked the door behind him. “Have you woken in the night?”

“Oh, my head has yet to lay upon a pillow! No, for all the eventide, I’ve toiled away! As for what I’ve woven…” His smile curled ever-deeper. “Well, that is my own private business. Nothing fit for your ears, your Grace. Surely you understand.”

“You know my views on your privacy. Hold your secrets, so long as they are within the bounds of your allowances here.”

Again, the Marquis shot that glimmering gaze. Do not entertain his delusions, Coulmier reminded himself. He cast back a warning.

“I’ll have to thank you for silencing that loudmouth next door. Always awake at the oddest hours, pacing in the straw like a restless hen!”

“And to that point, Marquis, I’m afraid I must ask you to keep your voice down.” Coulmier floated to the window, watched over the hall.

“My guidance, my lamb! You can’t just ask a man to keep something down! If something aches to swell—hellfire, passionate cries, man’s ribald scepter—you’ll be damned if you don’t let it rise!”

Coulmier had become quite preoccupied with the contours of his cell keys, running his fingers up and down the length before dropping them back into his pocket.

“I sense the recent removal of your materials may have left you feeling… repressed. This is to be expected, of course. The cycle of addiction is often fraught with vexation.”

“Addiction,” the Marquis parroted, laying particular emphasis upon the second syllable. “That is where your firmest mistake lies. You treat this expulsion of urges, this purge of sentiment upon the page as some great declaration. A symptom of an underlying illness. ‘Come, let us cure what stirs!’” he sang. “Don’t you see, my pet? This is who I am! My most divine; my most natural, beautiful state!”

“Think of it as a teaching, then? A trial,” Coulmier advised, creeping closer. “It’s almost Homeric. You, fending off temptation, spurred not by salacity but by a passion to press ever-forward—to be cast into something greater.” He smiled. “God only knows. Maybe there’ll even be repentance in your future.”

The Marquis laughed—a harsh, barking laugh. “I beg you! Hold your insults!”

He swooned against the bedpost like a woman scorned. He paused, eyes rolling up to look at Coulmier.

“What sets my work apart from your precious confessionals? Why can’t these truths be embraced and forgiven too?”

“Some evils are just too wicked, too inhuman. Their offensive nature cannot be denied!” Coulmier shook his head. “Honestly, I can’t understand why you are so… so hellbent on producing these incendiary tomes. And under my care—Marquis, I can't just stand and watch!”

His brow had wound itself tightly. He gave a short huff—closed his eyes, looked to Heaven—and he blinked, reining himself in.

The Marquis pushed.

“You did read it, didn’t you? You did too read it. Not content to just sit and watch—you were engrossed.”

“Well, as your advisor, I believe I deserve a firm grasp upon your exploits.”

The Marquis, so impassioned by this presumption, had risen, waving his hands in the air.

“Read something you love, and you fancy yourself a critic. Read something you hate—and oh, here comes the professional, the grand, learnéd master, set to stamp out one’s only flame. You consume; you swish, you swallow, you spit to the curb.”

He spun to face Coulmier. “To think you can suck the art from the artist…” He tsked. That is an unparalleled display of hubris.”

Coulmier, trailing in the Marquis’ wake, looked back at him, some sort of restraint hanging in his countenance. Fury? Pity?

Unperturbed, The Marquis trotted toward the vanity. “My humble battle would be better classified as Promethean. And, to that end, seeing as my liver still swims intact…” He uncorked a decanter and gave it a swirl. “I have you to thank for that, don’t I, my benevolent captor!”

He raised his eyebrows in focus, filling his glass near to spill.

“Why scar it? Why torture it? Why fear the beast? Fending off temptation—there's no such thing.” Another beguiling laugh. “To rail against the carnal, rail against flesh!” He raised the glass to his lips. “It’s fruitless.”

Coulmier's eyes followed him like a lamb.

“Care for a sip, my little optimist?”

Coulmier, lips parted, averted his eyes; he placed a hand upon his heart.

“No, thank you. I’ll pass.”

The Marquis threw his head back and drank.

Charenton was cold, scant, dank—and somehow, from this yawning chasm, the Marquis had carved his own glorious refuge, stuffed plump full of opulence. Upon the walls—beside his manacles, long since neglected—hung glimmering silks, ladies’ pearls, winking treasures from lands untold. Of course, with the Abbé as his overseer, procuring these riches required little persuasion.

Now, smiling like a fool, he was already offering himself another glassful. Living in excess. The poor dipsomaniac.

All the while, Coulmier drank in the room. He noted everything—the voluminous bookshelves, the stains of ink and wine upon the settee—and, most notably, the striking lack of parchment; once scattered upon every ill-fated surface, now revoked.

In daytime hours, the Marquis blotted out the sun; all was to the detriment of the poor Abbé, who, wringing his hands, would brush the curtains apart. His skin needed sunlight, he urged—his complexion bordered on cadaverous. This lecture was never tolerated, of course, by the Marquis, who scrambled frantically to douse it.

But now, what with the coy moonlight creeping in; with his room cleaner and better-kept like this, lacking the heaps of litter and drivel… Let no one hear Coulmier say that it was tranquil. How bewitchingly the curtains fluttered! How beautiful were the woven rugs, so silken and exposed! And how the candlelight danced through the glass sculptures upon his bed table!

Coulmier moved curiously to inspect them, then thought better of it. Perhaps it was best not to touch anything in this room.

But, perhaps, he could sneak a quick peek at his pillows? So plump and so soft, one could almost envision the Marquis asleep upon them—an extraordinary sight indeed! It nearly made him laugh, the thought of him breathing so slowly. Utterly silenced, for once. Curled beneath those bedsheets…

He peered around him.

His bedsheets. Coulmier rose in a flurry, pushing past.

Hidden within them, a gobbet of stark crimson. Perhaps some poor animal, quartered, run through, degraded; a sop of minced and bloodied meat. What sick perversions of nature’s gentility burned between those blankets? What horrors lay coiled within this serpent’s nested bed?

Coulmier felt ill. A sweat struck him; it pricked at his ears. On tenterhooks, trembling, he peeled back to expose the staining, scarlet grime...!

A clutch of red grapes. They lay smushed into the bed, as if by a child with finger paints.

“Such impish vigor! If you wished to weasel your way into my bedclothes, all you had to do was ask.”

Coulmier turned.

“I don’t believe we sanctioned you this!”

“Inside voices, please,” the Marquis chided, clasping his hands, peering at Coulmier like a stern father.

“Do not press me with your gambol. When did you pilfer this?”

“You do recall, dearest, how you employ us poor madmen on Tuesdays? Thrusting us into the throes of artistic passion, lining us up before big, gaping bowls of rejected fruits! Plums, apples, pears—those succulent cherries! And how steel-fistedly you force our diseased hands to paint!”

“Our therapeutic watercolor sessions, yes.” A hint of reverence passed upon his face—ah, the remedial properties of the still life.

“I called upon the lunatics, you see, to smuggle some of those ripe, toothsome morsels back to me. The grapes I chose for their staining properties. Full-blooded.”

The Marquis beamed down at the dastardly fruit as if it were a fresh babe. “The bargain itself was child’s play, truly facile—I traded Michete a week’s worth of desserts in recompense. ‘No,’ said I, ‘I beseech you, take these bountiful preserves off my hands! I insist! I am in pursuit of sweeter fruit.’”

He stared irreverently into Coulmier’s eyes, a glimmering challenge. “Like the blot of a freshly consummated bride against the sheet, isn’t it, peach pit?”

The Abbé caught the glance; he dodged it and sighed. Pressing a palm against his brow, rubbing his eyes rather pitifully, he drew back the duvet.

The Marquis leaned languidly; his gaze rested upon Coulmier, stripping the bed with a fervor. He smiled at the way his tender hands gripped the sheets, pulled at them with such spent impatience. An insatiable haste. A bridled anger? Oh, to crawl in and join him!

“Just look at this lovely gift you’ve given me. Oh, honeysuckle. A most generous man.”

Coulmier shook his head, locks bobbing. “Your maudlin flattery may charm your escorts, but it won’t work on me.”

Blearily, he shook a pillow from its case. “You know this will all be quite the burden for poor Madeleine to bear,” he groused, leaning cross the bed frame.

“But quite a pleasure for you to tidy, dear,” the Marquis hummed. “While you’re at it, grant me this: would you bend over again? I believe you’ve missed a corner…”

Coulmier let the indecency slip off his back, too weary to protest. It was a tireless duty, playing maid to his escapades.

He stifled a yawn. “Would that I derived any sort of pleasure from cleaning up your messes.”

The Marquis frowned. A yawn was, in his books, as maligning as libel to a sane man. Sacrilege.

“Don’t tell me I’m boring you,” he griped.

“It’s become quite late, Marquis,” the Abbé recited. He wiped at his eyes like a child, a jaded father. And all at once, he was closed again, barred tight like a metal vise. What had become of their fervent banter? Their hot debate?

“What sorts of delights would lull you to dreamland, kitten? A dish of warm cream, perhaps, to dunk your head into?”

A pregnant silence, save for a huff from Coulmier; the lithe sound of laundry, the puff of hand against sheet. Not a hint. Not a spark. He was burning precious moonlight hours! Come now! Lambaste him!

The Marquis would not pray, he would never pray, but he hoped sharply and with a violence. He hoped that Coulmier would not leave him. The clamps, chains, the whips—O this, the wrath, delightfully incurred!—yet somehow, in his weakness, he could never endure the cold extinguish of the flame. At the sight of his back, he would surely die.

“Come,” he courted, and scrambled to the sofa. He patted the seat. “Go on! Be my guest! Take a lay on the settee!”

Coulmier looked away, arms bundled full of linens like one fat, swaddled baby. He plopped them into the wicker basket. He made for the door.

Then, mercifully, moving in some mysterious way, he turned back. A sigh.

A miracle.

The Marquis pranced. He danced. He bounced upon the footstool, choked a giggle.

“Make yourself at home.”

Coulmier, tense, rolled his back against the sofa. Perhaps he should lay back, it occurred to him. Would it be considered customary?

Just how many bodies had lain here before, belly-up? The stains of wine, thrown in passionate rapture… Merciful God. Coulmier, acutely aware of where he sat, elected to remain upright. Up his neck, a redness crept of its own accord.

The Marquis yanked the stool closer, their knees a hair's breadth apart, nearly touching. “Shall I play masseuse?” He blinked, flittering his fingers. “I’ve been told I’ve a firm and ingenious hand.”

He brushed drowsily, flirtatiously, over Coulmier’s knee, eyeing the dark ripple of his robes. “Now, just what shall I give to you, Frère Jacques?”

A tilt more brazen in his affections, Coulmier noted. Perhaps the wine had given him bravery. As if he needed any more of it.

“A bedtime story!” The Marquis clapped, eyes blazing and sparking.

A flutter of hesitation from Coulmier.

“Just one,” he pled, sidling up closer.

Coulmier nursed the idea, rolled it over and savored it steadily. The poor fabulist; his capacity for change was so immense, so glorious—could this be repentance? If he wanted an opportunity, so be it!

He relented, propping his head against the cushioned back. There he sat, lashes kissing his cheeks like a cherub.

The Marquis cracked his knuckles.

“Once,” he began, “in the pastoral foothills of Provence, there lived an old couple, both modest and unassuming in demeanor. How dedicated they were to one another—each was the other’s first sight at dawn and last sight before dusk. Fate—or perhaps it was desire—had strung them together years ago, on a balmy summer’s day. Antoine, a sheep-shearer; Fleur, a fruit peddler. Fleur was particularly ravishing in her salad days, a plump and rosy morsel. The husband, a spirited man, abandoned his post to speak with her.”

The Marquis smiled gaily, as if recalling a distant memory. “How the follies of youth stray us from our duties…! They wed quickly and relocated to the countryside, wherein they lived with one another in ample seclusion, tending to their fertile land.”

He peered at Coulmier, whose breathing had evened most miraculously.

“So ripened were they with age, having mapped the mounds and ridges of earth together countless times—but tonight, they were ready to indulge in their freshest escapade. Fleur, bedridden, drew her husband close and whispered in his ear. Her voice rose in those dulcet tones, those same notes that had lured him to her all those years ago. ‘Tonight, would you make me a glorious dinner?’ Antoine gleefully obliged. He set off, wading through their lush gardens. Rooted radishes, fragrant oranges, plump kumquats! Soon, the scent of a feast wafted through the walls of the little hillside home. Proudly, Antoine presented his wife with the fruits of his labor: a thick and hearty roux—spilling with spring onions, sage, thyme—ambrosial plums, fragile and delicate tarts—even a heaping platter of pets de nonne!”

The Marquis’ voice dipped darkly. “All mere preamble to the main course.”

Slowly, Coulmier opened his eyes.

“Fleur’s eyes flickered, lit with an ineradicable passion. She writhed, imbibed with desire…”

“Marquis,” Coulmier warned.

“Antoine towered above her with a voracious passion, brandishing a carving knife. ‘I vowed to make you dinner, my love! How I ache to have you die by my hand once more!' He plunged the instrument, white-hot from the oven’s blaze, deep into her tender, aromatic flesh! O, the heavenly, curdling singe! Fleur screamed in pure rapture—she hoisted her skirts in offer of another piquant feast—”

“NO!” Coulmier rose. He had blanched, looking tremendously ill; he regarded the Marquis’ conniving lips with terror, praying none more would spill. “That’s enough. Say I’ll be spared the rest.”

“No? You'll deny us both a happy ending? Say you’ll permit me to finish!” The Marquis squirmed in his seat. “Hardhearted! Truly, torturous!”

“The ending of this tale need not live beyond these walls!” He averted his gaze, wounded. “Thank God we’ve already stopped your quill.”

Thank God it had been Coulmier’s ears subjected to this atrocity in lieu of the inmates’. He had the facilities, the divine ability to withstand such lashings of the psyche. Imagine what horrors, what unrest, what turmoil might have been wrought upon those defenseless and feeble minds had he not stood to weather the blows!

His stomach squeezed with pity. The sick man. He just couldn’t help himself.

The Marquis opened his palms in surrender. “If two consenting, matrimonial adults won’t do it for you, pumpkin, I don’t know what will!”

“It is plain that your concern stands not for others—but have you no preservation? Have you not a shred of regard for your own mortality? The vicious destruction that awaits you after death?” His voice wound tightly, a desperate flare. “I beseech you, defy these urges! If not for a collective benefit—do so for the sanctity of your soul!”

The Marquis scoffed. “Even an eternity’s worth of tortures could not satiate me, nursling. My regard lies only for this life, the senses' present pleasures. Why must I bow to the virgin desires of a holy man?” He peppered. “Why deny me my will? Why are my pleasures my own if your God did not wish them to be?”

“I’ve permitted you multitudes, Marquis,” Coulmier implored. “It pains me to deny you!”

“Permit me? You do nothing but distrust me!” He was standing now, gesturing sharply. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you ogling my quarters. Sniffing for contraband like a zealous bloodhound! You’re no better than your precious Papa—one piece of fruit runs you rabid!”

The Abbé centered himself. “Marquis,” he reprimanded, brandishing a finger, “you’ve previously behaved exceptionally well under my jurisdiction. I had believed your compulsions had been quelled. Unfortunately, it seems you still have quite a ways to go.”

He lifted his chin. “You are lucky to have me oversee you,” he finished. “To be under my care.”

“So meticulous,” the Marquis hissed, “so distracted by my penance. So concerned with my salvation—it won’t be your hide that blisters beneath the Devil’s crop!”

Coulmier turned away; the Marquis watched him go.

“You fashion yourself a god,” he spat to his back. “What a delectable world it could be—all men kneeling in your image, a land of timorous Bible-thumpers—a noble goal, isn’t it? Isn’t it? And you fashion me some pitiful, outcast pawn; as fertile soil for your teachings. Mold me like clay and chide me like a son. What, Coulmier? Afraid I’ll throw myself off the edge?”

Coulmier had buried himself in concentration, struggling, tugging himself back to respite. Furious tides lapped at his heels.

“My captor keeps me,” the Marquis bragged, “nurses me in a gilded cage! He loves to scrutinize me—to pull back every unplumbed layer of my malady, lick each thin veneer like the pages of his holy book! He peers, all agog, at where his spiraled prints may have left their indents in me.”

His eyes widened, sharpened like lancets, fixed on his robes so fiercely as if to bore a hole through them. “Perhaps you’ll even have a chance to polish me up.”

His anger is sorrowfully misdirected, Coulmier told himself. His illness persists.

“But when I’m to be censored—when I infuriate you—you'd prefer me as an irredeemable swine. You’d stuff red apples in my mouth, flay me on a spit?”

“Press me no further, Marquis!” Coulmier turned, shouting. “You are not my plaything; you are my job!”

The Marquis’ spite, quickly as it had come, receded.

“Demoted to a meager work wife. So cold, my Cupid.” He opened his mouth. “I’ll take those apples now.”

Coulmier stood silent, chest heaving. He tilted his head, unbraiding a riddle.

“What am I to do with you?” He shook his head quickly, vehemently. “My proposition is rhetorical. Spare me your arsenal of perverse fantasies—I’ll have none of it.”

The Marquis, having slunk back to his bare mattress, curled coquettishly. He waved him away. “Nothing but a tease.”

Coulmier’s eyes were alight. “I do my best to indulge you! You must understand—I walk a very thin line!”

“Go on, then. Indulge me. Do your job.”

No, no. He turned away again, quickly, to go.

The Marquis, his prize beginning to wriggle from his grasp, pounced.

He melted across the bed, positively dripping with charm—framed beneath the canopy, bathed in flickering candlelight—some poor, unsuspecting fool might render him harmless. Still, only a madman might call him divine.

His eyes had gone dark; shamelessly, he drank Coulmier in great, gulping glances, dissecting his middle like a carving of meat.

“Your Christ fell at thirty-three.” Tracing down his center. “Every year of his life, for you, my darling, will be a little death.” Counting down each button of his cassock. “For each, I’ll use my teeth.”

His liltings rose to Coulmier’s ears like flames to fatwood. In his mind, a serpent coiled. Thy will be done, in earth, as it is in heaven.

“What lies beneath that dark sheath—what burns behind those mild eyes—” The Marquis shuddered. “At the mere thought, my enfeebled heart—it throbs in my breast! Oh, to consume it all!”

His hand flitted toward him; his grin teetered upon mania. “Grant me this, my most splendid treasure,” he begged. “An ailing man’s plea. It would be our secret.”

Coulmier's face was flushed and his eyes had gone wet; he appeared downright feverish. Alas, he could not look back—he could not deny.

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil… Let his suffering be brief, he ached. Let the vows save him, provide him some sort of guidance, some mercy. Man’s carnal stirrings could be quelled—as could any illness, he knew—with verse. None could dominate the Lord’s potency.

The Marquis’ hand slipped, snaking the neck of his nightgown. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory… Damn him!—how his presence twisted even the holiest of words! Satan’s ravishing poet!

He was damned. Sprung, trapped, bound. In his hand, the keys jingled, a desperate cry. He would not meet the viper’s hungry gaze.

“Good night, Marquis,” said Coulmier, inflamed. He swung open the door, near to slip away.

The Marquis made an odd, erratic hissing, as if calling for a cat.

“Sugarplum… My little cabbage.”

“What?”

“Angel,” the Marquis murmured. “Stay with me. I’m a sick man. So sick.”