my heart race, “there are only seven prisoners, all of whom belong here.”
I nod, thinking about the small, enraged man. What would he say if he were walking through these richly decorated passageways and inhaling the aroma of spiced venison in stew? I wonder if the king knows that his prisons smell better than his palace. A clap of thunder echoes through the walls, and although I should be afraid, I’m not. Since my childhood, this fortress has loomed large in my nightmares as a place of interminable suffering. The reality is even more shocking. Tomorrow, I will tell Marat the truth. I will tell them all—Robespierre, Camille, even the Duc, with all of his conspiracy theories.
“You are the only people who have come to see the marquis today,” de Launay says, then sighs again, since he charges all visitors a handsome fee. We stop outside an unmarked door. “Mademoiselle. About the marquis … I feel I must warn you. He may be old and fat—”
“So what should we be afraid of?”
De Launay looks at me as if he’s never heard such an ignorant question. “His words, Mademoiselle. They are his weapons now.” He takes out a key and opens the door.
I hold my breath, expecting to see a monster, a prisoner with wild hair and unwashed clothes. Instead, there is a corpulent man nearing fifty, sitting at his desk with ink and a quill. He turns slowly, and I see that it pains him to move. A lifetime of excess has stiffened his joints and ravaged his face. But his eyes. My God. They are the piercing blue of an icy winter’s sky.
“Your guests,” de Launay says.
The marquis rises and doffs his hat to us. “I hear you have come to make me immortal.”
“We have come to sketch your likeness,” my uncle replies.
The marquis looks at me. I think of a vulture, the way it studies its meal. “And is this your lovely assistant?”
“She is the artist,” Henri says shortly.
“A lady artist!” His brows raise. “Well, why not? The queen’s painter is a woman. Not as pretty as you, of course. And certainly not—”
“Are you going to ask us to sit?” There is a hardness in Henri’s voice, but the marquis is not offended. He is interested only in me.
“Yes, sit,” he says distractedly, for his eyes never leave my face. “Here are three chairs. And Mademoiselle the Artist may take my desk.” He pushes his papers to one side and makes a tidy pile in the corner.
I cross the room to his leather chair, and the marquis seats himself across from me. The cell has been decorated with handsome bookshelves and an embroidered settee, a wealthy nobleman’s chamber. The bed is of fine wood, and I can see that the linens are of high quality. A cheerful fire burns in the fireplace, where the marquis has hung out his stockings to dry. I cannot imagine how he has gotten them wet. On the bowling green, perhaps? On his way to billiards? Curtius hands me his leather bag, and I take out my supplies, arranging them on the marquis’s table. Then I turn and study the old man’s face. He is smiling—no, leering—at me, but I am not afraid. He is a shark with no teeth, a hawk without its claws, and I refuse to become unnerved. “I would like to sketch you,” I say.
“Many women do.”
“Then you know what I require. Sit still, do not fidget, and I will study your face.”
“Only if I may study yours.”
“That is enough!” Henri exclaims.
The marquis is laughing. “Would you prefer that I put on a blindfold?” He is like a child who cannot hold his tongue. “Or perhaps a blindfold and some chains?”
Curtius rises, and the marquis says quickly, “Stay!”
“Then keep civil,” my uncle warns.
“If that is the price of infamy.” The marquis leans forward, and I can see his strange features up close. “I hear I am to be added to the Cavern of Great Thieves.”
He is a madman. That much is certain. His eyes are spaced too close together, the way they are in children who will grow up to be imbeciles. Only there is cunning reflected in them instead of ignorance.
“But tell me”—the marquis holds up his hands in protest—“what have I stolen?”
“A great deal, I hear. Lives. Innocence.” I study his face while we talk. There is no symmetry in it at all. I have brought my caliper, but I have not yet decided whether I should use it. Perhaps I will ask Curtius to take the measurements.
“Ah.” The marquis sits back. “Yes. A great deal of innocence.”
“Which is why you are here,” Henri says harshly.
The marquis stares at him. “You have never had a longing you wished to satisfy? A longing for Mademoiselle the Artist, perhaps? I noticed that you escorted her into my cell with the care that only—”
“Enough,” I say sharply.
“Oh. So the feelings are not returned.”
I don’t dare to look at Henri. I look down at my hands, at the paper and the quill. “Curtius, will you take his measurements?” I ask.
My uncle takes the caliper while the marquis reaches beneath the waist of his
“What are you doing?” my uncle demands.
“Mademoiselle says you wish to take my measurements.”
The marquis is so crass, so subhuman, that I burst into laughter.
“You see,” the marquis says cheerfully. “Already, we have broken the tension.”
“Let Curtius take his measurements,” Henri says to me, “and then we will leave.”
“No sketch?” the marquis exclaims.
“No,” I say flatly.
I have memorized his features. With the measurements, that is all I will need.
“I will be still,” the marquis promises. “As quiet as a virgin on her wedding night.”
“Then begin now,” Henri warns.
Curtius calls out numbers, and I write them down. As I wait for the figures, I study a large roll of paper on the desk. It is covered in writing and so thick that it must be at least ten meters in length when it’s fully unrolled. The marquis sees the direction of my gaze and says quietly, “My masterpiece. I call it
I can see the muscles working in Henri’s jaw, and Curtius is frowning over his caliper. He thinks he has taken the measurements wrong—that the marquis’s eyes cannot be so close together. “A very interesting title,” I say.
“For an immensely interesting story. Would you like a peek?”
I should say no. Nothing good can come of seeing the contents of a story entitled
“It will be offensive,” my uncle warns.
But I want to see the truth of this man. I want to know what lurks behind those close-set eyes, what sort of devilry humans are capable of.
The marquis crosses the room and unfurls the manuscript across his long desk. He has drawn pictures on separate pieces of paper to accompany the story.
“What sort of perversion is this?” Curtius asks, aghast.
“Oh, every kind,” the marquis says with pride.
There are images of urination, whippings, cross-dressing, and anal sex with boys who are clearly being forced into submission. Girls are chained naked to walls while the flames of lighted candles are applied to their nipples. Excrement is everywhere, as if no fantasy can be fulfilled without this.
“I’ve had enough,” Curtius says.
“But you haven’t even seen my favorite!” he exclaims and unveils an image of a girl being scalped while her attackers fondle her genitals and breasts. Beneath the picture the Marquis de Sade has written, “How delicious to corrupt, to stifle all semblances of virtue and religion in that young heart.”
I put on my showman’s mask, determined not to give him what he wants. “I hope you know you have not
