All language subtitles for La Note Bleue - The Blue Note (1991) 720p BluRay FLAC2 0 x264-HEZKY

I love you, my love.

THE BLUE NOTE

It's him.

I recognize these sounds.

Nobody on earth.
The litheness. The grace.

Demonic! Oh.

It's God talking through his fingers.

That's a piece I've never heard.
That means he's on top form.

Top?

Top hat!

A barcarole.

I'd rather say a pigeon's goal.

Amazing that he's at it
so early in the day.

He was always rising at dawn.

Here, dawn is called "Aurora."

Aurora Dupin,
Baroness Dudevant,

pen name, George.

Oh, what spirit.

Just wait to rub against it,
ducky, you'll see the spirit.

What a man!

Hello, you.
Where's my fiancée?

- Ivan's leaving.
- Then where's everybody?

- Ah, Ivan.
- My Grzymala!

My Dumpling.

You're going to reheat
those war stories, eh?

It wasn't a war,
it was an insurrection.

That wild charge you did,
you Uhlans?

- Lancers.
- Oh yes.

It was crazily romantic,
wasn't it, Louis?

- Crazily.
- The little one?

Chip, Chip?
A lark.

Oh, good fairy.

It's just some flour. Today, even your wife
will be slaving over a hot stove.

Pauline? What an amazing
change in her ways.

- My hat.
- Oh, yes.

We are in the midst of the most amusing
misadventure, we have no house staff left.

What do you mean, no house staff?

Right you are, my dear Fernand.
Today we'll have to do everything by ourselves.

The great. The unique.
Genius in female form.

You, whose novels
have shown women

- the path of independence.
- The Countess Czosnowska.

Back in Ukraine,
I learned your books off by heart.

- Mr. Turgenev.
- Russian.

Writer.

And a slave to the genius of Pauline,
my dear Louis.

- Ivan has Russian sadnesses.
- The Russians are always too sad or too merry.

Especially
when they cut your throat.

I forbid you!
I'll accompany you, Ivan.

I do omelet crayfish.

- Have you crayfish, here around?
- There's the little stream, yes.

Ha, if there is stream,
there is crustaceans!

- And if you'll allow me, I'll go hunting.
- An excellent idea!

I'm sorry to impose on your horses this to-ing and
fro-ing between train stations and Nohant.

- It doesn't matter.
- You will say hello to Frederic and Eugene for me.

I haven't seen them this morning, but I
admit I haven't really looked for them.

- Paris?
- Petersburg.

Is it so bad?

Well, for me, when things go wrong,
when I lose all hope,

when I don't understand anything about life,

when I don't want anything of it,
when it hurts so bad... when the sky is empty...

I go to the end of the garden
and I call him.

- I call: Corambe!
- Who?

Co-ram-be.

These three syllables were born
out of a dream.

Corambe has no sex. Sometimes,
when I was little, I dressed him as a girl.

He's well meaning,

maybe a touch ironic,
but devoid of spite.

I see.

Don't look at me
with those eyes, Ivan.

It's me who arranged the delay of Louis' arrival from Paris.
It's me who put Pauline in my son's bed.

But why?

Because Pauline is the greatest singer
in the whole world.

I followed her all across Europe.

Because she has this unique talent
and Maurice has to become a man.

- And this I'll never be.
- Don't even, Ivan.

The world is made for the good people
only in theory.

- What about you?
- Me, I'm not good.

I'm socialist.

I'm so socialist
that I threw out my house staff.

And I hate you, because you own serfs
on your lands in Russia!

- I will free my serfs.
- Don't free your serfs, Ivan.

Lie.
In order to write, lie.

It's...

it's a top hat from Dupreuil's.

- His chambers are upstairs.
- Upstairs.

- Have you seen Maurice, Louis?
- Not yet.

The Countess Czosnowska.
Maurice! Ah, ha, Maurice.

My God,
has he become a man.

Hasn't he?

That was your pigeon.

Adalbert, I will show you
to your quarters later.

- You know the house.
- So if you want to get refreshed,

some potato starch will do the trick.
The potato starch will do it,

- shouldn't it, Jean?
- Me not talking to Sir.

- Bachi Bouzouk!
- Ruffian! Noble family.

Oh, really?
Keep gabbing, my friend.

Me, great-great-great grandson
of the King of Poland.

- Savvy?
- That's enough, Maurice!

But it's true, Mom!
At least tell him.

- We hail from the Marechal de Saxe.
- Stop it!

What do you want, Jean?

Mister Frederic send me, ask permission
Madam Poline not singing that.

- Mister Frederic, play piano.
- Oh, of course. Sorry.

- I'm sorry.
- Why of course?

You don't have the right
to sing now?

We can't measure
against a genius, Maurice.

Thank you for dying artist.

- What does he mean by "dying"?
- Nothing.

Dear Frederic has inflammation
of the tonsils,

and the country air
makes him perfectly hysterical.

You laughs?

We cries.

- Jean?
- Madam?

You'll help us do the cooking,
now that we're alone?

Me, not making general cuisine.
Me, take care of Mister Frederic.

Oh yes? And what will he eat,
Mister Frederic?

Eat his heart, drink his tears.

Oh, my.

He deserves a part
in the play I'm writing.

- Mmm, that looks divine.
- It's because Maurice got hungry and I--

Him too? It seems that Augustine--
by the way, whereabouts is Augustine?

You're in need of something,
Monsieur Louis?

- Titine.
- No, that was on the streets.

Here, it's Augustine.

And George
adopted me legally.

Augustine made a frumenty
to die of happiness for.

Go find her, Maurice.

I'll fetch her.

What gracefulness.
What breeziness. Oaf!

You.

Take care of your shit.

Monsieur, if you wouldn't be
the brother of my fiancée--

Your fiancée?
Oh, let me laugh.

You bet that you won't stay fiancé
to the end of the day?

Whereever you want,
whenever you want, Monsieur.

Fernand, you bore.

Now, Maurice, you will present
your apologies to Monsieur.

Oh, Fernand, here you go.
There is the potato starch for your hat.

And why don't you go pick yourself
a shotgun in the hallway?

Seems an ideal day
for showcasing one's shooter.

Hoot for the shooter,
dear Mama.

And for Frederic,
some casse-museau, hard as stone.

He suffers from toothache, he'll hate it.

Solange?

Solange.

Croak.

Your fiancé's about!

Ah, let him hang himself.

Augustine? Augustine?

- No, here, it's Solange.
- You wouldn't have seen Augustine?

Mmm, search the shitter.

- Oh, the brat.
- It's in the blood.

- But why?
- Piss off!

He's playing. So soon.

And me, a brute,
I was sleeping.

Oh, you are playing for real.

Oh, what joy, my joy.
My only joy.

I will never catch it.
Never!

- But what?
- I'm a zero!

I haven't a clue
what I'm doing.

I have no talent, no ear!

If Jean would take away his hands,
maybe you'd recover two of them.

Huh?

But it should be so easy.

You're all rumpled. And your coiffure,
you look like a wild child.

- I've not groomed yet.
- Exactly what I'm saying.

A young girl
should never appear--

Like this?

Like what?
Like she really is?

Please come and dress me,

brush my hair.
Like when I was little.

And stop making yourself
more ridiculous than you are.

Oh, no! It stinks too much.
Through the walls, it stinks.

So come.
It doesn't stink in my room.

You didn't even wash, I bet.

If, for a second, you could just stop
playing the moralizer.

Your mother wouldn't approve of you
coming here like this.

Okay, stay in your stench
with my mother!

At ease, Jan.
Repos! Repos!

My God. It's you. Darlings.
My tender souls.

Some ice! Jean!

Don't lie him down,
it's suffocates him. Keep him upright!

Oh, this smell kills him.
Bring him to my room.

I've found it, mother-to-be!

And where will I find
the buckshot?

You had more heart about you before,
Monsieur Louis.

Here, it's in place of a heart.

I've yet to get a life of my own,
Monsieur Louis.

For you, it's a whim.

For me, it's--

Thank you, my angel.

- Angelic Solange.
- How do you feel?

Sorry. For making
a spectacle of myself.

For making you put up with it.

- Young, rumpled and cold.
- Young, yes.

- Rumpled.
- Cold.

Hot.

This terrible tonsillitis
I'm prone to on my walks.

George, that walking
does a lot of good.

And when I'm back home,

I find everything
higgledy-piggledy.

Even the wallpapers
are replaced,

the rugs, the furniture,
everything.

A frenzy of change seized Aurore.

By the way, we have to change too,
Solange, for the ten o'clock.

- I told you.
- Oh, don't scold, for once.

Jean will bring you
your Sunday best here.

And we will help you
to change, and I--

Oh, my God.
Do you hear that?

She understood everything,
she kept everything.

I was afraid
that she'll sing Bellini...

who was just half a master.
But here...

It is--

I would love to tell you it's Bach,
my friend.

But it's me. Only me!

For you see, this phrase...

Solange, may I play
on your horrible little piano?

It will be honored.

That's it.
I'm working on it.

She works on me
since the beginning of summer.

Don't turn.

Of all things, please don't turn.
You'd offend my modesty.

Play, Frederic.

Imagine I've never grown up.

I am so happy
that you're playing in my room.

That you're staying here,
for me, with me.

Beg your pardon.

Sir!

And then, Jean and me,
without a thought, like it is in war,

- we jump! Jump!
- Bloody Fernand.

If Monsieur de Preault
didn't have the grace to miss me,

we would have just one piano player
less on this earth.

No pianist. a Messiah!

- Do you agree, Jean?
- 'Gree!

If I stooped enough to aim
at you, sir...

Chopin.

- Where on earth does one get such a name?
- It's from the Lorraine.

Oh, so your accent's Lorrainian?

No, Polish. My father made himself
a living in Poland,

my mother is Polish.

- What was his trade?
- He's still a tutor.

Ha. With the right class,
I hope.

In a class of your own.

Well, everybody knows that when I met Frederic
my children's tutor was my lover.

Mister Mallefille
lavished them with care.

And he even pursued Frederic,
in the street,

with a gun!

- He wasn't a good enough shot?
- Oh, he was!

I have brilliant
remembrances of it.

So what's wrong? Am I shocking you?
Bluntness, even if brutal.

You see,
when I met Frederic,

I declared myself first.

I wanted him,
I pursued him and I got him.

Veni, vidi, vici.

I even wrote a letter to his friend Grzymala

to ask for Frederic's hand.
Didn't I, my clump?

All is fair in love and war, eh?
I never lie.

- You said?
- Nothing. I say nothing.

Alluring, Line.

I want to bid you farewell,
Monsieur Eugene.

Why farewell?

I won't be able to pose for you anymore,
Monsieur Eugene.

It's not that I didn't
got to love it.

Get to love it.

- But we got kicked out by Madam!
- Shh.

Seemed that we were too noisy
when Madam was still asleep.

Still, one must keep
one's dignity.

You will know where to find me
in Paris, won't you, Line?

Yes.

You like my flowers?

Oh, you can't eat flowers, can you?

- Hello, hello.
- Hello, Maurice.

Don't let me disturb you.
Hello, Pauline. Adalbert.

Take it, it's for you.

- It's for you.
- Cheat.

Be wary of this pert wench.
She'll get it. She's already got it.

- Jealous?
- Of course.

Fernand, you know Eugene,
of course?

- Eugene?
- Delacroix.

De Preault.

Wouldn't it be the great,
the unique? Oh.

The revolutionary.

No, not that awful word.

I keep all your daguerreotypes,
at home in Ukraine. By heart.

For me, little Polish goose,
this dwelling place of geniuses,

it's... It's...

And what's more, she dances.

She's expressing.

I am absolutely sorry for being late,
but my watch.

It's a Breguet?

I wouldn't know,
it's a gift from my father.

- The real or the fake one?
- Pardon?

You are a bastard, Eugene.
Maybe that's why you paint so well.

I regret that you find it appropriate
to revert to these trooper's manners

as they disfigure you, Lucile.

Lucile?

A trooper's manner can look saner
than those of a perfumed moralist.

You didn't try my cookies, Frederic.
I made them just for you, d'you know?

I can't.
They are too tough.

You could maybe ask Jean
to chew them for you?

I'm sure that Jean
has jaws of steel.

Me, steel.

I'd rather have some
of that delicious soufflé.

With tea, tea,
tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,

and ta, ta, ta, ta, tapioca.

Enough?

And you, madam, another helping?

I'm much too excited by the loftiness
of your conversation.

Augustine, pass me the frumenty,
if you please.

- Frumenty is a peasant's dish, isn't it?
- Yes.

Madam, I have to say that
at this very moment--

Yes?

...the peasants are not
in vogue right now.

- Really? Where?
- At home.

- Leave it, Lorka.
- No, no, on the contrary.

When I was leaving Krakow a week ago,
the whole countryside was on fire and in blood.

But Poland is always on fire
and in blood, isn't it, Frederic?

That's even why you're never there.

But this time it's different.
The peasants are cutting noble throats.

- At last!
- But why right now?

Like always the nobles took the lead
of an insurrection against the occupier.

The occupier
found a simple way to stem it:

they pay in thalers
for each noble head cut off.

So the peasants are cutting the heads
and selling them.

- It's radical.
- It's revolutionary.

It's a massacre.

The chief of the butchers made himself
a harem from the victims' wives,

ladies of high standing.

The under-fucked, no doubt.

George!

Oh, please shut up, right?

The fact that you don't share my convictions
regarding your peasants, who are just slaves,

and about women, doesn't give you
the right to raise the tone of your voice!

And then, every revolt of the oppressed,
no matter how blind,

is salutary...

even if...
even if it is horrifying.

It's because I haven't slept.

And then the cook left.
And Line too.

Me, I've worked all night long.
I'm so tired.

Oh, my darlings, this is silly.
You are what I hold dearest in this world,

and I would love
that we love each other,

and that we stay happy and...

I'm fat, unworthy, and mean.

- And I feel old.
- Come, come. You are the prettiest.

- The sweetest. You're the most...
- There...

...fragile, the most courageous.
The most adored of all mommies.

Everything is beautiful about you.
Your hair, your eyes,

your hands so small and dimpled,
your feet so tiny.

You have the prettiest little feet
on earth.

Like little moon rabbits,
so white.

Eugene,
forgive me if I went astray.

It's hot,
she'll get her vapors.

- She's got them!
- Thank you, Augustine.

A bit of vinegar water
on your temples, Aurore.

Oh, my friend.
I owe you so much.

I am...
I am so jittery.

Oh, so that was the thing
that stank so bad. I wouldn't dare asking.

- Me took good vinegar kitchen.
- The baboon!

Allow me, lovely mother-in-law.
I have in my trousseau some eau de Londres.

Excuse me.

Lovely, yes.
Mother-in-law, not yet, you rat.

Enough of that.
Here we go.

- Ah-ha!
- I've got your last one, my Dumpling.

The publisher entrusted me with it
to surprise you.

My God,
my book has arrived.

The mistakes, the typos,
one will have to correct them all.

I'm going to change,
it's getting too hot.

- Why? Because you're sweating?
- Me, sweating?

But of course. Like everybody,
Frederic. Everybody sweats.

Me, I sweat; Frederic sweats,
right, Augustine?

- If you say so, Mom.
- Really?

- Frederic sweats?
- You're mean.

What's mean about that, deep down?
It's human, Solange.

And that's a word you'll understand later,

when you'll go to live your own life
and stop reflecting upon mine.

But no, I--

Fine. We have to establish a battle plan
for tonight's dinner.

Where's my shoe?

Battle?
Me knows.

I'll make gnocchi, my specialty.
With Augustine's help.

- Rump steak pudding.
- Very good, my darling.

Iced coffee, the Italian way.

- I'll make bigos.
- Mister Frederic need cabbage.

I love you.

I love you...

- with Solange's help.
- Chestnuts as a side dish.

- Borscht!
- What?

- The national soup.
- Me require beets.

- Oh, they're all over.
- Me go over.

Brilliant.

Tally-ho!

Another peep and I kill him.

What can that be?
Peasants?

At last. It's for Frederic's room.
I'll show them.

- My dear friends.
- Many fine mornings, Monsieur Jean.

- My proletarian brothers!
- Good day, miss.

Be so kind as to follow me.

It's true that with Line gone,
we don't have a model.

Well, we'll paint tigers,
or drapery.

But...

One doesn't become a painter
with buts, eh?

It's with hands.

Alright.
I'll do the table.

Would you care for...

- Pauline.
- Yes, Frederic?

Is it true that I smell bad?

You smell of grace.

The music.

I'm on my way towards death,

I'm still full of music.

I can't remember
any Polish landscapes.

Here it is, my dove.

What's this book about?
Is it by her?

You never tell me anything.

Reproaches, already.
It's just her last novel,

"Lucrezia Floriani."

He's half the man he was.

He doesn't pay attention to me anymore.

I remember times when... what about you,

ha, Adalbert?

She's so sweet.

Be as quiet
as you can, right?

You'll truly finish by tonight?

Without being noisy, Mademoiselle Solange.
I can't promise, but...

And this terrible stink.
We still don't know what it is?

Glue that has rotted, or...
the wallpaper?

Yes, Maman, yes.

- Yes, Maman.
- He's at it again.

- Yes.
- Tell him to stop.

Oh, no, it's too beautiful.

- It drills into my nerves.
- He's composing, this is his way.

In fact, he sees his music
in a flash, fully formed.

Then he calls me, he plays it to me,
his eyes closed, like in a trance.

I applaud, I say: "Right, put pen to paper."

And then the horror starts: he can't.

For days on end he grinds away, changing the notes,
adding them, retracting them.

Shaken with doubts,
he wants to change the whole idea,

the theme, the reason to be of his music.

He says that Haydn is better,
and that Bach, you can't compete.

And then,
by the end of the month,

ten hours of piano per day,

Monsieur delivers his piece
on paper:

exactly as he had played it to me
the first time.

It's beautiful.

It's useless, this suffering.

What's useless
is never beautiful.

You can't bear the difficult anymore,
can you, Maman?

No.

Even that, d'you hear? Not even a mazurka.
I can't. I will go mad.

- Do I scratch anything out, me?
- Me, personally, me.

Not a word, not a line.

If I could, I wouldn't even reread
myself! Where are my matches?

Oh, you should.

But if I listened to you, little girl,

I wouldn't have written the hundred books
which still give us a living.

Him, he never wrote a hundred books,
but the great artist here is not you!

- And then you have no right to--
- Oh, yes. This is my house.

Mine too, I thought.
It's called family, Maman.

Family? Alright, let's talk family,
if you wish.

The first time I escaped
the bed of my husband,

this cretin of a baron
who bored me to tears,

you were the fruit.

You were born out of nothing.
A draft.

Then Papa, he was--

Your whole family is me, Solange!
Me alone!

And I have a hundred thousand
francs worth of debts

and a furious need...

to smoke this cigar.

By the way,
isn't it Eugene's room?

So what?

I forbid you, Solange.

I forbid you to forbid.

My little girl. You always reached
for God knows what. The moon.

Not the moon.
Love.

But you've always trampled on those
who offered you some.

And who was offering it, please? Huh?

Your friends more numerous than my memory...
those passing by, or those from the warmth of your bed.

When one came in
to say good morning to you,

one had to remember
their first names, or, or...

forget them before putting
one's foot in it with the next one.

You make me out like a monster.

I don't make you out.

You are.

My little girl.

You're too hard on her, George.

Oh, but you're on fire.

Come.

Help me, Pauline.

But with what?

Nobody understands
your music anymore.

It's because... listen.

The resolution of this phrase
is so banal.

A waltz, Frederic.

I play light music
when I need money.

- It's an order.
- From whom, please?

- From me.
- Ah.

Why did it become
so difficult, Maurice?

Do you remember all the things
we did together?

I was thinking, George.

It's not yet chestnut season.

Then for my side-dish...

if you had some preserved...

You'll find it in the little cellar.

I'm a bit afraid of cellars.

In the stoneware jars,

to the left.

Is it because of the women?

What does she have in common
with all the women, my mother?

Is this it?

A waltz.

Every time
a woman has left me...

I have composed a waltz.

Mm. The red.

The yellow.

Oh, it's you.

Wrong pitch.

It should be, "aa-aah, you!"

- You fancy his music, Augustine?
- Oh.

There is no illusion in his music.
Just a sort of rape on threadbare velvet.

When there are so many illusions
in these flowers.

You have sharp eyes,
don't you?

And now that Line has gone...

you, with your pretty
dead virgin's face,

the way you see,
the glacial way you look at things,

and your laughter,
impudent and stupid.

And me, what do I smell of?
Blue?

Pink?

Sweat.

Not to your fancy?

For God's sake!

Well, God... God,
if you really wish so, but, err...

Isn't it, Demogorgon?

Who's Demogorgon?

Demogorgon?

My personal little God...

who's been with me
since childhood.

Thanks to him,

I can adjust to having
two fathers,

the real and the fake one.

And it's him
who helps me to stay unemotional.

What on earth
are you trying to achieve?

Show me what a Pole
is really capable of.

- Mister Frederic, Polish.
- Mmm, only half.

- Mister Grzymala, is...
- What?

Seems to me
you're really on top of things.

Mister Grzymala
very good officer.

- And you?
- Me, very good cavalier.

And me, very good filly.

Stay.

Too many men
mounted his mare.

Pity.

Oh, Corambe.

(Speaking Polish)

Ah, it's so strange.
Like somewhere in the Tatra Mountains.

The Tatras, you say?

Goldie,
I'll show you the peak.

Oh-oh-oh-oh.
Oops-a-daisy!

Oops.

It's cold!

Cold?
Oh, you hush up.

Didn't your husband
fire a bullet into his head

because of you?

In the old days,
I had some successes.

Somebody up there?
No?

Oh, well. Sorry.

Yes?
Me, Solange?

I have to be truer?

Truer still?
But one cannot be more true.

And then, I have nothing,
but nothing in common with my mother.

Don't you understand?
You don't understand?

What is it about, my doll?

Nothing.

Admire the show of skill.

You'll notice that it's always
the adults who bare the brunt of chores,

not the brats.

Where's he gone,
the valiant hunter?

- He hunts after the goddess of love.
- The great Amazon.

Mind you, she rides horses very well.
She gets it from her mother.

Err, I shall need cognac, Muscat,

truffles, bread, lard, milk.

So far, so good.
Augustine? To the cellar.

- I'm afraid of the cellar.
- I'll go with you.

Oh, how brave.

The crayfish omelet is not urgent,
we can leave it right up until the last moment.

But for the beef,
bring the brandy and the rum.

Pauline,
what did you do?

The rat bit me to the bone.

Oh, no.

It's that terrible music, too.

- As if it was our fault.
- But what?

Everything.

- I love you, Pauline.
- I know.

How do you prepare this dish?

So...

knead the dough with flour,
eggs, lukewarm water...

sprinkle with beef gratings, fold three times,
wait ten minutes, fold again, and wait...

- Stop. I'm lost.
- Not quite.

- What are you doing, Louis?
- What I've been told to do.

The oven.
Stoke the oven.

What are these red things
that are getting in everybody's way?

They're Jean's beets.

You like it? It's musk.

It's a good thing Frederic's not here.

That said, given the stuff he pours on himself,
you wouldn't stand the competition.

Competition? With him?
Don't even think of it.

Oh, it looks so very jolly in here.

Here you are.

You'll help me with the gnocchi,
since Augustine hasn't reappeared.

- She's disappeared?
- Yes. With Maurice.

Something bad
happened to Solange!

Nothing bad
will ever happen to Solange.

What now?

You take two eggs,
set aside the yolks.

I rather like yolk yellow.

Then you stir in the sugar
until they turn white.

White, the noblest of colors.

- We'll add this to the mix later.
- Right.

It will need to cool for two hours.

My chestnuts will be done
in a few minutes.

Can you check?

- How?
- If they're soft in your hand.

You're mad. He's scalded.
What got into you, my love?

- Repeat that.
- My love.

Quick! The medicine chest,
the alcohol, the ointment.

Me has drink alcohol chest.

You did what?

Pure alcohol, me melancholy.

Give that back. It's old prune.

You're encumbering me.

Oh. Listen,
you're an encumbrance!

I don't recognize you,
Dumpling.

- Hey.
- If you marry me.

- George, your milk is on the boil.
- Oh, shoot.

Pauline, carry on.

Can you pass me the brandy,
Maman?

Just be careful, my Bouli, eh?

- Bravo.
- Ah, the flames are beautiful.

- How skilled are you with your hands.
- Maurice is good at everything.

- Except painting.
- But no.

Your painting has merit.
It's only that...

- God is not with me.
- Not God. The gods.

And the goddesses.

I'll daub the entrance walls.
This, at least, I know how to do.

Cabbage Mister Frederic cutted.

Oh. What now?

Me, washed feet with brandy
and squashed cabbage in basin.

- Eh?
- Old Polish custom.

Lorka, please, not now.

Me, very clean feet.
Mister Frederic wouldn't allow.

We don't doubt you, my friend,

but maybe there should be
another way to...

This way.

Your feet are maybe a bit small.

Should we ask Laure?

I love your tiny tootsies, Laure.

And I'm a countess,
and I know how to sing.

Not as well as Pauline, of course,
but, me, for example,

the mazurka, I know how,
even if it's peasant, I know too.

Oh, women.

- I'm dreaming, aren't I?
- But, Jean... at ease!

If you keep trampling
your cabbage,

how long will need to sour?

A month!

How the hell
will Poland ever make it?

Frederic, quick, play, play,
the dog.

I like you very much.

- She kissed me.
- You're not bleeding?

Never again, Frederic!
Never again!

So here we are,
look at this lovely weather.

Mister Frederic charge cavalry.

Frederic, I was observing you just now.
You were closing your eyes.

- You were descending into hell.
- It was a great torment.

One should master one's torment,
Frederic.

One must render it... polite.
Yes, that's it. Polite to the others.

And if, despite the politeness,
the audience won't follow you?

High society is following.
The rest are just crowds.

And I'm afraid of crowds.

Frederic... a propos George,
may I warn you about certain things...?

If you think I shall...
Mind you. I know.

Don't say anything.
You see, she's making a huge effort.

She strives in love as others toil.

She writes with such ease.

The rawness
and the bitterness of things

must take their revenge anyhow, no?

Nobody flees from it.
Nobody's free.

D'you know,
when I met her for the first time,

I found her horrifyingly ugly?

Oh? Even her eyes?

She was sporting the smile
of a Basilisk. It's a stare.

Heavy, cold, devouring.

She was dressed as a man, and was
smoking a cigar which made me cough.

She was so down to earth.
Like the witch in a--

in fairy tales... like a Gorgon.

Why, for you,
is a witch down to earth?

- Everything's down to earth.
- Even music?

Oh, especially music.

I got so scared.
You-- you left so abruptly.

You are so abrupt with me,
so distant.

- You who were so...
- Set to go?

I'm happy to have found you.
But I remind you that it's you who did--

Picked you up?
Yes. Our household ways.

- But you were so delicious.
- The masks drop.

No... so radiant.

I'm not. Honestly, Fernand,
I'm hideous.

If I don't flap about,
I am graceless and formless.

How can you say that?

See by yourself.
Do you see?

You cannot not see.

I have to thrash about, giggle.
Hee, hee, hee, hee.

Make noise, pretend.

Why? Because if I stay like this,

I'll turn crude.
A beast.

Blubbery. Sluggard.

Tiring.

My arms will grow hairy,
won't they?

My calves too.

And my nose, it's growing.

- But you are adorable. Naturally.
- Not at all, you fool.

I'm nonexistent.

But you do have
your mother's eyes, and--

Oh, but not at all! See, it's when
you don't know what to say,

you speak about the eyes of a woman.
And I'm not a woman, I am a tomboy.

You-- you're mocking me?

And what about me showing you, here.
Me telling you.

Oh, I beg you, please, don't.

- I'm frightening you?
- We're-- we're engaged, Solange.

Everything in due course.

It's that I-- I do love you.

Oh, you're a good Fernand.

I was wrong to make you
lose your head.

I did it my mother's way.
Oh, I was diabolic.

It's not difficult, believe me.
A little dust in the eyes,

and your eyes are so naive.

You're rich, handsome, virile.

I am sure that you have made
many conquests with these eyes.

- Well, if you put it like that...
- But I-- I would hurt you so bad.

I would cheat on you
all the time.

When you'll be hunting.
Hunting is what you prefer, isn't it?

Well, let's say that, yes.
I'm a good shot. Hmm.

I'm not good game, Fernand.

Not for shooting,
not for anything.

I'm poisonous,
like my brother and...

I can't keep still for a moment.
I'm hot, I'm cold,

I... I despise you
as much as I like you.

I pity you and I--

I want to--

I want to beat you.

- Skedaddle.
- Me? Never.

Don't you believe me?

It's for your own good,
Fernand.

Get lost.

It's for your own good, Fernand,
if I dishonor you!

Get lost!

Oh, I love you.

I don't understand these highbrow people
who find your music elegant.

I always preferred Ingres to your paintings.
He's more relaxing.

But you, you torture simplicity,
me, I flout it.

And anyway, my painting
is only literature with colors.

Me? I have no illusions
about what will remain of me.

Personally, I shall be out of fashion
before having even created a fashion.

Look who's complaining?
The court adores you.

The king showers you
with medals.

At least you created a fashion
in waistcoats.

At heart I'm a snob.

Me, too.
I own two hundred pairs of gloves.

Did you know, I've been commissioned to
paint the ceilings of the Senate Palace,

and I see you as Dante,
crossing the Styx, on the--

- It's the river of the dead?
- Yes.

Jan, home.
Jan, I want to go home.

Home.

Home. Home.
My only home.

- My only home.
- Home.

George wants me
to send you back home.

Me got hunch.

We're not romantic, exotic, young,
handsome, fragile, anymore.

Now that I've grown weak,
and I earn much less.

We have become a burden.
Am I not heavy?

Heavy like leaf in wind.

One doesn't say "I dismiss you"
in Polish. One says "I love you."

We parasites emigre detritus.

Whatever good must pass.

What is good never stays.
Madame Aurore miser.

No, no.
Nine years, a miracle.

Not miracle, war.
Me know.

Insurrection, civil war.

Insurrection, me know.
Exile, solitude.

- Solange will take care of me.
- Love killing you.

Everything is killing me.
Even a donkey kills me.

- You're nature goo-goo ga-ga.
- You'll know French when I'm dead.

Oh, you came back to me?

I stink of donkey.
I'll go change.

When will order return here?

Too low.

- Too high!
- Jean, take a cushion from the sofa.

Here, Frederic,
I'll stand just behind you.

You'll lean against me.
I won't budge.

I'm strong and patient.

Me finish borscht, and me go.

You must be very tired.

You can lean on me more firmly,
you know.

You're a bad support!
What I'm doing is naught!

If I had milk I'd nourish you.

Now we should resume
your lesson.

I play awfully.

A young lady
should master the piano.

A young lady must refrain
from making commentaries. A young lady--

A young lady must be groomed,
elegant, reserved.

I will never marry.

Solange,
where is your fiancé?

Looking for another fiancée,
I guess.

- My God, you haven't--
- I have, Frederic.

Is it so difficult to be a pair?

It's difficult to grow older.

- You're only thirty-six.
- Already?

I only need a friend like you,
Frederic.

And I'll always be groomed.

Oh, later on,
when we'll be married...

and I'll have the hands
of a young lady.

- You have dirt under your nails.
- It washes out.

Conformism
doesn't wash out, Solange.

I am a conformist,

and I lived with the least conformist
of women.

I'll be more of one for you.

If I hadn't met George,
if it wasn't for this house...

- I wouldn't have written all this.
- You might have written.

- What?
- A mass.

And if I let you go...
you fall.

Oh, right.

I'm never bored with you.

I'm a bloody bore, Solange,
and I sweat.

I have to wash myself
of this music.

The air's so heavy.

No, it's me who's heavy.

Lift me up.

I can't do it.

So simply touch me.

You'll never
wash yourself of me.

Now what are you doing?

Nothing,
I'm doing nothing.

I do what I like best.
I'm listening to you.

- Is Madame in?
- Yes-- err, no. She went for a stroll.

They won't be much longer.

"To be hanged and strangled

On the marketplace,
do you you hear me?

To be hanged and strangled
on the marketplace.

Standing on the scaffold

I was looking at France

I saw my companions..."

- Oh? I don't know that one.
- It's a highwayman's song.

- Oh, that's why.
- Pause for thought.

Now, we will sing,
it'll be a competition.

Yes, yes. Charming. They will stop
mocking me when they hear my voice.

I don't meant to bother you Frederic.
I'm just breezing by.

Vol au vent!

- At ease, Jean.
- Would you like a refreshment?

Thank you, no.

Some coffee, maybe.

- I'm coming straight from Spain.
- Your father wrote us.

Even when I travel, the old ogre
cannot stop himself from writing.

So quick?

Monsieur Alexandre Dumas,
the younger.

I remember.

You see,
The Lady of Camellias is dead, and...

Who?

I've got the dispatch in Madrid.
Immediately, I made my return.

She was a florist?

She was a whore.

If you like.

So she was a woman.

- Little girl.
- Don't say that.

"You won't see me again,
I'm a child lost."

What comes after that?
There's another couplet?

"Hey surging water,

surging little water..."

A song of our highlanders.

A special voice,
to be heard over distances.

- Hey, hey, hey!
- "He cried..."

She was born in the countryside
among the hardest,

the poorest,
the most stupid.

People living like beasts.

She was born like a flower
on a dung heap--

these miracles happen.

Very beautiful.

Then she began to sell the one thing
that distinguished herself from the rest:

her beauty.

When she entered salons,
the women stopped talking,

and the men...

The men went crazy.

She was the most divine
one ever saw, one ever got.

She was very expensive.

But she had a secret.

There is always a mystery,
deep in the depths of beauty,

a point of fragility,
vulnerability.

Or, if you prefer, justice.

She was spitting blood.

The more she refined herself,
became elegant, white and polished,

the more she was rotting
from within.

She was living,
please excuse me,

from this mouth down below,
which gives blood once a month,

and she was saying
to her admirers,

that she will wear white camellias
on the days she is available,

the days when she isn't bleeding,

and red ones
when she has her period.

Am I shocking you, Solange?

No.

She was lying.

To bleed from this mouth down there
was of no importance.

The camellias were a sign
of her bleeding from the mouth up there.

- And she died?
- Yes.

- I will--
- Write this story?

- It's what my father tells me.
- It's a very beautiful story.

It's a terrible story.
And you, Frederic,

what did you think of it?

Pardon?
I haven't been listening.

It's so quiet here.

I'd love that
when you'll leave my forest,

my garden, my house...

I'd love that you'll
take Frederic with you.

What you say, Dumpling?

I say that he never stops dying,

and I'm scared of it.

I hope they won't bungle
everything.

We should protect them,
as deep down they're admirable.

Yes, deep down, admirable.

And Frederic?

What is he playing, Frederic?

I'm a bit hard of hearing.

Now? Nothing.
He's playing nothing.

But, yes.
A concerto.

Mmm...

It's just a breath of wind passing.

Alright.

Thank you, Solange.

- Yoo-ou here?
- But we don't know each other.

- One says "yoo-ou" to a goddess.
- Off limits, Alexandre.

- Maurice.
- The Countess Grzymala.

- Oh no, my name is Czosnowska.
- Baron Grzymala.

Hat, hat, hat!

- Monsieur and Madame Viardot.
- Good day.

- Hat!
- Incorrigible!

I just got the news.

What an admirable novel
your father would make of it.

I'll make a better one.
If you don't pinch it from me, ogress.

No, too naturalistic for me.

My mother prefers to lie
in her novels.

In any case, never talk to Frederic about it.
This kind of story makes him sick.

I'd love to change now.

I've just stopped for a moment.
If it was a faux pas, I'm leaving.

The sunset
will bloody the sky.

Like in those ballads I composed
when I was young,

where the dead
were appearing all the time.

Come, my delicate genius,
my invalid, my music.

Enough!
Where did you trot to, anyway?

You know that the country air
is vivifying for you, and exercising.

- I've dismissed Jean.
- What?

- He was insolent.
- He carried you in his arms.

He spoke to you in Polish.
He was like a mother.

One cannot have two mothers.

You're as unjust as mine is.

At heart, yes,

you are both mean and capricious,
and you are meant to be together.

But we are together.

But... me too, I'm writing a novel.
It's not difficult to write a novel.

It's sufficient enough
to tell whatever, to put on airs.

Why don't you slap me?

Slap me!

Alexandre, you'll dine with us,
no matter what?

No, no, I'll just have some of your
delicious pâté for the road, George.

I stealing Polish books,
dedications to Madam Sand.

- She not deserving.
- Oh, Jean.

Mister Frederic much too responsible
to confess he loves you.

That's all.

He loves me?

Oh, but then...

But then, will you have courtesy
to finish borscht for me?

- But Jean, I wouldn't know how.
- Of course you would, it's simple.

An hour of simmering, then you add the broth
to the beet juice, which is ready.

You will serve it
with the gnocchi of Madame.

- In it?
- In it.

Pardon me for having used
such bad French,

but it pleased Monsieur Frederic
so much to correct me.

See you very soon, Jean.

God be with you.

Because Monsieur Frederic loves you
only for your shortcomings.

No, no, not these.
The salmon ones.

I'm all at sea.
Your bloody gloves.

We talk French now,
between us?

About what's traitorous
and shameful, yes.

The day you met Madame Sand

is to be cursed among all days!

She endured us
for another day, didn't she?

I slept with her, Fred.

This is my refuge.

My shelter, my cocoon.

I shall die if it fades away.

As wretched as it may appear.

Kill me.

With what?

My piano?

God, aren't you a Pole?

Solange is learning Polish
for you.

Take her. Escape.

She's a diamond in the rough.

And I know about these things.

I say, it's Jean.
Are you fleeing?

Good evening, Mister.
Me deserter.

Jump in.

Me go brothel Chatoroo.

There's a brothel
in Chateauroux?

Brothel everywhere.

He who looks... finds.

You'll show me?

Aurore?

Lucile Aurore Amantine George...

is no more.

It's the Sun rising,

Radiant Solange.

- You're so...
- No.

...fresh.

Drink.

- I'm not bleeding.
- I love you.

I'm yours.

Not for long,
my transvestite.

Foraging
through my clothes now?

You'll have to go!

Wherever you want: Rome, Paris,
Chateauroux. Whenever you wish.

But leave my house.
And leave my poor friend alone.

Your enemy, right!
Your whipping boy.

Through whom you'll stay famous long
after you yourself have been forgotten,

you who don't love anyone
except yourself!

But you've always been with me,
Maurice and you!

I've always done everything for you.
Ask Chip.

Why "Chip"?
He has a name, doesn't he?

Yeah, and me too.

What about you?

Aren't you just a leech,
Solange?

Holy Mary.

Let's see.
This infamous hump of clay

would love to be a David d'Angers,
I am right?

And this, what is it?
But what is that?

Oh, but it's a Delacroix.
A botched Delacroix.

Totally botched.

Oh, oh. Some fake George Sand,
I imagine?

There is nothing more fake
than George Sand.

Oh, listen! "He lowered towards
me his huge eyes,

with their long, quivering eyelashes.
I quivered myself.

This night Waldemar the friend
will become Waldemar the lover."

Frederic!

I accept your proposal.

I will divorce the Baron
and will marry you.

No! Frederic, you didn't promise
anything to her, did you?

You didn't promise anything?

It would put an end
to this scandalous liaison.

As a love like ours is unique,
isn't it?

I don't know, you decide.

Go on, for once,
you can make your own decision.

I don't know,
I don't know anything.

Ask her to show you the chamber
that she's redecorating for you.

Well, we've just finished it,
Baroness.

Just as we promised,
Miss Solange.

Fine, Firmin,
just give me the key.

No way, Maman.
I'm stronger than you are.

But, no. I still have to bring flowers
and... baubles.

So that everything
will be tiptop, like always.

- That horrible smell, what was it?
- Show them, anyway.

It was behind the gray wallpaper.
So, of course...

You wouldn't do that?

Wouldn't you?

I think I will visit
my chamber now.

- Now...
- But wait.

You can't always terrorize everybody
with your childish fads.

Listen...

I'm terrified of the red,
and you know it!

One cannot change people,
and you know it.

You didn't become a woman,
I didn't become a man.

Despite battling for eight years.

You are leaving with Solange,
aren't you?

Yes.

Ah, that's good.

I'll only ask you one favor...

this evening, let's pretend
that nothing happened.

I would love to read some pages
from my novel.

I would love to hear you play.

Up to the last note, you know.

So delicate, almost inaudible...

which I call the Blue Note.

Enough!

What did she say?
What does she want?

I don't know.

It's me you will marry.

Yes.

"Oh, my country,
you are like health.

How much are you precious,
only the one who lost it can know."

"You will bring us back
to your bosom by sheer miracle.

But for now, please fly my longing soul
to your green pastures--"

You will bring us back
to your bosom by sheer miracle.

But for now, please fly my longing soul
to your green pastures,

so vastly spread about the banks
of your rivers,

to your wooded hills,

to your fields painted with
sundry grains, gilded with wheat,

silvered with rye,
flowered with white,

red with blood.

No! It's nothing!

Aurore.

No, it's Solange.

Solange...

Angelic Solange.

My love...

my little one...

my life.

What will become of us,
Frederic?

I love you.

I will love you always.

But...

It wouldn't be Christian.

And if I wouldn't want to be
a Christian anymore?

But you are.

Go away.
Please, go away.

It's Frederic.

He has Solange.

He's dying.

Not bad. But you'll need
some more sugar and cinnamon.

And I'll need four to six truffles.

- Dried?
- Yes.

- In the cellar.
- Louis?

Yes?
- Could you cut the lard into slices?

I...

I beg your forgiveness,
Adalbert.

You getting sentimental,
Dumpling?

I always was.

Prick, ass, shit, spunk...

prick, ass, shit, spunk.

"You can't measure yourself
against a gee-eenius, Maurice."

"Guess who I got it from."

"Guess who?"

Crash, bang, wallop!

"Frederic sweats!"

"Frederic eat his heart,

drink his tears..."

"What does she have in common
with other women, my mother?"

"I'm an artist, Maman.

I am an artist.
I am an artist..."

Look.
I will redo your eye!

If I want.

Somebody's prowling around the house.
Don't you hear?

Go look, my Dumpy.

You always had
this miraculous ear, Maman.

Oh, this is all that I've got left.

And you...

Tell me, my Dumpy,
was it good with Augustine?

Uh, yeah, well you can tell her that,
as for the marriage it's... Quack!

You're so wrong. These kind of women
make for excellent spouses.

Stop it, Maman.

Do you see me
covered with brats,

buried here,
chasing maids' skirts,

just like Monsieur, my father?

No, my Dumpy.

- I am an artist, Maman.
- Yes, Dumpy.

- Like you.
- Yes.

Sorry. I have to finish
Madame's gnocchi.

Madame?

Madame Sand.

God, what fragrances...

What suavity.

It's you,
the maiden of the house?

- Gadzooks, what a beauty.
- Oh, no, this is only Augustine.

I don't believe it!

Me, whose name is Auguste.

The same lust for life fires us.

- Except that I'm a sculptor.
- A colleague!

George's daughter.

Same eyes...

same figure...

same hands.

A happy life...

with an exceptional man.

And so many talents.

- You sculpt, by any chance?
- No, I ride horses.

- Liar.
- Come again?

To women?

Very much so.

To you? Who knows?
But you do sculpt.

What you do is very beautiful.
I know it. I sense it.

- You'll show me?
- I don't know.

Everything's a sculpture.
Take this pâté.

A form of ugliness.

But it's enough to--
there's but one spirit!

Bravo!

Me too, I--

A queen.

The queen.

- You?
- Me?

I did three hundred kilometers by foot
to breathe your house's redolence.

Me, I did three thousand.

Which is explained by the size
of your tiny tootsies.

Iced coffee,
the Italian way!

Solange, my child, show your sculptures
to Auguste, as we have to finish cooking.

Me, myself,
I make an excellent shepherd's pie.

- Tomorrow.
- You keeping me?

Out of decency,
we can't throw you out to the wolves.

- It'll be pitch black outside.
- The wolf... it's me.

- Where's the way?
- Through here.

Later, I'll show you
my marionettes.

Hot, the cat.

Frederic, can you come
with us?

The thing is, there is no one
to carry Frederic up the stairs anymore.

But... what do you have
against stairs?

Me.

Stairs are a perfect sculpture.

Like solidified waves of the sea.

Jacob's ladder.
The fight with the angel.

At the end, light,
the gates of Heaven.

George...

may I give you
a piece of advice?

No, you can't.

Solange is fed up with our
pieces of advice, right, Solange?

I'll go with them.

Was it the same stare
as then?

Yes.

Well, my dear,
what about some cooking?

You sure?

What else is there
left for us to do?

I'm bursting all over!

There are so many spirits
in this room.

Of art, of impatience.
I knew it.

"By the clear spring I walked by..."

"I found the water so lovely

that I bathed in it.

It's such a long time I love you

never will I forget..."

"Sing, nightingale, sing"

"You whose heart is merry,

your heart is eager to laugh

me, mine is to lament."

Is it that you wanted to sculpt?

Yes.

You see, you are a grand sculptor,
Solange.

And you, who are you?

What did you do with your life?

Not much.

- Will you marry me?
- Yes.

With my mother's benediction.

Yes.

I knew it!

Let my joy endure!

It's peace I'm offering you,
Solange.

- Forever?
- Forever.

Mother and daughter.

This is the most beautiful day
of my life.

Yours too?

Go and take care of everything
while I settle my arrangement with Monsieur.

Yes, Maman.

Take this.
Put it around my waist.

Here we go, Frederic.

Now...

tell me what I'm
supposed to do?

You save the beet juice.

- Right, Laure?
- Yes.

Isn't this a peasant's dish
you're preparing here?

I'll set the table. George told me
that there is sublime silverware

that she inherited
from one of our Polish Kings.

Hold it.

Leave it.
I'll do it better than you.

Augustine. I can't--
I can't stand it anymore.

You have to.

You have to, you have to.

You again?

Always me!

Poking your big nose into business
that's not yours!

- I don't poke.
- Anything. We know.

Pay attention to Solange.

You don't pronounce it "Solan-che,"
you say "Solan-ge."

It's in French.
You are in France.

It's been seven years that you've been
saying "Solan-che."

- Eight years, Maurice! Eight.
- There again. Not "eat" years.

"Eight" years.

Ight.

Eight! Quick.

Hurry up and finish it, Frederic,
before we have to--

- You what?
- Before I cast you out.

Just the way it should be served--
lukewarm!

Hoping that's not your favorite
temperature.

My old bones, Augustine,
ignite once they rub against youth.

Especially one.

- And the gnocchi?
- What? Sculptural!

It's true that everything's perfect,
George.

Isn't it?
You won't be bothered if I smoke?

Mmm, ha. I smoke too.
Tobacco. Excitement.

- And me too, too, too, too.
- It really won't bother you, Frederic?

No, no, everybody has the absolute right
to smoke, especially Aurore.

- Down with good manners!
- Down with hypocrisy!

My dear friends, I want to announce a...
a most felicitous event.

My daughter is to be married.
No, well, she got engaged.

I have acceded to Monsieur Auguste's
demand for her hand.

Aren't they both incredible,
extraordinary?

Aren't they the Revolution,
progress, liberty?

The future. Sculpture...!

By the way, what is your name,
Auguste?

Me, I happen to know
Monsieur's name.

Alas, I also know Monsieur
in person.

Would it be churlish of me to warn you
that Monsieur is drowning in debt?

Mmm.
For new times, new morals!

- And women...?
- You flatterer.

- Bravo!
- Money? An abstraction.

Admirable!

Do you have any more?
In another pocket?

My pocket? No.

So by what means do you expect
to provide for Mademoiselle Solange?

What's it got to do
with you, Eugene?

I'll work for both of us,
if required.

What a metamorphosis.

Well...

Solange...

has an absolute right
to make her own choices.

Solange, most of all,

has the right to be happy.

I hope she will be.

Forgive me.

Have you tried
our borscht, Aurore?

Augustine,
could I have a helping, please?

- But it's red.
- My favorite color.

If I drool in it...

one wouldn't notice
the difference.

What?

- Eh, a bone!
- Where?

In the pâté.

They're sticking,
these noodles.

I will render your bust.
And Solange's, of course.

In marble.
Only marble can do justice.

Or ashes.

George is a genius,
Monsieur!

There are only geniuses in this house,
don't you know?

Here, it's in one's interest
to be a genius.

Oh yes, yes, yes!

The banquet of the geniuses.

You're all red in the face!

Something's wrong?

He's having a syncope!

No... no... no... no.
On the contrary.

Leave me.

What choice do we have
in our lives so brief, so absurd,

in hostile landscapes,

among impenetrable people?

Some short fireworks
in a sky of night.

Fires that run,

ah, silvery,

to explode in sheaves
of exhausted prayers.

Of ecstasy, of...

music.

Isn't it so, Frederic?

Not to be frightened anymore...

to die.

My business affairs.

- These bad investments.
- You never told me.

I'm telling you now.

I'm ruined.

And in Poland,

before the insurrection--

years ago--

I turned my fellow conspirators

over to the Russian police.

Out of... weakness.

But don't forsake your merriment,
my friends.

Eat, drink.

Pleasure...

is fleeting.

Isn't it, Augustine?

Aurore wants to read us fragments
from her new novel.

After dinner, Aurore always reads
what she has written.

Are you sure?

Will I not bore you?

You, bore us?

- Augustine?
- Yes, Madame.

No.
Dear Solange.

- Can you go and prepare the cabinet?
- Yes, Maman.

This new novel in which there is
a fight for the truth. For ardor.

Against this world, rotten and fake,
which ruined our youth.

The King of Poland's silverware!

Long live life!
Naked, the truth!

- The soul, you fancy?
- I adore you.

And you?

I adore you.

Please sit down, sit down!

Read, you genius.

Let's go at it! Let's go!

"He was insufferable.

Because he wanted to reason
and submit the real life

of which he never understood anything,
to principles he couldn't define.

He was supercilious,
aloof, precious..."

Oh, spot on. An aristo, for sure.
and it's about him.

- It's about the novel's hero.
- Its title?

"Prince Karol."

Isn't that a Slavic name?

I knew it, I did!

"As he was so sovereignly polite
and reserved,

nobody ever suspected
what was going on inside of him..."

This is untrue.

I hate what's polite, polished.
I love the rough.

"He was without age nor sex.

He had the obscene beauty
of a great, sad woman..."

What hatred.

What style!

And the heroine, George?

"Why this woman, who was neither
very young nor very beautiful...

whose character
was precisely the opposite of his,

whose mores were imprudent,
attachments unbound,

whose foibles of the heart
and temerity of spirit appeared

as a violent protestation against...

the principles of the world
and its official religion.

This excellent woman.
had an almost uncanny instinct

for judging the condition of the sick
and the care they require.

Her trusting, trusting
and brave character..."

"'You're then my mother?'
asked Karol.

'Yes, yes, I am your mother,'
she replied,

not realizing that at this very moment
it might have been a profanation..."

Incest, androgyny,

modernity!

"An invincible attraction,

a progression of delicate
and devouring voluptuousness.

She was dazed by it. It seemed that
all her loves had been just orgies..."

Orgies... ah, orgies.

"'I was never loved,' she cried,

- 'and you are my first love.'"
- And you are mine, Solange.

"He would prefer that, never stopping
to be the good, the tender,

the devoted, the voluptuous
and the maternal Lucrezia...

she would stay pale, innocent,
severe and virginal--"

To each and everyone
in line with his capacities

and to each and everyone
in line with his needs!

- Ah!
- You know that, you?

Louis Blanc, by golly.

Socialism.

I slept with Louis Blanc
last year...

as I slept with Pierre Leroux

and Pierre Bocage...

and Arago...

and Charles Poncy...

and the Queen of England.

Carry on, Aurore,
your novel is admirable.

- What a waste.
- Let's go, I beg you!

"This woman Floriani,
wouldn't you believe it,

had a nature as chaste
as the soul of a little child."

What a strong will, Maman.

"Karol, who should have
understood the solidity

of this straight and narrow
character.

In fact...

she didn't love Karol anymore."

I beg your forgiveness.

I beg
your forgiveness.

"It is enough

to sacrifice
the principal character

in order not to reward,
punish...

or kill the others,
one by one."

I didn't know you're an actor.

Clown, yes.

What are you playing
for us now?

The prayer of a distraught Pole.

The Poles expect salvation
from the Virgin Mary,

as they wrecked the land
all by themselves.

The most beautiful country
in the world.

Oh, Fred! Fred!

Ah, if I was still a virgin.

You are much more than that.

Fred!

I hate music,
Solange, my angel.

It puts me to sleep.
While we have to delight in life.

One should grab everything.
I'm in need.

I'm horny like a stag.
If only from looking at you.

- Oh, my. Nobody ever--
- Talked? Fucked?

This bogeyman, moribund, here,
and his piano of boredom,

deathly and bloodless.

Touch me.
I'll take you up the banana tree.

- Like a monkey?
- Perfectly. The monkey is right.

All the rest is culture.
What a shitty word.

The animal that is the most beautiful,
the most noble.

Oh? I am an animal.

Repeat.

You're brilliant.

It's only my country that I miss.

Poland?

Yes, God's country.

Do you think she believes in God,
Aurore?

- I don't know.
- Who knows?

Certainly, deep down, or else...

Or else what?

Nothing.

That's for the show this evening.

Drink, drink, drink.

Monsieur Clesinger.

What I will ask of you won't seem,
I hope, too macabre.

But on the day I die,
oh, in a hundred years, of course--

- Yes, yes, later.
- Thank you, Laure.

Come.

Would you be so kind
as to execute my death mask?

I'll leave you with a list of people
to whom it should be sent,

- if only to terrify them.
- Me?

I will pay you, of course,
in advance.

Which could be of help

in setting up your household
with Mademoiselle Solange.

You know, I have seen
some of your work

and I don't quite grasp
the attitudes you proffer.

Your sculptures
appeared to me delicate...

and perfectly crafted.

Come.
Come quick.

Come, come!

What's this whatchamacallit?
It puts me ill at ease.

By God, I'm not dreaming.
There is fire. Fire!

And I'm the captain
of the fire brigade.

- Just one of those things, isn't it?
- Be careful, Maurice.

Don't worry, Maman,
I'll take care of everything.

War.
We must help.

- They've earned the right to be alone.
- Of course.

Let's see the fire, the colors.

A private fire.
Yours and mine.

My Coleoptera!

At last I'll get my study back.

- What will Maurice become?
- Mayor.

- He'll write over a dozen books.
- About what?

Oh, about everything.
From the ancient to the modern.

About mineralogy.
Agriculture.

- Even novels.
- And we will forget them all!

And Solange?

Well, spill it, know-it-alls.
Solange will marry the sculptor.

She'll have children
and be poor and miserable.

Frederic will be the only one
to help her.

Then... there will be nobody.

A parrot and an old mare

will remain her only friends.

- Could be worse.
- Oh, yes.

Alright.
Well, don't you forget my puns.

- Shall we start?
- We restart!

Don't get confused.
Who's sleeping with whom, and all that.

Give us a break!

You're not the author!

- Who's the author, anyway?
- I'll tell you. Come.

It's the Great Beast.

Look.

And Frederic?

He'll compose no more music,

and will die
three years from now.

Oh.

And Laure?

She'll return to Ukraine,
and will never marry again.

- And Pauline?
- She'll see Turgenev again.

He will come to live
in her household.

He'll become her only love.

- What about Louis?
- He'll stay her only friend.

And Grzymala?

He will take care
of Frederic's burial...

and will never finish writing
his biography of him.

Up to the blue note, Frederic.

Up to the blue note, George.