All language subtitles for Balzac.Ep1.1999.DVDRip.XViD.MKO-eng(4)

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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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