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The Ruined Abbe	By : pip Category: M through R > Quills Views: 2536 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Quills, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
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Author’s Notes:
These notes may be of interest, or you may wish to skip them and instead read the chapter. For those of you who stay…
Much of this chapter is an original story, written as close to the narrative style of the Marquis de Sade as I can possibly get. Since I read him translated from the original French, it’s likely that it wouldn’t stand up to any proper scrutiny, but I have tried.
You may or may not find the heroine’s name amusing. I do, and it is quite deliberate.
If I have my french right, the title in brackets means: Blind Faith
You may feel there is a faint echo of Thomas Hardy’s “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” – again, quite deliberate.
While imprisoned in the Bastille, Sade wrote a story called: The Husband Who Turned Priest: A Tale of Provence. He makes a passing reference to the lord of the manor of La Coste, which at the time the story is set was himself. It’s such a good in-joke, I couldn’t help paying homage to it here, though it should not be inferred that the Comte character is Sade himself. I have been much vaguer as to time and setting than he was.
Sade had a habit of using classical references occasionally, which I have tried to recreate by mentioning Zeno, who began the greek philosophical movement of stoicism.
Warnings for this chapter: Het, rape, abuse of power.
I hope you enjoy it. Comments and/or constructive criticism will make me happy.

Chapter Nineteen
This time when he awoke, Coulmier wasted no time at all, but went straight to the desk. He toed the crumpled up bits of paper away from his chair, and lit a candle. He wondered briefly if it was the same candle, and shivered involuntarily, feeling his nipples tighten beneath the loose cotton of the nightshirt, as if it were unseasonably cold.
Yet despite his newly discovered enthusiasm, he found himself sitting before the desk for more than an hour while the candle burned lower, at a loss for what to write. Oh, he knew what it had to contain – that was not lost on him. And it had to be before he slept again. But how to present it and how to involve it in a piece of prose – it was impossible, surely. Coulmier pondered for a long time, and then set to writing, the sound of the quill scratching the paper the only sound in the cell for some hours. Indeed, it was almost light before he stopped.
Perhaps he had fallen into a trance, but he didn’t remember writing it, any of it, and he sat back to read the long work with a bemused expression. Scrunching his aching hand into a fist to soothe it, the further he read the surer he was that this would satisfy the Marquis in his dreams, because it sounded almost exactly like him…

Sister Hidulphus (or Foi aveugle)
The tragic tale of woe I am about to relate to you, dear reader, is not to be approached lightly. Yet, you may be assured in advance that our poor heroine goes on to live a long and useful life, as we shall see, despite the horrors of her youth.
But it is these horrors we must face if we are to know her as intimately as we would like, since to know her is to understand one of those peculiar things common to us all – namely, that we are certain to become victims of another at some point, whether we like it or not, and how we respond to that may determine the whole course of our life.
It may be fair to assume that, as a child, Celie Beauchene had an uneventful upbringing. She was raised on a farm in Avignon, Provence, as the only daughter of a doting father. They were poor, but not unhappily so, her father having the good fortune to be a tenant of the local noble, and she was blessed with a healthy pragmatism and useful imagination which made her take these humble beginnings with good grace.
Her mother, who had died while giving birth to her, had been a famous local beauty, and Mademoiselle Beauchene had inherited not only the raven hair and green eyes, but also the kind of perfect proportions which will make any father keep a careful eye as the years pass. Such was the case with Mademoiselle Beauchene, but she did not resent being looked after so well, keeping to the farm with only accompanied regular trips out to the local church for worship and confession with the Abbé there, for she had a good and faithful soul too.
So it was that by the time she reached twenty years of age, she had become, despite her isolation, of interest to several of the local farmers’ sons, many of whom harboured honourable intentions. Yet, before she could make her pick of suitors, her father who had worked the farm with little help for so many years, was struck down suddenly by illness and taken from her.
And so began the misfortunes of Mademoiselle Beauchene, who was left not only poor and destitute, since her parents had no living relatives to whom she could apply for aid, but also sheltered and naïve to the ways of the world. Yet despite this, she was stoic as if she had been tutored by Zeno himself. This being the case, she soon determined to see the landlord and Comte, whom her father had such a long and rewarding tenancy with, and see what he could do to ease her situation because she was certain that, alone and friendless, she could not fail to come under his care.
Enquiries and then arrangements were made for a visit, and Mademoiselle Beauchene prepared as best she could, making sure the small cottage was clean and tidy, if rustic, and that there was fresh bread, cheese, fruit and wine for her guest. If she had been worldlier, then she might have arranged for a chaperone, and everything that followed might have been averted. As it was, the thought hardly entered her mind, and was soon dismissed as undeservedly mistrustful – after all, didn’t she appeal for help?
Who, she thought, would visit someone already brought low by the most heartrending tragic circumstances, and make that wretched situation worse? If such odious and vicious individuals existed, she was sure they were not to be found within the circle of her limited acquaintance. Unfortunately, we shall now see how wrong she was on that score.
At the allotted time, she answered a knock on the door, and invited the Comte in politely with a respectful curtsey. She peered out curiously at the couple of manservants he had brought with him, but they stood outside with the horses and stared out into the fields as if they saw something interesting in the slowly ripening crop.
When she closed the door, she turned to find the Comte regarding the sparse yet functional furnishings with an obviously critical eye. Blushing at the scrutiny of the only home she had ever known, she urged him to take a seat before the small fire, which he did, pulling off his leather riding gloves finger by finger and laying them against his upper thigh.
“Mademoiselle,” he said at last, appearing in earnest if slightly distracted, “I am so sorry for your loss. Allow me to immediately reassure you of my best intentions, and to say that I could not cruelly abandon to fate the offspring of a good and useful tenant of so many years standing.”
At this inspiring statement our dear Celie was overcome with gratitude. “Oh, Monsieur le Comte!” she cried, with bittersweet tears, clasping her hands together, “I am most humbly grateful to you. I was so afraid! But you need not imagine that I shall trespass on your charity for long. I have several eligible suitors, and after a proper period of grieving, I venture to say that if you will be good enough to make certain introductions and provide guidance for me, I shall soon be married, and this little piece of your estate will flourish and remain prosperous for you.”
Truly she spoke of her intentions, with a view to making the Comte feel at ease in his support of her at this time of need. With all the honesty of which her young heart was capable, she was prepared to repay his kindness by working hard to make the farm successful, beginning with a sensible choice of husband.
“Well, that is good news!” exclaimed the Comte with a smile, “and I dare say that the owner of your heart will be a very fortunate man.” With that said, he gave her such a forthright look up and down that Celie blushed, and turned away to busy herself with pouring her guest a drink.
That look he had given her seemed to penetrate into every part of her being, so that her hands shook as she tried to pour the wine, her mind filled with his cool pale blue eyes, and fair hair that was pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. Although she had seen him from afar many times out in the fields, she had never imagined that he would seem so young up close, expecting someone nearer her father’s age than her own. In truth the Comte was the same age as her father, but the years of good living had been easier on his features.
“No wine for me at this time, please, Mademoiselle,” he said from the chair behind her, and Celie stopped what she was doing at once, turning around slowly to regard him again. He sat there staring at her with one leg crossed neatly over the other, and he held his hands out, the gloves in his left hand, as if to indicate his attire. “I am hunting,” he explained.
Celie only nodded, saying nothing, suddenly nervous in the Count’s company, having the sense of being teased somehow, though she couldn’t put her discomfort into words, not even to herself.
With a contrived and well-timed sigh, he looked away from her at the low-burning fire. “Of course, you are aware that I cannot allow you to stay here,” he said, and Celie’s heart jumped, because hadn’t he a moment ago assured her of that very thing? Or had he? Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t actually said that she could keep her home. Had she displeased him in some way?
“B-but, Monsieur,” she stammered, feeling helpless. “You said you would help me. If I cannot stay then where am I to go, and what am I to do?”
Without looking at her, he smiled. “You misunderstand me, Mademoiselle.” He sighed, and then got up from the chair, turning to face her. “I only meant that being all alone here is unwise, for your safety as well as your good reputation.”
“Oh,” said Celie, feeling quite out of her depth, suddenly seeing the wisdom now that it was put before her, but failing utterly to understand that she might be in danger. That in fact she was on the verge of suffering the consequences of her prior ignorance. She tried to think of some way around the predicament, and eventually the Comte sighed again.
“Yet if you are determined to do it, then I do not believe I could find it in my heart to deny you the pleasure,” he said, as if he had deliberated over it while waiting for her to speak. Celie looked into his eyes.
“Are you so determined, Mademoiselle?” he asked, some kind of amused lilt to his voice as Celie nodded mutely.
“I have no other choice, Monsieur,” she said quietly, unsure what he wanted her to say.
“Very well then,” he said with a smile. “The matter is settled.”
Celie swallowed as the Comte came closer, the reassurance in his words belied by the way he stalked her as she backed away, trying hard not to be seen to be avoiding him. “Please understand me, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, in a vain attempt to explain herself. “I have no family. No friends. No one to…” She felt her voice become faint as the Comte backed her into a corner, and it was no longer seemly, what he was doing. “No one,” she said again, “to care what becomes of me.”
“Indeed,” he replied, and she trembled when he raised the hand that held those gloves to her face. She could smell the oil on them, and some spicy sweet scent that he wore as cologne. “I believe I just marked you as the perfect prey.”
With a burst of energy despite her fear, Celie tried to push him away so as to escape him, but he was prepared for her to try, and merely caught her up in his arms with delighted laughter. Celie stared at the door, opening her mouth to call for help before she realised why the servants were outside. They were there to ensure that their Master would not be disturbed.
The short woebegone cry of terror she gave was silenced by the Comte’s lips, and though she fought him, he was more than a match for her own slender frame. A sense of unreality descended on her as he bodily threw her face down on the table, bending her over it in an obscene way, hands pushing up her skirts to get at what lay beneath them. He held her hands behind her back as he violated her, taking her honour while she cried out from the pain of it. And she knew they were cries that could be heard outside, cries that the servants had been instructed to ignore.
The table beneath her cheek was wet with her tears when he had done, and she watched without moving as he walked away from her to the door. He was immaculate, as if nothing had happened of any note, while she, Celie knew, was forever damaged. He pulled on those hated leather gloves carefully.
“Consider that payment of your rent,” he said cruelly, and then gifted her one last time with a hard look. “I’ll be back each week at this same time to take it again. Unless you think you can manage to find a husband now.”
“No, Sir,” she replied, completely defeated and hopeless.
“No,” he repeated as if to confirm it to himself, and it was impossible to tell if he were pleased with that or not.
When he was gone she finally moved, gingerly creeping to the chair before the fire to curl up in it, sobbing and shaking in equal measure, aware that the warm scent of his cologne lingered there, and on her, as if mocking her pain and grief.
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The Ruined Abbe