All language subtitles for Monsieur.Spade.S01E04.1080p.HEVC.x265-MeGusta[EZTVx.to]

Papa said he was being
paid to take care of him.

After leaving the
boy at the convent,

did Philippe tell you
where he was going next?

The boy? They want the boy.

You must be drunk if you think

I'm just going to hand
over the vineyard to you.

If I want you dead,
I just have to wait.

Someone's in the house.

Woman: Whoo-hoo!

Shh.

The other one jumped out the
window, but I winged him.

You okay?

I was about to
shoot this one, too,

but I thought that wouldn't
be in our best interest.

At least not until we
get information from him.

Not to mention you might
have hit me instead.

Impossible. I'm a dead shot.

What are you doing here?

I was asking you.

Oh, you told me to
keep an eye on Teresa.

Yeah, when I'm not around.

Well, lucky thing
I was here, no?

Hard to say. I'm not used
to that kind of luck.

Ah, French Army.

A real soldier wouldn't
try to kidnap a young girl.

Who are you calling
a young girl?

You all right?

Yes, thanks to Henri.

Henri, do me a favor
and go upstairs.

Go upstairs and do
what? Just go upstairs.

Right.

And take the women with you.

Henri, leave the gun, please.

How's your neck?

How's yours?

Another time, another place,
a man tried to kill me,

I would've shot him or
thrown him out of a window

and forgotten he ever existed.

But I'm older now.

And mostly wiser.

Do you have a name?

Didn't think so.

Are you a Dean Martin fan?

I figure that you've
been well-trained

and won't be easily
persuaded to talk,

but I'm gonna ask you
some questions, anyway.

Easy questions. And every
time you don't answer

or say, "Je sais pas,"

I'm gonna kick you in the head.

You know? Like the song?

And then answer the
question myself.

Sound good?

Off we go.

So I don't have to
be J. Edgar Hoover

to guess that you're
army intelligence

and that your
employers at SDECE...

Did I pronounce that right?

That's always been
a hard one for me.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.
SDECE, army intelligence,

the outfit that you work for,

who I'm assuming, like everyone
else in the known universe,

is angry with
Philippe Saint-Andre

for stealing something,

or, in this case, someone,
he was ordered to protect.

No, that wasn't a question.

But Sergeant Saint-Andre does
work for SDECE, doesn't he?

That wasa question,
and the answer is...

But he went rogue.

So did you and your
pal drop by tonight

to see if the girl could
tell you where the kid is?

Because the original likely plan

was that Sergeant Saint-Andre
was to deliver the kid

to the big boys in Paris.

I'm on a hot streak, but now
for the million-franc question.

What is so important
about this little kid

that everyone is
willing to murder nuns

or kidnap young girls in order
to get their hands on him?

I don't know.

Orders were come and search,

and if the boy wasn't
there, to take the girl.

But you came dressed for war,

all gunned up like you thought
you might get into a firefight.

You have a reputation.

I'm flattered, but...

Please, stop doing that.

I will if you stop
talking bullshit.

You thought Philippe
might be here.

For good reason.

Do you know what
Saint-Andre did in Algeria?

He was with a sniper unit.

A secret spy unit.

Saint-Andre hunted down members
of Organisation Armée Secrète.

Yes. And assassinated them.

He had over 30 kills.

Still, that tells me
nothing as to why everyone,

from the Vatican, to French
intelligence, to the CIA,

is after this kid.

All I know is what I
have heard whispered.

Okay, then whisper it to me.

That the boy is the hub
of a many-spoked wheel.

That sounds like something
you'd read in a fortune cookie.

It's all I've heard.

I swear on my mother's life.

Okay.

You can go now
and meet your pal,

who's probably
outside somewhere,

bleeding on my grapes.

Really? I can go?

You tell whoever gave
you this shit detail

that I would like to
find the good sergeant

as much as they would,

if for no other
reason than the bata

has spoiled my
fucking tranquility,

and that when I find Philippe...
and I will find him...

I will talk to him, and then I
will bundle him up in a carpet

and send him up to
Paris for you guys

to do whatever you want with.

But in the meantime, if I
catch any more armed men

in their jammies sneaking
about my property,

I will shoot them in the balls.

I wasn't lying before.

We know who you are.

You say that as if I'm hiding.

You have many enemies.

Okay, so I'm sending you away

with a few dents in your face
after you tried to kill me,

and now you wanna stand
there and threaten me?

My good friend, you wanna
advertise my whereabouts

in the morning Le Monde

or one night on
Discorama, be my guest.

But you will find that no one
cares about that Sam Spade.

Not anymore.

You tell your bosses
we're not enemies.

And they should believe you?

Why?

Get the fuck out of here.

Driver: Marguerite?

Cynthia: George and
I had just sat down

to do The Times cryptic

when we heard your man shouting.

You could hear him
from your place?

Well, we were in the garden.

The fresh air being part
of our daily ritual.

That, and the, uh,
mimosas, of course.

Here's a possible theory...
In trying to make his escape,

this chap runs this
way and tumbles in.

That's my considered opinion.

Might wanna reconsider
that opinion.

The road is the other direction.

No moon last night.
Darkness aplenty.

He's not familiar with
the terrain, so...

Still, one doesn't die from
simply tumbling into the pool.

One does if one can't swim.
He was a trained commando.

Who was also bleeding to death.

I only winged him.

His partner didn't
escape. I let him go.

I didn't see much point
in hanging onto him.

In the same way there
wasn't much point

when I saw you this
morning in telling me

that two men had tried
to kidnap Teresa?

In my experience,
the fewer people know

about something like this,
the fewer people get hurt.

Your concern for my
well-being is most touching.

A difficult shot in daylight.

This was at night, which makes
such precision impossible.

Not if one had a
night-vision scope,

like the PV-1 Starlight.

That would do the trick.

George was in the
Royal Fusiliers.

Is that where he
learned to paint?

Were you a rifleman?

Typing pool.

Yeah. Tepid shot.

I bet you are.

Henri, I suggest
you call the base

and let them deal with the body.

General Davou is a man
who insists on boundaries.

The soldier's his.
But the pool is mine.

This problem comes from
inside their own house.

Thank you for your time.

Pleasure. We'll be, um, there.

Oui.

Mmm.

Jean-Pierre: Marguerite?

Ah.

The lieutenant will meet
the ambulance in Bozouls.

That put you in a spot?

Doesn't seem so.

All's well that ends well, huh?

Just glad I could help.

Yeah, okay.

Knock it off and tell
me what's going on.

You're an officer cadet

who shot a fellow soldier,
who turned up dead.

Those are the facts,
yes, but they're outta...

Spare me. Who did
you call? The base.

Which base? The one in Léon

or the one in Paris?

Why would I call Paris?

Because your CO is there

and you weren't off
duty last night.

You were on duty.

Me? It's a smart play.

It's what I would do if I had
a soldier under my command

who knew every
inch of the place.

What's your rank?

Sublieutenant.

OK, from now on, if you are
gonna be nosing around here,

at least have the fuckin'
decency to let me know.

Oh.

Non.

I'm so glad you could
join us for a meal.

Your presence is
very reassuring.

I can't tell you. After what
I saw floating in your pool,

I'm a bit twitchy.

There does seem to be an
inordinate amount of killings

hereabout.

I'm at a loss now, as
such an idyllic spot

begets so much mayhem.

Well, I can assure you that
Bozouls is usually quite safe.

These murders are an aberration.

Or a shift in the pattern.

Please, my dear
Commandant, have some more.

Oh, no, I couldn't, I've
already eaten too much.

Nonsense, nonsense. I can
see you're a man of appetite,

which according to an
Italian lover I once had

is a sure sign of
being dexterous in bed.

Oh, well, then in that case.

Mm, there you go.

Wait, wait. Some au jus.

Thank you.

Bon appétit.

Yes, of course, I knew
you couldn't say no.

I'm thinking of getting
a gun for protection.

Is there one you might
recommend, Mr. Spade?

Sure. I'd recommend
a water pistol.

Scamp.

It's another one of your
jokes, but I'm deadly serious.

So am I.

At no point during your
wanderings did you carry a gun?

I did, but that's
why I know better.

Well, now I am intrigued,
please explain.

You keep a gun
under your pillow,

odds are about even
that sooner or later,

you'll take it out
and aim it at someone.

You aim a gun at someone,
the odds are even better

that you'll kill
them or be killed.

And I'm not that
much of a gambler.

A bullet, once fired,
can't be put back in a gun.

I think with proper training,

one could have a
firearm at home.

One could even
carry said firearm

as one goes about
one's daily routine.

You seem very interested in guns
for a painter, Mr. Fitzsimmons.

Oh, more interested
in you, Mr. Spade.

You've led such an exciting
adventure of a life.

You're the talk of the town.

And speaking as a woman
living in constant fear,

I rely on men like
you, dear Mr. Spade.

- I need the bathroom.
- Yes, of course.

It's just inside the
front door, down the hall,

second door on the left.

Don't be long.

Here we are, more wine for you.

Let's top you off.

Patrice: Ah.

What did you study,
Mr. Fitzsimmons?

George: Ah, well, school
of life, I suppose.

Yes.

Yes, I think the...

Cynthia: Did someone get lost?

Apparently so.

You don't strike me as a
man who often gets lost.

I guess I'm getting
as twitchy as you

about these killings.

Don't be so hard on yourself.

We all pretend, Mr. Spade.
Take my late husband.

Mr. Fitzsimmons pretended
to love me and his son,

when all the while he was
carrying on with Gabrielle.

I knew something was amiss
when she started appearing nude

in one corner or another
of his plein air.

Where were we?

Lunch.

Shall we head back?

But of course.

Patrice: Tasty meal. Thank you.

Well, a pleasure, I'm sure.

Tasty?

"Tasty" as in "tastes bad."

The English do not
know how to cook.

I mean, sweet Jesus,
why would anyone think

that a dish called
"toad in the hole"

would be anything
but disgusting?

The wine was good.

The wine was French.

And that man's about as much
a painter as I am a milkmaid.

That's an image.

And what about the garage?

I'd love to know why there's
no room inside for their car.

I think the little
sculpture on the roof

might have something
to do with that.

Jean-Pierre?

Man: Excusez-moi, Monsieur?

Well, this is
indeed embarrassing.

I know her.

How could someone so
smart be so stupid?

We have come to the proverbial
fork in the road, Mr. Spade

whether to reveal
all that we know,

or simply finish our tea.