La Conciergerie Prison. Paris. July 28th, 1794.

My beloved Eugenie, with my last louis d'or, I have paid a kindly old crone to get this letter to you in Lausanne. With some luck, it will arrive via her brother who, I'm told, works for a Swiss paper merchant. The odds are long, I know, but in my desperation, I know of no other way.

I have languished here for weeks, denied everything save gruel and water to sustain me. But, my dear, I was able to procure some paper and a quill, along with some thin ink. The prison governor’s slim, republican cock got the best sucking of its life for you to be able to read these meager words of mine.

I can see the blush already spreading on your cheek my dear Eugenie. Forgive me dear heart, but now at sixty-eight, I am as you always knew me; an atheist, a libertine, a creature of the flesh; as certain of the absurdity of the resurrection and the immaculate conception as I am of the non-existence of the immortal soul. Orgasm is my God; Cock is the Son, Pleasure is my holy spirit; a trinity of deities that manifest themselves without fail whenever we evoke them. I put my faith, my credo, in these and no other gospel.

I urge you to do so too sweet Eugenie, as often as you can. Ignore the empty vows of marriage that you are forced to swear before a cold stone altar in the sight of a mute, indifferent, and absentee God.

I remember the priests singing, “Sic transit vana et brevis gloria mundi.” Indeed, the glories of this world are vane and brief and shall swiftly pass, of that I am certain. But no angelic trumpets shall wake us, no aethereal light shall greet us, no demons shall vex us in nebulous caverns or sulfurous and infernal wastes. Nay, we are destined for the sleep eternal in an eternal night, and all the weighty tomes of scripture cannot convince me otherwise. Oblivion is our salvation. Take comfort in the thought, my dearest, as I do.

Everything I loved and held dear is now gone.

I don't miss my Meissen figurines, my chocolate, my lavender garden, or my chateau on the Loire. The peasants now wear my emeralds and my rubies from Ceylon. They are welcome to them. My instruments; made lovingly by the great Stradivari, are reduced to so much kindling, above which some democrat is now warming his broth.

What I do miss, my angelic Eugenie, is cock. Forgive me dear heart, but words are all I have left, yet they are enough to wet my quiescent cunt. What exquisite fruit from the distant Indies could compare with the thick, hard, succulent manhood of my equerry Antoine. Oh, how I used to delight in licking every inch of his delectable shaft. Seeing his balls retract under my fingers, lips, and tongue, dear heart, was as the sunrise, and the dawn of my desire. He was a young stallion, with muscles such as the Florentine Michaelangelo might have carved. But he was a creature of flesh and a demon of lust.

Together we descended into the labyrinthine depths of depravity. Imagine me naked and on my back, upon the cold, figured walnut tabletop in my study. My legs entwined around his hips like Horace's Damalis, my hands gripping his sides as I arched my back with each delicious thrust of his adamantine cock. We would find that tabletop cold and leave it scorched!

He would kiss my neck but refused me his lips for he deemed them unworthy to kiss mine. He would call me his whore, bitch, slut and slattern. This might shock you most of all my fine upstanding girl, but under his commanding cock, I was a Countess no more, I was his willing slave; my mouth, cunt, and ass were enthralled to him, his to dispose of in any way he saw fit.

And yes, you read that correctly, my ass; another pleasure the spurious scriptures deny us. Ah Eugenie, what Heaven was I transported to with Antoine's cock hammering my ass while his deft fingers worked my pulsating cunt. We would fuck long into the night, lost in a never-ending spiral of desire; in turn, on my knees worshipping at the altar of his cock, then spreading my legs so that he might ravish my dew-drenched holes.

Alas, he is lost to me now, fighting for the republic in some foreign field. Of all my lovers, I miss Antoine the most. Of course, I miss you too my dearest. Remember how we used to drink coffee long into the night and play piquet until the candles had burnt so low? You were always a deft hand at cards and I miss our sparkling conversation.

As always my dear Eugenie, I remain a worshipper and lover of beauty in all its forms; and foremost of these is the beauty of truth. By that I mean the timeless truths of science as revealed to us by Galileo, Newton, Laplace, Lavoisier, and, my sometime lover, Monsieur Le Comte de Bouffon.

The beauties of poetry; Cornille, Racine, and the witticisms of the immortal Voltaire. The glories of music, especially the works of Leclair, De Mondonville, and the sublime Rameau. These I adored. Remember how I used to thrill you by playing Rameau's Les Sauvages on my harpsichord?

Of saints, I revere none, nor keep any of their days holy. Only one comes close and he, to the best of my knowledge, is still amongst the living; the saint of Saumane and La Coste, better known to you, in his notoriety, as the Marquis de Sade.

But now dawn is fast approaching and I can already hear the guards. I have an appointment this morning with a lady; a lady who is as blind as her tongue is sharp. Rejoice for me Eugenie for she will bring all my indignities and all my suffering to an end. You may have heard of her; Madame Guillotine.

Emilie-Martine Villiers, Comtesse de Noblecourt.

(Letter found in Scotland, concealed in a Hepplewhite secretaire c. 1780)