All language subtitles for Lost.Illusions.2021.BluRay.x264.CP

For Lucien,

it all began with ink,

paper and the love of beauty.

LOST ILLUSIONS

Orphaned and destitute,
he was obliged

to learn a trade to survive.

His sister Eve had married
an Angouléme printer

and he worked
in their modest shop,

dreaming of another life.

THE MARGUERITES
POEMS

Even today in Paris,

people wonder how
his story could have happened,

what movement of the world
swept him away.

Here.

- I'll be late.
- No, you won't.

They won't eat you alive.

But for now, this long alleyway

transported him to a new world,
almost another country...

All the way to
Madam de Bargeton's chateau.

The guests are arriving, My Lady.

Thank you.

Enduring a husband
almost as old as her chateau,

she considered herself
a patroness of the arts.

One Sunday after mass,

the bishop spoke of a young poet,
a worker at a printer's,

who went by the prestigious name
of Lucien de Rubempré.

The most difficult

is to render
the vitality of the petals.

You see the eglantines?

Please leave.

For her.

Thank you, Lucien.

This is a great honor.

I feared you might not come.

Your husband's here?

Don't be silly.

He only reads hunting treatises
and plays with his dogs.

You're very beautiful, madam.

My dear friends,

I thank you for your loyal presence.

One day perhaps,
our protége will be recognized

and famous,

and we shall be able to say:
"I knew him,

and his work moved me."

Last month, our young poet read us
a magnificent biblical poem.

Our gazette
hailed him in glowing terms:

"When dazzling talent
emerges in a great youth,

"it is fresh hope for us all.

"A new springtime in one's life."

"Only 20,
but the force of an artist."

For him, poetry is holy,

almost a personal religion.

One can only revere minds
in whom God has placed His light.

Sir, we are waiting.

Your satchel, it's unbecoming.

For her.

Love,

prayer

and song,

to me existence gave.

Of all the earthly good
that mortals crave,

In this my farewell hour
I nought regret.

Nought, save the burning sighs

that soar above,

The lyre's full ecstasy,
or wordless love

Of hearts that ne'er forget.

To sweep the lyre
at listening beauty's feet,

To mark from note to note
the transport sweet,

Thrill her rapt bosom

with responsive power

To draw tears of rapture
from her eyes

As morning dews are swept

by zephyrs' sighs
From the full, bending flower.

Forgive me.

They have narrow lives,
they feel nothing.

It was very beautiful.

Excuse me.

Marquise de Contades
wishes to thank you, madam.

What do you expect from them?

And you?

What did you think?

One does not think these things,
one feels them, right?

Louise.

Such a love
as you have made me feel,

I thought both utopic and forbidden.

Forbidden,

like all which
must in the end triumph.

Each word
brings your lips closer,

each book I read
seems to speak of you.

Since this dreadful afternoon,
I've thought only of you.

Of you, alone in the shadows
of those lifeless walls,

loveless and without poesy.

Nothing but love

matters in this world.

And love is like the wind...

it will carry us away.

For you, Louise,

Lucien.

She took irrational risks to meet him,

inventing reasons to run off.

She guided his hands
and he was already less gauche.

Shall this comedy with my wife
last much longer,

Mr. Chardon?

My name is Lucien de Rubempré.

I knew your parents, young man.

You're the son of Chardon,
the druggist on the church square.

You have no right
to claim your mother's name,

not even to sign
your ludicrous poems

which are every bit as affected
as your little self.

You know nothing of such things.

Return to your dogs and rifles.

You don't deserve a woman like her.

You've let her wither away.

Lucien, no!

Sir!

Chardon!

Chardon.

All this land belongs to me.

I can chase your family away

any time I like!

I do not wish
to see you suffer, Louise.

Come to Paris with me
until this affair quiets down.

You deserve to enjoy yourself.

Give me a chance.

Please do not misunderstand.

Our friendship suffices me.

I'm a patient man.

No young man,
free and with over 1,000 francs,

is truly sad to leave his family.

The young poet imagined the city
like a pagan goddess,

open-armed,
embracing talent and merit.

But what did he know of Paris?

I brought them for the journey.

Perhaps I could read to you?

I shan't be a burden.

Ever.

It's too late to be frightened.

Lucien did not question
his protectress's faint smile,

but were they truly
heading for the same destination?

Paris.

You traveled with him alone,
in your own carriage?

No one saw us.

How could you
have taken such a risk?

You said you'd help. Don't judge.

There are rules here,
certain things cannot be done.

You have a title,
you're a rare woman.

But what is he?

What if Paris heard of such madness?

People would shun you.

I couldn't leave him.
He's a poet of great talent.

I've always known it.

He cannot stay with you, Louise.

Try to understand.

To avoid a scandal,

the unfortunate suitor
found lodgings for the favorite

only streets away from Louise.

But fresh from the provinces,

even several streets is far.

I will pay you back.

Tomorrow,
you'll come to the Opera with us.

I'll present you as my protege,

a godson, for example.

Your relations with Louise
must not be misinterpreted.

I would never compromise her.

At the Opera,
you will meet Louise's cousin,

the Marquise d'Espard.

Much respected in the faubourg.

Faubourg Saint-Germain, you know?

Of course I know.

The rent is paid for one week.

You have enough to get by?

I can hold out
until I find a publisher.

Moreover, I have many contacts.

Yes, I imagine.

I know a tailor
where you can rent evening wear.

We must do justice to our Louise.

I intend to.

Good day, sir.

For my brother,
who believes in the love of beauty.

In Paris, the love of beauty

encompassed beauty products.

Illustrated advertisements
covered walls,

like a new language.

The world had changed
and Lucien was out of his depth.

People wanted
to forget the Revolution,

the Terror and the Empire wars.

This was the time of the Restoration

and Court nobility.

People aspired
to personal success and wealth.

Young provincials flocked to the capital,

determined to forge a destiny,
as Napoleon did,

only now, far from battlefields.

Besides,
if you were going to fail,

may as well fail in Paris.

In one afternoon,

Lucien had spent 1,570 francs.

Enough to live for weeks.

But that night,

he needed to seduce Louise again.

One's whole life
could hinge on a first impression

in this high society.

For as everyone knows,
first impressions are often right,

especially bad ones.

Sir.

I'm expected.

- You're expected...
- Yes.

Thank you.

By Mme. d'Espard
and the Baron du Chatelet.

And you have no ticket.

No.

Stand aside, please.

I'm expected.

Sir, you cannot enter.

Let the guests by, thank you.

Lucien, there you are.

Paris suits you well, madam.

What did you do to your hair?

I wanted to do you justice.

A complete success.

Let's go.

Lucien discovered
the famous Marquise d'Espard,

who would play
a key role in his life's tragedy.

Wait here a minute.

- My dear cousin.
- Good evening.

You look stunning.

I wish to introduce you to someone.

A godchild from Angouléme.

I present you
to the Marquise d'Espard.

Delighted, madam.

Lucien de Rubempré.
At your service.

A godchild.

As they walked toward the boxes,

the marquise
whispered to her cousin

not to hold
her handkerchief unfolded.

It was not proper.

Good or bad taste, that is elegance,

rested on myriad details
that some women easily grasped,

while others never understood.

Mr. de Rubempré,

this is your first time at the Opera?

It shows?

Sit here, you'll see the whole room.

Is that her hairdresser?

The ladies find
Angouléme fashion amusing.

No, my dear, it's not you.

Look, Louise.

The baron.

Over there, in the second row.

In these circles,
trifles were all important.

A wrong gesture, word or look
could ruin a newcomer.

A discordant detail
equaled slashing a master's painting

or an unmelodious note
in an opera.

In the room,

only the young Lucien
was captivated by the ballet dancers

whose performance
was perfectly academic.

Society audiences
suffered through the show

only for the entr'acte,

where the true comedy
could finally begin.

My dear Nathan.

- We were looking for you.
- Yes?

Did you enjoy it?

One sees only you.
Your beauty far outshines the stage.

How sweet.

I haven't received your new book.

It's scheduled for next week.

With white roses to make it up.

Come meet my cousin,

Louise de Bargeton.

A literature lover from Angouléme.
Delightful, no?

Absolutely.

Lucien de Rubempré,
a young poet thrown alone into Paris.

Nathan is our greatest literary hope.

He would surely be good counsel.

It would be a pleasure to help
the gentleman.

Have you met any publishers?

I have addresses.

There's Dauriat, Delaunay...

We could discuss it some time.

I could introduce you.

That's very kind.

Anything for the marquise.

Excuse me, please.

Are you enjoying the opera, madam?

I've never seen anything like it.

- I feel so small.
- Who's the young man?

A famous writer. I don't know.

There are many things
you don't know.

Meanwhile, the Baron du Chatelet
had quietly spread

the truth
about Lucien's plebian origins.

A commoner
in the box of the marquise,

one of highest figures
of restored aristocracy,

was a guaranteed scandal.

You're leaving?

Louise?

Louise!

He's a young poet I wanted to help.

And he thanks you
by lying his way into my box?

It's his mother's name.

Then he has no right
to claim her name or title.

Forgive me if I compromised you.

Compromise me?

No one can compromise me.

Worry more about
what people might say

of your ties with him.

Women have been banished
from salons for less.

I've understood.

I left money in the drawer.
It was locked!

I'm no thief!
I don't have your key!

No one else came in.
Money doesn't disappear!

And I said I didn't touch it.

Lucien took his finest quill

and wrote a naive, sentimental letter
full of the dark dignity

so typical of an artist of 20.

He would never know
if Louise received his letter.

This messy drawer of sentiments...

it was time to close it.

Excuse me, I'm late.

Let's find a quieter spot.

Afraid of being seen with me?

No.

The police recently put dragnets

across the Seine at the exit of Paris.

You know why?

To catch the bodies
of penniless fools who jump off bridges

instead of returning to their provinces.

It was folly
for Louise to bring you with her.

A woman's folly.

If she keeps seeing you,
her cousin

and all society will snob her.

She'll be an outcast.

So think about her.

And yourself, Mr. Chardon.

My name is Rubempré.

Rubempré?

You have no idea

what she and I shared.

You dreamt it all, both of you.

Here.

She asked me to give you this
for your return journey.

Money?

She asks that you stay away.

I don't believe you.

I threw some in
because your story is touching.

Well, sort of.

She'll never love a man like you.

Look at yourself.

People called you "The Turkey."

Go home!

In the student Latin Quarter,

charitable souls showed Lucien
a cheap restaurant

well known at the time.

Bread at discretion

and a free carafe of water.

Potatoes were king,

and ever since
Lucien's humiliating eve,

his only contact with aristocracy.

Back in Angouléme,

Lucien had devoted himself
to great writers.

This insolent Parisian press
was novel,

as was its cult of slogans
and provocation.

He discovered

these cheap papers
where opinions were made and unmade

amid laughter or cries of rage.

It's on the house.

Excuse me for disturbing.

The owner said
you wrote for newspapers.

Could be, yes.

I was a proofreader at a printer's.

So I was wondering

if you might have any
writing or copywriting jobs for me?

Have you ever written?

A collection of poems

heralded in Angouléme.

Here. I brought some articles.

The famous Angouléme Gazette.

Impressive.

I need work.

Do newspapers pay decently?

Depends.

I made 300 francs this week
but I've spent it all.

300 francs
to write newspaper articles?

- It's hard work.
- And lots of money.

What's that?

Hashish.

With this, everyone has talent.

No, thanks.

What's your name?

Lucien.

De Rubempré.

Etienne Lousteau.

The poet was still innocent
and believed

that in Paris,

talent would necessarily
attract goodwill.

Poems about marguerites?

No wonder your baroness ran off!

The next day, like a young woodrat
impatient to leave his lair,

he visited his new friend
in the noisy newspaper district

near the Grands Boulevards.

The great and worthy Parisian press
had prestigious papers

such as Le Journal des débats
and Le Siécle.

But new laws had enabled
the creation of small periodicals

with provocative names
such as Le Corsaire,

Le Satan and Le Diable boiteux.

Of Liberal leanings,
these papers lashed out

against the Royalist government.

Lucien couldn't know
that within press ranks,

men needed friends,
like generals need soldiers.

Move over!

Over here, Marguerites!

Come on.

Cut the nonsense,
you have articles to write!

Have a seat.

Lamartine, go play.

Champagne?

No, thank you.

You'll have some anyhow.

I brought you my collection.

I'll give you names, don't worry.

I'm not.

Yes, you are.

You know...

I have great respect for journalists.

Oh yeah?

What exactly do you think I do?

You report on
new books, new plays...

new ideas.

You enlighten people about

art...

the world.

My job is to make
newspaper shareholders rich.

And along the way, rake it in.

Rake it in?

Rake it in, absolutely.

A theater manager pays you

for a good review.

You then propose
a nasty article to his competitor

and you raise the stakes,

writing good and bad indifferently

under different names.

And so on and so forth...

and you rake it in.

They shout, they weep,

they come here with insults or gifts

and a controversy is launched.

That's all they care about.

Controversy sells.

Tickets, books,

what have you.

And you find

many writers who agree to...

Papers pay by the line.

By the line, cash the same day.

Your articles are paid that evening.

Publishers pay 6 months later,
if they pay.

I arrived from Dijon

with a three-act comedy

written in my backlands.

At home, everyone said
my play was fabulous, magnificent.

So I asked theater managers
and actors to read it.

What happened?

No one would even look at it.

Why not?

What do you think?

If you can't grant favors
at a paper,

you don't exist.

If no one's afraid of you...

no one's interested in you.

And yet...

I was good.

I had a pure heart like you.

Let's go see Dauriat.

Who's that?

A living poem.

If you need me, I'm at Dauriat's.

See you tonight at Florine's!

You Royalist or Liberal?

The paper's Liberal, so I'm Liberal.

You are too.
You just don't know it yet.

Palais-Royal, quick!

When the Stock Exchange closed,

hordes of young people
poured out into the Palais-Royal,

the Capital's center of diversion.

A closed-off, protected square

where police never came
and pleasures abounded.

Fashionable boutiques,
wigmakers and street entertainers

worked alongside
restaurants, gambling dens,

and above all, prostitutes.

Up to 1,500 poor women
plied their trade in the Galleries.

Each one had her name, specialty,
hours and spot...

They were called hussies,
courtesans, Lorettes and grisettes.

Those who collared men
from upstairs were called "half-beavers."

Though we never knew why.

Professionals or part-timers,

rates and names
were posted on the columns

next to advertisements.

Women's bodies were for sale,

and people knew
these bodies could also sell

just about anything.

The belly of the beast.

In this temple of commerce,

publishers had set up shop too.

- You know him?
- We met at the Opera.

I hear he's famous.

A social puppet.

Look at him.

Striking poses,
playing the role of dandy.

We received his new book today.

Naturally, I haven't read it.

Come on.

Clutching his poems,

Lucien was to meet
a great Parisian publisher,

his dream come true.

Good day, gentlemen.

A grocer by trade,
the most influential one was Dauriat

and he could neither read nor write.

Unusual for a publisher.

Assistants read him
manuscripts and contracts,

but he sure could count.

3,000! You hear me?

I printed 3,000 copies
of his ill-fated novel.

Ink, paper, binding...

I already spent 1,500 francs.

1,500, you hear me!

The book is good. It'll sell.

It has rave reviews.

Speaking of which,

you charge 150 francs
for a good write-up now?

Where will it stop?

- A man's gotta live.
- 150 francs!

A good review costs.

How do you calculate?

You pull numbers out of a hat?

How much will you
charge to launch Nathan?

Where is the child prodigy?

Right here.
You promised 4,000 copies

and now
you won't pay for promotion?

- What's the point?
- You serious?

I paid Lousteau 200 francs
to sing your praises

in his flunkey rag!

200 francs, for the front page.

- True or false?
- And Blondet?

You were supposed
to pay Le Figaro to attack

and start a controversy, but nothing.

I need a controversy!

How do you sell a book today
without a controversy?

He's right. I was waiting for an attack
to write my article.

You're a crook.

He hasn't even opened it.

My dear Nathan, to write a review,
best not read the book.

You might be influenced.

His clever remark isn't even his.

And? I defend French spirit.

Then write other things
than your miserable articles.

A good word
is better than a bad book, right?

C'mon lads, let's move on.
I'm hungry.

Did you read it or not?

No, he didn't.

Of course I did.

Out of professional conscience
and respect for the author.

- I read it.
- We're listening.

The book is...

very particular.
Don't know what to think.

You turn pages,

phrases go by,
trying to seduce you...

Like the hustlers outside

in the Galleries.

A hodgepodge of words.

My friend and I agreed.

And who's he?

Where do you write?

Lucien de Rubempré.

And did you read his book?

I read it, yes. Very attentively.

You read it too?

Yes.

Let him speak.

Go on. We're listening.

One says that a writer
should have something to say.

He must also
leave certain things unsaid.

Yet, in this book

- as Lousteau said so well -

all is said.

All is exposed.

Where is the mystery?

The mystery is your presence here,
Mr. Chardon.

Chardon, am I correct?

To put it simply,
I found the gentleman's book

a curious sum of nothingness.

That was good.

Nice find.

My natural modesty
allows me to mock scorn.

Modesty's a funny virtue.

Think you have it, it's gone.

That's all, see you Tuesday at 10:00.

Are you Chardon or Rubempré?

Rubempré.

Lucien brought you his manuscript.

Thanks, I've seen
enough wannabee writers.

It's very original poetry.

Poetry!
No one buys that, you fool.

Best thing I've read in ages.

You know many people
who buy poetry?

Do you buy poetry, Lousteau?

No, especially not you.

- He's also working on a novel...
- A novel?

There are thousands.
Why bother?

Because literature is my life.

No one wants books by unknowns.

- They don't sell.
- True.

- But...
- I only publish

already famous authors with no risk.

How do you become known?

By knowing famous people.

Find yourself
a famous mistress or enemy.

No doubletalk here.

A famous enemy
who insults you in his paper.

Like Nathan.

He'd be a perfect enemy.

Nathan?

The kid needs a famous enemy,
what do you say?

I'm too expensive for you.

People will talk
and increase your value.

Increase my value?

Perfectly.

Like on the stock market.

What about literature?

Literature nourishes illusions.

Your pineapple, sir.

I believe in pineapples.

Pineapples?

I might invest
in a plantation outside Paris.

A future goldmine.

Pineapples
will save us from poetry, I hope.

Help yourselves.

Nathan!

That's a great publisher?

That grocer?

The best.

He met you, that's a start.

Now let him stew.

Lousteau!

What's he want?

You hear about Singali?

The Royalists
paid to hiss my sweetheart.

Paid?

You can pay for anything!
That's progress.

Lousteau's mistress
was a cheap Boulevard actress.

Tonight was the opening night
of her new play.

Lucien was about
to taste another night on the town.

Every day, tickets were for sale

on what had been baptized
"Crime Boulevard."

And the crimes
were those committed onstage

in some dozen theatres
tucked in between

street performances.

Theatre had become
outrageously popular and profitable.

The Funambules,
Renaissance, Variétés,

Déjazet, Mme. Saqui, ltaliens
and Ambigu-Comique...

Competition was fierce
amongst managers,

and their methods ruthless.

It was common practice
to boo a rival theatre on opening night.

Get lost!

For a new play, you bought critics
to protect yourself.

Everyone did it.
Question of survival.

Thus young journalists like Lousteau
made the law.

Blackmail reigned.

The Boulevard was their turf,
their hunting ground,

and they "raked it in."”

Singali brought his Italian hissers.
It'll be a massacre.

- Where's Singali?
- If I knew!

Sold out, ladies and gentlemen.

To protect themselves,

managers took out
hundreds of subscriptions to papers

and gave free boxes to journalists,

who rented them out...

and pocketed the earnings.

To make up
for this loss of turnover,

theatres sought
new ways to make money,

like selling sweets.

Where were you?
Everyone's in a panic.

Florine said Matifat would pay.
What happened?

No idea.
If they boo, we're dead!

- We'll never recover.
- Don't worry, where's Singali?

Inside, getting ready!

For the most important
was the "claque."

The cheers or catcalls
ordered from professionals.

And the most famous of all,
was Singali.

He lambasted plays,
humiliated actresses and writers.

He was feared by all,

and rightly so.

Destroy a competitor's play?
Pay Singali.

You wanted triumph?

Pay Singali. He did it all.

He trained his teams prior to shows.

His people mingled in the audience,

impossible to spot
before disaster struck.

You could buy anything.

Applause, light applause,

standing ovation,
laughter, hysterical laughter.

Or else whistles and boos,

even rotten tomatoes
and vegetables.

You only had to pay.

Mediocre play or masterpiece?
He didn't care.

Making ever more money
was his only concern.

He had established his Law
on the Boulevard.

Everyone was at his mercy,

and he made them all pay,
one way or another.

Have a look.

The short bald guy.

Bastard's preparing to strike.

Will they whistle?

Actresses too were obliged
to buy applause

and above all,

prevent boos paid by rivals.

We'll handle it.

You'll be fabulous.

Necessarily helpless,
girls needed rich protectors

to cover what were known as
"reputation" expenses.

Most often,

they were big textile merchants

or newly-rich
cosmetics manufacturers.

The luckiest girls

became icons
for the big brand names,

which in turn bought
advertising space in newspapers,

whose kindly criticism and indulgence
were also remunerated.

Advertising brought in so much income
that newspaper owners

would stealthily
become modern-day press barons.

And politicians had understood.

They were happy
to make "arrangements"

with these barons
to avoid attacks in their papers.

Likewise interests,
shady dealings and compromises...

But above them,
at the very top of the pyramid,

were the financial oligarchs.

Laffitte, Rothschild, Nucingen
and their Stock Exchange intrigues.

In the wings, they pulled the strings
of all these puppets.

Money was the new royalty,
and no one wanted to chop its head off.

Who could say, one day
a banker might even join the government.

Can't we talk to Singali?

He's been paid.
We have to pay more.

On stage in ten!

What do we do?

Etienne!

- Careful, Matifat's with Florine.
- Thanks.

They'll trample us.
We have to pay, Mimi.

Always more! When will it end?

The room is full of hissers.

Or else we cancel the show.

- There's 2 pages in tomorrow's paper.
- We have to pay.

- Can you chip in?
- Of course I can.

How much?

Let's not be crass.

A price equal to my dignity.

Very well, we'll pay.

Tell Singali his money's coming.

I'll go.

C'mon, kids, we're late!

Thank you, my love.

Wel'll sit in the balcony.

He paid up, we'll applaud.

- Coming to Florine's?
- Why not?

Don't you have an article
to turn in?

I looked for you at Dauriat's.

My friend Lucien de Rubempré.

"A curious sum of nothingness."

Your locution traveled quickly.

Do you write somewhere?

Mr. Finot runs the paper I write for.

Where you write nonsense.

See you at Florine's?

- Yes.
- We need to talk.

It's important.

He's a cunning devil.

Made good for a country boy.

You don't mind?

Matifat and your Florine.

What can I do?

She's a married woman.

You learn to share.

Take a look.

Behold the two hundred
most noxious people in Paris.

At least half would like me dead.

But they'll do nothing.

- You know why?
- No.

Because they're afraid.

Afraid of you?

Of the paper.

And rightly so.

With all their scheming.

One day,
you'll run into your Lady

and you'll read fear in her eyes.

And it will feel good.

I won't marry him!

She says no!

Oh, yes she will.
Long ago in a small Spanish village,

in the mountains...

Her name was Coralie
and she wasn't yet 20.

Her scarlet stockings
had become famous in only one season.

Gazing at Coralie, Lucien was seized

with an overwhelming desire
to throttle this world

and bring it to its knees.

Bravo!

Ladies and gentlemen,
Coralie and Florine!

Pour yourself a drink.

We'll be right back.

No more champagne?

- Whose place?
- Florine's, no Matifat's.

Go on, drink.

I wanted to write a play called
"Enough Champagne!"

Not bad.

Guys, I need your articles.

Take Blondet's on the Opera.

Great.

Thanks.

We have the Déjazet...

The Opera...

The ltaliens, good.

- Who had the Variétés?
- Me.

- A review?
- Summary, I didn't have time.

What's this?

Tomorrow's paper.
If everyone hands in their work.

He's a friend of Lousteau?

You sure he likes women?

He certainly looks at them.

He seems honest.

You be careful, dear.

We're not selling, we're joining forces.

Combine two names

and split expenses.

We raise the cost of advertising,

lower our price
and extend readership.

And more readers
means more expensive ads.

See, when you try?

Who finances?

Dauriat, Camusot and me.

We need a fourth,
but I want the majority.

Think Florine could talk to her perfumer?

We can try.

You'll be editor-in-chief.

And I keep editorial control.

I'll be even more popular.

You?
You'd pay to sell your soul.

- What's this?
- Pineapple fritters, sir.

Coralie's been looking for you.

You a pimp too?

I thought you were broke.

There they are!

Berthier,
you reviewing us tonight?

Not me, gorgeous.

I've had enough.

Let's ask Mr. Lucien.

Forget these scoundrels.

What does Mr. Lucien think?

Sure.

Find us a nice twist, like earlier.

Good idea.

You don't have to.

But it would make me awfully happy.

Show us your stuff. You saw the play.

Why not?

Stylistic effects,

suitable enthusiasm,
and the desire to seduce a girl...

Lucien wrote his very first article.

"The intrigue slowly unfolded,

"though I am quite unable
to clear up the mystery.

"Don Jose's daughter,

"personified by a living Andalusian,

"brings your heart into your mouth.

"Tantalized, you long to leap onstage"

"and offer her hovel and heart."

My, my, not bad.

"She can be anything she chooses,
she was born to fly.

"Can more"

"be said of a boulevard actress?"

"Somebody asked me
how the piece was and I replied..."

What did you reply?

She had scarlet stockings

and the face of first love.

Bravo.

Not bad.

Gentlemen,
to your articles and lies!

The Baron du Chatelet...

you know him?

Doesn't he want to be Prefect?

Back home,
we called him "The Turkey."

He's close to Mme. d'Espard.

He wishes.

D'Espard...

is a whole other world, friends.

The king's close circle.
Huge influence.

You know the right people.

They know me no longer.

This your first smoke?

No.

Marguerites...

Are you alright?

Yes.

Lucien?

Are you okay?

That evening,
maybe he had seen too much,

drunk and heard too much.

Paris had lifted her skirts

to show the young poet
- like a worthy disciple -

her terrible nudity.

Sir.

Sir! Wake up.

Coralie, come to the window!

Look!

What's going on?

I woke you up, darling?
I have a gift.

Scarlet like your stockings.

That's for me? You're crazy!

Mr. Camusot is downstairs,
he could come up.

Get dressed!

Her name is Ruby.

Wel'll go to the woods, the sun's shining!

I'll talk to him.

No, you won't! Not at all.

Come on.
Wait, I'll come up.

No, no!

Hurry.

He won't stay long, don't move.

Mimi?

My sweetheart.

- Sleeping?
- No, rehearsing.

Already!

Hello, Berenice.

You're crazy.

Hang on, one second.

Berenice!

What time is rehearsal today?

Can you pick up
my dress at Guérini's?

I'll give you money.

There are my boots!

You said they were with your costumes.

No, they were here.

They're for a man's role
I'm playing soon.

But they're much too big.

I put newspaper inside, but they hurt.

Will you drop me off?
I can try out my new carriage.

I've never had one,
I don't know how to drive.

I'll show you.

You're completely crazy.

I'll find you some shoes.

Is she attached to him?

He keeps us.

He saved us when she was unwell.

What an actress.

I won't let her lose everything
for a springtime flirt.

What size?

Dear sister,
I beg your forgiveness, I write little.

Time flies in Patris.

Everything is alarmingly rapid.

I have big news.

I at last met a great publisher.

His name is Dauriat
and he's interested in my poetry.

To devote myself entirely to writing,

I distanced myself
from Mme. de Bargeton

and her vain society life.

I believe our separation made her suffer,
but I had no choice.

Without money,
one cannot join high society.

Imagine,
I've already spent 1,800 francs.

I must now cut back on spending.

Paris is a bottomless pit.

You pay for everything,
even to cross gutters when it rains!

But you can also
make lifechanging encounters,

ones that propel you
in unexpected and luminous directions.

For example,
I met a brilliant journalist

who gave me
a job in a respected paper.

Have no fear.

Journalism will never distract me
from my own writing

or my poetry.

Lucien.

Gentlemen!

Meeting!

It's the big day!

Gentlemen.

Today we celebrate
the union of our two beloved papers:

Le Corsaire and Le Satan.

Henceforth, we are called:

Le Corsaire-Satan.

Took clever thinking!

Comrade Lousteau here

will be our illustrious editor-in-chief.

Lousteau,
a great conscience of our times.

Scoundrel.

Your turn, Lousteau.

Gentlemen.

Inform your theater managers,

publishers,

writers, actresses,
merchants and musicians...

The Pope if you like...

No article in this paper
will be sold for under 150 francs!

150 francs the article!

Our editorial policy is simple:

the probable
will be upheld as truth!

There was a specific term
for a false information:

a "canard" or duck.

Maybe because
fake sensational news

was like a wild duck chase.

To create an event,

a paper could print any rumor.

True or false,

no one dwelled on such details.

These men had understood,

a fake news and its denial
were two events.

The only truth that mattered,
were sales figures.

So false information

or "ducks" had free reign

and were not yet chained down.

Long live the Emperor!

Hustlers, merchants,
actors, writers, politicians, theatres...

Everyone came to negotiate,
order an article,

peddle gossip or offer bribes.

Paper!

A new industry was born.

Editorial press
became commercial press.

Paper!

The paper was now a shop

that sold the public
what they wanted to hear.

One no longer enlightened,
one flattered opinions.

Or created them.

News, debate and ideas
had become goods

to palm off on subscribers.

Paper!

Journalists became retailers of phrases,

wheelers and dealers of words,

brokers between artists and the public.

Paper!

Lucien learned fast.

Very fast... He wrote furiously,

with the fury of revenge.

Backstage gossip, rumors,
mocking witticisms...

Within days, Lucien wrote dozens
of cruel, witty articles,

which became his trademark.

See this? Paid the same day.

That's not all...

Ta-da!

It's Coralie who will be happy.

Is there anymore champagne?

How old were you?

I must've been 13 or 14.

Your mother gave you...

Not gave, sold!

When I heard the price,
I knew I wasn't worth much.

It was a small troupe.

They taught me to dance.

And after that?

After that,
men started hanging around.

Bad things
happened to the other girls.

Lots of nasty business.

And after that?

When I turned 15,
I was hired by another troupe

to do street mime.

It was the fad in Paris.

And there you go.

That's how I met Florine.

Thanks.

You're too handsome for me.

You'll hurt me.

You'll meet a rich marquise and bam!
No more Coralie.

I never made love like that.

I give myself entirely.

Otherwise what's the point?

You're not like them.

You'll do great things.

I'm not smart but I can tell.

I feel these things.

"A Turkey held in its beak

"a Cuttlefish bone as dry as could be.

"The Turkey was from Angouléme,

"on the banks of the Charente."

"But next thing we knew,
the bird was used to make stew."

Our dear baron will love this.

- Lucien didn't write it.
- He didn't sign,

but his name
is on the following page.

The impudent boy
continues signing "de Rubempré."

Do you believe

him capable
of spreading awkward rumors,

my dear cousin?

He's above that.

You think so?

I feel remorse over him.

Then adopt him and be done with it.

Far from salons, Lucien's dignified
apprenticeship continued.

Overwhelmed by the number

of books to review,
the writers used their monkey

as a referee and let him choose.

So.

Stendhal or Chateaubriand?

Based on the ape's reaction

they would support or trample
a play or a novel,

cynically attacking the stage
and literature.

In any case,

someone would have to fork out.

The press was
an increasingly lucrative business,

and readers ever more numerous.

Byron!

To meet the growing demands
of new dailies,

German engineers
invented the rotary printing press.

It was now possible
to print 20 times more pages.

Distribution jumped from a few thousand

to tens of thousands,
and soon hundreds of thousands,

while advertising
brought in ever more money.

Advertising agencies
were created to help merchants

and industrialists
find slogans and images

to sell products
that readers didn't need.

Singali too, stepped up the pace.

To increase profits,
he invented a strange contraption

baptized the "Glory Machine."

Turn the crank

and wooden keys hidden under seats
imitated applause.

He hoped that upon hearing
this false applause,

the audience
would automatically applaud too.

What an invention!

Lastly, for whistles and boos,

he concealed horns
in dark nooks and crannies of theatres.

In the end, he dropped his machines
to work manually,

like a true craftsman,

for he missed
the contact with his audiences.

And of course, the artists.

Oh, cruel!

Is it now you wound my heart?

What have you done?

And yet I believed I was loved.

My soul, long pleased
with your presence, lived for you.

Where were your laws,
when first I told you?

What excess...

Mr. Director.

- You wished to see me?
- Yes.

Have we met?

I certainly know who you are.

Will you audition
many actresses for the role?

It's a difficult role.

I have no choice.

One always has a choice.

Wouldn't you say?

My friends!

Friends.

To Coralie,
and her first great role.

You'll play Racine too one day,
my lovely.

You'll discover sentiments.

You have a fine pair of boots.

I believe
I've seen them somewhere.

No?

I'd give all I have

for one look like that.

Accept that your role is over.

She needs you no longer.

I want her to lack for nothing.

For me,

you are nothing.

Listen to him.

Your articles amuse me.
You make me seem so cruel.

Glad to hear it...

madam.

She will lack for nothing.

Good evening.

A Boulevard actress

landing a repertoire role
made more than one person smirk.

The success of Lucien's articles
and Coralie's conquest

would have made
a more mature head spin.

Lucien's faux-pas was to flaunt
his victories and worse yet,

exhibit his happiness.

Coralie took Lucien to parties,
society evenings

and shops in vogue,
offering her lover fine suits

to shine by her side
among the Paris smart set.

She wanted to teach Lucien
to play with life,

like she did on stage.

But art and literary glory
were forgotten quests.

Good evening.

Please meet Miss Coralie.

You won't greet her

because she's an actress?

You applaud her onstage

but ignore her in real life.

That's enough.

She's not respectable enough
for people like you?

Tell me, my favorite enemy,

did Dauriat take your book?

I must earn my living at the paper.

I inherited nothing.

Like myself.

Not even a name.
We know that, Mr. Chardon.

My name is Rubempré.

Chardon or Rubempré,

you'll be forgotten.

Please, Lucien. Let's go.

You've given up your literary ambitions?

Don't worry for me.

- Come on.
- Mademoiselle.

You are an actress I admire.

May I invite you to dance?

Forgive me...

I'm no longer in the mood.

Good evening, Louise.

Was it her?

She's beautiful.

She looks unhappy.

Why'd they call you Chardon?

My father's name was Chardon

and my mother was born
Amelie de Rubempré.

I want to carry my mother's name.

It doesn't matter to me.

You have only one name...

that of my love.

I'm sick, Lucien.

They call it consumption.

A sort of tuberculosis.

We need to create beauty.

Everything's rotten, everywhere.

We must fight for beauty.

I don't want your poetry.

It's wasted money.

Lucien is with the paper now.

Trying to intimidate me,
you upstart?

It's unsellable.
I'd be a laughing stock.

Literature is important to many people.

A world view, love of beauty...

If only for a few readers.

One single reader.

- One single reader?
- Yes.

You're out of your mind.

Your Marguerites can wilt.

What language must I say it in?

You, come here.

We need to talk about Berthier.

- What?
- He's kicking up trouble.

Thanks.
Review this, as agreed.

- Do your job.
- Of course.

He'll publish your Marguerites.

- I have my conditions.
- Of course.

I'd like to talk to you.

I know your poems.

Louise...

spoke of you and Angouléme
the other night

with great emotion.

She read us your work.

Certain things were excellent.

Honestly.

She's a wounded woman.

She wishes you no harm.

How could she harm me now?

By sending you to trick me?

Don't imagine enemies everywhere.

You have none, perhaps?

Only the necessary ones.

What matters to me is creation.

And to you too, I know.

The scheming,

the endless gossip...

Empty noise, hot air.

Learn to look upon it as a game.

Lucien?

Ready to go?

See you soon, I hope.

You want revenge on Dauriat?

Nathan's book is coming out.

Dauriat's gambling on it.
Big time.

Knock yourself out.

Nathan came to talk with me.

Of course.
He wants everyone to like him.

He's afraid of the reviews
and he should be.

He talk about
the "love of art," etc.?

He tried the same with me.

Knock yourself out.

Envied by many,

Nathan had become
a prominent literary figure in no time.

His insolent youth
and style seduced all.

People fought over his friendship
and Royalist network,

even if some only saw in him

false glory
built on press reviews.

Coming along?

I can't demolish this book.

It has power...

emotion.

Nathan has true talent.

He's inspired...

sincere.

- Never conventional.
- Spare me.

He's always the right distance
from his subjects.

Listen to his last words.

"I now stop hoping and begin living."

It's almost Corneille.

He probably stole it from him.

I can't insult him.

Of course you can.
It's a question of perspective.

- Meaning?
- I'll tell you a story.

One day, two critics were in a boat
on the Sea of Galilee.

Suddenly,

Christ appeared

and started walking on the water.

One critic says to the other:
"See that? He can't even swim."

A book is moving? Call it sentimental.

Classic? It's academic.

Funny? Superficial.

Intelligent? It's pretentious.

If it's inspired,
call it sensationalism.

And so on.

Well-constructed? It's predictable.

The author has style?
He has nothing to say.

You can criticize the length.

That always smarts.

It's always too long.

Confused, not controlled.

What's the point?

Does the author even know himself?

And yet control lacks fantasy.

But fantasy means incoherency.

Go on, get going.

We'll take care of Nathan.

Lucien's thirst for avenge
on Dauriat, Chételet, Louise,

Angouléme and potatoes

replaced
conscience and inspiration

as he set out to destroy Nathan.

This dark, solitary pleasure

allowed one to wound
an absent foe with a pen stroke.

Despite the simplistic vulgarity
of this mocking wit,

certain papers thrived on it.

"So please tell Nathan d'Anastazio

"not to jump off a bridge quite yet,

"for he still has
multitudes to disappoint."

- An admirable show of bad faith.
- Thank you.

What's wrong?

I can't tell
if it's good or bad anymore.

It doesn't matter.

What we write is forgotten at once.

They'll wrap fish with it.

It's possible to write works that last.

Defend ideas
and sentiments you believe in.

- I'm sure that Nathan...
- Forget Nathan!

He's a puppet.

Like us.

Right, like us.

Dauriat will have an attack.

The next day,

Lucien had his scathing review
delivered to Dauriat.

Before publication,

Lousteau and Lucien
wanted to kindly inform Dauriat

of a conspiracy against his pet writer.

Lucien wrote this piece of drivel?

Of course.

Lucien let the publishing sultan
wait a good hour.

Some supposed
"urgent" business to settle.

I brought you back your article.

How very mean.

You've made progress.

You think so?

I lack education,
but I finally grasped

the beauty of your Marguerites.

I changed my mind: I'll buy your poems.

How awkward.

I've received other offers.

Yes, I can imagine.

People must be fighting
to publish poetry.

But take heed, if I buy your book,

you're one of the family.

This means you will never attack
my writers again.

I must keep my independence.

Your independence?

I've bribed every critic in Paris,

don't speak of independence.

Excuse me...

I have work.

You call this work?

May I show you out?

If we do business together,

I want my say about the paper,
typeface and illustrations.

Yes...

I heard you started out in printing.

I was an orphan, I had to work.

How moving.

Have you thought of making a novel?

Yes!

"The Orphan of Angouléme."

Flung into Paris,
he lost his footing and drowned.

But no fool,
he observed and learned.

Yet would he remember
his nobler ambitions?

Let's go.

Dauriat?

Have you bothered to open my book?

For my peace of mind.

Forget your peace of mind, young man.

You have influential friends
and famous enemies.

In Paris,
people speak of your cruel articles.

You've made it, you're in the limelight.

Part of the show.

- Part of the show?
- Yes.

What if I had a sudden urge

to write a favorable article
about Nathan.

200 francs... paid outright.

Come now, 200 francs...

Niceties are harder to write
than slander.

Oh, yes!

Especially
for an independent spirit like you.

Make me another proposal.

Let's say 250.

Let's say 500.

5007

No one's paid that.

It's my price.

Okay, 500.
But with a front-page spot.

Alright.

But I'll do it for free.

Out of respect for literature.

Tell Nathan.

You will need him like he needs you.

Lucien let his quill
express his sincere admiration

for this novel
he would've liked to write himself.

The next day,

Lucien's laudatory article

was on the front page
of the famous Le Corsaire-Satan.

The controversy was launched.

People went wild over this new critic

who rose above partisan quarrels

for love of beauty
and with no ulterior motives.

More astonishing, a Royalist deputy

even cited a phrase
from Lucien's article at the Chamber.

The comedy played
at the National Assembly too.

Rubempré's name
was on everyone's lips.

Lucien was now a reputed journalist,

a Parisian figure,

with all the extras
inherent to this status.

My, my.

The Marguerites wasted no time.

You're here!

We're not finished decorating yet.

He'll have to write fast.

Camusot got us six months' credit.

Bravo.

- Where's Lucien?
- Upstairs.

He has a surprise.
We're expecting a crowd.

Do you like it?

This is my first real home.

- Congratulations.
- Thank you.

Ask for the paper!

Here it is.

The paper.

The paper, ask for today's paper.

We have plenty of copies!

The paper!

Here it is, today's paper.

Go on, read the paper.

The paper, ladies and gents.

Glory to the paper.

Madam?

Don't forget, read the paper.

Bravo!

To Paris!

And...

to our loves!

I believe the time has come

to truly baptize Lucien.

Kneel down,

my good, proud knight,
fearless and without principles.

None at alt

In the name

of Bad Faith,

False Rumors and Advertising,

I baptize thee

Journalist!

Free applause!

Fifty francs to open, my friends.

Friends?

Friends don't exist!

Manner of speaking.

Amusing, isn't it?

Very.

I didn't think you'd come.

I was touched
by what you wrote about me.

It was sincere.

How is your release looking?

Quite well, actually.

My Royalist friends support me,

or so they claim.

And thanks to you,
Liberals should spare me.

Literature comes out the winner.

I owe you one.

I bring a message for you.

From Louise.

I saw her this afternoon.

The paper will soon attack Chatelet,
his clique and their ideas.

I can do nothing.

Louise could care less
about Chatelet... or politics.

She'd like to see you.

She takes a great risk proposing this.

You're their béte noire.

I certainly hope so.

She can help you
with something close to your heart.

Which is?

She'll tell you.

The meeting with Louise

took place far from prying eyes.

The same eyes
which had condemned their couple.

- Lucien.
- Hello, Nathan.

How are you?

Do you live here?

No, it belongs to a friend.

A discreet patron of arts.

I come here on occasion

to scribble a few pages.

I see.

Come.

She's waiting for you, in there.

All these books
make me think of you.

Do you still enjoy reading?

It's become my profession.

I know.

I know your paper.

I didn't know
you could be so severe.

But the Turkey du Chatelet
made us all laugh.

Everyone secretly
passed around his caricature.

I thought he was your friend.

I thought so too.

Then I understood he was only acting.

In truth, he wanted
my cousin's backing at Court.

And he succeeded.

He will be named Prefect of Charente.

He'll soon go home.

Perhaps we're condemned
to our provinces.

You and I found a way out.

What madness to have left together.

I was lost, Lucien.

I was alone.

I too, was afraid.

And I hurt you.

Now I wish to appease your rancor.

I wish to make amends.

I can help you
recover your name and title.

But the sole manner
to obtain a patent from the king

is in exchange for favors rendered.

What kind of favors?

Lucien,

stop attacking our friends.

I know you better than anyone.

Circumstances made you an enemy,

but deep down you're one of us.

I know you are.

I often miss the countryside.

I'm weary of Paris.

We had something beautiful back there.

I learned everything from you.

Even grief.

How is your pretty sweetheart?

Everyone says
she's a marvelous actress.

I'm very much in love.

Will she get her own poems too?

The viscount went out.
He left a letter.

Dear Lucien,

many great men started out
with two names.

Poquelin aka Moliere,
Arouet aka Voltaire,

Bonaparte aka Napoleon.

The first a preface of the second.

Chardon or Rubempré,

I recognized my passion in you.

Let me protect you
from this Parisian comedy

which makes us into unwilling actors.

I must warn you,

behind the scenes,
a critical time is approaching.

In high spheres,
one speaks of new laws

to strangle the opposition press.

Some papers have started
selling out in secret.

You're better than
those godless, lawless hacks.

You will choose the right path.

Your friend,

Nathan.

I propose a toast to the theatre

and to journalism!

Come with us, Mimi.

Too hot in here!

So.

I received

a request for a genealogical study
of the title "de Rubempré."

It was my mother's name.

And your father's?

I wish to forget it.

I am informed
of your influential support.

Very impressive!
The Marquise d'Espard.

And a Baroness...

de Bargeton...

whom I do not know.

I shall try to do them proud.

After examining
your degree of noble lineage,

your request will be sent
to the Justice Minister,

who will transmit it
to the king's chamber

with a favorable or unfavorable notice.

How long will the study take?

That depends upon
the quality of the documents we find.

And on concrete proof
that you have rallied to our side.

In the meanwhile,

I advise you
to cease writing for a paper

hostile to the government.

The Justice Minister
would be particularly sensible.

I understand.

Pretexting personal work,
Lucien delivered his last articles,

but stopped going to the paper.

He now literally had

"nobler" ambitions.

Already dangerously in debt,

Coralie continued her mad spending
to offer her beloved journalist

an aristocratic dandy's wardrobe.

Shoulder: 14.

She knew
that only shallow people

do not judge by appearances.

Suits from Staub's,
Madam Irlande shirts,

Verdier canes and Farelli boots.

They needed the latest fashion,
whatever the cost.

For dress is essential
when you want to pretend you're rich.

And the best way
to become rich later on.

The Count de Rubempré.

We saw him with Countess Coralie
from the National Theater.

She will perform Racine.
What talent!

And she must go rehearse.

Hang on.

It's an actor's trick.

Elegant men all do this.

It's the fashion.

Oh yes?

Coralie dressed Lucien,

but was never invited
to his aristocrat society parties.

For this crowd still refused
to receive an actress, a hussy.

She stayed
home alone with Racine,

wishing to honor his sublime text.

Salon doors opened before Lucien,

who thought he'd been banned forever.

Mr. Lucien Chardon.

Marquise de Contades.

Baron du Chatenay.

Excuse me.

Lucien's new friend Nathan
promoted him

among these
idle and rich young aristocrats

known as "free-livers."”

De Rubempré.

His entrance into this caste

was noticed
by those he had earlier scorned.

Duke Martin Lassalle,
but between us "Jean-Lou."

Blinded by his desire for a title,

did he not perceive
their cold and inhumane smiles?

We're all here.

Lucien's an exciting writer.

His poetry will soon be published.

Excuse me.

Monsieur, I haven't
received your Marguerites yet.

The book hasn't been printed.

Louise said the contrary.

You won't forget me?

Who could forget you, madam?

Come with me.

Everyone wants to meet you.

Here you are.

A promise is a promise.

No doubt annoyed
by Louise's rise in Paris society,

the Marquise d'Espard
lavished attentions on Lucien,

the man of the moment.

My friends, you know
that this house adores rare birds.

Tonight, two young poets
shall brighten our sky.

Gentlemen, we're listening.

For her.

The earth is to sun,
what man is to angels

One made of splendor,
the other of mire

Heavenly bodies are sun,
stars warm rapture

Around the pure spheres,
shall gravitate devils

In the dark shadows,
where the mind perceives all

Paradise sun tows
the condemned planet fraught

Angels in the stars,
fallible and seduced

Can become human,
poor dwellers of darkness

Whispered the wind
high on the mountain

All dark globes moan,

all earth is a prison

Where life shall weep,

until awakening day

Fallen from sun's grace,
spirit is locked away.

Magnificent.

For several weeks,
Lucien's life was one long party.

A moment outside of time.

And his success in journalism
was no less impressive.

He gave into a powerful current,

a whirlwind
of pleasure and staggering debts.

His new passion, gambling,
allowed him to play with

this golden youth
and ape their mannerisms.

Without the family riches.

He lived from day to day

and his chase after a noble title

sometimes seemed
a pretext to do nothing with his life.

Simply play.

Nathan watched his favorite rival
dissipate his talent

in a frivolous life devoid of creation.

But perhaps,

to be a complete writer,
one must experience everything

before imposing
one's own particular illusion.

And these too.

How long will this go on?

I forbid you to say anything.

I can't worry him right now.

Once he has his title,
he'll have protectors and an allowance.

You don't understand.

Neither do you, love.

Lousteau!

Get out.

Out!

You dared change my article
on Ducange?

We couldn't find you. Dauriat paid.

I don't get it.

- I can't write what I want?
- He paid.

Dauriat paid! Are you deaf?

I don't give a damn.

I'm fed up
of your two-cent schemes.

Where are your articles?
You were paid.

You think you're an aristocrat now?

Where's your loyalty to me,
the paper, shareholders?

I hear the paper's for sale.

- We'll be screwed. Is that loyal?
- I'll sue you!

Is the paper for sale?

Things are sold and bought.
You're clueless!

Still fresh from Angouléme.

Who do you think you are?

You bought a race horse
to play baron with Nathan?

Your vests and flowered suspenders...
You're pathetic.

Coralie comes crying to us
that you're broke.

Don't talk about her.

I forbid you!

Without us, you'd be nothing!

Nothing.

A breeze.

You'd be where without me?

At the bottom of the Seine.

Hello, mademoiselle.

Thank you for receiving me.

Lucien doesn't know I'm here.

He's spoken of you often.

With great respect.

You're not like the others.

How may I help you?

I've read his poems.

You shared love.

The love of literature.

His book isn't even published
and he's spent his advance.

He has no notion of reality.

- He can't hold onto money.
- He's an artist.

Exactly.

I've heard that
the Court makes official orders

to help artists
who support Royalists.

Could you speak to your friends?

I can ask around.

You understand, it's pressing.

In the meantime,
I could put a sum at your disposal.

It would be our secret.

No.

I believe in work, madam.

You're paid for your work,
whatever that is.

He needs to find inspiration again.

The desire to create beauty.

You're very right.

You're beautiful.

I envy your manners and elegance.

You won't take him from me?

Because I'd die.

She's gone.

Please do not say she's a good girl.

They don't have a penny.

As expected.

Gentlemen.

Gentlemen!

The time has come
to restore a fine and noble idea...

Journalism.

Let us publish

a newspaper
that is upright and responsible.

Let us be dignified

and honorable.

We shall never give into money,
trickery, self-serving gifts

or bribery.

In short, the corruption

that dishonors our mission.

As such, I've chosen the title:

Le Réveil.

Le Réveil, our Awakening!
Moral, social, political and artistic.

Only...

Only our subscribers can buy us!

Pleased with his role too,

the director would be implicated
a few years later

in a dark palm-greasing affair.

Tried in court and dragged through
the mud by the press,

he screamed outrage
at these journalists who posed as judges.

The Liberal Corsaire-Satan
had its ducks,

the Royalist Le Réveil, pigeons.

Carrier pigeons
left Paris in the morning

and arrived
that afternoon in London.

The false information
spread via this feathered network

underwent a spectacular
and profitable acceleration.

Lucien was paid by the line,
Coralie by performance.

But he had not yet written
for his new paper

and she was still rehearsing.

They had new stiff-lipped guests:

bailiffs.

I'll go back to the Boulevard
and show my legs.

If I have to, I will.

Doesn't matter.

That's not what matters.

You can't take this from us.

Don't worry.

The bastard betrayed us.

He signed with the Royalists.

With the Royalists!

That's enough.
It's time to destroy him.

Strike where it hurts.

His particle, his name.

His turnarounds.

- His lifestyle.
- Nathan.

His whore.

Careful, D'Espard backs him.

You're wrong.

She despises him as much as we do.

Those women are noxious.

And D'Espard most of all.

Why'd I help that wretch?

Maybe you enjoyed playing big brother.

At least he had ambition.
What do you have besides me?

What?

My dear friends...

Friends don't exist.

Before day's end
you will understand me.

Farewell, madam.

O heavens! What words!
Oh, remain.

Prince, all too deeply
I hide my pain from you.

You see before you
a queen distraught, who

heart-stricken,
simply requests a word.

Thanks for coming.

Things are looking good.

They'll attack her on opening night.

They want to destroy her.

I've heard nothing.

How much do you want?

People say
you're going through bad times.

I have money to pay you.

I will have...

I trust you, but people are talking.

Don't worry.

I have protectors.

I have a new paper.

I heard you changed sides.

Mind you, I won't judge.

I've spent my life
selling to the highest bidder.

I want a grand opening.

Don't worry, Mommy's here.

We'll offer your princess a triumph.

I saw her start out.

She was sweet.

Come in, Lucien.

Something to drink?

Close the door, please.

Lousteau tells me you never turned in
articles you were paid for.

Very well paid, moreover.

He wants to send bailiffs,
make a scandal...

sue you.

That won't give him talent.

You make a point.

He wants to crush you.

But he's small fry.

A second fiddle.

Right?

Are you still close
to the Marquise d'Espard?

She received me in her home.

Impressive.

Then I might
have a favor to ask of you.

A big one.

You'd do a big favor for me?

I need allies.

- I know your influence.
- Then you'll help.

I want to regroup a paper,
an advertising firm

and a news agency.

Form a sort of group,

an association.

I need to find backers

and invest.

As my English friends say:

"Free enterprise shall be

"the freedom of the free fox"

"in a free chicken-coop."

I have no desire
to be devoured like a hen.

You either. Am I wrong?

No.

The State seeks to control everything,
slow things down.

They're afraid of the new press.

They're lost.
We must reassure them.

I can't quarrel
with you and your friends

over a clown like Lousteau.

You understand?

Yes.

I can be generous.

Here's what I propose.

You write me a few
of your famous satiric articles

to pay back what you owe me.

And we'll forget this silly story.

How's that?

Anonymous. No name.

Name? What name?

Chardon or Rubempré?
No one knows.

That very day, Finot sent Lucien
a list of personalities

to attack in his articles.

He had met some

in society salons.

Never mind,

his quill raced,

anonymous,
as if no longer part of him.

Smear campaigns were a new game
on the journalistic scene.

By giving Finot

the articles he owed him,

Lucien signed his death warrant.

Perfect.

He took the bait.

We have him.

To Lucien de Rubempré.

Lucien.

Come in, my friend.

I have your money.

The rest tomorrow.

Don't worry,

we'll give her a triumph.

For all ambitious men,
there comes a terrible moment

when an unknown mysterious power
puts them to severe tests,

punishments too long postponed.

Their entangled lives unravel

and misfortune appears on all fronts.

Unless born rich,
every man has his fatal week.

For Lucien,
this cruel moment was here.

He would see men
and events turn against him.

I hear you joined a new paper
that defends our ideas.

My decision
was late but sincere, madam.

There is talk of making Lucien
Rapporteur at the Chamber.

A quite well-paid official appointment.

You would be able
to devote yourself to your writing,

to your works.

And to your pretty young lady.

I hear she has great talent.
You too, Louise?

She's a beautiful soul.

She's real, she's vibrant.
You would like her.

Perhaps,
we could receive her one day.

After all, why not?

Nathan could

write her portrait
in your paper to launch the play.

Playing Racine has merit.

He's the blood of France.

It's a worthy idea.

Racine too
was born into the bourgeoisie.

He was ennobled
by virtue of his genius

and intrigue.

Compromise is timeless, is it not?

Thank goodness, there's love.

To love.

To love.

What have they done to us?

I don't know.

Let me help you.

Harder!

Louise's money

was used to pay for applause
at Coralie's premiére.

Singali had sworn
to make the chandeliers tremble.

Everyone who had entered
Lucien's Parisian life,

his human comedy,
was present that evening.

Swathed in their finery,

with faces like stage masks.

In this social scene,
the worst often had the best seats.

All society
had arranged to be there,

for the lovers' grand eve.

Prince,

all too deeply
I hide my pain from you.

You see before you
a queen distraught, who,

heart-stricken,
requests but a word.

You fear, you say,
my peace be disturbed,

yet your cruel refusal brings pain,

excites my grief,
my anger, my disdain.

If to you my peace
seems a precious prize,

were I ever dear to your eyes...

Ready?

It will be fabulous.

You fear not to disobey me?

If I speak, you would hate me.

Speak!

Heavens, such violence!

She gave herself entirely,

expressing the truth
of a woman truly in love

under her actress's mask.

Facing a room
whose hostility was palpable,

the cold audience
took her means away.

Applause and flowers
were unnecessary for her pride,

but vital to fight.

What?

Rome is suspicious of a reigning queen.

You must part.

Tomorrow.

Must part!

Alas, Phenice!

Madam...

With such poignant sincerity,

the Boulevard actress
found unexpected intonations...

even heartrending ones.

Titus abandons me!

Titus who swore to me.

No, I cannot believe.

He parts not from me,
but from his glory.

He is innocent,

so they destroy me...

Singali!

Singali!

Faithful to his principles,
Singali sold out

to the highest bidder
at the last minute.

Let me go!

Who was Lucien
in this world of ambition?

A child chasing after
vain pleasures and delights,

sacrificing everything to them.

Like a moth drawn to light,

a slave of circumstances.

His conscience
would be a heartless hangman.

The next day,

Lousteau & Co. merrily
tore Coralie's performance to shreds.

The mob was unleashed.

How dare this Boulevard actress

play a great tragic role,
the essence of French genius?

She was a nothing.

May she go back
to her vulgar scarlet stockings!

To humiliate Lucien,
Coralie had to be sacrificed,

ridiculed, lapidated in public.

And there was more.

Finot had promised
Lucien's articles would be anonymous,

but his signature
appeared on the attacks against

the Justice Minister and Royalists.

- I was tricked.
- Is this your signature?

- It was a trap!
- Who are you, sir?

A weathervane? A breeze?

Look.

The patent to recover your title.

It was to be signed
by the king's own hand.

This "official" document

was merely a piece of paper
lying on the desk.

But by tearing it up,

Lucien had the illusion
of being master of his destiny.

For never

had there been any question

of Lucien obtaining
his precious name and title.

The marquise
had dreamed up this cruel game

to make
Lucien betray his friends.

And she had succeeded.

Yet betrayal meant nothing,
to anyone.

As if evil,
an entity unto itself,

raced along
with reckless abandon.

Meanwhile,
the Royalists voted new laws

to silence the opposition press.

It was the end
of the small papers and an era.

I'm a journalist!

We'll teach you to shut up!

The police would discover

the scams and expose
their underground economy.

What about freedom of the press?

The mainstream press

shouted its indignation
over such scandalous practices.

This press, ever as independent,

carried on its Holy mission
to enlighten readers.

I want champagne!

By burning paper supplies,

the State hoped
to reduce small papers to silence.

For what future was there
for a newspaper without paper or ink?

Ailing, Coralie remained dignified,

her lungs eaten away by disease.

Rejected by papers of all leanings
and now penniless,

Lucien found jobs
writing common advertisements

for 10 francs a piece.

"For you, madam,
the new Macassar oil...

"A heavenly scent...

"Buy sweet violet soap
to wash clothes..."

"Springtime in your closets."

Buy, buy, ever more...

A new world was dawning.

Several weeks later,

Matifat used his growing influence

to secure Coralie's role for Florine.

He had bought
the Royalist paper, Le Révell,

and made Nathan editor.

Florine's voice

was flat,
her gestures mechanical,

but with Singali's paid applause

and indulgent reviews,
the farce worked.

Lucien could not
afford a tomb for Coralie.

Cemetery plots
had become prohibitive,

for property speculation
had extended even to graveyards.

Even eternal rest had a price.

I thought you were my friend.

I am, Lucien.

I bring you back to writing.

To yourself.

Maybe one day, you'll thank me.

Lucien left Paris

and returned home.

On this sad day,
I began writing his story.

The story I just told you.

The story

of his lost illusions.

He had known this lake
since childhood.

As he entered the cold water,

he did not know
if he wanted to cleanse himself or die.

He stayed there for a moment.

He would stop hoping

and start living.

"I think of all those
who must find inner force

"after the time of disenchantment."

Adaptation: Julie Meyer

Subtitling TITRAFILM