The History of Sex: Paris and Provence -- Pierre Cardin: The New Master of the Marquis' Domain -- (Chap. VII, Pt. 3)

Ensconced in their Saturday-night best, the members of the mostly middle-aged audience watch it all stern-faced and stoically, taking their high culture like other people take medicine, convinced it must be good for them because it's been sanctioned from on high—in this case, literally: rumor has it that the new master of the Marquis' domain helicopters in from the capital.

Now well into his eighties, Cardin seems to have reached the stage in life where he doesn't care about keeping up appearances.

Naturally, he still sports his black glasses and navy-blue blazers, and his sneakers are Umbro this year rather than Nike, but what's left of his hair has been clipped short—not long and wavy—and he hasn't bothered shaving.

In other words, the fashion billionaire looks like an old man who's lived long enough to be at ease with himself, pushing a large belly in front of him like a wheelbarrow.

When I met him, Pierre Cardin looked more like this

than this:

In fact, Lena and I bumped into him yesterday without recognizing him, and I spoke with him earlier this evening at a soiree hosted by SCAD, the American art college.

On a garden terrace overlooking the Luberon valley, he admitted he'd never imagined owning the Marquis de Sade's castle—or Casanova's old haunt in Venice, for that matter.

'It's very funny that I live in Casanova's villa and the Marquis de Sade's,' he mused. 'I'm Italian, you know—'

—actually, I didn't—

'I'm Venetian, and I know Florence, and for me this area of France has the same atmosphere as Florence.'

After restoring the chateau's main tower, the new lord of Lacoste turned the adjoining quarry into a magnificent amphitheatre to host his month-long Festival de Lacoste.

'Last year I said to Pietra: "Why don't you imagine what happened to the Marquis de Sade when he was in the hospital with crazy people?"' he recalled, adding that he was more than happy with the result.

'It's extraordinary. Very fantastic—you'll enjoy it.'

Well, call me a philistine, but after the initial buzz of being in situ wears off, the only coherent theme I can discern from the overly long show is that crazy people are—wait for it—crazy. (If surprisingly sexy.)

By the end, the comely ensemble of three men and four women have stripped off to dance semi if not fully naked.

Who knew lunatics could be so hot?