Original subtitles

MY FATHER'S GLORY

FROM THE BOOK BY MARCEL PAGNOL

I was born in Aubagne, under the goat-crowned Garlaban,

in the days of the last goatherds.

Garlaban is an enormous tower of blue rock.

It rises very high in the Provence skies.

Not quite a mountain, but so much more than a hill.

It's Garlaban.

"The Ploughman and his Sons", by Jean de la Fontaine.

"Work, make the effort,"

"it is the fund that lacks the least."

My father was a primary school teacher.

"Work, make the effort,"

"it is the fund that lacks the least."

His name was Joseph.

He had a warm deep voice

and his blue-tinged black hair was naturally wavy on rainy days.

"Work is the real treasure."

One Sunday,

he met a little seamstress named Augustine.

He found her so pretty that he married her immediately.

I never knew how they met,

because we didn't talk about these things, at home.

They were my father and my mother.

Always had been and always would be.

For me, my father's age was 25 years older than me,

and it never changed.

Augustine's age was the same as mine.

Because my mother and I were one person,

and as a child, I thought we were born on the same day.

Joseph…

Sibelard, take over!

To think that you did this to me…

Augustine…

Sibelard! Sibelard!

I'm a dad.

And it's a boy.

For a primary school teacher's son,

school is the centre of the universe.

Marcel!

I have few memories of Aubagne.

I lived there only three years,

as my father gained rapid promotion.

From Aubagne, we went to Saint-Loup,

in the Marseilles suburbs.

Here comes handsome Marcel.

When my mother went to market,

she left me in my father's classroom.

He was teaching six or seven-year-olds to read.

- Dad-dy's pipe. - Well done!

I sat quietly at the back of the class,

in awe of my all-powerful father.

- Pu-nished. - Well done!

One memorable morning…

Oh, my handsome little chap!

My mother sat me in my place and went without uttering a word,

while my father…

No, that isn't true!

What did you say?

Mommy didn't punish me, what you wrote is not true.

Who said you were punished?

It's written on the board.

Just a minute… You know how to read?

Yes.

Goodness…

Read, then.

The mom-my pu-nished…

Her little boy, who was naughty.

The dad-dy is proud

of his lit-tle boy

who can read.

Does this mean you love me?

- Does your head hurt? - No.

When is the last time he read something?

Yesterday morning.

The lid of a soap box.

- Nothing since? - No, your sister won't allow it.

It's for his own good. You'll make his brain explode.

- Mommy, am I ill? - Of course not.

Have more tart.

A cerebral explosion, how ridiculous!

I don't want Marcel to enter any more classrooms,

or even open a book before he is six.

Let him be a child for a bit longer.

I now had a little brother. His name was Paul.

"We found him in a cabbage", Augustine had told me.

As for my father, he had spoken to me about a little seed.

Those botanical explanations

had temporarily satisfied my curiosity.

Giddy up!

That year, my father jumped ahead like a comet.

Indeed, from Saint-Loup, instantly skipping the suburbs,

he was made a permanent teacher at the Chartreux Lane School,

Marseilles' largest local primary school.

Marseilles…

I'm going to be late!

No, you won't. It's not 8 o'clock yet.

Wait…

Oh, no. Tomorrow will do.

- Don't I look a bit too… - No, on the contrary.

- You're magnificent. - Magnificently nervous, you mean.

Augustine…

You'll be just fine, I'm sure of it.

But these city children, I just think…

What? They are still children.

Yes.

Come on!

Daddy!

Where are you going?

I'm going to school.

Why don't I go to school as well?

You're not old enough, yet, and it gives you headaches.

No, it doesn't.

Oh, no!

Come on, go and get dressed.

And don't forget to wash.

- I've done it already. - You little fibber!

Show me your hands.

I left them in my bedroom.

Bring them back to me,

all nice and clean.

Or we won't be going for a walk with Auntie Rose.

Same thing with your feet!

"For eight people, use 2 kg of fish."

"Scorpion fish, mullet, weever fish…"

"John Dory, conger eel, whiting fish."

"Put together the onions and the leek,"

"finely chopped,"

"in a saucepan able to withstand high heat…"

"with two tablespoons of olive oil."

"Cook slowly while stirring frequently."

1st October 1900.

Do sit down.

My dear children…

We are at the start of a fabulous century,

in which miracles, emerging from science,

will be a daily occurrence,

and will bring joy to the poorest and to the most humble.

Houses will have gas, electrical lighting,

even a telephone, in many cases.

Yes, yes.

The telephone will allow us to talk from here,

without having to go anywhere or without shouting,

to people who live in Aubagne, or even in Aix-en-Provence.

That's far away!

Yes, Sir.

Our 20th century will be a grand century.

Progress is marching.

Soon, machines will carry out the most arduous jobs.

They could well enable us to reduce a day's work to 10 hours.

Now, that would be a good thing.

And the worker will get one day off a week.

And guided and emancipated by education,

each person will have their place in a world

which will respect everyone.

I won't be saying these things again.

Get your books out. Dictation.

My brother, Paul, was now a three-year-old little man.

He was meditative, he never cried, and he played all by himself.

Augustine was still pale and frail, but happy,

surrounded by her Joseph, her two boys,

and her brand-new sewing machine.

This amazing modern invention gave me the chance

to help her in her work.

Auntie Rose, Augustine's sister,

staved off her young spinster's loneliness in our company.

Joseph reminded her of this to tease her.

- Paul, no! - What is it?

A hair roller.

He eats anything he can lay his hands on.

Last time, it was a long rasher of bacon.

Marcel!

- What is it? - The railways directory.

What have I done to deserve such children?

What you have done, or rather, what you have not done.

Rose, please!

I know it was Joseph's idea,

but a wedding which is not celebrated at church…

Is not a real wedding.

Talking of weddings, isn't it high time to think about your own,

my dear Rose?

"Heed me, and live for now,"

"this time won't come again."

"Come, pluck now, today,"

"life's so quickly-fading roses."

And what about the Alsace-Lorraine?

I can't exactly use red, white and blue…

Mauve, the color of bereavement.

I was now nearly six, and I finally went to school,

in Miss Guimard's foundation class.

Good. Well, then…

A, e, I, o, u.

Y.

When you know the answer, you keep quiet!

Little trained monkey!

While the other children faltered over their ABC,

I remained dumb, peaceful and smiling.

I told myself stories,

wandering along the pond in the Borely Park,

at the far end of the Prado, in Marseilles.

Every Sunday, my Auntie Rose came to lunch with us,

and she would then take me on the tram

to this enchanted place.

One fine Sunday,

I was unpleasantly surprised to find a gentleman

sitting on our bench.

From that day onward,

and I was glad of this,

our walks to the park became more and more frequent.

My Aunt had confided to me

that this gentleman owned the park, and that if we talked about him,

he would find out and ban us from the park.

I knew that his generosity cost him nothing,

but I was nonetheless very grateful and proud

to have such a rich friend.

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe Catch a tiger by the toe…

You're it.

37, it's quite old!

Of course not, I'll be 30 at the end of this year.

I consider myself young, still.

No! 37 years old, it's the prime of life!

And Rose isn't 18 anymore, is she?

I'm 26. And I like him.

That's the main thing, naturally.

What does he do at the prefecture?

- He's a deputy chief clerk. - In what kind of office?

I don't know, but he earns 220 francs a month.

And he gets a small income from his family.

He told me we could reckon on 350 francs a month.

Well, dear Rose, let me congratulate you!

But is he good-looking, at least?

No, he's not good-looking at all.

Yes, he is!

- He is superb! - Marcel!

Following those events,

the owner of the Borely park came to our house, one day,

accompanied by Auntie Rose.

- My dear Joseph! - My dear Jules!

They were both coming back from a great trip.

Augustine, look at this!

Yes, under our startled eyes,

the park owner kissed my mother,

then my father!

Here's the little scoundrel…

His tongue rolled "Rs" like a stream rolls over gravel.

From now on, you call me Uncle Jules,

because I am Auntie Rose's husband.

Very quickly, Uncle Jules became my great friend.

And as I advised him to have a little house built

in his wonderful Borely park,

he confessed casually that he had never owned it.

That day, I discovered that adults could lie just as well as myself,

and I felt that I wasn't safe amongst them any longer.

Father Dupanloup…

- Joseph? - Yes.

Father Dupanloup has a ride In a hot-air balloon…

Jules and Rose won't be long.

Really?

In a hot air balloon But 300 m up in the air

His long reproductive system

Joseph! Keep your jokes about priests for your colleagues.

Don't make them here, not in front of Jules.

Come on, Augustine, it's just a little song

which celebrates the aeronautic feats

of the venerable Father Dupanloup.

Jules goes to church, so what?

Every Sunday, I know.

You don't know it all. He receives Holy Communion twice a month.

What?

A man who comes into our family, a 37-year-old man!

A man who studied law, a civil servant of the Republic!

Wasn't it enough to refuse to go in the church on their wedding day?

Jules could take it badly.

And I wouldn't blame him.

But… Well…

He'll forbid Rose to see us!

There you are! There!

This is how intolerant these fanatics are!

There it is!

Do I stop him from going to eat his God every Sunday?

Do I forbid you to see your sister

because her husband, despite being educated,

believes that the creator of the universe

descends in person every Sunday into 100,000 goblets?

Well, later on, when your Jules comes for lunch,

I will show him how broad-minded I am.

My liberalism will ridicule him.

I will mention neither the Inquisition,

nor all those wretched people God sent to the stake.

I won't say a word

about the Borgia poisoner popes, or about Popess Joan!

And even if he tries to preach to me the puerile concepts

of a religion as childish as my grandmother's folk tales,

I'll reply politely,

and I'll be content to chuckle quietly into my beard!

But he didn't have a beard, and he wasn't chuckling at all.

Yes!

- I bought a rum baba. - Jules, how kind of you!

Augustine…

Augustine…

Rose…

- Joseph! - Rose.

- Joseph! - Jules…

Uncle Jules!

- No sweets! - Of course, not.

The baba comes from Duberger's.

Thank you, Uncle Jules.

- Rose? - Yes?

Ah, you work on a Sunday…

Yes. Nothing much.

Indeed, you school teachers have holidays to rest.

Long summer holidays.

No doubt we should replace the prefecture civil servants,

exhausted by their long siestas

and worn out by penpushing.

- Yes! - Yes!

My dear Jules, did you have a good morning?

Very good, I went to the 10 o'clock service.

You understand Latin, then?

Enough to pray, my dear Joseph.

Sometimes I wonder, my dear Jules…

Yes?

If they don't use Latin in order to hide things

from the uncultivated believers.

Like the use of magic formulas by charlatans?

- You said it. - Time to eat!

My my, this is delicious. Congratulations to the cook.

Thank you.

Try this nectar from my native Roussillon.

- Not for me. - Just one glass.

No, one glass of this wine contains 5 cl of alcohol,

enough to kill three good-sized dogs.

Come on, no need to recite the object lessons

from your training course.

They are more objective than a seminary.

- Go on, have some! - No!

It's against my religion.

Let me convert you.

Just a finger, then.

It's a natural product.

Even children could drink it.

Nice and still, now! A little smile, Miss Guimard?

Nice and still, here we are. Well done!

Three years passed.

Nice and still, please! There!

Mr Arnaud, come on, Mr Arnaud! Thank you, well done.

Smile, nice and still!

20 kg of apples cost 100 francs. How much for 2 kg of apples?

I mastered the rule of three…

I learnt, with infinite delight, the existence of Lake Titicaca…

- He said "caca"! - Mangiapan, get out!

The plural rule of words ending in "ou" …

Louis X, nicknamed the Headstrong…

And those fearful rules that govern past participles.

But learning goes beyond the blackboard.

One day, Mangiapan shared with us a rather bold hypothesis.

He claimed that babies came out of their mothers' navels.

The navel, I say.

The other day, Miette, my older sister…

She's a bit funny at the moment, because she's seeing someone.

My brother Paul had grown.

In bed, at night, he approached philosophy through his comics.

I wanted to check with him Mangiapan's bold theory,

which at first, seemed absurd,

but after a lengthy examination of my navel,

I had to admit that it really did look

like a buttonhole,

with a kind of small button in the middle.

I came to the conclusion that an unbuttoning was possible

and that Mangiapan had spoken the truth.

I was determined to uncover the great secret.

One Thursday, coming back from the market,

I made an important discovery.

I noticed that Augustine had changed shape.

She was walking with her chest thrown back,

like a postman at Christmas.

What has our Augustine got under her apron?

Wait for me, children!

Two months later,

having celebrated Candlemas at length,

three whole days at Auntie Rose's tossing pancakes,

we came home one evening to find Augustine smiling,

but pale and weak in the big bed.

A little sister was born.

For me, Mangiapan's theory was confirmed.

I kissed my mother tenderly

while thinking how she must have suffered

when the time had come to unbutton her navel.

At first, the little creature seemed like a stranger to us.

Our Augustine breast-fed her,

which shocked me deeply,

and frightened Paul.

She eats our mommy four times a day.

Uncle Jules and Auntie Rose lived in Minimes Street,

in a new flat with all modern conveniences.

- And we now cook… - With gas. Come and see.

With gas, and still with olive oil!

And what about a phone, my dear Jules?

That thing that summons you like a servant?

No such bad manners in my house!

Lunch is served, Madam.

My dear Jules, you live in grand style!

- Have you been made prefect? - No, thank God.

Well, I doubt very much

that your God interferes with civil servants' promotions…

Come on, let's eat.

- Yes, I'm ravenous. - You must eat for two.

I noticed with surprise

that it was my dear Auntie Rose's turn to start swelling

and immediately predicted an imminent unbuttoning.

The children of older parents are always frail.

My sister is only 28.

For a first child, it's quite old.

Don't forget that her husband is 40.

Thirty-nine.

28 and 39, that makes 67.

That day, we were going to visit an older parents' child.

He'll be 67, you see.

He'll be all wizened, with white hair and a white beard.

Like Granddad's?

Yes, but smaller, obviously, and finer.

A baby's beard.

Doesn't sound too pretty.

Being so old, he may be able to speak.

He'll tell us where he comes from.

No, no, look!

But we were sorely disappointed.

Though a bit pale, Auntie Rose seemed perfectly buttoned up.

Next to her, there was a baby.

A baby with no beard and no moustache.

That baby looks very young.

What does he mean by that?

That the baby doesn't look its age.

Come on, Little Toad, I need your help.

- What for? - You'll see.

Joseph, what do you think of this?

That your hat suits you.

Not the hat, the scorpion fish!

Ten pounds, a real monster.

And you posed for the picture?

Of course, such a feat deserved to be immortalised.

You posed with a fish?

I accept he was pleased to have caught a fine specimen,

but to have his picture taken with a fish!

How undignified!

Of all the vices, vanity really is the most ridiculous.

Do you know where I'm taking you?

To Ali Baba's cave.

I nearly forgot your chairs. What time is it?

- It comes to 50 francs. - Oh, too expensive!

But beautiful. The chest is period.

Whatever period, it's not ours.

You like modern style?

I'm not buying for a museum. Give me the lot for 35 francs.

- Impossible. - Why?

I owe my landlord 50 francs, he'll be here at noon.

- What time is it? - 11.45.

So if you owed him 100 francs, you'd ask me?

I'd have to.

But if I owed him 40 francs, I'd charge you 40.

If I owed him 30 francs, I'd charge 30.

In that case I'll come back later, when you've paid him.

Come along!

No, it's not possible, it's quarter to twelve!

You're in it now.

It's bad luck, that's all. It could've happened to anyone.

But you're young, fresh as a daisy, stiff as a ramrod,

your eyes are gleaming.

Compared to blind people and humpbacks, you can't grumble.

Fifty francs.

Go on, Marcel, go fetch the chairs.

Paul, what are you doing? Come here.

Daddy, what can I do?

You are going to be very useful.

You see, tools can be very malicious.

The moment you need one, it knows about it, and it hides.

Because they're scared of being hit by a hammer?

Of course.

So, sit on this stool and keep an eye on them.

It will save us a lot of time.

- Dad! - Ah, give it here!

Come on, chop chop!

Can you guess what all this work is for?

Make sure the children don't touch all this rubbish!

In those days, of course, germs were brand-new,

as the great Pasteur had only just invented them.

Our mother imagined them as tiny little tigers,

about to eat us alive from the inside.

All this rubbish, as your mother calls it,

will be the foundation of rustic furniture

which she'll never tire of looking at.

Rustic? It sounds nice, but what does it mean?

It means,

"from the country".

And since, as it happens,

your mother needs a bit of fresh country air,

Uncle Jules and myself are sharing the rent on a villa in the hills.

That is where we'll spend our summer holiday.

Where is this villa?

Right on the edge of a moorland desert,

stretching from Aubagne to Aix.

A real desert.

Maybe there will be camels?

I didn't see any.

What about rhinoceroses?

Ah… Perhaps.

My father talked, Paul questioned him,

Augustine helped us,

and in my head, I repeated magical words.

Villa, hills, garrigue…

Cicadas, desert…

Marcel!

Papa!

Augustine!

On the day of the departure, at 8 o'clock,

we were already wearing our holiday outfits,

made by Augustine.

Uncle Jules, ever the great organiser,

had arranged everything.

The two families would travel separately.

He could afford a removal van,

but we'd have to make do with a farmer and his horse cart.

Sorry I'm late, I was selling my apricots

at the market.

Wretched townsfolk!

I almost had to pay them so they would buy my apricots.

- Mr Joseph? - Well, yes.

Morning, Sir.

Morning, Sir.

- Morning, Sir! - Morning, Sir!

Come on, let's load the cart with all this clutter.

So you understand?

You go on your tram, and we meet at the Four Seasons junction.

- You know the way? - I have my map.

Bye for now. Giddy up, old nag!

In case I'm late, you'll find refreshments there.

We'll see about that. Come on, we have to walk 9 km.

- It's a long way for the children. - Yes.

- Are you enjoying that? - Yes.

Giddy up!

- Is that the village of La Treille? - It is, but we're not there yet.

Up there, the lady will have to get down,

and we'll have to push.

The chocks, the chocks!

You must hit harder, hit him under the belly.

No, no, I don't want to!

We must gouge his eyes out! This man's eyes!

Gouge my eyes out? What kind of brute is this?

I say we should stick him in this drawer.

No, I don't want to!

But if you want to gouge people's eyes out,

they'll want to lock you in a drawer.

He was only joking.

Even as a joke, you shouldn't say such things.

And just on the day I got myself

a pair of sunglasses from the market.

You can still wear them.

Silly boy! With my eyes plucked out,

if I was wearing sunglasses,

I might as well try to look up a mole's bottom!

Come on, then.

This once, I forgive you.

With much shouting, pushing,

wedging the chocks, taking them out, using our stick,

we finally reached the village.

In the middle of the square, the fountain was singing.

- No one wants a drink? - Come on, children!

Nothing better than the virtues

of this pure, thirst-quenching and free water!

What about you, Augustine?

And then, we got out of the village,

and the enchantment started.

The love blooming inside me was to last for the rest of my life.

A large black bird marked the middle of the sky

and like a sea of music,

the coppery hum of the cicadas surrounded us.

That one there is Tête Rouge, "The Red Head".

That's Tête Ronde, "Round Head",

and that is the Taoumé, sometimes also called Tubé.

What does it mean?

That it's called Tubé, and also Taoumé.

But what is the origin of these words?

Their origin? It means it has two names.

And?

And? You have two names too. And so do I.

And in the background, it's Garlaban.

Aubagne is on the other side.

- I was born in Aubagne. - You're a local, then.

Giddy up, old nag!

I was born in Saint-Loup, am I a local too?

Just about, hardly at all.

He's a bloody idiot!

- What are you doing? - You'll be more comfortable.

- You ninny, we can't stop here. - Why? We'll catch up with them.

How small she was now! She looked 15.

Look at this thyme, we'll make a wonderful stew.

- Not thyme, savory is much better. - What is it?

It's like thyme and mint put together.

But I can't describe it, I'll show you some.

We're not short of herbs, round here.

Marjoram, sage, rosemary, fennel…

You chop your savory very fine to stuff the hare's belly with it.

Add a large piece of bacon, it's delicious!

We're there.

That is the Bastide Neuve.

That is our holiday villa.

This was the start of the happiest days of my life.

Fabulous storm lantern!

Seeing it burn brightly, with the serenity of an altar lamp,

made me forget my cheese soup,

and I decided to devote my life to science.

Soup is Man's greatest conquest.

No, I want to do it!

I want to do it!

No, I want to do it! All right, eeny, meeny, miny…

I know you, you're going to cheat again.

I'll do it!

- All right, my turn tomorrow. - Your turn tomorrow.

The song of the cicadas and the scents of the garrigue

suddenly filled our illuminated bedroom.

Have you been to the country where orange trees blossom?

That is where…

- No, "That is where…" - No.

That is where…

Ah!

Here, happiness came naturally, as easy as ABC.

Even washing was no longer abominable,

thanks to my father's brilliant invention.

He had fitted a rubber hose to the kitchen tap.

This progress tap, as we called it, was an extraordinary luxury.

A real miracle, as we were now in the land of thirst.

There was a large water tank at the back of the house.

We just had to turn on the copper tap,

and crystal-clear, cool water started pouring.

Enough! When the tank is empty we'll have to go back home!

Mom, no!

Will you stop that?

Go and get dressed, or you'll get cold.

Come on, quickly!

To think that in Marseilles, I have to beg them to wash!

- They are obedient. - Pretend to be, at least.

Marcel, particularly, he's a real smooth talker.

Have you been to the country where orange trees blossom?

That is where…

- No, "That is where…" - No, no!

That is where…

That is where I would like to live

How soft your skin is!

Look at you, all scruffy!

We're on holiday, I've made myself comfortable.

You should do the same.

- Like that. - But I'll look like a…

Yes. Undo one more button, and you'll be an Alcazar dancer.

Uncle Jules had awarded the title of housemaid

to a bewildered country woman who came in the afternoons

to wash up and sometimes, do the laundry,

giving her the chance to wash her hands.

We were not allowed to leave the garden,

and the fence was reputed to be impassable.

But we soon proved the contrary.

This was the start of great adventures.

Stop thief!

Who said you could steal my butterflies?

Your butterflies?

They are not yours!

Yes, they are! Mine, no one else's!

And that's why they call me Edmond of the Butterflies!

If it was Edmond of the Goats' Droppings, would they be yours too?

Tell me, who is this insolent boy?

My brother.

My big brother.

You're no asset, you two.

Butterfly thieves, rascals, you'll end up in prison.

In prison? There was one where my brother was born.

It doesn't surprise me.

And what are you doing, here?

Nothing, we just walked up the hill.

- What for? - To have a look.

- What? - To see what's on the other side.

My God! Since the beginning of time,

it's Man's obsession, to see what's on the other side.

He fights in wars, he has children, he travels…

He even embraces religion,

just to see what's on the other side!

Sir, are the cicadas yours as well?

Not them, no. You can have them.

So I can catch them?

- With your net? - Well, yes!

You'll still be here at Christmas!

I can tell you're city children.

Fine, I'll show you the way. Come closer.

Come closer, that's it.

A cicada is less trustful even than a customs officer.

The moment it knows you're there, it stops singing.

No chance of catching it then.

The secret is to let it get used to you,

and it will start singing again.

It's started singing again, foolish thing!

Don't cicadas ever stop?

Are they disturbing you?

I thought they would shut up at night.

It's strange.

They must have mistaken the lamp for the sun.

The strange thing is, they are so loud…

It's as if…

- Edmond! Are you playing or not? - What are you doing?

We're waiting for you, it's your turn.

- Hello, Mr Teacher! - Hello!

Will you please come here?

I'll be with you in a minute!

- We're waiting for you! - Eagerly!

Edmond, come on! What's up? Come on, now!

All right, I'm not deaf!

You're not deaf but you're a pain!

- At last! - All right, let's play!

Boules are a serious matter, no time for anything else!

I'll give your boules some attention, you'll see.

- What now? - Hear that?

A cuckoo, so what? Are you playing or not?

A cuckoo in this season? No, it's Batistin.

What about him?

Batistin is my lookout.

Just in case it's him, bye, everybody!

Excuse me, gentlemen, you haven't seen a…

What?

- We're after a poacher who… - No, sorry.

Thank you very much, gentlemen, for your valued collaboration.

- Don't mention it. - It was nothing.

- Our pleasure. - Bye-bye!

You told me there's no game in your hills.

Game? No, there isn't any.

But partridges, ortolans, hares, yes, plenty!

If you know how to catch them.

You're from the city, but maybe you could team up with François,

to finish the game!

No way, I'm bound to lose!

- It's not fair! - Yes, Dad, go on, go on!

I'll try.

- You see, he'll try. - You can't say no.

All right, do you shoot or do you point?

- You tell me. - You tell him.

I don't have any boules left, you'll have to shoot.

Careful! Mr Teacher, you can't learn this from a book.

Out of the way, out of the way!

- This time, you need to… - All right, I can see, I get it.

- They've adopted you, well done. - Had I not won at boules…

Thanks to the candle I lit for you at church.

Whatever you say.

Excuse me…

My dear Joseph, let me introduce you to our vicar.

It was the first time I'd seen my father

face to face with the sly enemy.

- Hello, Sir. - Mr Teacher, nice to meet you.

Your brother-in-law said you'd like some tomato plants.

No.

I have some in my garden, if you like.

No, thank you.

Have you found some?

No.

But I've decided to do without tomatoes, this year.

Good day, Sir.

Marcel, come here.

"I let him know his name should be Friday,"

"which was the day I saved his life…"

Marcel, come and see, Uncle Jules is cooking!

Yuck, it smells nasty!

- Uncle Jules? - Yes?

- What is it? - Shall we eat it cold?

No, we won't be eating it, neither tonight nor ever.

- Why are you cooking it? - To set little boys talking.

This is what I was cooking this morning, fatty wads.

- What are they for? - To make cartridges.

- Are you going hunting? - I am.

- With Uncle Jules? - Yes.

- Do you own a rifle? - Indeed I do.

- Will you kill elephants? - Time for bed!

And rhinoceroses?

And giraffes?

Daddy's going to kill elephants, rhinoceroses and giraffes.

My wedding present from my older brother.

A Spanish weapon. What's yours like?

My father showed him a large yellow case,

which he had probably bought from the second-hand shop.

I got it from my father.

Having made this ancient fire-arm into a family heirloom,

he pulled out of this laughable cardboard box

an enormous rifle.

Good Lord, this is an arquebus!

Almost, but it's meant to be very accurate.

Quite possible, indeed!

Stay where you are, don't move!

Two pounds too many, but it handles well and shoulders nicely.

Let's get our cartridges ready.

What do you think we'll find in those hills?

We must pack the wads firmly.

- First of all, little birds. - Oh, tiny little birds?

Mmm, a nice little brochette of sparrows, my dear Augustine…

But I forbid you to kill canaries!

Neither canaries nor parrots, I promise!

But wheatears and ortolans…

Ortolans… They are delicious!

This is the gauge to measure the charge.

Graduated in grams and decigrams.

Yes.

And what about thrushes? Are we allowed them?

Yes!

But…

There is much better still.

In the Taoumé ravines lives the king of game.

Guess.

- Elephants? - Paul!

Will you please go to bed? Come on!

Not elephants, I don't think.

Though you never know.

Come on, Joseph, joking apart, make a little effort.

The rarest game?

Partridges?

The most beautiful?

The red-legged partridge?

The most mistrustful?

- The hare. - The hare?

Come on, Joseph, the game the hunter dreams of!

The pheasant!

Well, Joseph?

I don't know.

Let's see…

I'm chattering.

Well, then? The rarest, most beautiful, most mistrustful?

No, I don't know.

The bartavelle!

What's that?

You see, this bird is so rare

that even Joseph has never heard of it.

A bartavelle, ladies and gentlemen,

is a royal partridge,

more royal than a partridge, because it is huge and rutilant.

A bartavelle is almost a capercaillie. It's not just a…

Uncle Jules had spent all evening talking like an erudite teacher

whilst my father, an examiner for primary schools,

who played draughts superbly and shot expertly at boules,

had listened to him carefully, with an air of ignorance,

like a pupil.

I felt ashamed and humiliated.

What's up with Uncle Jules? Has he got the runs?

Let's check the spread of the bullets. Careful!

Go ahead!

My father took aim.

I was trembling for fear he might miss the door,

which would have been utterly humiliating.

The shot had hit the centre of the door.

I felt intensely proud

and expected Uncle Jules to express his admiration.

That's not a rifle, it's a colander.

He hit it bang in the middle.

Not a bad shot, but a partridge taking flight

has little in common with an outhouse door.

Now, let's have a go with buckshot.

Here.

Ladies, plug your ears.

Gunpowder is a serious matter. You're going to hear thunder.

Make sure to hold the butt tightly.

Right… One, two…

It's hard wood, they didn't go through.

But had we used bullets…

Fortunately, they hadn't.

Through the battered door, we heard a small voice.

Hesitantly, it was saying…

May I come out now?

It was the housemaid.

The dog goes "woof woof woof".

The partridge, "flap flap flap…"

Take one step back,

the partridge comes along, flap flap flap.

Shoulder, take aim. Flap, flap, flap…

What are they doing?

The partridge is 10 cm away.

Bang, bang! Thud.

That's the "King's shot". You get it?

- Yes. - I'm asking your dad.

- It doesn't look easy. - Go on, Dad.

Er, hide behind a bush…

Shoulder my rifle. No, isn't that right?

- One step back, come with me. - It's not easy. So, I…

The dog goes woof woof, the partridges go flap flap…

Rifle, one step back, shoulder…

10 cm, bang, bang!

So I hide behind a bush,

I shoulder my rifle…

Aim, don't shoot! Partridge, 10 cm…

Bang, bang!

My father was preparing for the opening

with such meticulousness and humility

that for the first time in my life, I doubted his omnipotence.

I had to go and hide in a bush with my eyes shut.

I waited there, my ears pricked,

listening for the slightest snapping of a twig.

Did you hear me coming?

Not wanting to hurt him, I replied…

No, Dad.

And I just grew more and more worried,

because my father, city-bred and a school prisoner,

had never killed beast nor bird.

I'm not too happy about Dad going hunting.

Why is that?

Have you not noticed Uncle Jules,

always talking and bossing Dad around?

It's only to teach Dad. It's an act of friendship.

No, he's damned pleased to be better at it.

Dad always beats him at boules, but I'm sure he's going to lose.

Raspberry or plum jam?

It's silly to play games you're not good at.

I never play ball games because my legs are too small.

But I play marbles, because I know I'll win.

What a ninny you are!

Hunting is not a competition,

it's just like going for a walk with a rifle.

- If Dad doesn't kill any… - If he doesn't, I'll be disgusted!

I'll be disgusted and I won't love him anymore!

Marcel…

Oh, Goodness, how handsome they are!

This is no jacket,

more like 30 pockets sewn up together.

Oh, my God, their bottles!

12 km in the hills is not excessive, but still, it's quite a distance.

I'll carry lunch!

What lunch?

Ours.

Where?

When we go hunting.

But Marcel…

I don't have a rifle, so I should carry the lunch.

If you put it in the game-bag, there'll be no room for the game.

And when I walk, I don't make any noise.

- Marcel… - And you have no dog.

When you kill partridges, you won't find them again,

but I'm small, I can wriggle my way inside the bushes.

Dad…

Dad…

Come here.

You heard what Uncle Jules just said.

We'll be walking 12 km in the hills.

Your legs wouldn't take such a long walk.

But I don't have a big bottom like Uncle Jules,

so I never get tired.

Oh, I don't like the way you're talking about my bottom.

For a start, if you don't take me hunting,

it will make me ill!

I'm already feeling sick.

Marcel!

- Mom! - Marcel?

Marcel, calm down.

No, no, no!

You talked to him about it too much, see!

Then, Uncle Jules proved to be great and generous.

This may be none of my business,

but I'd say that Marcel deserves to do the opening with us.

Jules…

He'll carry our lunch, as he offered,

and he'll walk quietly behind us, ten paces behind the guns.

What do you say, Joseph?

In that case, it's fine by me too.

Uncle Jules!

Calm down!

- But… - But what?

Not a word to Paul, he's too small to come with us.

You will lie to your brother, then?

I won't lie, I just won't say anything.

- What if he mentions it? - Then, I'll lie to him.

Because it's for his own good.

He's right. You've just said something very important.

Lying to children is acceptable, if it is for their own good.

Don't forget that.

I'm not hungry tonight.

- Paul… - I'm really tired, though.

I can feel sick too, you know.

As Uncle Jules had often praised the healthy appetite of huntsmen,

I devoured my cutlet and asked for more potatoes.

What's got into you?

I'm building up my strength for tomorrow.

- What are you doing tomorrow? - The opening.

The opening? It's not tomorrow, tomorrow is Sunday.

You thought killing God's creatures on the Lord's day was allowed?

I forget, you're not believers in this family,

so Marcel thinks that the season can start on a Sunday.

Please, don't take advantage.

When is it, then?

On Monday, the day after tomorrow.

Dad…

For lunch, tomorrow,

we'll have apricot tart with whipped cream.

- Mom… - Yes?

May I read for a bit?

They won't take you with them.

Where?

To the opening.

I never asked to go with them.

You're a big liar.

I heard everything you said, and how much you cried.

You even promised to tell lies.

And Uncle Jules is an even bigger liar than you are.

Why?

Because the opening is tomorrow, I know it.

Mommy made tomato omelettes, and she put them in game-bags.

With a huge sausage, raw cutlets,

as well as bread and wine.

Good night.

Was this possible?

Of course, there was the dreadful Borely park liar…

But Dad?

Was he the silent accomplice of a plot against his little boy?

And what about Mom?

What a feast they were planning without me!

I would go with them, in spite of them.

- Paul, are you asleep? - Yes!

I should not fall asleep, or they would leave without me.

I must not go to sleep, I must keep my eyes open…

I must not go to sleep, I must not go to sleep…

Marcel… Marcel…

- Are you asleep? - What? No.

Listen, they are going without you.

Remember, Joseph, beware of wounded boars!

I'm off!

What about Mommy?

"My dear little Mommy,"

"in the end, they took me with them."

"Don't worry, and keep some whipped cream for me."

"Two thousand kisses…"

I understood that the season had started,

and I immediately remembered Uncle Jules's advice

to climb a tree to avoid the wrath of a wounded boar.

As I couldn't see my father,

I feared that a boar was already goring him.

I prayed God, should he exist, to send the boar to my uncle,

who believed in heaven, and would therefore die more readily.

I got him!

A beautiful blackbird!

I decided on the best course of action.

If I followed the ridge along the cliffs,

I could see everything without being seen.

What is it?

A woodcock. Put it in your game-bag.

- And go back on your own track. - Ah, yes.

Go on! After shooting, you load again.

Ah, yes, yes!

Uncle Jules had just confirmed his hunting stories were true.

It was time for Joseph to catch up with him.

A young partridge!

A whole flock of them!

I decided to drive them back towards the huntsmen.

Go on, go on!

Come on, I've told you already!

Every time you shoot, you reload your rifle immediately.

You must always reload immediately, every time you shoot!

And what about the partridge?

Come on!

Our failure filled me with consternation.

It was an appalling comedy.

Check the barrel, make sure it's not blocked!

Goodness me!

Would my father come home empty-handed,

with Uncle Jules decked out with birds and hares,

like a shop window?

No, that couldn't be.

I would drive back so much game his way,

that he would have to kill something!

What to do? Should I simply go back home?

But how could I abandon Joseph, alone with his ridiculous rifle

and his myopic glasses, faced with the king of huntsmen?

They had walked round the base of the peak,

so inevitably, by walking straight ahead, I would run into them.

- Well? - Not every time!

To join them, I was prepared to face this lonely wilderness.

Dad…

I had to face the facts, I was lost.

I thought of the great sagacity of Little Thumbling,

the brilliant inventor of the pre-marked track.

It was much too late to imitate him.

I listened to the hill at length,

to hear nothing but a deathly silence.

Hey, you there! Don't touch other people's traps, it's sacred!

- I just wanted to look at the bird. - It's a lark.

Are you a trap thief, by any chance?

- No! - What have you got in your bag?

- Nothing. - And what are you doing round here?

- Just walking. - On your own?

Yes, but… No, with my father and my uncle.

- And where are they? - That way.

- Go on, just admit you're lost! - No! Well, yes, a little.

You're with the huntsmen.

- Have you seen them? - A beret and a cap.

- Yes. - Then they are over there.

They look as if they are going to war.

It's for the opening.

What fools…

Personally, to go hunting, I don't ask for permission.

Don't you get told off?

Who by? Everybody's at it.

The opening? That's for townsfolk.

Go on, go and find them.

But I warn you, they are a long way away.

That's fine, I'm not tired.

Are you sure? Otherwise, I can take you.

- No, I'll manage by myself. - As you wish.

Goodbye.

- Hey! - What?

My name is Marcel.

What about you?

Lili. Lili of the Bellons.

This vulture or this condor could probably see

my father and my uncle grilling their cutlets on rosemary embers,

because the sun was at its highest.

I was still heading towards the place Lili had indicated,

and I was terrified,

as this bird of prey was now flying

around in circles, right over my head.

My savage cry didn't intimidate this bleeding-flesh ripper.

My eyes, which he would gouge out with his hooked beak,

searched for a refuge.

Dad!

This shepherd's hut reminded me of my wretched situation.

I thought that I was lost at the end of the world,

but that no one was worrying about me yet.

The hunters think I am at home,

and Augustine thinks I am with them.

But when they get back, what a disaster!

Mom may well faint.

At the very least, she'll cry.

So they'll start looking for me.

Farmers and the gendarmes will get roped in.

At nightfall, I may be able to see

their torches shining in the distance.

I would call with all my might…

Help! Help!

But they wouldn't hear me.

And my rescuers would walk away without seeing me, for evermore,

like the ship off the coast of Robinson's island.

To die or to sleep, what's the difference?

Dad! Uncle Jules!

Soon, I thought I could recognise a valley.

Was it the same one I had seen this morning?

I leapt with joy, when suddenly…

I thought I was bleeding, and was about to burst into tears,

when I noticed that the birds were bleeding too.

They were partridges, but their weight surprised me.

My heart gave a leap in my chest.

Royal partridges…

Bartavelles!

You had the nerve to fire a King's shot, a double, at that,

on bartavelles coming towards me!

- But I saw feathers flying. - Oh, so did I!

Taking bartavelles, at 60 km/h, to the top of the cliff,

where they must be having a good laugh!

He killed them!

He killed them, both of them! He killed them!

And from my blood-stained fists, four golden wings were dangling.

I raised to the sky my father's glory,

in the glow of the setting sun.

Barou… Barta… Bartavelle.

"A bird from the partridge family,"

"which lives on high peaks in pine forests."

Is that it? Nothing about its habits, its origins, its…

What are you doing?

I'm going to clean them out and roast them for tonight.

Not yet! This is not poultry, this is game, and not just any game!

No, it would be a crime to eat them so soon.

They seem ready to me.

No, let's not miss an opportunity to learn something.

Even the name, "bartavelle".

I'm sure Marcel would love to know its origins.

When we go shopping, we'll get the expert opinion of the locals.

I'm sure they'll know more about them than many a naturalist.

Taking your rifle to go shopping?

You never know. Come along, Little Toad.

Holy Mother, who sold you those?

They only cost me two gun-shots.

What, a double?

- A bartavelle double? - Well, yes.

Nothing like beginner's luck… Where did it happen?

The Lancelot Valley, near Passe-Temps.

I'm astonished you found them again,

because even when they are dead,

these beasts carry on flying for 500 m.

My boy was on the cliff, he saw them falling.

Well done, you!

If you haven't got a dog, you've got to have children.

Who sold you those?

They only cost me a couple of gun-shots.

One of them weighs 1,260 g…

The other one, 1,530 g!

- Oh, royal partridges! - Yes…

Great St-Hubert was with you.

Great St-Hubert, and my twelve-bore!

You got an old male and a two-year-old hen.

This partridge is not a Caccabis Rufa.

- No? - It's a Caccabis Saxatilis!

What is it in Republican French?

Forgive me. It's a rock partridge, also known as the Greek partridge.

I see that your ministry teaches you about birds, even.

Angels have wings too, Sir.

The vicar told us that in old Provençal,

bartavelle meant "rough lock",

and that this nickname came from the bird's creaky cry.

Well, Marcel, have you learnt enough about bartavelles?

Yes, Dad. I think we can eat them now.

Mr Teacher!

I'd like to immortalise this admirable feat.

Oh, Vicar, a stroke of luck isn't worthy of such an honor!

Of course it is, come on! Strike your pose!

This reminded me

of Mr Arnaud, photographed with his scorpion fish.

"To have his picture taken with a fish!", my father had said.

"How undignified!"

Ready…

"Vanity…"

Stand still…

One, two, three… Perfect!

Dinner's ready!

- Bravo! - Bravo, bravo!

This is good.

Listen, a lark!

Isn't it an ortolan?

- No, it's Lili! - Lili?

We have company!

So you know him?

- Yes. - I know you too.

You're the twelve-bore, of bartavelle fame.

- Will you have a cutlet with us? - No, I have my own lunch.

- Oh, a real poacher, then. - Me? No, I'm from the Bellons.

What does it mean?

It means that the hills belong to the locals.

And so, we're not poachers.

What's really lacking here is spring water.

Apart from the Mulberry well, are there any others?

I know seven of them.

Seven? And whereabouts are they?

- I'm not allowed to tell. - And why not?

You just don't say where the springs are.

Not even to me?

I would, but it's forbidden.

You mustn't tell even your own family.

My granddad knew of one,

and he never told anyone about it.

How do you know, in that case?

When we used to plough the buckwheat field at Passe-Temps,

every day at noon, before lunch,

Granddad used to say, "Don't look where I'm going."

And off he went, with an empty bottle.

And you didn't look?

Holy Mother, he would have killed us all!

Then he'd come back with a bottle of water.

And you never, ever saw anything?

Apparently, when he died, he tried to tell the secret.

He called my father and he went,

"The spring, the spring!"

And just like that, he was dead. He waited too long,

and so that spring is lost.

Rather stupidly wasted, I'd say.

Still, maybe it gives the birds a drink.

I'm walking quickly because the thunderstorm isn't far.

But it won't rain, and this weather is perfect for hunting.

If he had to drink all the rain that's coming,

he'd be peeing until Christmas!

- Bye-bye! - Bye-bye!

Marcel, are you coming?

No, go without me, I'll see you back home.

- Ah… - It's a pinhead.

Townsfolk call them Crossbills,

but we call them pinheads because they're stupid birds.

- What's that? - A kind of ant.

There, the thunderstorm. Chop-chop!

We just about have time.

Maybe we should get back.

No need. I know a place where we won't get wet,

and we'll have a great view.

For a town boy, you're doing very well.

Time to start now!

It's beautiful.

Beautiful, yes, but it's bloody stupid.

Bend down, and pick up two big stones.

Turn round very slowly.

- Is it a vampire? - No, it's an eagle-owl.

We call it a big owl.

If he attacks us, mind your eyes.

Let's go. Better wet than blind.

We're lost!

No, just stay with me. Here, give me your hand!

Your house is over there.

- Where? - Over there.

Don't worry, Madam,

my Lili will bring your Marcel back.

- Here they are! - You see, they're not lost.

Oh, my God!

- My God, they're drenched. - As if they'd fallen into the sea!

Careful, careful!

There, take this towel.

Children don't mind water, especially from heaven.

They look like lobsters.

Lobsters?

It's calmed down.

Come on, Lili, we're going.

Madam, the suit… May I keep it?

Don't be so cheeky!

That is something you must ask Marcel.

Yes, the suit is yours, Lili.

Thank you.

Lili knew everything.

What the weather would do, hidden springs,

and he revealed them to me in exchange for solemn promises.

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

He knew the ravines where mushrooms and wild lettuce grew,

as well as almond trees, sloes, arbutus…

In a thicket, he knew of some vine plants

on which clusters of sour but delicious grapes grew.

He would take a very dry clematis branch and cut it into pieces

which we smoked like cigars.

In exchange for so many secrets, I talked to him about the city.

The shops where you can find everything,

the toy displays at Christmas time…

The torchlight parades on 14th July…

And the enchantment of Magic City,

where I had a ride on the roller coaster.

I would imitate the rumble of the iron wheels on the rails,

the shrieks of the passengers, and Lili would scream with me.

- Look, an owl. You have it. - Thank you.

I wouldn't be surprised if we caught a few thrushes.

Autumn is starting today.

- Autumn? Is autumn starting? - Yes, so what?

Each day of the holiday being similar to the next in Provence,

time hadn't seemed to pass.

And though the summer was already dead, it had no wrinkles.

Autumn…

Let's make the most of this evening, because we'll start packing tomorrow.

What are you saying?

It's the end of the holiday.

The end? When?

Mommy!

We're leaving the day after tomorrow. Today's Friday.

Was Friday, we're leaving on Sunday morning.

Marcel… You know that on Monday it's the beginning of school.

Ahead of you lies an important year in your life.

In July, you'll sit your scholarship exams

for high school.

At high school, you'll learn Latin. I'm sure you'll love it.

The holidays were over.

I didn't want to cry in front of them.

- First one to open the shutters! - You do it.

Do you understand that we're leaving?

No more going hunting.

No more cicadas.

They're all dead, anyway.

So you're pleased that the holidays are over?

Yes, and at home, I have my box of soldiers.

So why were you crying last night?

I don't know.

They can leave if they want to, I'm staying here.

- How will you do it? - Easy.

Tonight, I'll pack my bag, and I'll go and hide in the cave,

the one we went to shelter in.

- The one with the big owl? - Yes.

- You'd do it? - Yes.

- You don't know me. - I'd like you to stay.

But in the hills, what will you live on?

- I want to be a hermit. - A termite?

No, hermits are people who withdraw from the world to meditate.

How do they get their food?

Some of them don't eat, special ones.

I'll go looking for asparagus, snails, mushrooms…

I know, I'll plant chick peas.

- Do you know how to cook them? - I'll soon learn.

I was thinking, if you're up there, I could set twice as many snares.

I'll bring half of them home, and we'll sell the rest.

And the snails, at the market.

And the fennel.

The herbalist pays three cents a kilo.

And with all this money, we'll buy rabbit snares.

A hare gets at least five francs.

I say, at this rate, from being a hermit,

I'll soon become a millionaire!

- Millionaire? What's that for? - They have plenty of money!

You don't need to eat ten cutlets at each meal.

As my granddad used to say, we only have one asshole, so…

This would be my last evening with my family, then.

I was about to give in to tears, when…

It may sound strange, but I can't wait to see

my pupils and my blackboard again.

Had this maniac forgotten the bartavelles?

He was nailing shut the coffin of our holiday,

and nothing would make any difference.

Dad…

What I've missed most here

is gas.

Honestly, I couldn't wait to leave because of gas.

Auntie Rose…

As for me, what I've missed most were comfortable lavatories,

with no ants, no spiders, and with a proper flush.

So this was what this fat-bottomed wine drinker was thinking about.

I felt intensely indignant, but also proud of my mother,

who was not blaspheming my beloved hills.

I decided that she would be the only one

I'd give a goodbye kiss to.

"My dear Dad, my dear Mom."

"Please don't worry, I have found my vocation, I'll be a hermitt."

"It's too late for my studies now. I have given up on them."

"I'll find my happiness in adventures."

"There's no danger, I've packed two aspirin tablets,"

"from the Rhône factory, so, don't panic."

"Paul will be a little jealous, but never mind."

"Give him a hug from me."

"Dear Dad, look after Mom's health, I will think of her every evening."

"I kiss you all tenderly, particularly my dear Mom."

"Your son Marcel, hermitt of the hills."

"PS: don't look for me, you won't be able to find me."

- I didn't think you'd do it. - I've made my decision.

You're fantastic.

I assumed the best fantastic air I could,

but I remained quiet.

- What's that? - It's a night sound.

Mind you, it's always a bit scary.

What's that?

A fox. He's driving some animals back to his mate.

He's warning her.

- What's the matter? - There's no denying it,

you're fantastic.

You're one in a million.

You really are the hermit of the hills.

His stunned admiration, whilst flattering me,

suddenly filled me with anxiety,

and I had to make an effort to remain fantastic.

I was about to succeed, when…

- We forgot something. - What?

And I can't believe we forgot that.

I should have remembered, but you forgot too.

What? Are you going mad?

The big owl.

- The eagle-owl? - Yes.

The one that tried to gouge our eyes out.

I bet you 12 snares that his mate lives with him.

We were approaching the cave, and I was overwhelmed by the news.

However fantastic you are, sometimes, destiny lets you down.

At night, an owl is worse than an eagle.

- When there are two… - There are two of us too.

Two big owls? I saw them flying over my head.

I was all the more fantastic,

as I decided to beat a retreat at the first opportunity.

This is the Breguette spring. You'll come here to drink.

The spring never dries up.

It yields at least ten liters a day.

This gave me the inspiration I had been hoping for.

Ten liters, are you joking?

Not at all, maybe even 15.

What can I do with 15 liters of water?

- You'll never drink that much. - What about washing?

A handful of water is enough.

Not for me. I have to soap myself from head to toe.

Why, are you ill?

No, but I'm from the city, which means I'm covered in germs.

- I need to be wary of them. - What are they?

A kind of lice, but so small that you can hardly see them.

If I don't soap myself every day, they'll eat me up.

One day, you'll find me dead in the cave.

- That would be silly. - It's your fault!

Had you not said there was as much water as I needed,

I would never have ventured it.

I didn't know. I don't have any "derms", do I?

I don't even know how you say it in dialect.

After the fear of the big owls,

came the fear that my father might have found my letter,

and above all, showed it to my mother.

Oh, no, the bedroom light is on!

- They must be getting dressed. - Then maybe they haven't seen it.

Up you get, hurry up, Marcel.

Come on, hurry up, Marcel, up you get!

There, the leather case!

In a typical act of generosity, Uncle Jules had insisted

on treating us to a hire cart.

No way were we going to walk back in the rain with all our luggage!

And don't forget this case!

- Marcel, come and have breakfast. - I'm not hungry.

Marcel…

- Mom, I… - Come on!

You must eat something.

It's a long journey, and we won't be stopping.

Come on, Marcel, you're not a baby.

There's more to life than just pleasure.

I would like to stay here too, you know, and live in the hills.

In a cave, even.

Yes, even all by myself, like a hermit.

The reference to the hermit struck me,

but I thought anyone could have this idea, since I had it myself.

You'll have work to do this year, especially in spelling.

He spells panic with a "k".

And I bet you couldn't spell "hermit".

I could feel myself blushing,

but I immediately dismissed my concern.

He hadn't read my letter, since I found it where I'd left it.

So you'll have to work really hard,

but if you are serious and you make good progress,

we'll come back here for the holidays.

Is that really true?

It's all down to you.

Mom…

Yes!

Rose, come on!

All right, be careful!

Lili!

Going back to your city, then?

- Yes, but we'll write. - Yes, well…

Why didn't we meet earlier?

And why does the best always come last?

- Marcel, come on! - Yes.

- Make sure to lock the door. - Not that we left much inside.

Come on, Little Toad, jump in! Goodbye, little Lili!

Don't forget your school work,

and that an educated farmer is worth two or three.

Goodbye, Marcel.

Goodbye.

Giddy up!

I was being taken away from my homeland,

and large raindrops were weeping for me down my cheeks.

Wait! Mr Teacher, wait!

- A souvenir of your holidays! - Thank you!

Bye-bye, Vicar!

God be with you!

- Well, well! - It's beautiful!

- So true to life! - Indeed, what a good picture!

This is silver-nitrate paper, which has a singular property.

It gets dark in daylight.

That's right.

Excellent lighting.

Although the position of the sun makes my nose look quite long.

I don't think so.

The focus is perfect,

which shows that the vicar knows his onions.

Since we have three, I should send one to Granddad,

so he can see how Marcel has grown.

Yes, he was very proud of his feat.

He would send one to Granddad,

and he would show one to the whole school, like Mr Arnaud had.

I had caught my superman in flagrante delicto of humanity.

I felt I loved him all the more for it.

And from my blood-stained fists, four golden wings were dangling.

I raised to the sky my father's glory,

in the glow of the setting sun.

MY FATHER'S GLORY