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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.

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

Once. One time, sir.

lncluding 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!

l'm taking that to the dump.

These books?

All unsold copies. No one wants them.

But these are books l wrote.

-Whoa, stop! -Hands off my horse!

Hands off my books. l 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 l won't let him. Take a look at this.

My books.

lf you need a credible witness,

my name is Master Plissoud. l'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?

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

BALZAC'S PRlNTlNG SHOP.

He should have bought a notary's practice.

l'll never be convinced otherwise.

Come in, my dear mother!

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

All these machines.

l see, l see.

How disgustingly filthy.

lnk 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?

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

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

No, the first books l 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?

lsn't my angel home? Laure?

Yes, dear. l'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. l already have love.

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

Preserve your health first. No, thank you.

Then the rest will follow.

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

Considering it's my second.

l 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.

lt's mean-minded.

Nothing could be further from my character.

Do you know why, my dear Nacquart?

Because l 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.

lt must be exciting to live with him.

l merely live next to him.

Nobody exists when he works...

except the characters he has invented.

l'm jealous of them,

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

Especially when he doubts himself.

Doubts?

Yes. l 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. l don't like him, why do you?

l admire him.

What he achieved with the sword, l 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.

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

Monsieur is a connoisseur.

What about mixing it with roasted Martinique?

Absolutely not! Only l 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 l 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 l am, but l write better.

But l was talking about the woman.

The duchess Laure d'Abrantes.

l 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.

l'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, l 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.

lsn't that Balzac?

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

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

l assure you, writing is more complicated than that.

Here l am.

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

Tonight l'll lose all l 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 l 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 l have.

We'll make do with it.

lf the number comes up,

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

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

l'm tired of you and this sinister place.

Go and call me a fiacre.

To take you back to Versailles?

But how can l pay the fare?

You've gambled away the little l had.

The situation is not all that catastrophic.

l will let you have my room and my bed.

You'll be very comfortable.

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

Do you know why l 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? l'm not at all in a turmoil.

But l am.

You're the most beautiful woman in the world.

Remove your hands.

lf you wish.

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

this...

to touch a woman's heart.

-Mine is tired. -May l 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,

l'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.

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

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

l have to write it down right away.

Please don't be angry.

The imagination is an impatient mistress.

lt respects neither hunger nor sleep nor desire.

l shall be back.

Shut up! lf you speak, l shall get angry.

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

Honore, what do you want?

A thousand francs.

No, not a sou.

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

or lace from Alencon?

l'm on the brink of a huge success.

l'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? -l'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.

l thought you had higher literary aspirations.

l can have those when l'm rich.

l need those thousand francs.

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

Thank you!

Don't thank me.

l am in the process of helping you compromise yourself.

But perhaps you were made for that.

You must have been made for something.

Frankly, l don't understand the appeal.

What? You don't like this painting?

No, it fits in with the rest.

l'm talking about Madame d'Abrantes.

But l'm not jealous.

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

What l see in her?

First, she's a duchess.

l'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. l'm guiding her hand.

What prompted you to buy that? Ugly.

This painting? lt cost me three months of writing!

So now you equate price with beauty?

lf you knew that garret where l first lived,

you'd understand.

The only beautiful things l knew then...

were the sketches l made on the tiles.

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

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

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

as though l were the sole debtor in Paris.

l just don't have any money.

Listen, receive him and distract him.

l'll slip out through the courtyard.

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

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

so l'm momentarily broke.

Here, Paradis, pay the delivery man.

l'll pay all that back some day.

l don't want you to say...

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

l am no longer certain of the future.

l 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. l can see that you have sorrows.

Not sorrows, Honore. These are tears of regret.

l'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 l am, and l disgust you.

l have never loved you more than l 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. l'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, l 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 l write.

And how do you intend to write?

Generously and on a large scale.

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

Your outfit?

lt's the first time l've ever seen one in that colour.

Well, in all those colours.

l chose them all myself.

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

Buisson created it.

That must have cost a pretty penny.

Not a liard!

l have a head for business.

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

l 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.

lmagine 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.

lngratitude, Madame. There is nothing worse.

lngratitude? Truly a terrible thing.

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

But, Madame, l wrote the book.

Yes, certainly, but it's my story.

lf you hadn't been around, l'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 l thought l had a head for business!

lf l relinquish my rights...

l assume l can expect some kind of compensation?

Such as?

You know exactly what l mean.

Money?

l wasn't thinking of money at all.

But be that as it may...

l'll go for the money. How much?

Alas.

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

You know very well that l have no money.

All l have is this little adorable Rembrandt.

Oh, what a splendid painting.

Yes, isn't it?

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

A man is asking to see you.

l'm writing, Adele.

Duchess d'Abrantes has recommended him.

Do me a favour by throwing out her protege.

l cannot, Victor. He is...

Armed?

Huge.

What a beautiful home.

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

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

Can l offer you a glass of sweet wine?

No, l'd prefer some coffee.

But make it strong, very strong.

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

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

l 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.

ln intimate company, l mean.

No, l see her, but not like that.

So she has turned you down?

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

But then...

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

She doesn't want to, l'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!

lt 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? l paid 2,000 for it!

Well, take it anyway.

That Meissen clock. l paid 800 francs for it.

You were cheated. lt's only worth 300.

lnstead of trying to fleece me, let me work.

l 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.

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

Must write. Then write.

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

Till we meet again.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

l 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?

l'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.

l wasn't attracted to you at all.

l found you too...

too bulky and also a bit dirty.

Moreover, you didn't smell very good.

And your nose.

What about my nose?

lt's huge.

lt just made me laugh.

And then one evening...

one evening you kissed me.

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

During the first part of the kiss, l thought,

''l'll slap him for this."'

During the middle, l said to myself,

''lt's not as unpleasant as l thought."'

And at the end of the kiss,

l 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. l won't allow it!

Am l too late?

She'll recover this time,

but l must admit l'm very worried.

But why? What is ailing her?

Her heart. lt'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?

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

l must hasten to her side.

She may not receive any visitors.

She needs rest, lots of rest.

You are expected elsewhere and...

l 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.

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

l'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?

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

lf 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 l 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."'

l 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?

l 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?

lf l'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?

l 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.

l just wanted to get myself a wrap.

l 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?

lt's the story of life.

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

Make some coffee for me.

l'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 l guess ''Peau de Chagrin"'--

l 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! lt's my book.

l'm entitled to do as l wish.

What?

l'm entitled because l 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. lt 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 l don't know what l'm writing?

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

l must correct it, rewrite everything if l 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.

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

-Of course l am. -Since when?

That goes back a long way. So l 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.

lmagination doesn't impede honesty.

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

lt just makes me laugh to think l 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 l dare?

l hope Madame's audacity...

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

No, stay here.

l'm afraid of this place. lt's so empty.

lt's so very empty.

l've sold all l could.

And the little that l 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, l promise you.

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

ln 100 years' time,

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

l hope your books live long enough for that.

l'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 l have become a marquis...

or because you are unhappy?

Oh, no, Laure, don't cry.

lt is not l who asked you that sly question...

but the novelist in me.

l always need to provoke everyone...

in order to get inside their heads.

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

Will l 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 l lie all naked and you gaze at me,

you claim l made you think of a man?

Honore, you're horrible.

No, Laure, you misunderstand me.

When l 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, l never knew what became of him.

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

You see, l 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.

l, too, was your little Chabert.

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

accustomed to suffering.

What a stench, that fumigation.

Another fifty deaths. Cholera is no laughing matter.

ltaly, Germany, Poland...

letters from all of Europe...

from women who have nothing to do...

but read your novels and write letters.

How l envy them.

l'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. lt's not signed.

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

Beautiful paper. l'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, l believe.

Another summons. lt'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.

lt's your duty.

l 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.

ls your paper published in Russia?

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

l'd like to place an announcement.

l'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.

lnstead of tormenting that poor oyster,

tell me how you survived the epidemic.

l was shut away.

lf l hadn't had such pleasant visitors...

l'd have gone crazy.

Pleasant visitors? What visitors?

Honore, please.

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

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

l'll give you proof of that later.

Provided l still want you to.

l haven't seen you for months.

Cholera.

You could have written or sent me flowers.

Roses don't transmit cholera.

l will not tolerate indifference.

Punish me if l've misbehaved.

lt can be pleasurable to be made to suffer...

by a fair hand.

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

Cruel? l didn't notice.

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

without my being aware of it.

lt'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.

l wanted to avenge myself for your silence...

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

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

l 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 l had given myself to you?

Did you not enjoy our night of love?

You'd be the first to complain.

But l already told you, l 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?

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

You make me sick.

Whom do you love other than yourself?

l don't love myself.

l love only the works l carry within me.

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

Do not judge what is still to come.

l forgot!

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

Tomorrow you'll find time for love.

Always tomorrow!

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

to dazzle them.

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

but now l do.

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

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

Laure, come here.

l am writing.

l'm writing ''The Human Comedy."'

lt'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 l am alone in it.

You only have one bed,

but l have thousands of empty pages...

before which l stand alone.

Shall l tell you the truth, Honore?

You weren't made to write.

Don't disturb me while l'm working.

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

lt's her, "'The Stranger"'. l recognise her handwriting.

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

ls she finally revealing her identity?

No, she refuses to say who she is.

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

and that l 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 l know the truth.

-About that woman? -No, about you.

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

After all, l 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.

l 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.

l 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 l was a widow,

old and overburdened with worries,

to strike me down?

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

And if l have caused you pain,

then forgive me as l have forgiven you.

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

Nothing at all.

lt's true that l 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.

l never pretended to be a saint,

even though l deserve to be.

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

Now l have nothing left.

l 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.

lt's not easy to succeed in Bourbon.

lt'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.

l'll join her in ten days.

We're meeting each other halfway.

l 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 l thought it was all a farce.

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

Alas, Monsieur, but if you pay...

lf l pay? Just tell me how much.

l'd pay anything to be released from--

lt's not about that. l'm talking about your lodgings.

lf you pay me, l'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 l 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.

lt'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? -l don't know.

What? You don't know?

l've never seen her face before,

and l have no idea how old she is,

but l 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 l am, dear Adele.

My five-feet two inches...

contain all the contradictions possible.

Those who thought l 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...

l am thrifty, modest, courageous,

tenacious, energetic,

consistent, hard-working, taciturn, refined,

polite, and always merry.

Those who say that l am a coward...

are no less right than those who say...

l am extraordinarily brave.

Nothing about me surprises me.

And nothing should surprise you.

Why are you staring at those men?

l'm staring at men?

That's just a game.

l'm comparing them to our muzhiks in Wierzchovnia.

A strange game. Please put an end to it.

lt'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. l am Honore de Balzac.

Balzac? The name means nothing to me.

-But... -Come, my dear.

l know you by name because l'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.

l bless the luck...

that allowed our paths to cross on this promenade,

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

that leads up the mountain.

l go there every afternoon between three and four.

What a bore.

Really, my dear,

l 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.

l sometimes know how to be reasonable.

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

l 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.

ls 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? l mean, whom does he love?

The woman or the reader?

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

God knows l detested you.

You have such influence over him.

Had. l 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.

l 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?

l'm his banker, cleaning woman, laundress,

and when he's not home, his concierge.

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

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

You must love to suffer.

l 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 l can do now is go back to Nemours.

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

You've become very pale.

lt's nothing, just my heart acting up.

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

The good doctor Nacquart even told me l would die,

but all doctors are fools.

Excuse me if you feel this question is too indiscreet,

but could l 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.

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

What will it be like once she knows him?

Monsieur Balzac, what a surprise.

Are you alone?

Yes, l 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 l dared to hope.

We loved each other without ever having met.

Let's continue loving each other without touching.

But why? ls it because--

No, l 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.

ls that so?

At any rate, l 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 l spoke of love, of--how should l 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?

l am !

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

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

l think l should go back.

My husband hates it when l'm late.

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

There are no flowers in winter.

Come back, Eve.

Why?

l want to kiss you.

l know you will not do any such thing.

Yes, l want to.

l cannot.

You have no idea what you can do, Eve.

l have wanted this as much as you.

lf you only knew what a life l 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?

l will burn in hell for this.

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

A wild desire, an unfulfilled desire,

could inspire you to write many a wonderful page.

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

l will not write another line.

Nothing as long as you are not with me.

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

what would you have me say?

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

''l shall see you tonight."'

Then l shall see you tonight.

Who did this?

The bailiff Plissoud.

And you didn't try to stop him?

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

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

lt's not hard to find 45,000.

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

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

For several weeks.

l'd die of shame if l 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 l've ruined my life.

l don't ask to be proud of you.

l could walk with my head held high...

if l knew you had paid all your debts.

At least l 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 l have enough time to think.

l 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 l was in trouble.

She knows l need a calm mind,

free of worries, in order to work.

No, l will ask her.

You dare ask that woman for money...

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

l 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 l told her to inform me if anything happened to her.

To inform you?

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

l had to tell her.

lt was a very painful moment for her.

For me, too.

l 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.

l must get to Nemours before dawn.

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

She was buried three weeks ago.

When l 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 l die,

l whom you do not love?

Forgive me, Honore, if l hurt you.

l 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.

lt is late. Are you going out?

To go where? You've just come home.

lt's pitch-black outside.

Listen, if l 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.

l don't know what to prescribe.

No medicine will cure black thoughts.

l can only prescribe one remedy:

try to take your mind off things.

Why don't you go travelling?

How l would love to join Madame Hanska in Bavaria.

That's an excellent idea.

But l 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 l was.

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

There's George Sand.

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

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

l'm hungry for you.

ls it you?

ls it really you?

lf he sees us--

There's a grotto below the castle.

-Take the secret staircase. -Where?

Hurry!

Where is my wife?

l haven't seen her for a while.

l plead guilty, Count Hanski.

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

She's never seen black swans before.

ls it dangerous? lf 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 l can kiss you.

Don't you want to kiss me any more?

Oh, but l do. Except that it hurts.

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

Do you want to caress me all over?

Like this? And like this?

Oh, would l!

l desire you, too.

We're staying at the Hotel Bohmerwald.

As soon as my husband turns his back,

l'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. l don't trust the servants. They could talk.

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

l understand.

You're afraid as well.

We would end up trembling like children.

Do you remember what l told you?

As long as l'm married,

we will have to make love in our letters alone.

lt's not the same thing, but l do so love your letters.

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

l 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 l.

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?

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

for you to be treated thus.

l will speak to your husband.

No! lf he knew about us...

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

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

He's a Teutonic knight.

What does he look like?

Like Death.

l have something to say to you, Count.

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