The History of Sex: Paris and Provence -- 'The Laboratory of Sadism' -- (Chap. VII, Pt. 5)

'I firmly believe that the vindication of the Marquis de Sade is on the way,' predicts Finn Mac Eoin, the self-appointed poet laureate of Lacoste and resident expert on Sade.

'What we saw in the theatre was part of that. I think Cardin is determined to try and vindicate de Sade.'

As is Mac Eoin himself.

A proud native of Cork, Ireland's 'rebel county,' Finn vowed to make a pilgrimage to Lacoste after reading a biography of the Marquis while living in New Zealand.

In 2000, he started odd-jobbing his way through France until he reached his goal.

Now he's lugged a box full of books down to the terrace of the Café de France to chat with me about his hero.

PHANTASMAGORICAL?

Below us, the broad bowl of the valley is overflowing with cherries, grapes, sunflowers and cypress trees, while above us the restored tower of the Marquis' castle presides over its ruined ramparts.

When writing about Provence, of course, it's traditional to turn your prose up to Technicolor Purple and rhapsodize about the lavender fields and crumbling chateaus, with most accounts wheeling out the word 'phantasmagorical' to describe what's left of Lacoste's 'laboratory of sadism.'

Old photos of the decrepit castle do look spooky enough—locals used to say the mistral winds sounded like the screams of the Marquis' victims—but since Cardin's restoration, the chateau stands like a tidied-up rectangle awaiting a full makeover.

Even now, you can see why Lacoste is a favorite of connoisseurs: Peter Mayle may have lived in nearby Menerbes, but he began his Year in Provence with lunch in Lacoste.

More recently, the playwright Tom Stoppard spent time here—Finn tended his garden for him—and Hollywood's John Malkovich owns a house down in the valley.

If I'm honest, though, on my way up from Marseille, I'd been bracing myself for disappointment.

I was worried Lacoste would be the usual story of a tiny old town belted and besieged by modernity. I'd expected backpackers trooping through cobbled streets and touristy bondage shops flogging riding-crop keyrings and T-shirts proclaiming 'Sadists Do It 'Til It Hurts.'

But then I turned a corner, came to a stop outside a stone archway, and wandered into what looked like a medieval ghost town, the floral arrangements the only visible proof of human habitation.

The top entrance to Lacoste
(no cars allowed)