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Balzac!

Balzac, where are you hiding, you rascal?

Come on, young man, show yourself.

How long have you been a resident of Vendome?

For four years, sir. No, five.

In all this time, how often did your mother visit you?

Once. One time, sir.

Including today's visit, that'll be twice.

Run to the visitors' room.

But only for ten minutes, not a minute more.

Someone who is the 32nd of a class of 34...

Someonewhoisthe32nd ofaclassof34...

nor kisses.

BALZAC

Stop! You've lost some of your load!

I'm taking that to the dump.

These books?

All unsold copies. No one wants them.

But these are books I wrote.

- Whoa, stop! - Hands off my horse!

Hands off my books. I killed myself writing them,

and you're taking them to the dump?

Let go of my horse.

Hey, what's going on here?

This carter from hell's taking my books to the garbage dump.

But I won't let him. Take a look at this.

My books.

If you need a credible witness,

my name is Master Plissoud. I'm a bailiff.

This individual is blocking the public road.

Horace de Saint-Aubin, is that you?

And this Lord R'Hoone? Who is that?

That's me, too, more or less.

What do you mean? Are you making fun of me?

Which one are you?

I write under both names, but my real name is Balzac.

BALZAC'S PRINTING SHOP.

He should have bought a notary's practice.

I'll never be convinced otherwise.

Come in, my dear mother!

You, who doubted your son's abilities so long, look around.

All these machines.

I see, I see.

How disgustingly filthy.

Ink is black, not filthy.

What will you print with it? Death announcements?

- No, books of course. - Books?

You haven't even established yourself yet,

but you already have a publisher?

I order the books, because I'm the publisher.

Of course, I suppose you intend to write them, too.

No, the first books I wrote shall also be the last.

Horace de Saint-Aubin and Lord R'Hoone are dead.

May those ne'er-do-wells rest in peace.

The name Balzac will not make its name in literature...

but in business.

So after we paid for your studies in law,

you end up peddling books?

Here, sir.

The very first copy of my invention.

You're holding the complete Moliere in your hands.

Amazing, huh?

Whether amazing or not, it's illegible.

What do you mean?

Look.

Even with a magnifying glass,

you couldn't read these fly droppings.

No bookshop will sell a single copy of your books.

So how are you going to pay your workers?

When will you be able to repay your father and me?

Fly droppings.

Fly droppings?

Laure? What kind of welcome is this?

Isn't my angel home? Laure?

Yes, dear. I'm here.

Why are you sitting in the dark?

Like a tiny flower that hides its heart...

beneath its petals when night falls?

Passionately...

Stop it, Honore. Behave yourself.

Someone was here today.

A client? Splendid. Our lucky day.

Here, look. An order.

"The Art of Paying One's Debts."'

- Three thousand copies. - "'A Manual for the Bankrupt."'

What a coincidence.

Because it wasn't a client who was here, but a bailiff.

That's nothing new.

But this time...

Oh? He put his seal on everything?

Yes.

His seal. He put his seal on everything.

You must be the only man alive...

who wants to make love when on the brink of bankruptcy.

He put his seal on everything.

What are you seeking deep inside of you, my friend?

Nothing inaccessible. I already have love.

I lack wealth and glory, but I'll have that soon, too.

Preserve your health first. No, thank you.

Then the rest will follow.

I am appalled at the way you wolfed down this dinner.

Considering it's my second.

I dined with Latouche...

two hours ago at Figaro's editorial offices.

You don't listen to my advice.

You demand the impossible.

Eat less, work less, and drink less coffee.

That seems reasonable to me.

It's mean-minded.

Nothing could be further from my character.

Do you know why, my dear Nacquart?

Because I am a giant.

And upon that note, the giant will retire to his bed.

Honore falls asleep when the world wakes...

and wakes when it sleeps.

It must be exciting to live with him.

I merely live next to him.

Nobody exists when he works...

except the characters he has invented.

I'm jealous of them,

and yet I am the one who encourages him to write.

Especially when he doubts himself.

Doubts?

Yes. I suppose he'll always doubt himself.

Even if he becomes a great writer?

That depends on in whose eyes he wants to be great.

But that's his secret.

My Napoleon. Be careful with my Napoleon!

My grandfather lost both his arms because of him.

And my father his life. I don't like him, why do you?

I admire him.

What he achieved with the sword, I want to do with the pen.

You, too, want to conquer Europe?

Yes, but the Europe of the heart.

What time is it?

- Midnight, sir. - Then it's off to war.

- Bring my ammunition. - Ammunition?

Yes, coffee, piping hot and very strong. Go on!

Hurry!

Your mocha is extraordinary!

Even smoother than the last time.

And now, darling, just taste this.

Like a Baby Jesus swaddled in velvet.

I'll take two large sacks of your Baby Jesus.

Monsieur is a connoisseur.

What about mixing it with roasted Martinique?

Absolutely not! Only I do the mixing.

As for your Martinique, it's too bland.

Your bourbon on the other hand...

- Who is that? - Balzac.

- A writer. - Balzac?

He floods the newspapers with insipid articles...

that no one reads.

And between floods, he courts Madame de Berny?

What if I told you he's her lover?

Yes, after having tutored her children.

Who is this?

Eugene Sue, the great novelist.

All my customers are crazy about him.

So that's Eugene Sue!

He's better dressed than I am, but I write better.

But I was talking about the woman.

The duchess Laure d'Abrantes.

I knew she had no money,

but imagine having to wear a 20-year-old dress.

Excuse me for accosting you, but...

But?

Madame de Berny here tells me that your name is Laure.

My mother's name is Charlotte-Laure.

And my sister, too, is called Laure.

And Madame de Berny is also called Laure.

Amusing, isn't it?

To be hounded by these names.

I'm not trying to hound you, nor is my first name.

Besides...

isn't that just an excuse to call me by my first name?

Not right away.

Not now, not ever.

At any rate, I always give women a new first name.

Paradis!

Sir?

She's a duchess. Her name is Laure d'Abrantes.

Take this letter to her.

Ladies, gentlemen, put down your stakes.

Nothing at all.

Number 2.

Put down your stakes.

Number 7.

Isn't that Balzac?

I read the "'Silhouette"' because of him. He writes well.

I don't call that writing. He edits articles.

I assure you, writing is more complicated than that.

Here I am.

You've shown up at the appointed hour to save me.

Tonight I'll lose all I want.

This is a gambling house?

Why did you ask me to come here on our first rendezvous?

You are here to bring me luck. You know the saying:

"Unlucky in love, lucky at cards."'

Unlucky in love?

Must I deduce from that you intend to make me suffer?

- Have you ever heard of biribi? - Biribi, no.

19.

Lend me some money.

That is all I have.

We'll make do with it.

If the number comes up,

we'll make 64 times more than we bet, and it will.

- Number 8 wins. - What did I tell you?

I'm tired of you and this sinister place.

Go and call me a fiacre.

To take you back to Versailles?

But how can I pay the fare?

You've gambled away the little I had.

The situation is not all that catastrophic.

I will let you have my room and my bed.

You'll be very comfortable.

I'll sleep in the drawing room. The sofa is very comfortable.

Do you know why I have such a large, soft sofa...

in the drawing room?

Please spare me your base reflections.

But...

Hot water and mustard seeds...

will calm down the turmoil in any soul.

Turmoil? I'm not at all in a turmoil.

But I am.

You're the most beautiful woman in the world.

Remove your hands.

If you wish.

I don't need hands to touch you. I just use...

this...

to touch a woman's heart.

- Mine is tired. - May I verify that?

First my feet, then the tip of my nose, and now...

You're a fanatic. You can't stand things to resist you.

But, Laure, you're not a thing.

Weren't you going to call me Marie?

When you belong to me.

But maybe the moment has come for you?

You must earn the right to have me.

How?

You want to be a great novelist. So start inventing.

This is your point of departure: A beautiful woman,

I'm just repeating what you said,

who has been wooed by all Europe.

Kneeling at the feet of this woman, a somewhat madman...

who desires her desperately and...

Let me come to the point. How would you describe this man?

Rather ugly, rather poor, rather fat.

In fact, on paper he wouldn't have a chance.

My God, it's a scene for my book.

I have to write it down right away.

Please don't be angry.

The imagination is an impatient mistress.

It respects neither hunger nor sleep nor desire.

I shall be back.

Shut up! If you speak, I shall get angry.

I do not want to dirty my poor soul which I've come to purify.

Honore, what do you want?

A thousand francs.

No, not a sou.

What a lovely veil. Is that Venetian lace...

or lace from Alencon?

I'm on the brink of a huge success.

I'm writing a book on behalf of a duchess.

Laure d'Abrantes has asked me to write her memoirs.

D'Abrantes.

Aristocrats of the Empire.

- Do you know her? - I'm not the only one.

- Half of Europe has had her. - But which half?

Princes, ambassadors, generals.

Just think of all the secrets we will unveil.

The book will be a success.

A book written on bedsheets.

And not very clean sheets either.

I thought you had higher literary aspirations.

I can have those when I'm rich.

I need those thousand francs.

I don't have them right now. Take me home.

Thank you!

Don't thank me.

I am in the process of helping you compromise yourself.

But perhaps you were made for that.

You must have been made for something.

Frankly, I don't understand the appeal.

What? You don't like this painting?

No, it fits in with the rest.

I'm talking about Madame d'Abrantes.

But I'm not jealous.

I just don't see what you see in her.

What I see in her?

First, she's a duchess.

I've never known a duchess before.

And this duchess is not only a woman...

but an epic in her own right.

And what an epic she is.

She is the widow of General Junot.

She has experienced all the splendours of the Empire...

and danced in Napoleon's arms before Moscow in flames.

She's just an ember of her old self.

No, her embers are alive.

She is ablaze with the desire to write a book.

"'The Memoirs of the Duchess d'Abrantes."'

She is not content to be a duchess, a widow, an epic?

And on top of that, she can write?

No, not her. I'm guiding her hand.

What prompted you to buy that? Ugly.

This painting? It cost me three months of writing!

So now you equate price with beauty?

If you knew that garret where I first lived,

you'd understand.

The only beautiful things I knew then...

were the sketches I made on the tiles.

- Hear that? - It's the front bell.

- I'm sure it's him. - Who?

Plissoud! That stupid bailiff who's been persecuting me...

as though I were the sole debtor in Paris.

I just don't have any money.

Listen, receive him and distract him.

I'll slip out through the courtyard.

It's just the papermaker. They've brought ink and paper.

As for the bill, I've just bought this painting,

so I'm momentarily broke.

Here, Paradis, pay the delivery man.

I'll pay all that back some day.

I don't want you to say...

"'some day we'll do this or that"' anymore.

I am no longer certain of the future.

I mean, of my future.

And to say that we love each other and...

And what, my love?

You're crying.

That's of no matter.

Yes, it is. I can see that you have sorrows.

Not sorrows, Honore. These are tears of regret.

I'm getting too old for this.

Too old? Yesterday we were so happy and made love.

Why can't we be happy today?

Because you're 24 hours older?

No, the truth is that you no longer desire me.

You see me for what I am, and I disgust you.

I have never loved you more than I do at this very minute.

Shorten the sleeve. A bit shorter. That's it.

Monsieur Hugo. Master.

Hello.

Come in. Let me take your coat.

Victor, how are you?

- How are you? - Good. I'll let you go ahead.

Hurry, children, hurry. Monsieur Hugo's evening clothes.

So, it's true?

Your friend d'Abrantes found a scribe to write her memoirs?

That famous Balzac?

He's only famous in his own eyes.

He's an oaf, a jack of all trades.

His articles infest all the papers.

And he has an opinion on everything,

but that will pass.

Go and look in my pocket.

He has just published that.

"The Code of Honest People"' or "'The Art of Not Being Duped."'

Such books are no competition for us.

Read it before you laugh.

The acuity with which he sees things is amazing.

The lucidity with which he judges our time and our world.

That little book contains fifty new ideas for novels.

But he still has to write them.

He'll write them.

With those fat, fingers of his, Balzac will write them.

Sorry, sir, you're in the wrong place.

This is a tailor's shop.

Not only a tailor's shop...

this is a temple of elegance and Parisian flair.

A temple of which you are the high priest, Master Buisson.

Good day, Monsieur Victor Hugo. Good day, Monsieur Eugene Sue.

My dear Buisson, I need you to make me a wardrobe.

Five or six frocks, a selection of ties,

shirts and vests, a dozen trousers,

a complete outfit that corresponds to the way I write.

And how do you intend to write?

Generously and on a large scale.

- My, how original. - Do you like it?

Your outfit?

It's the first time I've ever seen one in that colour.

Well, in all those colours.

I chose them all myself.

I'm wearing this for the first time in your honour.

Buisson created it.

That must have cost a pretty penny.

Not a liard!

I have a head for business.

Buisson decked me out for free in exchange for which...

I will include the following phrase in my book...

"An outfit made by Buisson...

"suffices for a man to become king of the salon."'

An English cannonball at Waterloo.

Two-legged butlers have become rather too expensive for me.

Here, this will put you in a better mood.

"'Memoirs of the Duchess d'Abrantes"'...

by Honore de Balzac.

How impressive.

Imagine this bomb, for it is one...

in the hands of those who once begged you for favours...

before discarding you when the wind of history turned.

Ingratitude, Madame. There is nothing worse.

Ingratitude? Truly a terrible thing.

But, tell me, should your name really appear on the cover?

But, Madame, I wrote the book.

Yes, certainly, but it's my story.

If you hadn't been around, I'd have written it myself.

My name on the cover would cause much more of a splash.

D'Abrantes is a name that has had its hour of glory.

Whereas Balzac...

Who's heard of Balzac?

And I thought I had a head for business!

If I relinquish my rights...

I assume I can expect some kind of compensation?

Such as?

You know exactly what I mean.

Money?

I wasn't thinking of money at all.

But be that as it may...

I'll go for the money. How much?

Alas.

"Alas"' is a word, Madame. I was expecting a number.

You know very well that I have no money.

All I have is this little adorable Rembrandt.

Oh, what a splendid painting.

Yes, isn't it?

I'd be willing to give it to you in recompense for your work.

A man is asking to see you.

I'm writing, Adele.

Duchess d'Abrantes has recommended him.

Do me a favour by throwing out her protege.

I cannot, Victor. He is...

Armed?

Huge.

What a beautiful home.

This is exactly the kind of house I'd like to have.

Your writing has enabled you to afford a house like this?

Can I offer you a glass of sweet wine?

No, I'd prefer some coffee.

But make it strong, very strong.

"MEMOIRES OF DUCHESS D'ABRANTES"' BY THE DUCHESS D'ABRANTES.

My angel, this time, Victor Hugo and I got on famously.

I spent the entire afternoon with him.

His wife can't brew coffee to save her life...

but she's charming.

Let's hope Madame d'Abrantes isn't offended.

To write someone's memoirs, one must spend much time together.

In intimate company, I mean.

No, I see her, but not like that.

So she has turned you down?

It's humiliating for me that she doesn't want you.

But then...

if she were crazy about you, I would be in despair.

She doesn't want to, I've stopped wanting to,

and you're in the middle.

What a beautiful, sad book that would be.

That doesn't make for good literature.

A writer must paint the suffering of others,

not the one he sees in his mirror.

No, not my desk!

It has witnessed my misery, all my projects,

it has heard all my thoughts.

Take this bust instead.

How much do you think this bust is worth?

200 francs.

What? I paid 2,000 for it!

Well, take it anyway.

That Meissen clock. I paid 800 francs for it.

You were cheated. It's only worth 300.

Instead of trying to fleece me, let me work.

I need to work to earn money to pay back my creditors.

Stop buying these bric-a-bracs.

This worthless jumble of oddments.

You understand nothing.

In order to live in Paris, a writer...

Must write. Then write.

I'm not saying that for my sake. I don't read your books.

Till we meet again.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

I show why women in their 30s whose dreams were destroyed...

by the indifference of their husbands...

have no choice but to take on lovers.

What do you think?

I'm not thirty, dear.

You weren't much older when you took me as your lover.

But you were my children's tutor.

You must have had an ulterior motive?

No, absolutely not.

I wasn't attracted to you at all.

I found you too...

too bulky and also a bit dirty.

Moreover, you didn't smell very good.

And your nose.

What about my nose?

It's huge.

It just made me laugh.

And then one evening...

one evening you kissed me.

You did it without asking whether I wanted to be kissed.

During the first part of the kiss, I thought,

"I'll slap him for this."'

During the middle, I said to myself,

"It's not as unpleasant as I thought."'

And at the end of the kiss,

I was head over heels in love with you.

Dr. Nacquart is here. There's been an accident.

No, it's not Madame de Berny, is it?

No, not her. I won't allow it!

Am I too late?

She'll recover this time,

but I must admit I'm very worried.

But why? What is ailing her?

Her heart. It's tired, worn-out.

Why worn-out? She's not that...

Can't you find the right word?

Fact is, she's old...

or in the process of becoming old.

And what of it?

It's not a crime to get old. We will all get old.

I must hasten to her side.

She may not receive any visitors.

She needs rest, lots of rest.

You are expected elsewhere and...

I couldn't do anything there, my friend.

A liver abscess at 83 years of age is always fatal.

He didn't leave you anything, of course.

It cost us a fortune when your printing shop went bankrupt.

I'm not even including what we spent...

on your whims and fancies.

My whims and fancies?

Your stubbornness to write books that don't sell a whim.

What a foolish idea to write that novel about the Chouans.

Who'll be interested in that old war?

I found a rag-and-bone man who agreed to get rid of that junk.

If you want a memento of your father, help yourself.

But he looks like...

That's perfectly normal.

That's your father's brother. His name was Louis.

He got a poor girl pregnant.

To forestall a scandal, he killed her.

And you hid this from me?

Your father and I were afraid...

you'd use the family secret for one of your books.

Thank God your uncle was condemned under the name Balssa.

Balssa was our name...

until your father changed it to Balzac.

He thought that had a nicer ring to it.

Poor man.

Father wasn't burdened by the story.

He wasn't too close to his brother.

So? The terrible thing is this man...

this Uncle Louis ended up between two swords.

- He was a murderer. - So?

Why should society have the right...

to murder a murderer in cold blood?

That's what it says in the Bible.

"He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword."'

I don't give a damn about the Bible.

That's blasphemy and in front of him.

Go away, Honore! Leave!

What a magnificent summer.

Perhaps the best summer of my life.

We shall have more such summers.

No, there will not be any more.

You're not going to start that again?

I do not want to become an old woman,

someone you feel sorry for.

Honore, that will never happen.

So you prefer to cause me grief by dying?

If I'm not too ugly to look at on my death bed.

But we still have some time before that happens, don't we?

Apart from swimming and fishing, what did you do today?

I finished a treatise on the elegant life...

which must get to Paris tomorrow by stagecoach.

What? A treatise on the elegant life?

Paris is under fire, the king about to be toppled,

and you write about elegance?

That treatise will bring in 600 francs,

enough to enable us to stay here by the Loire...

till the end of summer.

Are you angry at me? Disappointed?

No, as soon as night falls, it gets a touch chilly.

I just wanted to get myself a wrap.

I don't like it when you talk about how time passes.

But you've just given me an idea.

The story of a magical piece of leather...

that fulfills all its owner's wishes...

except that the leather shrinks every time a wish is granted.

Until the inevitable day arrives.

Can you imagine how the story ends?

It's the story of life.

It concerns a lot more people than some riot in Paris.

Make some coffee for me.

I'm going to write tonight.

All right.

They're right. Why don't you print enough books for everyone?

The papers say: "To be of this era...

"one must have read this book."'

Which era do you belong to, Gosselin, to print so few books?

How could I guess "Peau de Chagrin"'...

I told you it would be a success.

But that's what you say every time.

Nothing is lost as yet. Come.

Let's go.

We're at your service, Monsieur Gosselin.

We can make reprints. How many copies do you need?

Not less than 6,000.

Not one copy, do you hear me?

Not one copy shall leave this printing house!

Are you crazy? Your book is a hit.

Precisely! It's my book.

I'm entitled to do as I wish.

What?

I'm entitled because I am its creator, its father.

Call it the author's right, if you will.

These writers!

Once you buy their books, they forfeit their rights.

Or would my draper tell me...

how to lie between the sheets he sold me?

Ethically, they could ask for royalties on each sold book.

Our literature would never recover from that.

Which pages are being printed?

The first four of your text.

Gosselin, this adjective here...

What? What's wrong with it?

There's a better word for it. It has to be replaced.

Replaced? Couldn't you have done that the day you wrote it?

That day was a night. A feverish night.

Because you expect me to write faster and faster.

Faster and better. Ever faster.

So is it surprising I don't know what I'm writing?

That night, I reread my book and knew it was all wrong.

I must correct it, rewrite everything if I have to.

What's that?

Do you mean my cane? Fabulous, isn't it?

A very lovely cane, indeed.

But what is that thing engraved on the door?

My coat of arms. A marquis' crown.

I can see that, but you're no marquis.

- Of course I am. - Since when?

That goes back a long way. So I never told you...

we Balzacs have a certain Marquis d'Entraygues...

among our forbears?

You're related to the Entraygues?

That's what my father always said.

He must have had a vivid imagination.

Imagination doesn't impede honesty.

Surely you're not accusing my father of usurping a title?

It just makes me laugh to think I have to call you marquis.

We can drop those formalities. After all, aren't you a duchess?

Only since the Empire, alas. Whereas you, goodness gracious!

But we're both from the same world.

We are both debt-ridden aristocrats.

Furthermore, shouldn't we now call each other by first names?

Do I dare?

I hope Madame's audacity...

pardon me, "'your"' audacity will not stop there.

No, stay here.

I'm afraid of this place. It's so empty.

It's so very empty.

I've sold all I could.

And the little that I still own...

That horrible bailiff Plissoud.

That, too, we have in common. He'll be punished.

- No. - Yes, he will.

Bailiffs are never punished.

This one will be, I promise you.

I'll name one of the bailiffs in my novel after him.

In 100 years' time,

they will spit on the ground when they read his name.

I hope your books live long enough for that.

I've written so many,

there must be one or two immortals among them.

Tell me, Laure...

why did you finally agree to be my mistress?

Was it because I have become a marquis...

or because you are unhappy?

Oh, no, Laure, don't cry.

It is not I who asked you that sly question...

but the novelist in me.

I always need to provoke everyone...

in order to get inside their heads.

And then you make use of it, don't you?

Will I recognise myself in one of your books?

Like the bailiff Plissoud?

What will her name be, the bankrupt duchess?

The desperate woman?

No, because the protagonist of my next novel is a man.

No, it's true. You gave me the idea.

What? While I lie all naked and you gaze at me,

you claim I made you think of a man?

Honore, you're horrible.

No, Laure, you misunderstand me.

When I was writing your memoirs,

you told me about a young officer...

who was left for dead on the battlefield...

under a pile of cadavers and the carcasses of horses.

A young lieutenant, I never knew what became of him.

You'll find out when you read "'Le Colonel Chabert."'

You see, I turned him into a colonel.

Thank you.

Do you like it?

Poor Colonel Chabert.

That duplicitous countess, her treachery.

She knew exactly that it was her husband who had returned.

Poor, poor Chabert.

You, too, failed to recognise me on occasion.

I, too, was your little Chabert.

Except I wasn't one of those soldiers...

accustomed to suffering.

What a stench, that fumigation.

Another fifty deaths. Cholera is no laughing matter.

Italy, Germany, Poland...

letters from all of Europe...

from women who have nothing to do...

but read your novels and write letters.

How I envy them.

I'm no longer the 3rd last in my class.

You should be proud.

One can't live from admiration alone.

There's even one from Russia.

You don't have to answer. It's not signed.

Wait. She used a pseudonym. "'The Stranger"'.

Beautiful paper. I've never seen anything like it.

The watermark is a coat of arms. A princess?

You're coming up in the world. After that nobody Berny...

came that cheap Duchess d'Abrantes.

And now a real princess.

Where is she from?

Odessa. The Black Sea, I believe.

Another summons. It's the third one.

What are you going to do?

About what?

You must join the army for a month.

As per a new decree issued by King Louis-Philippe.

It's your duty.

I didn't tell you about it earlier because of your injury.

Paradis, a fiacre. Hurry!

There aren't any. There weren't enough hearses,

so now they've seized all the fiacres.

Is your paper published in Russia?

"'The Daily"' is the only French paper authorised by Czar Nicholas I.

I'd like to place an announcement.

I'll dictate it.

Monsieur de B. To The Stranger.

Monsieur de B...

has received the letter that was sent to him...

but regrets that he doesn't know...

to whom to address his response.

Instead of tormenting that poor oyster,

tell me how you survived the epidemic.

I was shut away.

If I hadn't had such pleasant visitors...

I'd have gone crazy.

Pleasant visitors? What visitors?

Honore, please.

Don't play the jealous lover. You aren't jealous.

And I'm not so sure you are my lover.

I'll give you proof of that later.

Provided I still want you to.

I haven't seen you for months.

Cholera.

You could have written or sent me flowers.

Roses don't transmit cholera.

I will not tolerate indifference.

Punish me if I've misbehaved.

It can be pleasurable to be made to suffer...

by a fair hand.

I have already punished you. I've been cruel.

Cruel? I didn't notice.

I'm curious as to how you made me suffer...

without my being aware of it.

It's simple... by spreading rumours.

Among those who came to visit me...

there were people who mean much to you...

Hugo, Musset, Eugene Sue, George Sand.

No one knew what became of you and asked me for news.

I wanted to avenge myself for your silence...

so I told them they had put you away in a madhouse.

But that's true. It's the truth.

I really was in a madhouse.

What? You were at Charenton?

Are you serious?

Writing is like being in a madhouse.

You'd better eat, or all the oysters will be gone.

- Will you forgive me? - Of course.

But...

it was also partly your fault.

Why did you abandon me...

right after I had given myself to you?

Did you not enjoy our night of love?

You'd be the first to complain.

But I already told you, I was engrossed in my work.

Prince Murat and Chancellor Mefternich...

always had much to do,

but that never hindered them...

from finding the time to take me to a ball.

Many people call exercising power over others "'work"'...

that is to say, making others work for them.

My work is something that wears me out, exhausts me.

Bloodshot eyes,

hands cramped from writing, a racing heartbeat.

Did you think of me from time to time?

To tell the truth...

no.

But where are you going?

I'm not hungry, neither for oysters nor for you.

You make me sick.

Whom do you love other than yourself?

I don't love myself.

I love only the works I carry within me.

Let us talk about your books. More failures than successes.

Do not judge what is still to come.

I forgot!

Tomorrow you will be a genius and pay all your debts.

Tomorrow you'll find time for love.

Always tomorrow!

I need time to write, to bring my work to the eyes of others,

to dazzle them.

For a long time, I had no idea what I was doing,

but now I do.

Once I've compiled and sewn together all my books,

you will see a vast picture of our society, of our century.

Laure, come here.

I am writing.

I'm writing "The Human Comedy."'

It's always one excuse or another,

one pretext or another.

At any rate, you're saying it's your writing...

that is preventing you from loving me?

Writing even prevents me from living.

Why are you killing yourself for your work?

The world lacks neither books nor authors.

One Balzac more or less...

will not hinder me from going to sleep.

But what will hinder me is a cold bed,

because I am alone in it.

You only have one bed,

but I have thousands of empty pages...

before which I stand alone.

Shall I tell you the truth, Honore?

You weren't made to write.

Don't disturb me while I'm working.

I thought you'd be willing to make an exception for this.

It's her, "'The Stranger"'. I recognise her handwriting.

She read my announcement in the "'Daily"'. This is her response.

Is she finally revealing her identity?

No, she refuses to say who she is.

"'I would be lost if anyone knew who I was...

and that I was writing to you."'

She was careful not to put a stop to it...

but to fan the fire.

My poor Honore.

What you took for a noble heart...

is nothing but a married woman looking for adventure.

The same old song, isn't it?

Why do you say that?

Because I know the truth.

- About that woman? - No, about you.

But don't worry, I won't judge you.

After all, I said unhappy women...

could look for love outside their marriage.

What exactly are you alluding to?

To Henri.

Your brother?

You mean, my half-brother.

You always preferred him to me. He was your love child.

I was the child of your conjugal duty.

Honore, how dare you?

You're the one who dared.

But then your marriage is none of my business,

except that you make me pay the price of your mistake.

I look too much like my father for you to love me.

No, you're just tolerating me,

the way you tolerated your husband.

You're not qualified to interfere in my affairs.

How long have you been brooding on that?

Why did you wait until I was a widow,

old and overburdened with worries,

to strike me down?

I haven't been brooding, Mother. I've also suffered.

And if I have caused you pain,

then forgive me as I have forgiven you.

I've done nothing you have to forgive me for.

Nothing at all.

It's true that I took a lover who got me with child.

But what of it?

Madame de Berny was also unfaithful,

as you very well know,

but that never stopped you...

from calling her your angel and a saint.

I never pretended to be a saint,

even though I deserve to be.

I've done everything for you. I've lent you money.

Now I have nothing left.

I don't think you'll be able to pay me back all too soon.

Did you lend Henri money as well?

The poor man is unlucky in business.

It's not easy to succeed in Bourbon.

It's not easy in Paris either.

This will give me a chance to breathe less foul-smelling air.

She persuaded her husband...

to let her spend a few weeks in Switzerland.

I'll join her in ten days.

We're meeting each other halfway.

I tried to stop them, but they want you.

The bailiffs? Plissoud's here with his retinue?

Hold them up, Mother, while...

- Are you Balzac? - Who are you?

Mousset, dentist and a sergeant in the National Guard.

Seize this individual.

Leave me alone!

Unhand me!

Let go of me! Leave me alone! Let me go!

The law applies to everyone.

You did not answer any of the three summons.

Because I thought it was all a farce.

I don't even know how to hold a rifle.

Alas, Monsieur, but if you pay...

If I pay? Just tell me how much.

I'd pay anything to be released from...

It's not about that. I'm talking about your lodgings.

If you pay me, I'll get you a cell of your own...

where you can receive friends and have food sent in.

Paradis, don't skimp on the portions.

This feast must reflect what it cost.

The only pleasures I have left...

are spending money and eating well.

How long were you sentenced?

To an initial period of six days.

They could double or triple it.

Not long.

It's obvious you're not the one behind bars, dear editor.

Something important is waiting for me outside.

Balzac wants to discuss our contract.

This is more important than two or three more books.

For which Werdet will grant you a handsome advance.

Stop sniveling, Werdet. You'll get your books.

My courage has borne me through my miseries.

Now for once, happiness is directing my writing.

You're in love.

Yes, with a woman who is waiting for me in Neufchatel.

A rendezvous on the banks of Lake Neufchatel?

How romantic.

- Who is it? - I don't know.

What? You don't know?

I've never seen her face before,

and I have no idea how old she is,

but I sense she's wonderful.

Do you at least know if she's free?

Her husband is a tyrant, but so what?

Let's assume she fulfills the ideal of which you dream.

Are you sure you fulfill her expectations?

She reads French newspapers that poke fun at my physique.

Those caricatures are so awful...

that she'll be delighted when she sees me.

How strange to love her sight unseen...

and to tell us about her in this prison.

That's the way I am, dear Adele.

My five-feet two inches...

contain all the contradictions possible.

Those who thought I was vain, extravagant, stubborn,

conceited, careless, lazy, lacking application,

unthinking and totally inconsistent,

long-winded, tactless, impolite,

capricious and moody are justified...

in the same way as those who say...

I am thrifty, modest, courageous,

tenacious, energetic,

consistent, hard-working, taciturn, refined,

polite, and always merry.

Those who say that I am a coward...

are no less right than those who say...

I am extraordinarily brave.

Nothing about me surprises me.

And nothing should surprise you.

Why are you staring at those men?

I'm staring at men?

That's just a game.

I'm comparing them to our muzhiks in Wierzchovnia.

A strange game. Please put an end to it.

It's unseemly.

Look, it's snowing.

Excuse my boldness,

but aren't you His Excellency Count Wenceslas Hanski?

So, you know me?

Yes, well, only by name.

Let me introduce myself. I am Honore de Balzac.

Balzac? The name means nothing to me.

- But... - Come, my dear.

I know you by name because I'm writing a book...

about the Battle of Essling where the Hanskis...

The Hanskis have never been involved...

in any Battle of Essling in any way.

That's exactly why it's a pleasure to meet you.

Your family made it a point of honour...

not to take part in that massacre.

And what a butchery that battle was.

I bless the luck...

that allowed our paths to cross on this promenade,

for I prefer the trail by the bridge near the hotel...

that leads up the mountain.

I go there every afternoon between three and four.

What a bore.

Really, my dear,

I long to get back to our Ukraine and its solitudes.

Yes, our stay here seems interminable.

Do you want us to cut it short?

We shouldn't curtail the cure the doctors prescribed for you.

What an admirable woman you are.

I sometimes know how to be reasonable.

You say he's gone? But where did he go?

I thought he was in prison.

They let him go. He is in Switzerland...

at Lake Neufchatel.

AtLakeNeufchatel.

He didn't want to cause you any grief.

Grief?

He is sick. A lung illness.

He's there to breathe the Swiss mountain air.

His illness is called Countess Hanska.

That name doesn't ring a bell.

Is she a fan of his books?

A foreigner.

Obviously his books are now being read all over the world.

Did he tell you that he loved this woman?

How does he love her? I mean, whom does he love?

The woman or the reader?

I should be delighted about what is happening to you now.

God knows I detested you.

You have such influence over him.

Had. I used to.

The damage was done quickly.

You're the one who encouraged him to write.

Without you, he would have had a different life,

a real life...

a good profession, a regular income,

and a house never constantly under siege by creditors.

I cannot open a single newspaper...

without seeing a caricature of my son,

not to mention articles that call him a "'slapdash scribbler"'.

Do you think a mother enjoys seeing that?

Someday his country will honour him.

Believe in him, for if his mother...

His mother?

I'm his banker, cleaning woman, laundress,

and when he's not home, his concierge.

I should be jubilant that he finally left you for another.

I'm the one who insisted on his taking back his freedom.

You must love to suffer.

I simply love, and you should do the same.

You're stifling him.

Don't you see he needs his freedom to create new worlds?

He doesn't create anything. He copies all he sees.

He takes his characters from real life.

His next heroine will be a Russian,

just like this Madame Hanska.

Because she is Russian?

She always sends him letters from Odessa...

passionate letters which she signs "'The Stranger"'.

We also know that she is married and still young.

Young.

So she could still bear his children,

dance with him, accompany him on his travels.

All I can do now is go back to Nemours.

You'll tell him that I was here, won't you?

You've become very pale.

It's nothing, just my heart acting up.

I'm a little sick. I'm afraid of my illness.

The good doctor Nacquart even told me I would die,

but all doctors are fools.

Excuse me if you feel this question is too indiscreet,

but could I read one of those letters...

those written by that young woman called "'The Stranger"'?

Under his pillow, like a schoolboy.

How ridiculous for a man his age.

Please put it back later.

I don't want him to think I go through his things.

What will it be like once she knows him?

Monsieur Balzac, what a surprise.

Are you alone?

Yes, I managed to find some chess partners for my husband.

The count is a good player.

That'll give me an hour of freedom.

One hour? Merely one hour?

You are beautiful,

more beautiful than I dared to hope.

We loved each other without ever having met.

Let's continue loving each other without touching.

But why? Is it because...

No, I have no feelings for Count Hanski.

That is...

no longer.

Then what is holding you back?

My upbringing. My family is very strict.

We Poles, we see sin everywhere.

Is that so?

At any rate, I am very modest.

Wasn't that obvious from my letters?

Your letters lit the fire in me.

But you are not going to try to make me believe...

you didn't know they depicted a woman hungry for love?

But I spoke of love, of... how should I put it...

of something romantic.

Rubbish, my dear.

Why? You don't like romance?

No, romanticism is too sentimental,

and it's no longer the fashion in Paris.

Oh, really?

So what is "en vogue"' in Paris?

I am!

Anyway, it wasn't necessary to tell me to come.

I am not to your liking perhaps? Do I disappoint you?

I think I should go back.

My husband hates it when I'm late.

Just tell him the garden was beautiful and the flowers...

There are no flowers in winter.

Come back, Eve.

Why?

I want to kiss you.

I know you will not do any such thing.

Yes, I want to.

I cannot.

You have no idea what you can do, Eve.

I have wanted this as much as you.

If you only knew what a life I lead in that horrible Ukraine...

my life and that of my poor Anna.

When it doesn't snow, it's muddy.

And all those stupid muzhiks.

But we will not have to wait long to be happy.

My husband is getting old, and he's also sick.

The doctors say he has not long to live.

Russian doctors are dumb, but what they say is true.

He coughs constantly and has a pain in his chest.

My God, what have you made me say?

I will burn in hell for this.

Until you belong to me alone, I will be the one in hell.

A wild desire, an unfulfilled desire,

could inspire you to write many a wonderful page.

I love what you write. I love your books so much.

I will not write another line.

Nothing as long as you are not with me.

And if I were a character in one of your novels,

what would you have me say?

"'Well,"' she said, while readjusting the veil of her hat,

"I shall see you tonight."'

Then I shall see you tonight.

Who did this?

The bailiff Plissoud.

And you didn't try to stop him?

I could have if I'd had 45,000 francs.

45,000 aren't the end of the world.

It's not hard to find 45,000.

I know enough people in Paris who'd lend it to me.

I always do it that way. I was just gone for a few days.

For several weeks.

I'd die of shame if I had to go begging on your behalf.

That's akin to acknowledging failure.

What failure? Everyone knows me and reads my books.

But you have no interest in my fame.

You hold fast to the idea that I've ruined my life.

I don't ask to be proud of you.

I could walk with my head held high...

if I knew you had paid all your debts.

At least I prevented them from taking your desk.

And they left your bed as well and a chair.

That bastard Plissoud. He must have been jubilant.

Did they just seize the goods, or have they begun selling them?

No, the sale will be in three weeks.

And the notices just read,

"'Bankruptcy Sale"' and not our names.

Then I have enough time to think.

I will go to Nemours to see Madame de Berny...

- No! - But of course.

You don't like her, but she believes in me.

She has always supported me whenever I was in trouble.

She knows I need a calm mind,

free of worries, in order to work.

No, I will ask her.

You dare ask that woman for money...

when your body is still moist from Madame Hanska's warm bed.

I thank God for having watched over you...

and spared you this malfeasance.

What are you trying to say?

Madame de Berny is dead, Honore.

What?

That's not possible.

But I told her to inform me if anything happened to her.

To inform you?

She didn't even know that you had gone to Neufchatel.

I had to tell her.

It was a very painful moment for her.

For me, too.

I sometimes ask myself if that hastened her end.

What? You told her?

You did that? You dared to do that?

She had a right to know the truth.

The truth? You didn't even know her.

You don't even know me.

I must get to Nemours before dawn.

But why? For a plot of earth that has been shifted?

She was buried three weeks ago.

When I think that you let that woman die all alone,

whom you claimed to have loved with all your heart.

What will become of me when I die,

I whom you do not love?

Forgive me, Honore, if I hurt you.

I know that, deep down, you are not bad.

But what is terrible is that you don't understand me.

But now that that woman can no longer come between us,

perhaps we can try to get closer...

and understand each other better.

Calm down, Honore.

My coat!

You are wearing it.

It is late. Are you going out?

To go where? You've just come home.

It's pitch-black outside.

Listen, if I caused you any pain...

Pain?

You haven't caused me any pain for a long time now.

You haven't made me cry for a long time, my poor Mother.

Do not desert me, Nacquart.

I don't know what to prescribe.

No medicine will cure black thoughts.

I can only prescribe one remedy:

Try to take your mind off things.

Why don't you go travelling?

How I would love to join Madame Hanska in Bavaria.

That's an excellent idea.

But I don't have any money.

How much do you need?

Nacquart, you would do that for me?

Your mother wouldn't recognise you.

She never saw me for who I was.

But how will I find the woman I came here to see?

There's George Sand.

Didn't I tell you that we adore French literature?

Don't be surprised to find yourself at the mercy of lions.

I'm hungry for you.

Is it you?

Is it really you?

If he sees us...

There's a grotto below the castle.

- Take the secret staircase. - Where?

Hurry!

Where is my wife?

I haven't seen her for a while.

I plead guilty, Count Hanski.

I told her we have a pond in the park with black swans.

She's never seen black swans before.

Is it dangerous? If she leans over...

Don't worry about Madame Hanska's inclinations.

Let's dance instead.

What is it, Count?

Are you all right, Count?

What's with this disguise?

George Sand doesn't have a moustache.

Now I can kiss you.

Don't you want to kiss me any more?

Oh, but I do. Except that it hurts.

Instead of soothing me, your mouth is driving me mad.

Do you want to caress me all over?

Like this? And like this?

Oh, would I!

I desire you, too.

We're staying at the Hotel Bohmerwald.

As soon as my husband turns his back,

I'll let you know and...

That's too risky. What if he returns unexpectedly?

Baroness von Galvenberg is on our side,

so let's meet here.

Not here. I don't trust the servants. They could talk.

But if you're too afraid to meet me at the hotel,

I understand.

You're afraid as well.

We would end up trembling like children.

Do you remember what I told you?

As long as I'm married,

we will have to make love in our letters alone.

It's not the same thing, but I do so love your letters.

Writing, always writing. I spend all my life writing.

I would like to live a real life...

and feel something other than a pen in my hands,

touch something other than paper.

Writing is dangerous.

Your husband challenged me to a duel because of a letter.

Oh, Eve...

is he still thinking about it?

More than ever.

But don't worry. He is not immortal.

Neither am I.

And if we carry out that duel...

Hanski is steadily growing weaker.

Will he survive the coming spring?

Our Russian winters are so very cold,

so deathly cold.

Build happiness on the death of a man?

He's been wishing you yours.

- That's enough. - What will you do?

I've written too much on the freedom of women...

for you to be treated thus.

I will speak to your husband.

No! If he knew about us...

- He knows about us. - No, but he has doubts.

I shall erase his doubts. What's he disguised as? Othello?

He's a Teutonic knight.

What does he look like?

Like Death.

I have something to say to you, Count.

You here? How is that possible?

But no matter.

We can now settle our affair sooner than I anticipated.

Fine, when and where you wish.

Let us follow convention.

At dawn in the park.

That should give you enough time to find witnesses.

As I am the injured party, I can choose the weapons.

The sabre.

The sabre? Fine.

A cavalry sabre. Will that be a problem?

No, no. The sabre.

No bookshop will sell a single copy of your books.

So how are you going to pay your workers?

When will you be able to repay your father and me?

Hey, what's going on here?

This carter from hell's taking my books to the garbage dump.

You're the most beautiful woman in the world.

Remove your hands.

Oh, Eve...

is he still thinking about it?

More than ever.

But don't worry, he is not immortal.

Fine, when and where you wish.

Let us follow convention.

At dawn in the park.

As I am the injured party, I can choose the weapons.

BALZAC

There you are.

Fact is, I thought I got up for nothing this morning.

I was assured that you were...

how do you say it in French?

Oh, yes, a coward.

The type of man who avoids his responsibilities.

I only avoid my creditors.

Let's not waste any time.

My hosts don't know about this duel.

They may try to stop it.

Where are your witnesses?

As you can see, I haven't got any.

No witnesses? That is highly irregular.

I know, but I didn't want to force anyone...

to brave this bitter cold...

for a duel which I'm sure won't take place.

Don't expect me to pardon you.

Though I am sorry to have to deprive French literature...

of one of its most eminent representatives.

But I will make you pay for your crime.

What crime?

For having written unspeakable letters to Countess Hanska.

You'll laugh when you find out...

I doubt that very much.

Dimitri Pavlovitch, the sabres.

Choose.

I don't want to after all.

Monsieur?

You are a coward.

Count, this duel is not justified in any way.

I only came here to explain why.

You're just trying to gain time.

And to what end, I wonder?

For in an instant, I'm going to offer you eternity.

Eternity can wait. Listen to me.

The letter that so enrages you...

was only an example of the techniques novelists use,

as requested by Eve,

when writing a scene of burning passion.

Are you saying you were writing to a make-believe woman...

who had nothing to do with my wife?

Don't play me for a fool.

It's the absolute truth.

Do you remember this letter well?

I know every depraved word by heart.

Then to whom was the letter addressed?

To "'My Louloup"'...

which is in itself grotesque.

You don't say.

Do you honestly think the countess...

would allow her lover, as you see me,

to call her "My Louloup"'?

No, not Louloup.

Hurry up, girls.

Oh, Victoria.

Dear countess.

I must be mad to have come. I regret it already.

Your regrets will soon vanish.

What a devilish man.

He's not exactly handsome, but he has such charm.

Not only can I understand you, I even envy you a bit.

Come. He's waiting.

I've opened the Blue Room just for the two of you.

Tell me what kind of caresses you like the most.

Those you've never dared describe in your books.

If they come from you, I love them all.

Even...

kissing my feet?

That's but the first step to ecstasy.

All my life, I've never been certain of anything.

Today, I am finally certain of something.

Of what?

That I am the happiest man on earth.

All right, then take your happiness and give me more.

I need it terribly.

I love you so much.

When will I see you again?

Let us not think about that now.

A writer must always think of his next chapter.

My Louloup!

Why move here?

There are more amenities in Paris.

I've made a nice fire. You'll warm up in no time.

Two Louis XV commodes will go there and above them...

a Leonardo da Vinci.

For a while, I considered buying a Rembrandt,

but Italian gaiety won out after all.

Frankly, it's much better.

- Leonardo da Vinci? - Yes.

Do you know how much such a painting costs?

There has to be some compensation...

for being exiled out here.

I'm also considering a Chinese screen...

with a mother-of-pearl inlay and a gold trim.

And over there, a huge 12th-century tapestry,

a hunting scene.

I've seen one I like at the Chateau de Chambord.

It'll be stunning when it's all finished.

You're such a dreamer, Honore.

Consider yourself lucky...

if you have enough to buy wood to heat this shack.

Why do you talk like that?

Why do you always disapprove of anything I do?

Why reduce everything to sordid money?

Because you haven't got any money.

All you have is what I lent you, and you can't pay me back.

I should have called you "'The Stranger"'.

I didn't come here to listen to that nonsense.

If you read the papers,

you'd know something terrible is in the offing.

If you were interested in what I do,

you'd know that I have no time to read.

Rome has indexed all your works.

What?

The Roman-Catholic Church...

has declared that your books are evil.

No Christian is allowed to read...

any of Honore de Balzac's novels.

In short, you no longer exist for millions of readers.

God has rejected you.

God is chastising me through you.

All I have endured which should have taken me to heaven...

was undone in one fell swoop...

because I gave birth to a blasphemer,

an heretic, a damned soul.

Yes, a damned soul,

who will drag me to the realms of hell.

But you've got nothing to do with this.

Think back to Adam and Eve.

All of mankind was punished because of them.

The judgement of God is a terrible thing.

This is not about God, but his priests.

The Pope himself condemned you...

the Pope who represents Jesus Christ on earth.

What does the Pope know about literature?

What have I done to him?

I've always said I'm a good Catholic.

Yes, till you go into your study.

Beyond that threshold,

you turn into a diabolical being.

You invent people, characters.

I don't invent anyone.

Can I help it if man is greedy, vain, perverse?

I'm not the one who created them. God did.

Diabolical. You're still blaspheming.

But...

It's hard to clean around these inscriptions.

Those aren't inscriptions.

They're paintings, furniture, candelabras.

How can you live without an imagination, Paradis?

Were you at the post office?

Still nothing?

She hasn't written in three months.

Maybe Russia was struck by calamity.

A snowstorm, a horde of wolves, a peasant revolt, Lord knows.

I was wrong, Paradis. You do have an imagination.

A snowstorm, wolves...

Don't bother me. I'm writing.

It's me... Hugo.

I'm sorry, but every hour counts.

I reckon even if I work like a madman,

I only have thirty years left to finish "'The Human Comedy"'.

What's the matter?

There's a bailiff downstairs.

And a police officer. This time, it's serious.

No more suspended sentences.

They're taking you to debtors' prison.

Why don't they take me in chains?

They will if you don't go quietly.

Then tell them I'm not here.

To Le Sache, near Tours.

I'm sorry. Balzac is not home.

He's not going to get away with this.

His odour.

I can smell his odour. It's still warm.

The fox is in his burrow. Commissioner?

Don't worry, Mr. Plissoud.

If he's in hiding, we'll find him.

Come with me. Let's go.

The reading would be more accurate...

if he were drawing the cards.

You know him. He doesn't believe in this.

He is too high and mighty.

He thinks he's more powerful than God.

Well?

I see him surrounded by many people.

There's a crowd of people around him,

very docile people,

who are obeying him in a very impressive way.

I'm sure they're his own characters.

Or sycophants and spongers.

But that's not what interests me.

I want to know about a specific woman.

Here is your lady, The Queen of Hearts.

The Queen of Hearts?

And do you see marriage?

Yes, there could very well be a marriage.

That's impossible. He doesn't have time.

He has to work and make money.

He owes me a fortune.

There is a lot of darkness around him.

What does that mean?

He's a writer.

I'm sure it's ink.

Or perhaps misfortune?

I'm certain you'll end up believing it all really exists.

That it's all before your very eyes.

For someone who sleeps so little,

it's incredible that you can still dream.

Those dreams will soon be reality.

"Cousine Befte"' as a serial...

will bring in a fortune.

It'll be a success this time, a triumph.

How can the critics find my books vulgar...

if the public clamours for them?

Champagne.

- Monsieur! - Yes.

There was a letter from Russia!

Russia? It's from her.

Paradis, your name is apt for once.

A black seal means bereavement.

Bereavement, my prayers have been answered.

Count Hanski is finally dead!

Eve Hanska is finally a widow!

And now I will finally find happiness.

Speak French.

Don't call him Bilboquet. That's silly.

But he is silly.

He looks like a huge bilboquet, a cup-and-ball.

I suppose he is informing us of his arrival?

My goodness, Anna, Balzac couldn't come here.

He would ruin everything.

As the Hanskis oppose the will Father made in my favour...

I will have to plead my case.

Because the imperial Russians...

rarely favour citizens of Polish descent,

I can't let even a tidbit of gossip taint my reputation.

I must appear above reproach.

"COURTESANS"'

Anna, no.

Why don't you want me to read his books?

It would help me learn French.

These books would just confuse you.

You will soon be getting married and...

And?

He seems to think women won't be happy for long in marriage...

and that at some point they always realise...

that the young man who once made their hearts race...

has become a sad person riddled with problems and pride.

Is that true?

He certainly knows women well, our good Bilboquet.

On the other hand,

it's also his business to a certain extent.

Would anyone have heard of Balzac...

if women hadn't praised him to the skies?

So Balzac is against marriage?

What a relief.

I was afraid he wanted to marry you.

Me become Madame de Balzac?

What a ridiculous idea, Anna.

Eve, my love,

I definitely prefer writing to you than writing my books.

I don't know why, but my imagination is dead,

sleeping like a capricious goat.

It's impossible to rouse my brain,

to pull a plot out of it, an idea.

Not even ten sentences.

Are you still writing to that woman?

I didn't realise it took so long...

to console a grief-stricken widow.

I didn't cry that much when your father died.

No, you didn't shed a single tear.

I simply behaved properly in a dignified way.

No, you were indifferent.

Don't worry. She won't be a widow for long.

Honore, don't do anything stupid.

Don't marry until she has her inheritance.

Be reasonable.

You can't afford to maintain a household yourself.

Maybe she'll never get her inheritance.

But so what?

That won't stop me from marrying her...

and finding true happiness.

Honore, happiness.

One thinks about happiness at twenty-five.

At your age, one thinks of one's duty.

In particular...

how to give me a monthly pension of 4,000 francs.

Yes, I know, but I can't do it right now.

You don't have any money. How original.

It's up to you to refill your coffers.

In your line of business, it's easy.

Easy? You think what I do is easy?

Yes, you write and get paid for it.

I'd like to write, but I'm exhausted...

because of the diet Nacquart imposed.

Vegetables boiled in water, herbal teas,

no meat, no bread, no coffee.

No, I'm exhausted.

It's because you think you're ill.

But your illness isn't mysterious.

You're just getting old.

Oh, I almost forgot.

A messenger is here...

asking for the end of "'Modeste Mignon"'.

The newspaper "'Les Debats"' needs it.

No, tomorrow. Ask him to come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Or the day after tomorrow.

You gave me such a fright.

Thank God nothing happened to the furniture.

Only the papers caught fire.

Something was written on that paper!

Well, you can rewrite it.

Get out, get out of my house this instant!

It's your mother you're talking to.

I've never had a mother. I only have an enemy.

I only want to see you on your birthday,

on your name day,

and on New Years Day from now on...

for five minutes, or I'll strangle you.

Get out!

"MODESTE MIGNON"'

Thank God the critical phase of the sickness is over.

You gave us all quite a fright.

But how did I get jaundice, doctor?

It's sometimes the result of a quarrel.

Then I should have been yellow since birth.

My whole life is nothing but a succession of quarrels.

Dumas and his "'Monte Cristo"' have triumphed.

- I have also had triumphs. - You'll have more.

Yes, if I am still capable of writing.

You'll be back on your feet soon.

It's not the sickness preventing me from writing, but love.

Madame Hanska?

I've loved her for 16 years and only seen her 16 days.

Wierzchownia is far away from Paris.

That's what's making me sick.

That's what is making me upset to the point...

that I can't write anymore.

Except for letters full of long-winded complaints.

So you see, Nacquart, I think one can die of love.

Thank you for seeing me despite your poor state of health.

I was told you are leaving for the Ukraine tomorrow.

I'd like to seize this unexpected opportunity...

and give you a letter.

The post office is so inefficient.

I will deliver it to my sister in person.

Your sister?

Are you saying...

Yes, I am Aline Moniuszko, her sister.

You're frightening me, madame.

Your presence here today...

and your hasty departure for Russia...

tell me that something terrible has happened.

Please speak, quickly.

You tremble easily, Monsieur Balzac.

Due to the fever I've had for a while.

Tell me, quickly.

What's that?

The reason why I'm here... 100,000 francs in gold.

100,000 francs in gold?

It seems your letters...

are a litany of complaints on your lack of money.

So here, my sister won her case.

Wierzchownia now belongs to her.

She's sending me this money so that I leave her alone,

so that I disappear out of her life.

Obviously.

Now that she has 3,000 peasants,

she has no need for another slave.

For a novelist, you are not very perspicacious.

It's to be used for your marriage.

Marriage?

Why are you lying to me?

Why are you making me suffer so?

I've asked for her hand in marriage a hundred times.

A thousand times.

She was hesitant, and I understand why.

You're saying that because you're seeing me at my worst.

Because I'm sick, but...

but only a few weeks ago,

I was devouring 100 oysters from Oostende.

Not counting the twelve salt-meadow lamb cutlets,

roast ducklings and sole.

Not counting, yes.

That's exactly what I find rather disconcerting.

They say you don't know how to count.

It's true.

I spend money the way others get drunk,

to drown my unhappiness.

But no longer.

I will guard this gold as though it were a vestal virgin.

I will use it to worship your sister.

How much does it cost to go to Wierzchownia?

Wierzchownia?

Not necessary. My sister will soon be in Paris.

In Paris? She's coming here?

Oh, I hope she comes soon.

I will treat her like a queen.

I will give her everything a woman could dream of.

Eve is not a dreamer.

So what?

I told you Monsieur de Balzac is not in.

I know he doesn't want to see me.

But I heard he was sick...

and so I'm only doing my duty as a mother...

by coming here to find out if he has news.

I've very good news, wonderful news!

Monsieur is well. He's out of town.

So his sickness was only due to a book.

I'd have been surprised...

if that idiot of a doctor, Nacquart, had cured anyone.

True, it was not any of Dr. Nacquart's doing.

The fortune your son just received...

got him back on his feet.

The fortune? What fortune?

Honore came into a fortune?

A big fortune.

He paid me all my wages, even those in arrears.

First the servants, then his mother,

if anything's left.

And I was naive enough to think...

his illness made him less angry with me.

Where is he?

Paradis, where is he?

Where is he, Paradis?

Be careful with my nose, David.

Take good care of it.

This nose embodies a whole world.

You?

You're worse than Bailiff Plissoud.

What are you doing here?

You refuse to receive me at your home.

You haven't asked for news of your mother for a long time.

Thank God I take an interest in you.

It seems you have become a rich man.

100,000 francs in gold, was it?

That money doesn't belong to me.

Money never belongs to anyone. It's simply a loan from God...

for us to use in order to do good deeds or bad.

This money is to be used for my wedding.

Don't you think that's a good cause?

Isn't filial love a good cause?

At least that's what you said in "'Le Pore Goriot"'.

I didn't know you read my books.

Of course I can't afford to buy them,

and it's been ages since you gave me one.

But I cut them out, chapter for chapter,

when they're serialised in newspapers.

Do you like what I write?

I don't know.

What do you mean, you don't know?

You must know if a book is good or bad.

Perhaps if I didn't see you behind each word.

Whenever a sentence is sloppily written,

I think, "'Slapdash work.

"'And all because he needs money."'

But on the other hand,

when I see a well-turned sentence, I think,

"'He couldn't resist the pathologically evil urge...

"to look his best and seduce."'

You don't love me, do you?

Even if I gave you all the gold in the world.

What about you? Do you love me?

I only have ten francs left this month.

Not exactly all the gold in the world.

Why are you looking at me like that?

You are just too beautiful for words.

You've been in France for three months,

and yet it seems like you just arrived.

Sometimes I dare not believe you're here.

We will live together forever.

I hope you will like Montcontour.

It's not as big as your Wierzchownia,

but there are 20 hectares of vines.

I've always dreamed of making my own wine.

Cuvee Honore de Balzac, a strong, robust red wine.

And a Cuvee Eve de Balzac a white wine.

Delicate, light, yet powerful.

Don't talk of wine. It makes me sick.

But yesterday at the inn,

you certainly did our Touraine wine credit.

Last night was last night.

What are you doing?

Guess.

We have at least an hour before the notary joins us.

What's wrong? Don't you want to?

Honore, I have something to tell you.

It's not easy for me to tell you.

What? Does it have to do with us?

With us three.

I am pregnant. I am carrying your child.

Eve, but how...

How is that possible? Is that what you wanted to say?

I'm not like your former mistresses.

I'm still in my child-bearing years.

A child? You are going to have a child?

I who was rambling on about making my own wine

will soon be a father?

I'm going to have a child with you?

I'm speechless.

How long have you known?

For about three weeks.

Then it's high time to announce the news.

There's nothing to be proud of.

To a certain extent, it was an accident.

Neither you nor I wanted it.

But now that it's on its way,

we'll welcome it with open arms.

And you'll be happy, too, won't you?

The house faces south. It'll be an oven in summer.

Forget the castle.

We've got more important things to do.

We must get married now.

I don't want my child to be born a bastard.

I will return to Wierzchownia.

Alone.

What is bothering you, Eve?

Could it be that you're afraid?

Yes, I'm afraid. I lied to you.

I'm older than I said I was.

So I'm not sure I can carry the child to full term...

or if I can give birth to it without endangering my life.

Should anything happen to this child or to me,

or to us both,

I'd prefer to be at home.

My kingdom. What do you think?

It's big, but God, it's ugly.

I'm used to making corrections.

I'll treat this monstrosity the way I do my books.

So I'll turn it into a masterpiece. Come.

This is the library.

This will be a splendid library.

Do you have many books?

Just one, but what a book it is.

My first sketch will be ready next week.

- Excellent. - I didn't mean any disrespect.

It's just that your "Human Comedy"' is so special.

It's just one big story.

That's the way I used to see it, too.

Now I'm afraid that my fatigue and weariness...

will prevent me from finishing what I have in my head.

Oh, my poor head.

Honore, what's wrong?

- Nothing. - Answer me.

It's just a dizzy spell.

Dizziness. I'm used to it. It will pass.

Dr. Nacquart is taking good care of me.

He's not too worried.

You're not following his orders,

and I'm certain you're drinking coffee again.

Coffee doesn't do anything for me anymore.

It's like I'm drinking water.

I'm sleeping, Victor.

My work is slumbering in a deep, dark slumber.

No. Nature can do nothing.

I thought that, when I was finished,

I would get the better of my work.

But now it seems my work will get the better of me.

But I must finish this house, otherwise Eve won't come back.

You see?

And if Eve doesn't come back...

I want to show you something.

Here. This will be my son's room.

You're so certain it'll be a boy?

Yes, and guess his name. Eugene...

hoping Eugene Sue's name fades beside his.

I'm too delighted about this child to be petty.

Besides, I don't want him to be a writer.

No, I see him as an ambassador.

He'll have a nice residence in a sunny country...

where his mother and I will go to warm our old bones.

But before that,

I'll give him the best childhood in the world.

He'll get everything I didn't have.

And first and foremost, love.

No.

Someone who's 32nd in a class of 34...

deserves neither caresses nor kisses.

I'll give him so much love, he'll ask for mercy.

My God, we'll be so happy.

I was told I'd find you here, so I came.

Why? Is it a matter of urgency?

Yes and no.

It's out of our hands.

Here's a letter from Wierzchownia.

The baby was born prematurely. It was dead.

My son, my little Victor-Honore.

It was a girl.

Girl or boy, I wanted a child with her so badly.

It meant the world to me.

Why must one always strike me down?

Who did this and why?

Ask God that.

I won't ask God for anything except for reckoning.

And Eve? How is Eve?

Recovering.

She won't be returning to France,

so there won't be a wedding.

Why? Does she hold me responsible?

If so, I'd rather kill myself.

There's no reason to be so extreme.

The Russian laws prohibit her from marrying you.

My son...

Monsieur de Balzac, you again?

What have you brought me this time?

A strange object indeed. How much do you want for it?

Enough money to travel to the Ukraine.

You?

Yes, Eve, it's me. Come here.

No Russian law will stop me.

I'll throw myself before the czar...

and kiss his boots and beg him to change the law.

If he refuses, I'll simply carry you off.

We're not in one of your novels.

Of course we are.

How many years do I have left, twenty-five?

I give them to you.

The house in Paris is waiting for you.

I've used up the 100,000 francs,

but I made my will before I left France.

I left all I have to you.

All you have are debts.

After my death, they'll say I was a genius.

My books will sell like hotcakes. You'll be rich.

This wouldn't be a marriage proposal?

But we already agreed on that.

No, Eve, don't go back on your word.

I'm not.

But God took away our child. Perhaps that's a sign of...

Of nothing at all.

God has nothing to do with this.

It's up to us alone to make what we will of life.

And what do you believe in?

I believe in you.

Oh, goodness, I woke you.

I wager you don't remember me.

I am Anna, Countess Hanska's daughter.

We met in Neufchatel when I was a little girl.

The little girl has become very pretty.

Maybe because she is married and happy.

His name is Georges Mniszech. He studies coleopterans.

Isn't that wonderful?

But then, you don't believe in marriage.

That's what I write, but not what I think.

How is that possible? A writer lies?

No, but he can make mistakes.

I will be your stepfather in the not-so-distant future.

What do you say to that?

Mother is afraid.

She is afraid that God will not bless this union.

Well, what of it?

Let God sulk.

We'll just never have another child, that's all.

We already have one... you, my dear little Anna.

I shall love you as if you were my own.

You don't understand.

She's afraid of you.

- May I be frank? - Yes.

In your letters to her, you often say you're unwell,

that you have terrible headaches,

stomach aches, and other ills.

She is too young to be your nurse when you are infirm.

Is that what she said to you?

Yes.

Look, can you guess what this is?

A present?

Don't give me presents. You can't afford it.

No, it's not a gift.

I just wanted to show you how much I love you.

But those are my letters.

Yes, all of them. I keep them by me.

In stagecoaches, I clasp them to my knees.

And nights when I stay at inns,

I wrap them between the sheets.

Some passengers even think I'm carrying a treasure.

And I am.

Look, I even keep the envelopes.

What your hand touches is sacred to me.

Paganism.

Yes, Eve, you are my idol.

And you can take that literally.

Throw them into the fire.

Throw away your letters?

No, Eve, don't ask that of me.

No, I couldn't do that.

And what if they fall into the wrong hands?

They could be used against me.

I always have them.

Until the day you die.

But that day, I'll be near you, right?

Burn them.

Did you burn the letters I sent you?

Yes, I've already done that.

What a heartache you are imposing on me.

If I do it, then only to prove my love to you.

Thank you.

It is just and fair...

that you prove your love to me as well.

Marry me.

The Russian laws don't allow...

I could understand God's wrath,

but no law forbids you to marry me.

I have made inquiries.

The law only states that if you marry a stranger,

you must give up your possessions...

and estates in the Ukraine.

And abandon my lands?

No, I will never leave Wierzchownia.

I've fought too hard to keep it.

So your fields of snow are more important than our love?

I love you.

But I also love Wierzchownia.

I suppose you can't understand that.

You've never had anything...

neither wife nor children nor land.

Sorry, you have your oeuvre.

Not even that.

No, my books are the ones who own me.

No, I think you're right, Eve.

My hands are empty. That's why I need you so much.

So much.

That's pretty.

I didn't know you were so gifted.

That's because I paint with my heart.

We are leaving after Christmas.

Who knows when we'll be back.

I'm drawing pictures...

so that I'll never forget Wierzchownia.

Bilboquet promised to write a witty text to accompany them.

That's the reason I'm here. I want to talk to you about him.

I told him I threw away his letters.

In reality, they are in a chest.

Here's the spare key just in case.

Those are private letters, Mother. I don't...

Don't be so silly.

These letters are written by a great writer.

They are part of his work. Every sentence bears his mark.

They are wondrous letters, poignant and wondrous.

Who knows how much they will be worth some day.

If you are ever in financial straits,

you can convert them into cash.

How you'd hurt him if he ever found out...

you think of them in terms of cash.

That's exactly why I told him I'd burned them.

It is the lesser of two evils.

I will soon entrust you with more keys.

Those to Wierzchownia.

I will soon be Madame de Balzac.

Really?

But I thought... You told me...

That it was a ridiculous idea?

It is.

Look at him.

Don't you feel sorry for him...

with that overblown love of his?

Everything is excessive with him.

But no love is too big...

if it is you who is the object of that love.

Furthermore, you shouldn't marry out of pity.

Besides, you can't just abandon Wierzchownia.

But the imperial laws permit me...

to renounce my lands in your favour.

The estate thus does not fall into the hands of strangers.

You will return.

You will be Barynia of Wierzchownia.

But you have lots of time to get used to that idea.

We won't marry before spring due to all the paperwork.

Are you getting married here?

No. Your father's funeral was held in the chapel here.

The muzhiks adored him.

We'll be wedded at the church in Berditcheff.

It's far enough away so no one will be shocked.

Admit it.

You're ashamed of this marriage.

Not at all.

I'm giving a party to introduce Balzac to our relatives.

Ashamed?

I'll be the wife of the greatest French writer of the century.

What does the way he writes have to do with love?

And all these trees I have seen here...

have given me an idea.

For a novel about trees?

By St. Vladimir, now that's an idea.

Our birches will be the heroes of novels?

I was thinking in terms of business.

A spectacular business proposition,

for I am also a businessman.

He is incredible.

He has seen, known, experienced everything.

I went to Sardinia to operate a silver mine.

A silver mine?

But when I got there,

the person I'd talked to about the mines had beat me to it.

If I hadn't been cheated,

I'd have amassed a fortune by now,

for the Sardinian mines are literally brimming with silver.

But all that is nothing compared to the pineapples.

Pineapples cost between twenty and thirty francs each in Paris.

So I said to myself,

a clever merchant who sold them for five francs each...

would make quite a bundle.

I decided to plant 100,000 feet of pineapples...

which would bring in 500,000 francs.

500,000 francs!

So I built a giant greenhouse...

in which it was as hot as in the tropics,

so my pineapples would feel at home and grow unhindered.

But...

You were betrayed again?

The elements betrayed me this time.

The greenhouse was erected on a slope.

The earth was clayey,

so, of course, it was very slippery.

One night, there was an apocalyptic storm.

And with an enormous crash...

the greenhouse...

Do you see what I'm trying to say?

That is truly distressing,

but what do you intend to do with the trees?

Railroad ties.

Millions of railroad ties.

All you have to do is fell the trees,

let them float down river to France,

where they'll be sent to the sawmills...

I say no.

No, because that venture, too, will fail.

Like your mines and pineapples.

No, because I'm marrying a writer,

not a manufacturer of railroad ties.

Keep your dreams for your books, Honore.

Well, is it going well?

No, it's going badly.

You can say what you like,

but writing novels...

is harder than fighting the battle of Jena.

But tell me something.

Why are you preparing such a paltry wedding?

What do you mean?

In Paris, I would have married you at Notre-Dame.

There would have been multitudes on the square.

Liszt would have played the organ,

Victor Hugo have made a speech.

Feasting and dancing all night long.

Dancing, me?

With my rheumatism?

As for feasting, you should really watch what you eat.

Instead, we marry on the sly in some forsaken hole.

Russia is teeming with forsaken holes.

Look at me, Eve.

You see before you an exhausted man,

a sick and weak man.

Perhaps some day I will be a wreck of a man,

bedridden and infirm.

Do I really have the right to ask you to take that risk?

I will take care of you.

No, you told Anna you didn't want to be my nurse.

Don't deny it.

Don't deny what you said to her.

Yes, I did say that.

Because I remembered Bavaria...

and you, powerful, strong as a lion...

and even wearing a lion's mask.

You were the perfect lover, magnificent.

So I took it amiss when you started writing...

that you were coughing, limping,

that you had a fever, or had a bad digestion,

or that your head seemed to be caught in a vise.

I didn't know what had become of you.

But do you know now?

I know you were up against terrible difficulties.

And that thanks to my money,

you can finally forget your worries...

and concentrate on your work.

How generous you are.

Eve, I love you.

And because I love you,

just as I asked you to marry me,

I now offer you the possibility...

to refuse this marriage.

Don't marry me. Protect yourself.

There is still time.

We will go through with it.

You in particular will go through with it.

I want you to finish "The Human Comedy"'...

so they stop saying you're just a clever artisan of words,

so that you attain the highest rank...

of one of the best thinkers of all time.

I swear...

I will never regret being the wife of Honore de Balzac.

I don't know if I will be able to love you well,

but I am sure I will be able to help you.

Are you all right? How do you feel?

Not well at all.

But pneumonia will not keep me from experiencing...

the best day of my life.

Not so fast, Bilboquet. Think of Mother's rheumatism.

Look, the sun will rise...

at the very moment you become my wife.

Look at my left hand instead.

What's wrong with it?

Soon it'll be sporting a gold ring.

What's wrong with that little hand?

It has doubled in size. Arthritis.

You won't be able to slide the ring on it.

Slide the ring...

It's not that serious.

Isn't this cozy? Like two shipwrecked people.

Shipwreck or no shipwreck,

I shouldn't have listened to you...

and taken the liner as I'd planned to instead.

Why are you taking all this stuff?

I thought your house was ready.

What if you get homesick?

You'll be glad to have all these trinkets.

I've thought of everything.

I've asked my mother to check the linen...

and to fill the house with flowers.

No need to overdo it.

I'm not going to Paris...

to get the feeling that I still live in the country.

- Here. - Thank you.

- Watch it, it's hot. - Yes, my Louloup.

Push it. Put your shoulders into it!

It's you. Where were you?

This hotel is so seedy. The bed is ice-cold.

I saw a jewelry store.

Well, you can't quite call it that.

They only sell cheap jewelry, but look at this.

Every time we stop in a town, I will buy you something.

If I don't find jewelry, I'll buy you a hat or shoes.

Or a length of fabric.

And if I don't find anything, I'll tell you a story.

I won't write it down,

so you'll be the only one ever to have heard it.

Here. Try this on.

- Try on this necklace. - It's beautiful.

Am I pretty? Does it look good on me?

I can't see it. I don't see very well.

Bring the light over.

I can't see very well. What's happening?

I could swear there's fog in the room.

Look to your left.

Now to your right.

Well?

It's an ophtalmia, Barynia.

It could get better, or he could become blind.

I'm afraid the latter will come to pass.

His corpulence is the cause.

The oculomotor system is being compressed...

by an excess of fat and heavy blood.

I am only an apothecary. I can't do much...

other than give him a decoction of blueberries...

to make him feel better.

So what did he say?

He's not worried.

He thinks the dust on the road has irritated your eyes.

What dust? There's only mud far and wide.

You're just saying anything that comes to mind.

You know I'm losing my sight.

I can hardly see anymore.

It looks fine, Marguerite.

Thank you, Madame.

And the meal, Marguerite?

I followed your instructions.

A nice ragout that only needs to be reheated...

when they arrive.

I hope you added cabbage.

Your future mistress is Polish,

and Poles are mad about cabbage.

She is lucky to have you as a mother-in-law.

I am only obeying my son's orders.

My son never leaves anything to chance.

Now I'll go and prepare the rooms.

Which one should I prepare for you?

None.

I am supposed to leave this house...

as soon as I hear them arrive.

All I need is a lantern for when I go home.

It is already almost night.

We are almost there.

Paris has its own characteristic odours.

Is it still light out?

Dusk has fallen.

As soon as we get home, go and call for Dr. Nacquart.

I want him to examine my eyes.

If I become blind, I won't be able to write anymore.

No books, no money.

Oh, money.

I would miss your books most of all.

Oh, my God.

Open the door.

It is a big house.

A bad omen. The house doesn't want me.

Well, do you like it?

Don't you find this beautiful? Do you approve?

I've described everything down to the last detail.

What is this?

Something displeases you, what?

Tell me. I can't see anything.

There's a cat. I detest cats.

I hate cats.

It's mine. It must have got out. It stays in the kitchen.

Throw it out.

I'll lock it up. Madame won't see it.

But I'll sense it's here somewhere.

I want it out of this house.

Get rid of it, otherwise I'll kill it!

You weren't going to kill that poor animal, were you?

Yes, I was.

I'm sorry, Eve.

There'll be no more such incidents.

I'll make sure of that.

But how? You're practically blind.

I sense that I won't be happy here.

Tell me, Dr. Nacquart, will I lose my sight completely?

No, there's still hope.

You have very simply exhausted your eyes...

by looking at the immense plains of the Ukraine.

You're not used to that,

in view of the way you've lived for years, like an owl.

It's the rest that disconcerts me.

The rest? What rest?

Everything.

Your whole organism is in a lamentable state.

Come on, Nacquart, you'll get me out of this.

You and I are like kings.

You reign over organs the way I reign over words.

What matters most are my eyes.

Even if your sight returns,

I doubt you'll be able to write.

Who said anything about writing?

No, it's Eve.

Eve is the person my eyes want to see.

Oh, doctor, how is he?

The pain on his right side has become worse.

A difficult diagnosis.

I have not come to a conclusion yet.

One thing is certain. We will have to open his veins.

Bloodletting, leeches,

purgatives, diuretics, the works.

To prevent his blood from overheating,

he must eat cold foods and very little.

Of course he should stay in bed and limit his movements,

but I'm not certain that will suffice.

It will suffice.

It will suffice. He told me so.

Who? Did you consult another doctor?

No, not a doctor, a psychic.

A charlatan.

You say that because my mother recommended him,

but I'm a believer.

Victor Hugo also believes in such things.

He does table-turning.

I just do the cards.

And he told me I was going to be very sick.

You don't need to be a psychic to see that.

My health will become impaired, but my psychic was definite...

that I would overcome the ordeal.

I will live to the ripe age of eighty.

And it'll be necessary that I do.

I haven't finished "The Human Comedy"'.

Oh, I'm not worried.

It is in the hours of great distress...

that I accomplish my very best work.

But what is unfair...

is that this disease strikes me down...

in my happiest hour.

One wouldn't believe it...

judging from my lamentable state,

but this is the happiest moment in my life.

I have married the woman I love...

and thanks to her fortune, I have no more money problems.

She and I live in a place...

that I have furnished and decorated with pride.

Thanks to the fruits of my work...

I have no more great demands on life...

except for life itself.

"Le Cabinet des Antiques"',

"'Cesar Birotteau"', "Eugenie Grandet"',

"La Femme de Trente Ans"'.

Does a blind man know how to read as I do?

Tell that to the journalists. It's infuriating.

Those venomous articles that say Balzac has lost his sight...

to discourage editors from signing new contracts with me.

I mean no disrespect,

but you're reading the titles of your own books.

Can you also read the titles of others?

I have become an other.

Ever since my return, I don't recognise myself.

I feel like a child who thirsts for life...

like an old man crushed by weariness.

Marmalade? Have you asked Nacquart if it's all right?

A special kind of marmalade.

Actually, it's hashish. It's from Hugo.

Hashish.

I tried that once at a dinner party.

Theophile Gautier made me try it.

It didn't affect me.

It affects everyone.

I didn't feel a thing, I assure you.

My brain is so strong,

I need at least ten doses to make me waver.

Well, if you insist...

You are so good to me, Eve.

Too bad you had so little time to be my wife.

But we've known each other for almost twenty years.

Those twenty years don't count.

We were far away from each other.

But I read your words with such passion.

I've asked you often if you love me,

and you said yes.

But...

I've never asked you in which way you love me...

or whom you love.

But I love the man I married.

Whom did you marry?

The man or the writer?

You say hashish doesn't affect you,

but you're getting strange ideas.

Are you reproaching me for admiring you?

I don't need to be admired.

I have thousands of readers who admire me.

What I need, Eve...

is your love.

There is not much left of the writer.

All that is left is a poor, tired man...

who is on the brink of dying.

So I ask you again...

have you ever loved that man?

I felt sorry for that man.

Is that what you want to hear?

Pity mixed with very much tenderness.

But my heart bursts with ardour for the writer.

The writer is flattered,

but the man is cut to the quick.

You come too late, Plissoud.

I know. The papers say he's dying.

But you're here for some reason.

You have never respected him or his work.

You reduced his masterpieces to merchandise

to settle his debts.

You frittered away his time and his peace of mind.

Because of you, he threw himself into forced labour,

like someone who throws himself from a precipice.

No, you didn't kill him.

That would be too great an honour.

But you helped make his life hard.

Wearing it down bit by bit,

until tonight when it will shrivel and die.

I read this... "Le Pore Goriot"'.

I just wanted him to know...

That he was a genius?

He doesn't need you to tell him.

Wait.

If he can still hear...

I only want...

That's enough. Stand aside.

I want him to know that his book didn't make me cry...

but that I'll read his other books anyway.

Go and lie down. I'll take over now.

Go and get Bianchon.

Who?

Horace Bianchon, the doctor. Hurry!

Nacquart is a good man, but he can't help me anymore.

Go and get Bianchon.

Hurry. I don't want to die.

Bianchon can't come. He doesn't exist.

You invented him, Honore.

He's one of your characters.

You really think so?

And who are you?

I am your wife.

Madame Hanska?

Madame de Balzac.

No, that's my mother.

She doesn't love me.

She has never loved me.

Even though I tried again and again to show her...

I wasn't that bad.

It's all that work that has killed me.

I did it all to show her,

to prove it to her, but she didn't want to see.

The stench is unbearable, doctor.

Gangrene.

He who was always so keen to look his best.

But now he is falling apart, Hugo.

Perhaps if I added a bit of phenol...

I just can't imagine Balzac dying of this...

this... this...

Of dropsy.

What a horrible death.

I thought he would die of something more grandiose,

as overproportioned as everything he's touched or done.

His suffering has been thus.

And it still is.

The air is heavy. I think a storm is brewing.

Yes, storms are normal in the month of August.

It's water mixed with phenol, because of the stench.

I just met that woman.

His wife.

She will now rule,

not only over him, but also his work.

Do you understand what I'm saying?

I'm sure that stranger is an expert...

on how to turn those pages into money,

those thousands and thousands of pages.

A good income for her.

She married him for a reason.

It's better to be Honore de Balzac's widow...

than a Polish countess.

Having given birth to him...

is an even greater honour, Madame.

That's true.

Balzac is also my son.

Is he still my son?

Mothers are mothers forever, Madame.

Forever.

That's reassuring to know...

because I think there's something I forgot to tell him.

Can he hear me?

It doesn't matter if he can or not.

If he's too far away,

the angels will convey your words to him.

Do you believe in angels?

Yes, Madame.

They must exist.

Because I, too, have lost a child.

My son, I am proud of you.

Very proud.

I want you to know that, Honore.

Can you forgive me?

Can you hear me?

Did you hear what I said?

Did you hear me, Honore?

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