Monday came faster than the Marquis had initially thought. Writing and watching executions from his little window always helped him pass the time, especially on such a slow day as Sunday. The Abbé always tried to drag him to the asylum services in the adjoining chapel, but de Sade refused outright every time. In the end, every Sunday he was left alone, locked in his cell while all the loonies got to exercise and enjoy Charenton's verdant grounds. In the beginning he had thrown fits, but eventually he learned to savor the silence and often wrote his best material during it.
His beloved painter arrived that afternoon and immediately began setting up her easel. She would have jumped right to painting had he not stopped her. "No, not yet," he said with an excited grin. "I have something better for you to do first." Pulling her to his desk, he sat her down and eagerly handed her the stack of papers he had produced the day before. "Read," he whispered in her ear, hand on her shoulder as he watched her expression change.
Even before she reached the good parts her face was flushed, giving his ego a nice boost at the thought that he could fluster a woman with a mere touch. By the time she was finished, she was red all the way to the back of her ears, but still she read it to the last word.
And a good thing too—he had based it off of her, just to see what her reaction would be. "Sans Remords" A tale of forbidden love during the Revolution, Amélie, a common girl keeping herself off the street by painting portraits of the very aristos that suppress her, falls under the spell of a Vicomte soliciting her services.
"So?" he asked as she set the pages down, grinning eagerly, "What do you think? Tell me honestly!"
Hiding her face in her hands, Satine shook her head and laughed. "I-I'm flattered… in a humiliated sort of way…"
Cackling with glee, he turned her chair until she was facing him, hidden in his shadow as he loomed over her. "Are you hungry, my sweet?"
"I certainly hope you're talking about food…" she answered with a wry smirk, tilting up her chin defiantly as if to tell him she would not be intimidated by him.
"Of course I mean food," he chuckled. "Where is your mind, coquette?"
Feigning shock, she swatted his arm before he could retreat to a safe distance at the door, opening the slot to bark into the hallway, "Georgette! Food!"
A frustrated woman stormed over a few moments later, carrying a tray laden with two dishes of food. "I'm not your maid," she snapped, sliding the tray through the lower slot in the door before slamming it shut again.
Satine was giggling as he returned with the food, setting the tray down with a roll of his eyes. "I suppose you think I deserve that," he grumbled, pouring the wine.
"Yes," she answered simply. "You're spoiled—taking you down a few pegs will be good for you."
"I'm spoiled?" he retorted, pulling a drumstick from his Cornish game hen and taking a bite, "Speaking that way to an aristo—a few years ago they'd have locked you up! If anything, I'm spoiling you!"
She snorted, taking neat bites from her own meal.
"Perhaps I should take you down a few pegs?" he continued, cocking a single eyebrow suggestively. Standing, he stood and once again leaned over her, one hand on the back of her chair. "For example, make you prepare me for your painting?"
Satine scoffed, though he noticed a subtle change in the color of her cheeks; a slight blush. "Now why would I do that?"
"Because otherwise this whole visit will have been for naught," he retorted, taking a step back and putting a hand on his hip.
Rolling her eyes, she surprised him yet again by standing, looking him up and down before finally approaching him, hands timidly grasping his coat lapels. Not daring to look up at him, she slowly pulled the coat from his shoulders and handed it to him, sighing exasperatedly as he tossed it unceremoniously on the floor. She worked even slower removing his vest, hands trembling slightly as they undid the buttons. The more buttons she unfastened, the redder her face turned. By the time she likewise slid it from his shoulders, she was as red as she had been reading his story; it was so cute and amusing it was almost addicting.
"…I'm going to need a lot more wine…" she muttered as she realized that the next layer she removed would expose skin. Retrieving her glass from the table, she took a few healthy sips before she began to cough, hand flying to her chest.
"Delicate sips, cherub!" he laughed, turning and crossing his arms. "Don't gulp it down—you know I don't look that bad!"
As she continued coughing, however, he began to wonder if something else was wrong. She didn't sound like she was simply coughing on wine; it was as though she were choking.
Putting a hand on her shoulder he pulled her up enough to see her face, and immediately he knew something was wrong. She was deathly pale, sweat beading on her forehead, which was burning hot to the touch.
"C-can't breathe!" she managed to squeak out, hands clawing at her throat as if a pair of invisible hands were wrapped around it.
Flying to the door, he flung the slot open, screaming down the hallway. "Abbé! Somebody, help!"
He was afraid the priest would not answer, as every now and then the boy decided that his patients' wellbeing was more pressing than his aristo guest's, but the Abbé arrived in a few short moments, a few maids at his heels. "What is it?" he gasped, fumbling hurriedly for his keys. Ah, sometimes the boy made him feel so special! But there were more important things to focus on.
"Something's wrong with her!"
As soon as the door was opened, the two men rushed to the young woman's side, who had fallen to her knees. Even as the Marquis knelt beside her, she gave one last pitiful whimper and fainted in his arms.
"What's wrong with her?" de Sade nearly screamed, shaking her limp body frantically like a boy desperately trying to wake his dead rabbit.
"I don't know!" the Abbé snapped back, tilting her head back as he put a hand to her forehead. "She's burning up… We have to get her to a doctor…"
Before the Marquis could respond, the priest had scooped the painter up in his arms and rushed out of the cell, the women slamming the door behind them as they followed. Suddenly he found himself alone in the stifling silence of his room, mind reeling from the shock. What had just happened? What was wrong with his prize?
He had so been looking forward to plucking that ripe peach…
An hour later the Abbé returned to his door, deciding to merely speak through the slot. "Consumption," he said simply. "The disease is still young, so there is still a chance, but she must be much more careful."
The Marquis found himself at a loss for words—something that almost never happened to him. Shaken, he seated himself at the table as the priest departed. Noticing the girl's painting equipment, he nervously put as much distance between them and him as possible. He refused to fall ill when he had finally secured his health amidst the Revolution! Yelling for a serving girl, he ordered her to pack them up and remove them, lest he catch their owner's consumption.
The next three hours dragged intolerably slowly by as he found himself with absolutely no inspiration. There were no executions for him to watch, either. He almost sighed in relief when he heard a soft knock on his door, finding Satine in the little eye-level window.
"I'm sorry for startling you…" she murmured, her voice hoarse. "I had felt ill earlier today, but I had no idea it would turn so bad…"
Giving a small laugh, de Sade shook his head. "Silly girl; you couldn't have known."
She smiled finally, seeming glad he was not too shaken. "The doctor is suggesting I go to the country to recover—beat it before it gets too bad."
He nodded, "A wise decision."
She paused, eyes falling as she let out a sigh. "…I won't be able to return here again; not for a very long time, anyway."
Again he nodded, the look shared between them communicating what neither of them dared to say aloud—that she may not return ever. "You have my painting to remember me by," he said instead, attempting to lighten the mood.
"You'd let me keep it?" she asked with a laugh, though it sent her into a small coughing fit.
"What am I to do with an incomplete portrait?" he chuckled, shrugging. "At least you could finish it. Besides, I have pages of mementos to remember you by!"
She laughed again, making him regret it when once again she was seized by coughs. "Thank you," she said finally, an ashamed blush on her cheeks. She paused again before adding, as if compelled to, "I-I'll come visit you when I recover."
"I'm sure you will, coquette," he smiled, sighing as he watched her shuffle away, several maids at her heels with her belongings. Sliding the slot closed, he seated himself at his desk and heaved another sigh.
He doubted he'd ever see her again…
"Shame," he muttered to himself, mourning the perversity that could have been.
