All language subtitles for Treasure of Catenac.en

THE TREASURE OF CANTENAC

This work was produced at
Photosonor Studios in Courbevoie

Then it was fully developed at Eclair
Laboratories in Epinay-sur-Seine

and it's a film by...

Come in.

Rene Genin, priest of Cantenac,

and Roger Legris, village idiot.

How are they?
- Very amazing.

Very surprising? Well, my God...

Gentlemen, please.

You're well, Mr. Sacha Guitry?
- Until proven otherwise, yes.

Do you have time to make a movie?
- We always have half an hour ahead.

Well, sir...

I find your story fascinating,
to the extent that...

Hello, miss?

Would you like to send
me a complete crew?

Yes, yes, right away. Thank you.

Mr. Fernand Rene.

I'm the village drunk.

You see what you have to do.

Ladies, please.

Mrs. Fusier-Gir,
the haberdasher of Cantenac.

Mrs. Pauline Carton,
the parish priest's maid.

Do you want to advertise

Milly Mathis, the
owner of the cafe,

with Henry Laverne
and Paul Demange.

One being her husband,
and the other, her lover.

Mr. Marcel Simon,
the centenary of Cantenac.

And here is Ramir.

No, but listen...
I beg your pardon.

If you all talk at once, I won't
be able to write anything down.

- Here's how it starts.
- A nice morning...

No, it was one evening.

No, no. It was a Thursday.

It's probably for a movie.

Ronnier will surely edit it.

Mr. Baron de Cantenac,
with his son-in-law and his wife.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the named villagers:

Robert Seller, the carpenter;

Luce Fabiole, the washer during the day;

Numes Jr., the postman;

Jacques Sablon, the roadmender.

Are you aware of
the miraculous event

that happened in Cantenac?
- I'm very interested,

I admit it.

- Let me tell you.
- Go ahead.

On September 2, at 8:20 a.m...

Here is Sophie Mallet, the goose girl;

Pierre Juvenet, the butcher;

Marthe Sarbel, the baker;

Yvonne Hebert, the ironer;

Claire Brilletti, the nanny;

Georges Spanelly, the architect.

Take the trouble to go up.

Here is Jacques de Feraudy, the blacksmith;

Leon Walther, the butler;

Solange Varennes, the
shepherdess; Aziza Ali, the gypsy;

Roger Poirier, the gardener;

Germaine Duard, the servant.

Would you mind going
up to the waiting room?

This is Bob Roucoules, the doctor;

Paillette, the midwife;

and Grethen, the carpenter.

Come up, gentlemen.

Varougeanne, the gypsy;

and finally Bever, the gravedigger.

That's how it ends.

- And it couldn't have ended better.
- We all think so.

What are all these people?
They're nice.

They just told me about
an extraordinary film subject.

In this film, you will play
the role of Mademoiselle,

if miss wants it.

Provided that you play the
role of Baron de Cantenac.

I can refuse nothing to the baron.

He is a man, in fact, who
never denies himself anything.

Gentlemen, we're starting
a new movie in a month.

Francois Caron, would you like
to be the production manager?

Francois Gir, be my assistant.

Renoux, do the decorations.

Ramettre, be the operator.

And please call up
the recruits again.

Mr. Louis, sound engineer.

Miss Lefevre, be the script girl.

Mr. Muller, be the stage manager.

Oh, and here's Louiguy!

Do you want to make music?
Yes? So much the better.

Three, four!

Once upon a time there
was a small village which

sat modestly between
Paimpol and Draguignan.

It was a lovely little village.
There are no ugly villages

when viewed from a distance.

Its name was Cantenac.

It had been there
for centuries and

it had never been
talked about before.

Imagine what's coming

to happen to it is a miraculous adventure.

And it is precisely this adventure
that I'm going to tell you about.

But I have to start
at the beginning, and

I want to ask you
the following question:

do you know what a village is?

Do you know how it starts?

Well, it starts with a castle.

It's hard to believe, but
that's the way it is.

A great lord decides one
day to have himself built

a magnificent castle.

When you have
such a castle built,

we need many things.

To build it, we need everything.

And to live there,
we need bread, milk,

fruits, vegetables and flowers.

Alas, we need meat.

How not to hang

the beauty of this rider and the
nobility of the gesture of the worker.

Maintaining the lord
has no more harmony

no grace than the gesture of a worker

when he does his work with love.

So close to the
castle a village rises,

which the day before
was still only a hamlet,

and which seems to come out of
the ground at the call of the steeple.

You have to have your
reason for being on earth.

This is why the castles
of old knew how to

make themselves
useful by creating villages

which sometimes became towns.

Because give and take.

When the village feeds the castle,

the chateau supported him
by providing him with work.

And that's how in the 16th
century, our little village was born,

and such is the lord who
brought him into the world.

It's been around for almost 500 years.

But it must be admitted that it
has hardly existed for 150 years.

It barely survives, poor thing.

Because it no longer has
a castle. It's finished.

Since the Revolution, since 1793.

But let's put an end to all that,

because now the village rooster

tell the rooster in the steeple
that it's 5 o'clock.

The bell tower repeats
it and others will say it.

Now the houses are
slapped by the shutters.

Then at the thresholds of
the doors and in the frames

of the windows appear,
puffy and almost all sullen,

5, 10, 1 5, 20 faces of peasants.

Let's get to know them.
We are going to learn some great things.

Because there are many
extravagant things in this village.

And speaking of
extravagant things, here

without further ado is
the boozer of the place

and the village idiot.

This sweet drunkard
is a subject of curiosity:

we have never seen him drink
and we always see him drunk.

It's because he hides to drink.

In my opinion, he should do the opposite.

He should drink openly
and hide when drunk.

As for this little guy who sneaks
around, who appears, who disappears,

who likes to fade away,
to prank everyone, he

plays a fairly discreet
role in the adventure,

although it is essential.
We will soon have the proof.

Oh! It gets dark early this morning.

Since she is coming to us,
allow me to present her to you.

Why does she walk like this?
Why so many ways?

Why is she wearing
her hair this way?

Because she had
been to Paris one day.

She deserved a lesson,
and Prosper gave it to her.

And this lesson did him great good.

She knew love, and soon
she became the village crane.

That's what it's like
to have been to Paris.

But let's be serious. Here
we have two men in evidence:

the mayor and the priest.

Both have their
own strongholds, and

it's not just the road
that separates them.

The mayor is disbelieving,
profane, sectarian.

He clings to his opinions
as if someone wanted to take

them from him, whereas no
one in Cantenac shares them.

It is the same with the priest,
poor, dear and holy man.

Nobody talks to him.
He doesn't talk to anyone.

Here is the reason.

Between this mayor,
who sits on the edge of the

wells, as if to prevent
the truth from coming out,

and this priest whom everything
divides: the character and

the ideas, the mission of
one, the function of the other,

yes, between these two
men, there is something.

One thing that makes their
hostility grow more serious every day

and deeper still.

These men are both
brothers, and they are twins.

The fight had been terrible
between them not long ago, and it

is claimed that one evening
they had both come into conflict.

The two men had
fought bitterly over the

villagers, who soon, not
knowing which way to go,

and desiring to lead a
peaceful existence on

earth without closing
the sky irremediably,

one day made the
double determination

not to set foot in church again,

nor to meetings organized at the

town hall for an
obvious purpose.

These people preferred
to have no opinion of any

kind, neither political
nor religious, no, no, no!

"May they both work it
out and leave us alone."

However, there are two
concessions that everyone,

Panurge's sheep if there
ever was one, willingly made:

every 4 years they
voted for the mayor, and

at the time of death,
the night having come,

they called the priest.

And if they only vote
at the last second,

they only called
the priest at the

last minute, when
all hope was lost,

so as not to have trouble with
the mayor in the event of recovery.

Poor priest!
What a bizarre existence he led!

It was always in vain
that he shook his bells.

He no longer baptized, never

confessed, never laughed at me.

And as for his mass, he
always said it in a low voice,

his servant serving as an altar

boy, since no
child in the village

did not agree to
fulfill this pious duty.

She did it against the
consent of the priest

and against the
formal will of the bishop.

This Eulalie, a cantankerous
and devoted creature, moreover,

acquitted herself of this duty
in a rather unexpected way.

She applied herself to sparing
the goat and the cabbage.

She served him his
mass as she served him

his lunch, so without
manners and promptly.

She considered that it was one
more meal that her master took,

and pretending to ignore
the rites and customs,

gave her a hand
since she was his maid.

She kept the
genuflections for the house

which would not have
failed to be observed there.

Then the mass being
said, she passed in front

of the mayor with her
forehead held high,

since she could claim
that the pious duty she had

performed was part of the
housework she had to do.

But if the influence of
the priest was almost nil,

it was not the same
with that of his brother.

This was exercised without control.

He was jeopardizing the
future of the village.

It was his, the school,
and he took advantage of it.

R, o, b...

That these names are
forever engraved in the

memory of men, what
could be more natural?

But do they have to
be exclusively those?

It is true to add that
it was understood,

but not listened.

His young audience had
concerns of a different order.

Cantenac was
spinning very bad cotton.

To say that he
lived on isn't even

exact, he was rather dying out.

By dint of living on themselves,

to marry together and
reproduce among themselves,

the inhabitants of Cantenac
have all become parents.

Relatives more or less close.

In such a small village, there
cannot be distant relatives.

Those who are not called
Pidoux are called Lacassagne.

It's one or the other.

There are only two
names left in the village.

The other names have disappeared,
as if absorbed by these two.

But the Pidoux are very prolific.

In about forty years, they will
have absorbed the Lacassagnes.

And already today, if
someone dared to call:

"Hey, Pidoux", we would see

two-thirds of the
village turn around.

Did we see in Cantenac, coming
from elsewhere, a living soul?

In truth, never.

Except for Dr. Laragounias,
who came by every month,

passed through the village,
and never even set foot there,

because he came by bicycle.

- No need for my services?
- Nope.

Go your way, mister charlatan.

And you, at least,
try to go straight.

- No need for my services?
- No, doctor.

Give him 40 francs to hear
himself say: "Don't eat too much,"

no thanks.

- You are too late.
My husband died yesterday.

Push my leg back and
I'll give you my clientele.

As for those, it is something else.
And even the opposite.

It is not without reason that
he prudently deviates from it.

Called by them last
year, he had given

this woman a massive
dose of calomel

who had, unwittingly,
saved his life, which

this man harbored a
grudge against him forever.

So, for one reason or another,

Laragounias was
unpopular in Cantenac.

When he passed by the cemetery,

the idiot never failed
to shout at him...

Hey, doctor, send us people!

In truth, Cantenac is so badly
placed and so devoid of interest

that no one ever has the
opportunity to come or go there.

Now and then a stray car
pretends to drive through the

village, but as soon as it sees
him, as if he were repulsive,

she goes back in
reverse and takes the

straight path, a path
that is not straight.

I would be remiss if
I did not mention an

unexpected visit which
made Cantenac so excited.

This visit takes place
a month or two before

the considerable,
unexpected, miraculous event,

which was to completely
transform Cantenac.

This is the reason why I cannot

dispense with
telling you about it.

A caravan of gypsies
who came from

who knows where,
wandering and pitiful,

stopped in the village square to the
great astonishment of the inhabitants.

From this trailer,
we saw a creature

descend, barefoot and tanned,

oily hair, copper sequins
and tambourine, who

pretended to dance
as if for herself alone,

but all the same with
an ulterior motive.

- Instead of arguing...
- Look what's happening to us.

What she was hoping for
finally happened, and when

she saw that the majority
of the village was there,

she stopped dancing,

and in a fluent gibberish,

she informed that
she was not only a

dancer, but also read
the lines of the hand.

For the modest sum of 1
franc, she flattered herself

that she could tell everyone
their immediate future.

Yes, but that, their future...
They already had an idea of it.

And 1 franc is still 1 franc.

And these women, they do
not make fun of the world?

Everyone was
dying to consult her.

One of them had to start.

It was a woman.
Another followed her.

Then it was a man, then others.

And all of them in the end passed away.

Two hours later, they
knew what to expect.

Their future no longer held any

secrets for them,
and it was obvious.

They were worried and
tormented, more than usual.

She had made the mistake of
predicting their next happiness.

Madness, let's see.

Tell these people they
were going to be happy,

it was to tell them that
they were unhappy.

She realized it, alas too late.

They had conceived for
her a strong resentment:

"She took our money,
this moricaude!"

Our Romanichelle
hastened to leave the village.

"She leaves!"

"Trickster!," "thief,"

"garbage," "bastard!"

Running after her,
they threw stones at her.

One of them broke her
window pane and injured her.

Oh, not a lot, but too many.

They were proud of it that day.

But they will regret it.

Shall I tell you about coffee?
Certainly.

He plays a key role here.

It is the meeting place for
peasants, who are bored at home.

At nightfall, they come
there, and there they

are grouped 4 by 4, around
a shackle or a weasel.

Looking at them closely,

would you believe that
these men are living

happiest time of their day?

They seem angry together.
It is not so.

These are not people who
do not talk to each other.

These are people who no
longer speak to each other

because they have told
each other everything.

For them to speak to each
other, there must be a death.

She is dead.

- My poor Simon! It's horrible!
- My poor friend!

A death or a birth.

"He's a little guy!"

In truth, nothing else
happens in Cantenac.

But a birth does not have with
them the success of a death.

The first movement of joy
passed, they listen with a

distracted ear to the story of
an event planned for months

and which is of little interest to them.

A death is something else.

There is the unexpected in the
agony, and sometimes, mystery.

Some already they
are distressing, but

others bring to laugh,
to laugh and to think.

Especially since there are always
a few questions of money involved.

And finally, death hangs
in the face of them all.

To be born is done.

Let these men to their
thoughts, to their belotte.

Turning to the
patrons of the cafe,

we observe a curious threesome.

Here are the husband and the lover.

And the woman, here she is.

I will not have the
impropriety to judge

the physical attractions
of this woman,

for I would be remiss
to grieve those men who

regard her as beauty
and grace personified.

They speak of her as
we spoke of Castiglione.

Her eyes, her arms,
her breasts, her hips

and her smile, they
are so charmed by it

that everything is a pretext
for them to sing his praises.

It is precisely because
they agree on this

crucial point that these
two men hate each other.

They don't have
the same political

opinions, but basically
they don't care.

They are equally
bad players, and their

checkers games are
sometimes stormy,

but 5 minutes later,
they both clink glasses.

Nothing that separates
them separates them.

But because they agree
on the beauty of this

woman, here they are
divided because of a hyphen.

Besides, this fat man
makes them tremble with fear.

Because his jealousy
is terrible and constant.

He shouldn't see
her doing any favors

to that weakling.

And it's been going on for 15 years.
He watches them.

And the other two
don't trust it, believe me.

When they want to kiss

what precautions
do they not take?

The other is on the eye. He
chases them into his room.

And when he takes them
together, there is no dead hand.

It's a big kick in the ass

put him back in his place.

One would be entitled to
ask this man so jealous the

reason for which he supports
this undesirable presence

near the loved object.

But that is a question
that cannot be asked.

Because this big
authoritarian man is the lover.

The weakling is the husband.

As for the child
of this woman, let

him not kiss his
father on the 1st,

because his real
father is him, the lover.

The weakling knows it, the woman

remembers it, and
the child guesses it.

- Hold on, hold on, hold
on, hold on, hold on, hold on!

In this house there
is a real phenomenon.

So look, here is his old
son, and that's the word,

87 years old, who plagues
from morning to night.

He is his youngest son.

The two eldest died of rage.
Not rage, rage.

You will soon know why.

This is his granddaughter, who is only 65,

but who looks at least 83,
undermined by her bad mood.

His great-great-granddaughter,
22 years old.

Here is his great-grandson
coming out of the little place,

and who now enters
his 47th year grumbling.

Finally he, the phenomenon, here he is.

Born in 1821, he is now 128 years old.

But it must be admitted that
it appears to be barely 110.

And there he is, smiling,

making his great-great-great-grandson
take his first steps,

aged, if I may say so, 18 months.

These 126 years which separate
them also seem to bring them closer.

Don't they have the same difficulty
putting one foot in front of the other?

The old man can still walk
and the child can already walk.

Which of the two is
the other based on?

Wouldn't the child be
making the old man do

his last steps?

To the table!

It's soup time.

And here are 6 generations
who immediately group together,

the ancestor having for vis-a-vis
the last offspring of his race.

The same precautions are
taken for the old man and the

child, for the same small
accidents are to be feared.

One has no more teeth,
and the other has none yet.

Yes. But where does it come from that, with the
exception of the centenary and the little child,

the four middle generations
have such sullen faces?

And what do those wicked,

cruel, ruthless,
hateful looks mean,

launched as if on the sly

towards this mischievous
old man who realizes it?

Why do the four of
them seem impatient?

Why such great concern?

What are they waiting for?
They are waiting for the old man to die.

They are worried because
they do not see it coming.

We've been waiting for
his death for 60 years,

and he knows it, and it amuses him.

Not only does he not die,

but he looks younger, the bugger.

Last year he wasn't doing so well.

But see it, look at it!

You would swear his
son is older than him.

It's odious, really.
It's immoral too.

One has no right to make
one's inheritance wait like this.

It shouldn't be allowed.

It should be agreed that past the
hundred, we share our property.

Is this old man so rich that they
are waiting for his death like this?

Oh, it's much more complicated than that.

He's not just rich,
he may be very rich.

What he has is a treasure.

This treasure, he hid it.

And no one has ever been able to find out.

The house, they have visited
it 100 times from top to bottom.

They turned the
garden soil 10 times,

in vain.

Is it upstairs? Is it on the left?

Am I there right?

If they knew where the treasure is hidden,

the old man would have died
accidentally a long time ago.

From time to time, like

that, he calls them to him

and said to them: "My treasure,

"You will not know where he
is until the moment of my death.

"But until then..."

And that's the moment
they're waiting for, watching for.

Oh that, but...

Thus, to amuse himself, the
old man gives them false joys.

False joys that deal
them a mortal blow.

So much so that he
saw die of exasperation

his wife, then his
brother, his two sisters, his

brother's three children
and his two eldest sons.

But tell me, now
his youngest son

seems to spin a very bad cotton.

Such a bad cotton that
positively here it goes.

Squeak! An embolism.

We were waiting for the death of the
father, and it is the son who is leaving.

It's so funny.

And our cent en
aire can't help but

think as soon as
he'll bury them all.

And here is another one to whom his
treasure will have passed under his nose.

His joy is shared by his
great-great-great-grandson,

whose new death increases his
rights to the inheritance by one degree.

Here is the small
store where they

sell everything,
socks, nails, sardines...

Let's stop for a
moment: it's worth it.

The haberdasher
leaves. She goes for an

errand, and claims she'll
be back in 10 minutes.

His daughter is there,
and she is the curiosity.

She is the only pretty
girl in the village, but the

village does not know
that she is a pretty girl.

These people only see one thing:

she is not like the others.

They know what it's
like to have a beautiful,

fat, plump girl, a girl
with cheeks like apples,

whose buttocks we slap
to tell him that we find

it to his liking and that
we are a gallant man.

A, of course, they
know it, but they

don't know it's nice
not to be vulgar,

to have a nose like that
and hold your head up high.

They don't go so far as to say

it's a monster,
but most think so,

because it seems monstrous
to them to have such a

high forehead, such white
skin, such fine features,

a neck so thin
and so flexible, and

delicate hands,
so long, so slender.

-A tie, something that
matches my complexion.

She doesn't seem normal to them.

They say she has monkey

hands, they think
she's too skinny,

and believe she has tuberculosis.

The centenarian remembers
that his great-great-grandmother

had that same
little head no bigger

than a fist at the top
of a very long neck.

Eulalie, who had known her grandmother,

claims that she already looked
like her when she was still little.

The physical
singularities of this girl, to

believe them, had
to skip a generation,

as well as eczema,
arteriosclerosis and constipation.

-Do you have oilcloth notebooks?

Because they tell him you.

She is the only one in
Cantenac that no one knows.

They conclude that it is a minnow

who thinks he's come
out of Jupiter's thigh.

Can we have a coil like this?

Can we have a reel like this?

Yes.

And you?
- Give me a glass of mirabelle plum.

How do you say?

A glass of...

Oh sorry.

In place of mira belle, would
you by any chance have

shoelaces?

- I have one pair left.
- Oh, that's too much for half.

I only want one.

It's for the one-legged.
It is his birthday.

I'm saving you the other for his party.

- How much?
- 5 francs.

Keep it all.

Have you seen these colors?
Say, I'm talking to you.

Provided she gave me
the lace of the left foot.

Whether or not they
consider her a monster,

one fact is that
she is already 24

and no guy has
asked her to marry him.

It worries youth, without
awakening any other feeling,

at least it seems to him.

There are only certain
more very young married men

who recognize something
in him. They don't know what

but it makes them blush,

especially when
their wife is next to

her, and they can
make comparisons

that their half, much
wiser, usually repeals.

So, are you frozen in front of her?

That day, Blanche went too far.

She leaned over the
flat window of the counter

as if to say to him:

"Take care of yourself, if you
are ill with the bronchial tubes."

the other suddenly opened
the window, as if to say to him:

"So go fix your face yourself."

- Why did you fight?
- For nothing.

- Then tell me for whom?
- But for no one.

Can you swear to
me it's not for Paul?

He even refused my hand.

Look at them both leaving together.

If you hurt her, you'll
have to deal with me.

I hope you understood me.

- What's wrong with me, mom?
- I don't know.

-She didn't really know.

She wondered if it
wouldn't become a habit in

the country not to ask
for her daughter's hand.

No one asked her, but
as the years passed,

she imagines that she is
asked less and less of her.

What happened to you also
happened to your grandmother.

And who you look like exactly.

So she ended up
marrying just anybody.

I want to marry anyone, mom.

I went out for that.

I chose you...
- Anyone.

He's still a man.

Who is it, mom? He is old?

Nope. He is very young.

You want to see it?
I let him in there.

- Won't you tell me who it is?
- Nope.

I want you to be surprised.

Would you like to marry her?

-Oh no!
I'm stupid, but I'm not stupid.

Why do not you want?

Because she is too beautiful.

The idiot alone guessed
that she was ravishing.

By the way, why does
everyone think he's an idiot?

Because he has baroque
ideas and whims, as

those who are out of
the ordinary often have.

They call him stupid because he
has an ugly little dog on a leash.

And that he tells her stories,

which is not a
sign of foolishness.

They say he's stupid
because he sometimes laughs

for no reason, when he
deserves it all the more.

They say he's stupid
because every evening at dusk,

he goes alone to the
cemetery and leaves a daisy,

a poppy, sometimes even
an ear of wheat, on the

grave which is in the
center of the enclosure.

But since the
16th century, this is

where the lords
of this village rest.

Because if since 1793,
they no longer have a castle,

at least they kept the
habit of being buried there,

among these beloved countries.

- "Alain Pidoux, master glassmaker.

"The Sire de Cantenac, poet and captain.

"Jean-Francois, squire to King Henry IV."

And we have, in short, an
aspect of the village as it once was.

There, the castle remains,
surrounded by thatched cottages.

"Philippe de Cantenac, Bishop of Perpignan.

"Amedee de Cantenac, Marshal of France.

"Vivien de Cantenac,
member of the Institute."

Because if we destroyed
the cradle of this

noble family, we neglected
to ransack its tomb.

"Pierre de Cantenac,

"Ambassador of France."

So much so that not
being able to be born here,

Jean de Cantenac dead on the scaffold,

Antoine de Cantenac
died in exile, all the barons

of Cantenac were brought
there when they died.

The latest, Arthur de Cantenac,

was deposited there
on April 12, 1922.

He had committed suicide.

But are there still any Cantenacs left?

There is one more,
no more, and here it is.

Here is the last Baron de Cantenac.

He is a 70-year-old man
who is as poor on his own

as all the cottages in
his village put together.

If I compare them, it's
because he looks like Cantenac.

Wrapped in his greenish
cape, he looks like he is

covered in ivy, and under
his big exorbitant straw hat,

one would think he was wearing stubble.

What he loses in happiness and
youth, he regains in picturesqueness.

He lives in a pavilion in
the heart of an old farm,

itself located 10 leagues from Paris.

How does he live? In slow motion.

And like his village,
he is slowly dying.

Nothing prevents him
from giving life a tip

of the hat, which
his village cannot do.

He is perfectly free to
hasten this end which

sometimes seems to
him a little slow in coming.

Because is it living to
vegetate like this in this shack

and under conditions
which, though

exceptional, are no
less heartbreaking?

And to have so many chickens, to

have a gardener,
a flock of geese,

one must have some
fortune, it will be said.

Well, no.

Monsieur le Baron has returned.
- You think?

So let's hurry.

And here they are hurrying.

And to have this
perfectly stylish old butler,

and this pleasant
and considerate cook,

you have to have pensions.

No, again.

Because these people
whom he kept for 30 years

in his service have
now become his guests.

After making a fortune
with the baron, they

bought this farm
and took him in there.

They are not content to be
unpaid by him, they lodge him

free of charge in their homes,
feed him and serve him.

With as much love as respect.

They wouldn't
accept it otherwise.

They became peasants
for their pleasure,

but at mealtimes,
duty above all else,

they resume service
with their old master.

Thank you. Thank you.

He lives in this way, in
furniture that he intends to leave

them, surrounded by tables
which constitute his only possession.

Because the fortune of the baron

currently amounts
to 12,500 francs.

Not a penny less,
not a penny more.

And all in all, very quickly,

wouldn't it be better to end it?

What could he expect from life?
Nothing.

Fate? A miracle.

He no longer hoped for it.

Dramatic situation which
was to leave him cold.

He had sworn to cut
short his life abruptly

at a time when existence would
no longer seem livable to him.

That is why the event must
have left him doubly cold.

But the fatal hour had come that morning.

His will was soon made.

The little that
remained of its past

splendour, furniture,
objects and paintings,

he offered it to his servants.

M. de Cantenac
realized something

he had never thought of before:

he had been an absolutely
useless man all his life.

He had never done
anything with his ten fingers.

By not having played
any specific role

on earth, he would
have had bad grace

to attach importance
to its abolition.

And if he slowly hid his will,
it was not in the hope that

someone would come to
prevent him from killing himself,

no, no, but he didn't mind

being the impassive spectator.

He would have been sorry for
lacking in self-control at such a moment.

He reviewed his life, regretted

never having been to Florence,

for not having lived in
the eighteenth century and

for never having seen
Sarah Bernhardt in Phedre.

He had adored women,
but indiscriminately.

He congratulated himself
that he had never had any

illusions nor about the
feelings they showed him,

nor on those he felt for them.

Familiar now with the
idea of disappearing,

he felt a kind of
bitter pleasure,

and as long as he
closed his eyes, he

saw very well that he
was no longer there.

He liked to imagine this now
respected chair, therefore vacant.

His objects, his pipe,
his razor, his comb,

his shaving brush,
have become relics.

He grouped them in thought
among the works of art.

Only the fate of his glasses
tormented him a little.

Not being able to see anything without
them, what would they see without him?

But everything else,
he was mourning.

His decision having been made
and the hour of his departure

fixed, what was this engraving
which held his attention?

And who also held his hand?

It was a beautiful drawing
from the eighteenth

century, one of
Hubert Robert's finest.

It was the Chateau de
Cantenac, with its little village.

An idea suddenly occurred
to him: to know Cantenac.

This old tree had some
impatience in its roots.

To have seen his village,

rush there head first before

going there soon feet first.

24 hours later, the
Baron de Cantenac

entered Cantenac
in a surprising crew.

This bulky old gentleman
dragged by such a small horse,

there was indeed enough
to surprise our villagers.

But their surprise was
matched only by his.

For if these did not come back,

this one, for his part,
could not believe his eyes.

If they found it all funny,

he found them very sad.

And if he made
some of them giggle,

he perceived things
that upset him.

And met looks that
would have made her cry,

if he hadn't turned his head away.

He had a completely
different idea of his village.

And he was extremely affected by it.

So much so that, moreover,
he shortened the visit.

He wanted to go where
his fathers' castle once

stood, but not having
a taste for ugly things

and little fond of sinister

impressions, he turned back.

Why walk among old stones?

Why run after the
witnesses of a bygone past?

Since this castle is no more,

isn't it better to imagine
it, resplendent, haughty?

His thoughts led him to the

cemetery, where
miraculously spared,

this final abode was intact.

The peasants had
followed him. He didn't care.

With peace of mind, listing
all his ancestors, he became

more familiar with the
idea of joining them soon.

While at Cantenac he was
putting his ideas in order,

his servants were cleaning
Fontenay from top to bottom.

Having collected
himself for a few minutes,

he retraced his steps
and went to the church.

-Oh my God!

Baron de Cantenac had
entered the holy place to ask

the parish priest to
record certain declarations

what he had to do with her.

Which were certainly
of the keenest interest,

but which he had to keep secret.

He didn't speak to anyone

else, then got
back into his cart.

He walked away, his heart
sorry to have come.

His little town...

He had said hello to her, he
was saying goodbye to her.

- Have you seen this old gentleman?
- I saw him.

So what?

If he'd told no one who he was,

everyone had an inkling of it.

Apart from the hundred in
air, who had not seen him,

everyone was convinced that
the baron had paid them a visit.

Some agreed that they
would not be surprised,

others that it would
not surprise them,

and in vain the mayor defended himself
against it, he defended himself badly.

And if it was the Baron de Cantenac?

The centenary, obstinate,
pretended there was no more Cantenac.

- What do you know about that?
- What do you mean?

If there was still one left, he would know.

What makes you say that?

The look he has. Yes perfectly.

I think he looks very great.

I agree with you.

Give me your hand.

- Why did you refuse?
- I didn't dare take it.

Why do you dare today?

Because I have a
feeling you won't pull it off.

Mom, it's a Cantenac.
Now I'm sure.

Word of it was spreading,

and now it was a certainty.

The centenary himself was shaken.

Some claimed they
would get their hands on it.

But how had they guessed it?

I don't know, but
when an adventure is

miraculous, it is
from beginning to end.

One of them had to know more,

and it was the priest.

The old gentleman
and he had had a talk.

Prosper was sure of it.

Therese, Onesime,
Isidore and himself

had seen them, with their
eyes seen, talking together.

And it wasn't the priest who was talking.

Well then, let's get it
over with. Blandina!

What had he said to her
that was so extraordinary

for the priest to sign himself.

The priest stammered but
didn't want to say anything.

What did Blandine want from
him, who was coming like this?

The centenary wanted
to see him immediately.

He was going to die? Not at all.

What he was waiting for was
more urgent than extreme unction.

They kept telling him that this
visitor was the Baron de Cantenac,

and that the priest knew it.

He wanted to know the end of it.

We were going to see how
he managed to confess a priest.

Did that old gentleman tell
you his name was Cantenac?

No. He didn't say it, but I have
every reason to believe him.

And for what reason?

He told me to say mass for
the dead for M. de Cantenac.

And how can he know that in advance?

I wonder that too.
It made me prick up my ears.

If he knows in advance that he is going
to die, he is going to commit suicide.

He didn't tell you anything else?

He told me he would arrive
here on Thursday to be buried.

This must be prevented at all costs.

Did he give you his address?

- Yes.
- Well, go ahead.

Ah... that's all.

Good.

And he orders Claire
to lend him his bicycle.

- Mine?
- Of course, his.

They have skirts, these people.

And let the priest bring
the baron back to him.

Because he has capital
revelations to make to him.

Only, attention:
motus to everyone.

And the priest swears it.
At least, he promises.

And off he went.

And all of them asked, "Where is he going?"

Where he's going? To hell.

Back home, finally, I understand myself,

Mr. de Cantenac didn't waste a second.

His decision to end his
life was strengthened

by the visit he had
just made to his village.

In 5 minutes, I'm yours.

Our holy man is hurrying.
He meets a gentleman who read it.

He is so unaccustomed to it
that he wonders if he knows it.

The priest of Cantenac.

Let him come in.

The priest transmitted
the centenarian's request

to him, and 10 minutes
later they were on the road.

Hey, I had done well
to remove the bullets.

Here he is!

- Sit down.
- Sit down.

Thank you.

Sit down.

And now, let's not waste a minute.

I recognized you right away.

You have strong blood,
you people, the Cantenacs.

No need to ask you for
your papers, you are family.

You are of two species.

You are tall and strong, with

a nose... a nose like you have,

or else you are
blessed with a very

small head mounted
on a stork's neck,

as we have a curious one...

- Specimen?
- Yes.

As we have a specimen with
the yarn of the haberdasher.

But finally, this...

I recognized you right
away, thanks to the portrait

my father had made of
your great-grandfather.

Did your father know my great-grandfather?

-Yes.

We are a hundred in aires in the

family from father to
son since Bouvines.

My grandfather was born

in 1698.

And he died at 103.

And he had my father at 70 years old.

We're not only centenarians,

in the family.

We also make love,

and without difficulty, even
when one is dilapidated.

Back to what interests us.

My father was born in 1768.

So he was 25 years old

when the Revolution broke out.

You know what happened. People...

Quite well-meaning, no doubt.

They came here, they burned the

castle, seized the
Baron de Cantenac,

who, sensing misfortune,

and he was right, since
misfortune has happened:

he ascended the
scaffold three days later.

So, the night
before, he sent for

my father, who was his servant,

and entrusted him with a treasure.

- "A treasure?"
- Saying these words:

"When the time is right, you
will give it to my son Antonin."

What did my father do?
- I don't know.

He buried the treasure. Hey, is that...

You had to be careful.

A few years later, calm having

returned, he sought out Antonin.

Oh, sorry, sorry! Baron Antoninus.

Excuse me.

He looked for Baron Antonin
but he did not find him.

He was exiled.

The fool.

Oh sorry!

I agree with you. And he died in America.

- You should never go into exile.
- Never.

But that one was your great-grandfather.

Who was your grandfather?

- Henri de Cantenac. Died in war.
- And your father?

Arthur de Cantenac.

He killed himself in Monaco.

Ruined at the game.
- Ouch, ouch, ouch!

But then tell me you don't have to

rolling in money.
- Nope.

- You're not poor after all?

-Yes.

So I arrive on time

with your treasure.
- You can tell.

How funny that you

are so poor being so rich.

Well, being so rich, maybe.

For the treasure is there
money, is it precious stones,

are these family heirlooms?

- Don't you know?
- I don't know at all.

I never wanted to know.

My father never knew either.

All I know is it's

bulky, it's heavy,

in a sort of trunk that big.

Are there pistols,
are there knives,

is it old scrap metal?

We will find out tonight.
Or rather tonight.

There is an old
abandoned house in the

village that for 50 years
I have been passing

for a haunted house so
that no one comes near it.

That's where I hid it.

So we'll both go
tonight at midnight.

I go there every 10 years.

I look, I feel,

and then I leave.

I always have the key on

me, hanging around my neck.

I even pass it on my back
when my nose bleeds.

That night, when
everyone was in bed,

when the last candle
was finally blown out,

and while midnight
struck from all the steeples

of France, the Baron de
Cantenac and our centenary

went to this haunted
house which jealously

concealed the treasure
of the barons of Cantenac.

The door was not closed.
She never was.

The old man knew that thieves,
prying and ghosts themselves

never enter houses
whose doors are open,

because thieves,
prying eyes and ghosts

are necessarily
fearful people, who

when they don't
have to force locks,

are afraid of encountering
other thieves, indiscreet people

and even ghosts in houses
that do not close properly.

It - the treasure - is in the attic.

It is hidden under old bags.

Here are the bags. Let's lift them.

Oh, curses!

The treasure is no longer there.

Its trace is there, on the floor.
Let's follow its trail.

They hear a snoring that
panics them and reassures them.

Do ghosts snore?

Monsieur le Baron, framed like this,
you look like one of your ancestors.

Hush, let's move on.

Let's go slowly.
That's where we snore.

The idiot!

The idiot sleeps soundly
over the treasure he guards.

I changed it.

Where he was, there were too many rats.

I don't like rats.

- What are you doing here?
- We make the ghost,

Both.

Why are you ghosting?

- To keep your treasure, of course!
- How do you know

what is a treasure?
- It can be guessed, these things.

In such a box, double-locked,

it would be unthinkable to keep

cow dung.
- How do you know

what is mine?
- Because you have, grandfather,

the small, laughing
and always sideways

eye of the man who
possesses a treasure.

And also because only you dared
to talk about the haunted house.

And finally, because I saw

you enter it one
night, like a thief,

and come out empty-handed.

Since then I've been watching
over him by sleeping on

it, wrapped in an old bed
sheet, ready to play the ghost

if anyone came.
- You are a brave little man.

Because I'm stupid.

You may be telling the truth

but you already know too
much not to know more.

- Do we open it in front of him?
- "We open it in front of him."

Besides, it's not bad
that we have a witness.

- The treasure is yours.
You have all the rights.

But there are only costumes.

Yes. Who constitute in the order a
real treasure embroidered with honor.

- How heavy is that one!
- Honors are heavy.

And this one, and that one...

-Oh, for example!
What is that?

It's the leather apron
of a master glassmaker.

- That of Alain Pidoux.
- Perfectly.

And that's all.

- But yet it was so heavy.
- There must be a false bottom.

Yes, maybe.

No, I do not see.

I've found it! Take your
hands off, you'll see.

GOLD COINS!

And how much!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

6, 7, 8, 9, 10,

11, 12, 13, 14, 15...

Now, this treasure having
been realised, the baron

noticed that he inherited
an unexpected fortune,

considerable certainly,
but all the same calculable.

That's millions, many

millions, but not billions.

So there was no splurging.

What was he going to do?

His decision was soon made: Cantenac.

This fortune came to him from
Cantenac, and it belonged to him by right.

Cantenac. He had no other idea.

Make it happy, yes, but
make it your own way.

Distribute the gold to
these unfortunates: the idea

had occurred to him, but
he had quickly dismissed it.

It would have been to make misers of them,

and that's not how
you make people happy.

It was then that he
conceived the phenomenal

project of bringing life
back to his little village,

to start from scratch,
to start all over again.

48 hours later, he
received a notorious

architect whom he
had brought from Paris.

He explained to him
what he expected of him.

From the following Thursday,
he was no longer the same.

His little Horse was
raised to his 20th

power, and to realize
his extravagant dream,

he went back to his little village.

But, passing through Thibervalle...

He stopped at a notary's.

Master Jadoux, notary?

Do you have land for
sale around Cantenac?

Are you chasing me?

Are you deaf?

Mute?

I'm a buyer. Yes, yes, yes.

Immediately.

Thank you.

Tell me, my dear master,

the formalities will be settled later.

Goodbye.
- Goodbye.

Having acquired a hundred

hectares, he went
there immediately.

He was welcomed there by
the parish priest, who asked

him to consider himself
at home in the presbytery.

Mr. de Cantenac immediately
accepted the priest's proposal.

The same day, after dinner, from

these plots of land
he had just acquired,

he made a fair division
among the villagers,

who couldn't believe
their ears or their eyes.

Eulalie, who assisted
him kindly, gave him

valuable information
about his fellow citizens.

Pointing out to him which were
the poorest or the most meritorious.

"4 children," she said.

Or: "weak bronchi."

the indication she
provides him on Fortune

encouraged the baron to
offer him a plan of a vineyard.

Fortune told himself that he
was not the only one to like wine.

Here!

The baron found that Paul
Pidoux did not lack distinction.

But his astonishment was even

greater when he saw
Virginie Lacassagne.

Who is this person?

She's the haberdasher's daughter.

Ah, it's the haberdasher's daughter.

The baron remembered that the
centenarian had spoken to him about it.

He had given her a faithful,
significant description

and moreover tendentious.

Definitely, the proverb speaks
true: birds of a feather flock together.

She was beautiful, she was young.
He was young, he was handsome.

And jealous too.

Baron de Cantenac
did not expect so much.

Would things go wrong? No.

Because over this treasure
the idiot watched too.

You wouldn't have a field
of daisies by any chance?

And the distribution continued,

their faces lighting
up with a childish

smile which charmed the baron.

But that was still nothing.

The men no longer wandered
idle through the streets of the village.

Their tools, scythes,
rakes, shovels, pickaxes,

spades, they carried with
pride on their shoulders.

From dawn, they
worked in the fields, and in

the evening, they had
what gives a job done:

clear conscience.

Sidonie herself had pretended
to make herself useful.

She was dragging this cow
she was talking to like a big dog.

"Do you want to come
here right away? Come on!"

Fortune, the inveterate
alcoholic, claimed

that in future he
would only drink milk.

The intention was not bad,
and it should be encouraged,

but having lost the
habit of walking straight,

he had a tendency to
bump into things everywhere.

Lady, you don't
improve overnight,

everything has to be measured.

The mayor had understood this well.

He was beginning to
water down his red wine.

N, A, P...

These great men already,
he added them to the others.

WE...

Then, resolutely, he
gave them all a hug.

The children couldn't believe it.
They would see many more.

The lord of the village was
preparing a huge surprise for them all.

On the spot where
the castle of his fathers

once stood, he built an
unexpected residence,

on which he based
the greatest hopes.

Conforming to the
beautiful drawing of Hubert

Robert and according to
the baron's instructions,

the architect had
executed the model.

"That pleases you?"
"Yes, I like it very much.

"I didn't want it to
be old or modern.

"It doesn't have to be new or old.

“I want it to be very
simple and very beautiful.

"That is to say, it
has to be very French.

"I wish a mansion would be built

"like a phrase from
Voltaire or Anatole France."

But of that he must not
breathe a word to anyone.

"Hey, over there!
I see you three!"

No one was allowed to scale these walls.

The villagers became
familiar with the joy of living.

These were reconciled.

This one proposed to marry Eulalie,

if she promised never to run it.

When evening came, they sang.

-If I had to list all
the kisses she gave

I could well count 100,000.
And more

And more

And that's precisely
why I love it

-LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA...

Others were dancing.

What are you doing all alone?

I don't have a dancer.

-Oh good!

I go down.

They were both burning to dance.

Both means together.

But it was up to the one
who wouldn't invite the other.

Marivaux, Marivaux,
here are a lot of your tricks.

He thought her skirt
was lovely, but he

remembered that
of this Romanichelle.

He wished it had
been a little longer.

She, she wished
him a less dirty suit.

Miracle of love, her
skirt was getting longer.

Miracle of love,
his suit was clean.

Miracle of love, her
skirt went to the floor.

Let's embrace

The rumba that begins

Indicate to lovers

Its rhythm and cadence

Let's embrace

Let's be at his mercy

Let's respect its pace
and commit like this

A foolish recklessness

Dance, dance, dance with me

Without knowing if my
heart is faithful or mocking

disloyal or sincere

Hold, hold, hold me tight

And you'll know tomorrow
if you're just a canary

And if I'm mean

Sing, sing, sing with me

And if you betray
me I don't care today

Tomorrow I leave you

Don't, don't, don't give your heart

The rumba that ends
Indicates to lovers

That's the end of the dream

Let's open our eyes
wide and say thank you

To have us like this

Makes commit in cadence

A foolish recklessness

Dance, dance, dance, dance

Dance, dance...

Two hours later, tired of dancing,

they were drinking near the
pond, which was not a good idea.

Unless you like mosquitoes,
you have to stay away from ponds.

Oh, the camels!

And Fortune, whose
return to drinking was

celebrated, claimed
that, against mosquitoes,

there was no other
system than his.

To get rid of a mosquito,
you must not waste

a moment, not make a
gesture, not say a word.

So, hold on, Prosper...

-Hurry up!

He will never have it, his mosquito.

While his... Offering him his
arm and looking like nothing...

it waits for it to arise.

One, two... He got it.

But now the haberdasher
sees one on her cheek.

Perfect.

Oh no, thank you.
Isidore prefers his mosquito.

As for Gustave, see, he is already stung.

- No, not like this.
- He caresses me. Leave us.

Very well.

- There! Perfect!
- Nope! We argue.

Well, excuse me.

Oh, here's a beautiful one!

Oh, and then this one.

Because, under the
pretext of mosquitoes, they

took the opportunity
to settle old quarrels.

All quarrel being settled, good

humor reigned
henceforth in the village.

They were only thinking of having fun.

They thought only of working.

Anxious to embellish herself, this
one was beginning to eat up her fund.

And most had bought bicycles.

What are you doing with these flowers?

We just found out
that this gypsy, the one

who predicted we were
going to be happy...

She stands on the road to Thibervalle.

We bring them to him
as a token of gratitude.

We will share them there.

She'd like that better than stones.

Well, did it make him happy?

No more than that?

She told us that it was
not worth thanking her.

Yet she predicted happiness for us.

But she admitted to us
that for 10 years, she had

been predicting the same
thing in all the villages.

She'd made fun of us.

Want to see something
extraordinary? Look.

To the great astonishment of
all, the mayor was seen who,

having walked for a long
time in front of the church,

finally get in there.

For some, this behavior
seemed abnormal.

Wasn't he going to attack
his unfortunate brother?

Didn't he have to
tell the baron about it?

The mayor looked in vain for
his brother in the deserted church.

Where was he hiding?

He wasn't hiding, he
was in the confessional.

Someone was going to confession,
whose feet the mayor saw.

So he waited.

If asked what, he would
have said, "My turn."

Does it seem disturbing to you
that the mayor entered the church?

So go see what's going on,
and if necessary, I'll intervene.

The person who was
confessing left the confessional.

It was Eulalia.

She went to confession every
morning at the priest's request,

because he had lost the habit.

She accused herself
of 5 or 6 imaginary sins,

and the holy man
could get his hands dirty.

I am listening to you, my child.

I am not your child,

I am your brother.
- It's you?

- You can see it.
- No, I don't.

But I hear it's you.

Has anyone seen you?
- Me, I'm not ashamed.

Would you come to confession?
- Not exactly.

I would like you to forgive me

and we kissed. - forgive you,

I can do it like we're here, but

we're kissing, it's not so easy.

Let's go out

together.

THEY KISS, MR. BARON!
THEY'RE KISSING!

So life is beautiful.

And what for a long time
the baron wanted to do,

he did that day.

He had seen Virginie many
times but had never spoken to her.

Miss, I read it to you.

I bow to you.

Would you please welcome me

a moment? - Sure.

Mademoiselle, I wanted to
see you, and see you up close.

- "Up close?"
- Yes.

To better realize... My God!

Absolutely striking resemblance

between my grandmother's
mother and you, miss.

My ancestors loved
their villagers very much.

And please don't
be surprised or upset

by a resemblance
that calls into question

Madame your great-great-grandmother.

I am all the less upset
than our villagers of old

loved their lords very much,
and especially their lords.

Don't listen.

He's charming.

- He's not a liar.
- Why?

You're charming.

A year later, the architect
came to the presbytery.

Monsieur le Baron, it's all over.
I kept my word.

I haven't been there
yet, I kept my word.

And they both went
there, model in hand.

"I look at her well, I am impressed by her,

"and I will be his pity
if your model lied."

But the model was sincere, and

the miracle exceeded his hopes.

Admirable.

Moving.

Wonderful.

I made you both ask,
not so that you would

have the first of the
surprise for my village,

but to ask you to please help me

to put some order in these windows.

Would you like?

These are the costumes, the uniforms
of those who were my ancestors.

Here's the habit of Pierre de
Cantenac, Ambassador of France.

Here's the cassock of
Monseigneur de Cantenac.

And that?

This is the leather apron
of a master glassmaker

who lived in the 16th
century, Alain Pidoux.

- Wasn't he a nobleman?
- He became one later.

Do you know what a true noble is?

A man who ends up
bearing the name of his

village, so much he has
value, courage or pride.

Now this master glassmaker
was from Cantenac.

One day there he became "de Cantenac."

There is no greater honor than
to bear the name of one's village.

He was the founder of our dynasty,

and soon, very soon, we
will have the opportunity

to honor his memory.

Can I afford to entrust them to you?

Miss?

Sir?

Nothing.

Young man?
- Sir?

Nothing.

And now let's sit down.

Miss, the day you
appeared to me,

my first thought
was to recognize you,

since in truth I recognized you.

But on reflection, I
prefer to adopt him.

I don't care if you're a Lacassagne.

If I make him Baron de Cantenac,

you become a baroness

by marrying my son.

Needless to say, this is
the happiest day of my life.

The village of Monsieur
le Baron has arrived.

Let him enter.

My dear fellow citizens, I
have two words to say to you.

Having received this unexpected
treasure from the hands of our

centenary, I made the best
use of it by building this house.

But today,

I am broke.

Yes, ruined. But...

But it might well be

let us get rich.

There is only one way to
get rich with dignity: work.

The founder of my family
was a master glassmaker.

Here is his leather apron.

This apron,

I take it back. Yes.

I'm taking this apron back.

Because to be
sumptuous, the place

where we are is
no less a workshop.

Starting from scratch, master
glassmaker, I become again.

The 32 glasses that are on this

table were made that very night.

But we are

33 drinkers.

The missing glass is mine.

I don't want anyone
other than me to do it.

And I want to hope that in 80 years,

to those who will visit this village,

you will say - I am
speaking to young children -

that it is a craftsman who, to
everyone's happiness, solved the problem.

You say in...?

80 years old!

"80 years old?"

You heard it.

If in 80 years, people
will have to be told that it

was a craftsman who, to
our luck, solved the problem,

don't worry.

I'll tell them myself.

THE END