All language subtitles for Balzac.Title6

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Balzac!

Balzac, where are
you hiding, you rascal?

Come on, young man,
show yourself.

How long have you been
a resident of Vendome?

For four years, sir.
No, five.

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

Once. One time, sir.

lncluding today's visit,
that'll be twice.

Run to the visitors' room.

But only for ten minutes,
not a minute more.

Someone who is the 32nd
of a class of 34...

Someonewhoisthe32nd
ofaclassof34...

nor kisses.

BALZAC

Stop! You've lost
some of your load!

l'm taking that to the dump.

These books?

All unsold copies.
No one wants them.

But these are
books l wrote.

-Whoa, stop!
-Hands off my horse!

Hands off my books.
l killed myself writing them,

and you're taking them
to the dump?

Let go of my horse.

Hey, what's going on here?

This carter from hell's taking
my books to the garbage dump.

But l won't let him.
Take a look at this.

My books.

lf you need
a credible witness,

my name is Master Plissoud.
l'm a bailiff.

This individual is
blocking the public road.

Horace de Saint-Aubin,
is that you?

And this Lord R'Hoone?
Who is that?

That's me, too,
more or less.

What do you mean?
Are you making fun of me?

Which one are you?

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

BALZAC'S PRlNTlNG SHOP.

He should have bought
a notary's practice.

l'll never be
convinced otherwise.

Come in, my dear mother!

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

All these machines.

l see, l see.

How disgustingly filthy.

lnk is black,
not filthy.

What will you print with it?
Death announcements?

-No, books of course.
-Books?

You haven't even
established yourself yet,

but you already have
a publisher?

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

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

No, the first books l wrote
shall also be the last.

Horace de Saint-Aubin
and Lord R'Hoone are dead.

May those ne'er-do-wells
rest in peace.

The name Balzac will not
make its name in literature...

but in business.

So after we paid for
your studies in law,

you end up
peddling books?

Here, sir.

The very first copy
of my invention.

You're holding the complete
Moliere in your hands.

Amazing, huh?

Whether amazing or not,
it's illegible.

What do you mean?

Look.

Even with
a magnifying glass,

you couldn't read
these fly droppings.

No bookshop will sell
a single copy of your books.

So how are you going
to pay your workers?

When will you be able to repay
your father and me?

Fly droppings.

Fly droppings?

Laure? What kind of
welcome is this?

lsn't my angel home?
Laure?

Yes, dear. l'm here.

Why are you sitting
in the dark?

Like a tiny flower
that hides its heart...

beneath its petals
when night falls?

Passionately...

Stop it, Honore.
Behave yourself.

Someone was here today.

A client? Splendid.
Our lucky day.

Here, look.
An order.

"The Art of
Paying One's Debts."'

-Three thousand copies.
-"'A Manual for the Bankrupt."'

What a coincidence.

Because it wasn't a client
who was here, but a bailiff.

That's nothing new.

But this time...

Oh? He put his seal
on everything?

Yes.

His seal. He put his seal
on everything.

You must be
the only man alive...

who wants to make love
when on the brink of bankruptcy.

He put his seal
on everything.

What are you seeking
deep inside of you, my friend?

Nothing inaccessible.
l already have love.

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

Preserve your health first.
No, thank you.

Then the rest will follow.

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

Considering it's my second.

l dined with Latouche...

two hours ago at Figaro's
editorial offices.

You don't listen
to my advice.

You demand the impossible.

Eat less, work less,
and drink less coffee.

That seems
reasonable to me.

lt's mean-minded.

Nothing could be further
from my character.

Do you know why,
my dear Nacquart?

Because l am a giant.

And upon that note, the giant
will retire to his bed.

Honore falls asleep
when the world wakes...

and wakes when it sleeps.

lt must be exciting
to live with him.

l merely live
next to him.

Nobody exists
when he works...

except the characters
he has invented.

l'm jealous of them,

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

Especially when
he doubts himself.

Doubts?

Yes. l suppose
he'll always doubt himself.

Even if he becomes
a great writer?

That depends on in whose eyes
he wants to be great.

But that's his secret.

My Napoleon.
Be careful with my Napoleon!

My grandfather lost both
his arms because of him.

And my father his life.
l don't like him, why do you?

l admire him.

What he achieved with the sword,
l want to do with the pen.

You, too, want to
conquer Europe?

Yes, but the Europe
of the heart.

What time is it?

-Midnight, sir.
-Then it's off to war.

-Bring my ammunition.
-Ammunition?

Yes, coffee, piping hot
and very strong. Go on!

Hurry!

Your mocha
is extraordinary!

Even smoother than
the last time.

And now, darling,
just taste this.

Like a Baby Jesus
swaddled in velvet.

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

Monsieur is a connoisseur.

What about mixing it with
roasted Martinique?

Absolutely not!
Only l do the mixing.

As for your Martinique,
it's too bland.

Your bourbon
on the other hand...

-Who is that?
-Balzac.

-A writer.
-Balzac?

He floods the newspapers
with insipid articles...

that no one reads.

And between floods,
he courts Madame de Berny?

What if l told you
he's her lover?

Yes, after having
tutored her children.

Who is this?

Eugene Sue,
the great novelist.

All my customers
are crazy about him.

So that's Eugene Sue!

He's better dressed than l am,
but l write better.

But l was talking
about the woman.

The duchess
Laure d'Abrantes.

l knew she had no money,

but imagine having to wear
a 20-year-old dress.

Excuse me for
accosting you, but...

But?

Madame de Berny here tells me
that your name is Laure.

My mother's name is
Charlotte-Laure.

And my sister, too,
is called Laure.

And Madame de Berny
is also called Laure.

Amusing, isn't it?

To be hounded
by these names.

l'm not trying to hound you,
nor is my first name.

Besides...

isn't that just an excuse
to call me by my first name?

Not right away.

Not now, not ever.

At any rate, l always give
women a new first name.

Paradis!

Sir?

She's a duchess.
Her name is Laure d'Abrantes.

Take this letter to her.

Ladies, gentlemen,
put down your stakes.

Nothing at all.

Number 2.

Put down your stakes.

Number 7.

lsn't that Balzac?

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

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

l assure you, writing is
more complicated than that.

Here l am.

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

Tonight l'll lose
all l want.

This is a gambling house?

Why did you ask me to come here
on our first rendezvous?

You are here to bring me luck.
You know the saying:

''Unlucky in love,
lucky at cards."'

Unlucky in love?

Must l deduce from that
you intend to make me suffer?

-Have you ever heard of biribi?
-Biribi, no.

19.

Lend me some money.

That is all l have.

We'll make do with it.

lf the number comes up,

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

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

l'm tired of you and
this sinister place.

Go and call me a fiacre.

To take you back
to Versailles?

But how can l
pay the fare?

You've gambled away
the little l had.

The situation is not
all that catastrophic.

l will let you have
my room and my bed.

You'll be very comfortable.

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

Do you know why l have
such a large, soft sofa...

in the drawing room?

Please spare me your
base reflections.

But...

Hot water and mustard seeds...

will calm down the turmoil
in any soul.

Turmoil? l'm not
at all in a turmoil.

But l am.

You're the most beautiful
woman in the world.

Remove your hands.

lf you wish.

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

this...

to touch a woman's heart.

-Mine is tired.
-May l verify that?

First my feet, then the tip
of my nose, and now...

You're a fanatic. You can't
stand things to resist you.

But, Laure,
you're not a thing.

Weren't you going
to call me Marie?

When you belong to me.

But maybe the moment
has come for you?

You must earn
the right to have me.

How?

You want to be a great novelist.
So start inventing.

This is your point of departure:
a beautiful woman,

l'm just repeating
what you said,

who has been wooed
by all Europe.

Kneeling at the feet of this
woman, a somewhat madman...

who desires her
desperately and...

Let me come to the point.
How would you describe this man?

Rather ugly, rather poor,
rather fat.

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

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

l have to write it down
right away.

Please don't be angry.

The imagination is
an impatient mistress.

lt respects neither
hunger nor sleep nor desire.

l shall be back.

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

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

Honore, what do you want?

A thousand francs.

No, not a sou.

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

or lace from Alencon?

l'm on the brink of
a huge success.

l'm writing a book
on behalf of a duchess.

Laure d'Abrantes has asked me
to write her memoirs.

d'Abrantes.

Aristocrats of the Empire.

-Do you know her?
-l'm not the only one.

-Half of Europe has had her.
-But which half?

Princes, ambassadors,
generals.

Just think of all
the secrets we will unveil.

The book will
be a success.

A book written on bedsheets.

And not very
clean sheets either.

l thought you had higher
literary aspirations.

l can have those
when l'm rich.

l need those
thousand francs.

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

Thank you!

Don't thank me.

l am in the process of helping
you compromise yourself.

But perhaps
you were made for that.

You must have been made
for something.

Frankly, l don't understand
the appeal.

What? You don't like
this painting?

No, it fits in
with the rest.

l'm talking about
Madame d'Abrantes.

But l'm not jealous.

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

What l see in her?

First, she's a duchess.

l've never known
a duchess before.

And this duchess is not
only a woman...

but an epic
in her own right.

And what an epic she is.

She is the widow of
General Junot.

She has experienced all the
splendours of the Empire...

and danced in Napoleon's arms
before Moscow in flames.

She's just an ember
of her old self.

No, her embers are alive.

She is ablaze with the desire
to write a book.

"'The Memoirs of the
Duchess d'Abrantes."'

She is not content to be
a duchess, a widow, an epic?

And on top of that,
she can write?

No, not her.
l'm guiding her hand.

What prompted you
to buy that? Ugly.

This painting? lt cost me
three months of writing!

So now you equate
price with beauty?

lf you knew that garret
where l first lived,

you'd understand.

The only beautiful things
l knew then...

were the sketches
l made on the tiles.

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

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

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

as though l were
the sole debtor in Paris.

l just don't have
any money.

Listen, receive him
and distract him.

l'll slip out
through the courtyard.

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

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

so l'm momentarily broke.

Here, Paradis,
pay the delivery man.

l'll pay all that
back some day.

l don't want you to say...

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

l am no longer certain
of the future.

l mean, of my future.

And to say that we love
each other and...

And what, my love?

You're crying.

That's of no matter.

Yes, it is. l can see
that you have sorrows.

Not sorrows, Honore.
These are tears of regret.

l'm getting
too old for this.

Too old? Yesterday we were
so happy and made love.

Why can't we
be happy today?

Because you're
24 hours older?

No, the truth is that
you no longer desire me.

You see me for what l am,
and l disgust you.

l have never loved you more
than l do at this very minute.

Shorten the sleeve.
A bit shorter. That's it.

Monsieur Hugo. Master.

Hello.

Come in.
Let me take your coat.

Victor, how are you?

-How are you?
-Good. l'll let you go ahead.

Hurry, children, hurry.
Monsieur Hugo's evening clothes.

So, it's true?

Your friend d'Abrantes found
a scribe to write her memoirs?

That famous Balzac?

He's only famous
in his own eyes.

He's an oaf,
a jack of all trades.

His articles infest
all the papers.

And he has an opinion
on everything,

but that will pass.

Go and look in
my pocket.

He has just
published that.

''The Code of Honest People"' or
"'The Art of Not Being Duped."'

Such books are
no competition for us.

Read it before you laugh.

The acuity with which
he sees things is amazing.

The lucidity with which he
judges our time and our world.

That little book contains
fifty new ideas for novels.

But he still
has to write them.

He'll write them.

With those fat, fingers of his,
Balzac will write them.

Sorry, sir, you're in
the wrong place.

This is a tailor's shop.

Not only a tailor's shop...

this is a temple of elegance
and Parisian flair.

A temple of which you are
the high priest, Master Buisson.

Good day, Monsieur Victor Hugo.
Good day, Monsieur Eugene Sue.

My dear Buisson, l need you
to make me a wardrobe.

Five or six frocks,
a selection of ties,

shirts and vests,
a dozen trousers,

a complete outfit that
corresponds to the way l write.

And how do you
intend to write?

Generously and
on a large scale.

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

Your outfit?

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

Well, in all
those colours.

l chose them all myself.

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

Buisson created it.

That must have cost
a pretty penny.

Not a liard!

l have a head for business.

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

l will include the following
phrase in my book...

''An outfit made by Buisson...

''suffices for a man to become
king of the salon."'

An English cannonball
at Waterloo.

Two-legged butlers have become
rather too expensive for me.

Here, this will put you
in a better mood.

"'Memoirs of
the Duchess d'Abrantes"'...

by Honore de Balzac.

How impressive.

lmagine this bomb,
for it is one...

in the hands of those who
once begged you for favours...

before discarding you when
the wind of history turned.

lngratitude, Madame.
There is nothing worse.

lngratitude?
Truly a terrible thing.

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

But, Madame,
l wrote the book.

Yes, certainly,
but it's my story.

lf you hadn't been around,
l'd have written it myself.

My name on the cover would
cause much more of a splash.

d'Abrantes is a name
that has had its hour of glory.

Whereas Balzac...

Who's heard of Balzac?

And l thought l had
a head for business!

lf l relinquish my rights...

l assume l can expect
some kind of compensation?

Such as?

You know exactly
what l mean.

Money?

l wasn't thinking of
money at all.

But be that as it may...

l'll go for the money.
How much?

Alas.

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

You know very well
that l have no money.

All l have is this
little adorable Rembrandt.

Oh, what
a splendid painting.

Yes, isn't it?

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

A man is asking
to see you.

l'm writing, Adele.

Duchess d'Abrantes
has recommended him.

Do me a favour
by throwing out her protege.

l cannot, Victor.
He is...

Armed?

Huge.

What a beautiful home.

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

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

Can l offer you a glass
of sweet wine?

No, l'd prefer
some coffee.

But make it strong,
very strong.

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

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

l spent the entire
afternoon with him.

His wife can't brew coffee
to save her life...

but she's charming.

Let's hope Madame d'Abrantes
isn't offended.

To write someone's memoirs, one
must spend much time together.

ln intimate company,
l mean.

No, l see her,
but not like that.

So she has
turned you down?

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

But then...

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

She doesn't want to,
l've stopped wanting to,

and you're in the middle.

What a beautiful, sad book
that would be.

That doesn't make
for good literature.

A writer must paint
the suffering of others,

not the one he sees
in his mirror.

No, not my desk!

lt has witnessed my misery,
all my projects,

it has heard
all my thoughts.

Take this bust instead.

How much do you think
this bust is worth?

200 francs.

What?
l paid 2,000 for it!

Well, take it anyway.

That Meissen clock.
l paid 800 francs for it.

You were cheated.
lt's only worth 300.

lnstead of trying
to fleece me, let me work.

l need to work to earn money
to pay back my creditors.

Stop buying these
bric-a-bracs.

This worthless
jumble of oddments.

You understand nothing.

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

Must write.
Then write.

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

Till we meet again.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

l show why women in their 30s
whose dreams were destroyed...

by the indifference
of their husbands...

have no choice
but to take on lovers.

What do you think?

l'm not thirty, dear.

You weren't much older when
you took me as your lover.

But you were
my children's tutor.

You must have had
an ulterior motive?

No, absolutely not.

l wasn't attracted
to you at all.

l found you too...

too bulky and
also a bit dirty.

Moreover, you didn't
smell very good.

And your nose.

What about my nose?

lt's huge.

lt just made me laugh.

And then one evening...

one evening you kissed me.

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

During the first part
of the kiss, l thought,

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

During the middle,
l said to myself,

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

And at the end
of the kiss,

l was head over heels
in love with you.

Dr. Nacquart is here.
There's been an accident.

No, it's not
Madame de Berny, is it?

No, not her.
l won't allow it!

Am l too late?

She'll recover this time,

but l must admit
l'm very worried.

But why?
What is ailing her?

Her heart.
lt's tired, worn-out.

Why worn-out?
She's not that...

Can't you find
the right word?

Fact is, she's old...

or in the process
of becoming old.

And what of it?

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

l must hasten
to her side.

She may not receive
any visitors.

She needs rest,
lots of rest.

You are expected
elsewhere and...

l couldn't do anything
there, my friend.

A liver abscess at 83 years
of age is always fatal.

He didn't leave you
anything, of course.

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

l'm not even including
what we spent...

on your whims and fancies.

My whims and fancies?

Your stubbornness to write books
that don't sell a whim.

What a foolish idea to write
that novel about the Chouans.

Who'll be interested
in that old war?

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

lf you want a memento
of your father, help yourself.

But he looks like...

That's perfectly normal.

That's your father's brother.
His name was Louis.

He got
a poor girl pregnant.

To forestall a scandal,
he killed her.

And you hid this from me?

Your father and l
were afraid...

you'd use the family secret
for one of your books.

Thank God your uncle was
condemned under the name Balssa.

Balssa was our name...

until your father
changed it to Balzac.

He thought that had
a nicer ring to it.

Poor man.

Father wasn't burdened
by the story.

He wasn't too close
to his brother.

So? The terrible thing
is this man...

this Uncle Louis ended up
between two swords.

-He was a murderer.
-So?

Why should society
have the right...

to murder a murderer
in cold blood?

That's what it says
in the Bible.

''He who lives by the sword
shall die by the sword."'

l don't give a damn
about the Bible.

That's blasphemy
and in front of him.

Go away, Honore!
Leave!

What a magnificent summer.

Perhaps the best summer
of my life.

We shall have
more such summers.

No, there will not
be any more.

You're not going to
start that again?

l do not want to
become an old woman,

someone you
feel sorry for.

Honore, that will
never happen.

So you prefer
to cause me grief by dying?

lf l'm not too ugly
to look at on my death bed.

But we still have some time
before that happens, don't we?

Apart from swimming and fishing,
what did you do today?

l finished a treatise
on the elegant life...

which must get to Paris
tomorrow by stagecoach.

What? A treatise
on the elegant life?

Paris is under fire,
the king about to be toppled,

and you write about elegance?

That treatise will
bring in 600 francs,

enough to enable us
to stay here by the Loire...

till the end of summer.

Are you angry at me?
Disappointed?

No, as soon as night falls,
it gets a touch chilly.

l just wanted to
get myself a wrap.

l don't like it when you talk
about how time passes.

But you've just
given me an idea.

The story of a magical
piece of leather...

that fulfills all
its owner's wishes...

except that the leather shrinks
every time a wish is granted.

Until the inevitable
day arrives.

Can you imagine
how the story ends?

lt's the story
of life.

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

Make some coffee for me.

l'm going to
write tonight.

All right.

They're right. Why don't you
print enough books for everyone?

The papers say:
''To be of this era...

''one must have read
this book."'

Which era do you belong to,
Gosselin, to print so few books?

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

l told you it would
be a success.

But that's what you say
every time.

Nothing is lost as yet.
Come.

Let's go.

We're at your service,
Monsieur Gosselin.

We can make reprints.
How many copies do you need?

Not less than 6,000.

Not one copy,
do you hear me?

Not one copy shall leave
this printing house!

Are you crazy?
Your book is a hit.

Precisely!
lt's my book.

l'm entitled to do
as l wish.

What?

l'm entitled because l am
its creator, its father.

Call it the author's right,
if you will.

These writers!

Once you buy their books,
they forfeit their rights.

Or would my draper
tell me...

how to lie between
the sheets he sold me?

Ethically, they could ask for
royalties on each sold book.

Our literature would never
recover from that.

Which pages
are being printed?

The first four
of your text.

Gosselin,
this adjective here...

What?
What's wrong with it?

There's a better word for it.
lt has to be replaced.

Replaced? Couldn't you have done
that the day you wrote it?

That day was a night.
A feverish night.

Because you expect me
to write faster and faster.

Faster and better.
Ever faster.

So is it surprising
l don't know what l'm writing?

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

l must correct it, rewrite
everything if l have to.

What's that?

Do you mean my cane?
Fabulous, isn't it?

A very lovely cane,
indeed.

But what is that thing
engraved on the door?

My coat of arms.
A marquis' crown.

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

-Of course l am.
-Since when?

That goes back a long way.
So l never told you...

we Balzacs have a certain
Marquis d'Entraygues...

among our forbears?

You're related to
the Entraygues?

That's what my father
always said.

He must have had
a vivid imagination.

lmagination doesn't
impede honesty.

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

lt just makes me laugh to think
l have to call you marquis.

We can drop those formalities.
After all, aren't you a duchess?

Only since the Empire, alas.
Whereas you, goodness gracious!

But we're both from
the same world.

We are both debt-ridden
aristocrats.

Furthermore, shouldn't we now
call each other by first names?

Do l dare?

l hope Madame's audacity...

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

No, stay here.

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

lt's so very empty.

l've sold all l could.

And the little
that l still own...

That horrible bailiff
Plissoud.

That, too, we have in common.
He'll be punished.

-No.
-Yes, he will.

Bailiffs are
never punished.

This one will be,
l promise you.

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

ln 100 years' time,

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

l hope your books live
long enough for that.

l've written so many,

there must be one or two
immortals among them.

Tell me, Laure...

why did you finally
agree to be my mistress?

Was it because
l have become a marquis...

or because you are unhappy?

Oh, no, Laure,
don't cry.

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

but the novelist in me.

l always need
to provoke everyone...

in order to get inside
their heads.

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

Will l recognise myself
in one of your books?

Like the bailiff Plissoud?

What will her name be,
the bankrupt duchess?

The desperate woman?

No, because the protagonist
of my next novel is a man.

No, it's true.
You gave me the idea.

What? While l lie all naked
and you gaze at me,

you claim l made you
think of a man?

Honore, you're horrible.

No, Laure,
you misunderstand me.

When l was writing
your memoirs,

you told me about
a young officer...

who was left for dead
on the battlefield...

under a pile of cadavers
and the carcasses of horses.

A young lieutenant,
l never knew what became of him.

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

You see, l turned him
into a colonel.

Thank you.

Do you like it?

Poor Colonel Chabert.

That duplicitous countess,
her treachery.

She knew exactly that it was
her husband who had returned.

Poor, poor Chabert.

You, too, failed
to recognise me on occasion.

l, too, was your
little Chabert.

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

accustomed to suffering.

What a stench,
that fumigation.

Another fifty deaths.
Cholera is no laughing matter.

ltaly, Germany, Poland...

letters from
all of Europe...

from women who have
nothing to do...

but read your novels
and write letters.

How l envy them.

l'm no longer
the 3rd last in my class.

You should be proud.

One can't live
from admiration alone.

There's even one
from Russia.

You don't have to answer.
lt's not signed.

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

Beautiful paper. l've never
seen anything like it.

The watermark is
a coat of arms. A princess?

You're coming up in the world.
After that nobody Berny...

came that cheap
Duchess d'Abrantes.

And now a real princess.

Where is she from?

Odessa. The Black Sea,
l believe.

Another summons.
lt's the third one.

What are you going to do?

About what?

You must join the army
for a month.

As per a new decree issued
by King Louis-Philippe.

lt's your duty.

l didn't tell you about it
earlier because of your injury.

Paradis, a fiacre.
Hurry!

There aren't any.
There weren't enough hearses,

so now they've seized
all the fiacres.

ls your paper
published in Russia?

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

l'd like to place
an announcement.

l'll dictate it.

Monsieur de B.
to The Stranger.

Monsieur de B...

has received the letter
that was sent to him...

but regrets that
he doesn't know...

to whom to address
his response.

lnstead of tormenting
that poor oyster,

tell me how you survived
the epidemic.

l was shut away.

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

l'd have gone crazy.

Pleasant visitors?
What visitors?

Honore, please.

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

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

l'll give you proof
of that later.

Provided l still
want you to.

l haven't seen you
for months.

Cholera.

You could have written
or sent me flowers.

Roses don't
transmit cholera.

l will not tolerate
indifference.

Punish me
if l've misbehaved.

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

by a fair hand.

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

Cruel?
l didn't notice.

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

without my being
aware of it.

lt's simple--
by spreading rumours.

Among those who
came to visit me...

there were people
who mean much to you...

Hugo, Musset,
Eugene Sue, George Sand.

No one knew what became of you
and asked me for news.

l wanted to avenge myself
for your silence...

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

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

l really was
in a madhouse.

What?
You were at Charenton?

Are you serious?

Writing is like
being in a madhouse.

You'd better eat, or all
the oysters will be gone.

-Will you forgive me?
-Of course.

But...

it was also
partly your fault.

Why did you abandon me...

right after l had
given myself to you?

Did you not enjoy
our night of love?

You'd be the first
to complain.

But l already told you,
l was engrossed in my work.

Prince Murat and
Chancellor Mefternich...

always had much to do,

but that never
hindered them...

from finding the time
to take me to a ball.

Many people call exercising
power over others "'work"'...

that is to say,
making others work for them.

My work is something that
wears me out, exhausts me.

Bloodshot eyes,

hands cramped from writing,
a racing heartbeat.

Did you think of me
from time to time?

To tell the truth...

no.

But where are you going?

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

You make me sick.

Whom do you love
other than yourself?

l don't love myself.

l love only the works
l carry within me.

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

Do not judge
what is still to come.

l forgot!

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

Tomorrow you'll
find time for love.

Always tomorrow!

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

to dazzle them.

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

but now l do.

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

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

Laure, come here.

l am writing.

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

lt's always one excuse
or another,

one pretext or another.

At any rate, you're saying
it's your writing...

that is preventing you
from loving me?

Writing even
prevents me from living.

Why are you killing yourself
for your work?

The world lacks neither
books nor authors.

One Balzac more or less...

will not hinder me
from going to sleep.

But what will hinder me
is a cold bed,

because l am alone in it.

You only have one bed,

but l have thousands
of empty pages...

before which
l stand alone.

Shall l tell you
the truth, Honore?

You weren't made
to write.

Don't disturb me
while l'm working.

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

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

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

ls she finally
revealing her identity?

No, she refuses
to say who she is.

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

and that l was
writing to you."'

She was careful not to
put a stop to it...

but to fan the fire.

My poor Honore.

What you took
for a noble heart...

is nothing but a married woman
looking for adventure.

The same old song,
isn't it?

Why do you say that?

Because l know
the truth.

-About that woman?
-No, about you.

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

After all, l said
unhappy women...

could look for love
outside their marriage.

What exactly
are you alluding to?

To Henri.

Your brother?

You mean,
my half-brother.

You always preferred him to me.
He was your love child.

l was the child
of your conjugal duty.

Honore, how dare you?

You're the one who dared.

But then your marriage
is none of my business,

except that you make me pay
the price of your mistake.

l look too much like my father
for you to love me.

No, you're just
tolerating me,

the way you tolerated
your husband.

You're not qualified
to interfere in my affairs.

How long have you
been brooding on that?

Why did you wait until
l was a widow,

old and overburdened
with worries,

to strike me down?

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

And if l have
caused you pain,

then forgive me
as l have forgiven you.

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

Nothing at all.

lt's true that l took a lover
who got me with child.

But what of it?

Madame de Berny
was also unfaithful,

as you very well know,

but that never
stopped you...

from calling her
your angel and a saint.

l never pretended
to be a saint,

even though
l deserve to be.

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

Now l have nothing left.

l don't think you'll be able
to pay me back all too soon.

Did you lend Henri money
as well?

The poor man is
unlucky in business.

lt's not easy to succeed
in Bourbon.

lt's not easy
in Paris either.

This will give me a chance to
breathe less foul-smelling air.

She persuaded
her husband...

to let her spend
a few weeks in Switzerland.

l'll join her
in ten days.

We're meeting each other
halfway.

l tried to stop them,
but they want you.

The bailiffs? Plissoud's
here with his retinue?

Hold them up, Mother,
while--

-Are you Balzac?
-Who are you?

Mousset, dentist and a sergeant
in the National Guard.

Seize this individual.

Leave me alone!

Unhand me!

Let go of me!
Leave me alone! Let me go!

The law applies
to everyone.

You did not answer
any of the three summons.

Because l thought
it was all a farce.

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

Alas, Monsieur,
but if you pay...

lf l pay?
Just tell me how much.

l'd pay anything
to be released from--

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

lf you pay me, l'll get you
a cell of your own...

where you can receive friends
and have food sent in.

Paradis, don't skimp
on the portions.

This feast must reflect
what it cost.

The only pleasures
l have left...

are spending money
and eating well.

How long were
you sentenced?

To an initial period
of six days.

They could double
or triple it.

Not long.

lt's obvious you're not the one
behind bars, dear editor.

Something important
is waiting for me outside.

Balzac wants to
discuss our contract.

This is more important than
two or three more books.

For which Werdet will grant you
a handsome advance.

Stop sniveling, Werdet.
You'll get your books.

My courage has borne me
through my miseries.

Now for once, happiness
is directing my writing.

You're in love.

Yes, with a woman who is
waiting for me in Neufchatel.

A rendezvous on the banks
of Lake Neufchatel?

How romantic.

-Who is it?
-l don't know.

What? You don't know?

l've never seen
her face before,

and l have no idea
how old she is,

but l sense
she's wonderful.

Do you at least know
if she's free?

Her husband is a tyrant,
but so what?

Let's assume she fulfills
the ideal of which you dream.

Are you sure you
fulfill her expectations?

She reads French newspapers
that poke fun at my physique.

Those caricatures
are so awful...

that she'll be delighted
when she sees me.

How strange to love her
sight unseen...

and to tell us about her
in this prison.

That's the way l am,
dear Adele.

My five-feet two inches...

contain all
the contradictions possible.

Those who thought l was vain,
extravagant, stubborn,

conceited, careless, lazy,
lacking application,

unthinking and
totally inconsistent,

long-winded,
tactless, impolite,

capricious and moody
are justified...

in the same way
as those who say...

l am thrifty, modest,
courageous,

tenacious, energetic,

consistent, hard-working,
taciturn, refined,

polite, and always merry.

Those who say that
l am a coward...

are no less right
than those who say...

l am extraordinarily brave.

Nothing about me
surprises me.

And nothing
should surprise you.

Why are you staring
at those men?

l'm staring at men?

That's just a game.

l'm comparing them to
our muzhiks in Wierzchovnia.

A strange game.
Please put an end to it.

lt's unseemly.

Look, it's snowing.

Excuse my boldness,

but aren't you His Excellency
Count Wenceslas Hanski?

So, you know me?

Yes, well,
only by name.

Let me introduce myself.
l am Honore de Balzac.

Balzac? The name
means nothing to me.

-But...
-Come, my dear.

l know you by name
because l'm writing a book...

about the Battle of Essling
where the Hanskis--

The Hanskis have
never been involved...

in any Battle of Essling
in any way.

That's exactly why it's
a pleasure to meet you.

Your family made it
a point of honour...

not to take part
in that massacre.

And what a butchery
that battle was.

l bless the luck...

that allowed our paths to cross
on this promenade,

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

that leads up the mountain.

l go there every afternoon
between three and four.

What a bore.

Really, my dear,

l long to get back to
our Ukraine and its solitudes.

Yes, our stay here
seems interminable.

Do you want us
to cut it short?

We shouldn't curtail the cure
the doctors prescribed for you.

What an admirable woman
you are.

l sometimes know
how to be reasonable.

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

l thought
he was in prison.

They let him go.
He is in Switzerland...

at Lake Neufchatel.

atLakeNeufchatel.

He didn't want to
cause you any grief.

Grief?

He is sick.
A lung illness.

He's there to breathe
the Swiss mountain air.

His illness is called
Countess Hanska.

That name doesn't
ring a bell.

ls she a fan
of his books?

A foreigner.

Obviously his books are now
being read all over the world.

Did he tell you that
he loved this woman?

How does he love her?
l mean, whom does he love?

The woman
or the reader?

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

God knows l detested you.

You have such
influence over him.

Had. l used to.

The damage
was done quickly.

You're the one who
encouraged him to write.

Without you, he would
have had a different life,

a real life--

a good profession,
a regular income,

and a house never constantly
under siege by creditors.

l cannot open
a single newspaper...

without seeing a caricature
of my son,

not to mention articles that
call him a "'slapdash scribbler"'.

Do you think a mother
enjoys seeing that?

Someday his country
will honour him.

Believe in him,
for if his mother--

His mother?

l'm his banker,
cleaning woman, laundress,

and when he's not home,
his concierge.

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

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

You must love to suffer.

l simply love,
and you should do the same.

You're stifling him.

Don't you see he needs his
freedom to create new worlds?

He doesn't create anything.
He copies all he sees.

He takes his characters
from real life.

His next heroine
will be a Russian,

just like this
Madame Hanska.

Because she is Russian?

She always sends him
letters from Odessa--

passionate letters which
she signs "'The Stranger"'.

We also know that she is
married and still young.

Young.

So she could still
bear his children,

dance with him,
accompany him on his travels.

All l can do now is
go back to Nemours.

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

You've become very pale.

lt's nothing,
just my heart acting up.

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

The good doctor Nacquart
even told me l would die,

but all doctors
are fools.

Excuse me if you feel
this question is too indiscreet,

but could l read
one of those letters...

those written by that young
woman called "'The Stranger"'?

Under his pillow,
like a schoolboy.

How ridiculous
for a man his age.

Please put it back later.

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

What will it be like
once she knows him?

Monsieur Balzac,
what a surprise.

Are you alone?

Yes, l managed to find some
chess partners for my husband.

The count is
a good player.

That'll give me
an hour of freedom.

One hour?
Merely one hour?

You are beautiful,

more beautiful than
l dared to hope.

We loved each other
without ever having met.

Let's continue loving each
other without touching.

But why?
ls it because--

No, l have no feelings
for Count Hanski.

That is...

no longer.

Then what is
holding you back?

My upbringing.
My family is very strict.

We Poles,
we see sin everywhere.

ls that so?

At any rate,
l am very modest.

Wasn't that obvious
from my letters?

Your letters
lit the fire in me.

But you are not going
to try to make me believe...

you didn't know they depicted
a woman hungry for love?

But l spoke of love,
of--how should l put it--

of something romantic.

Rubbish, my dear.

Why?
You don't like romance?

No, romanticism is
too sentimental,

and it's no longer
the fashion in Paris.

Oh, really?

So what is
''en vogue"' in Paris?

l am !

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

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

l think l should go back.

My husband hates it
when l'm late.

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

There are no flowers
in winter.

Come back, Eve.

Why?

l want to kiss you.

l know you will not do
any such thing.

Yes, l want to.

l cannot.

You have no idea
what you can do, Eve.

l have wanted this
as much as you.

lf you only knew what a life l
lead in that horrible Ukraine--

my life and that
of my poor Anna.

When it doesn't snow,
it's muddy.

And all those
stupid muzhiks.

But we will not have
to wait long to be happy.

My husband is getting old,
and he's also sick.

The doctors say he has
not long to live.

Russian doctors are dumb,
but what they say is true.

He coughs constantly and
has a pain in his chest.

My God, what have
you made me say?

l will burn in hell
for this.

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

A wild desire,
an unfulfilled desire,

could inspire you to write
many a wonderful page.

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

l will not write
another line.

Nothing as long as
you are not with me.

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

what would you
have me say?

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

''l shall see you tonight."'

Then l shall
see you tonight.

Who did this?

The bailiff Plissoud.

And you didn't
try to stop him?

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

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

lt's not hard
to find 45,000.

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

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

For several weeks.

l'd die of shame if l had
to go begging on your behalf.

That's akin to
acknowledging failure.

What failure? Everyone knows me
and reads my books.

But you have no interest
in my fame.

You hold fast to the idea
that l've ruined my life.

l don't ask
to be proud of you.

l could walk
with my head held high...

if l knew you had
paid all your debts.

At least l prevented them
from taking your desk.

And they left your bed as well
and a chair.

That bastard Plissoud.
He must have been jubilant.

Did they just seize the goods,
or have they begun selling them?

No, the sale will be
in three weeks.

And the notices
just read,

"'Bankruptcy Sale"'
and not our names.

Then l have enough time
to think.

l will go to Nemours
to see Madame de Berny--

-No!
-But of course.

You don't like her,
but she believes in me.

She has always supported me
whenever l was in trouble.

She knows l need
a calm mind,

free of worries,
in order to work.

No, l will ask her.

You dare ask that woman
for money...

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

l thank God for having
watched over you...

and spared you
this malfeasance.

What are you
trying to say?

Madame de Berny
is dead, Honore.

What?

That's not possible.

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

To inform you?

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

l had to tell her.

lt was a very painful
moment for her.

For me, too.

l sometimes ask myself
if that hastened her end.

What? You told her?

You did that?
You dared to do that?

She had a right
to know the truth.

The truth?
You didn't even know her.

You don't even know me.

l must get to Nemours
before dawn.

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

She was buried
three weeks ago.

When l think that you let
that woman die all alone,

whom you claimed to have loved
with all your heart.

What will become of me
when l die,

l whom you do not love?

Forgive me, Honore,
if l hurt you.

l know that, deep down,
you are not bad.

But what is terrible is that
you don't understand me.

But now that that woman can
no longer come between us,

perhaps we can try
to get closer...

and understand
each other better.

Calm down, Honore.

My coat!

You are wearing it.

lt is late.
Are you going out?

To go where?
You've just come home.

lt's pitch-black outside.

Listen, if l caused you
any pain--

Pain?

You haven't caused me any pain
for a long time now.

You haven't made me cry for
a long time, my poor Mother.

Do not desert me,
Nacquart.

l don't know
what to prescribe.

No medicine will cure
black thoughts.

l can only prescribe
one remedy:

try to take your mind
off things.

Why don't you
go travelling?

How l would love to join
Madame Hanska in Bavaria.

That's an excellent idea.

But l don't have
any money.

How much do you need?

Nacquart, you would
do that for me?

Your mother wouldn't
recognise you.

She never saw me
for who l was.

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

There's George Sand.

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

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

l'm hungry for you.

ls it you?

ls it really you?

lf he sees us--

There's a grotto
below the castle.

-Take the secret staircase.
-Where?

Hurry!

Where is my wife?

l haven't seen her
for a while.

l plead guilty,
Count Hanski.

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

She's never seen
black swans before.

ls it dangerous?
lf she leans over...

Don't worry about
Madame Hanska's inclinations.

Let's dance instead.

What is it, Count?

Are you all right, Count?

What's with this disguise?

George Sand doesn't have
a moustache.

Now l can kiss you.

Don't you want to
kiss me any more?

Oh, but l do.
Except that it hurts.

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

Do you want to
caress me all over?

Like this?
And like this?

Oh, would l!

l desire you, too.

We're staying at the
Hotel Bohmerwald.

As soon as my husband
turns his back,

l'll let you know and--

That's too risky. What if
he returns unexpectedly?

Baroness von Galvenberg
is on our side,

so let's meet here.

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

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

l understand.

You're afraid as well.

We would end up
trembling like children.

Do you remember
what l told you?

As long as l'm married,

we will have to make love
in our letters alone.

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

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

l would like to live
a real life...

and feel something
other than a pen in my hands,

touch something
other than paper.

Writing is dangerous.

Your husband challenged me
to a duel because of a letter.

Oh, Eve...

is he still
thinking about it?

More than ever.

But don't worry.
He is not immortal.

Neither am l.

And if we carry out
that duel...

Hanski is steadily
growing weaker.

Will he survive
the coming spring?

Our Russian winters
are so very cold,

so deathly cold.

Build happiness
on the death of a man?

He's been
wishing you yours.

-That's enough.
-What will you do?

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

for you to be
treated thus.

l will speak
to your husband.

No! lf he knew about us...

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

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

He's a Teutonic knight.

What does he look like?

Like Death.

l have something
to say to you, Count.

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