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THE TIDINGS BROUGHT TO MARY

Based on the work of Paul Claude/

Halt.

Is that the way one sneaks from the house,

without an honest greeting to the ladies?

Stand back.

You did not even succeed in killing me with your wretched knife.

What kind of person loves

but does not want to possess what they love?

The disgraced man has his dark side, just like a woman.

Stand there near the candle, that I may see you well.

Have you looked at me long enough?

Who are you, young girl,

and what part in you has God reserved for himself,

that the hand which touches you with earthly desire

and of which the flesh itself is thus withered,

as if it had approached too closely the mystery of His dwelling place?

What has become of you?

The very day that followed the moment that we shared,

I discovered in my side the terrible scourge.

What scourge?

Leprosy.

Have you not fear nor horror of the leper?

There is a God, He knows how to protect me.

Peace be with you, Pierre.

Regina Cæli.

Quia quem meruisti port are, alleluia.

Resurrexit

Ora pro nobis Deum.

Amen.

Violaine,

I shall not return again to you.

You call me the rose, said the rose,

but if you were to learn my true name, I should let my leaves fall from me.

What is this "Justice" that you are building at Reims,

and which will be more beautiful than Notre-Dame?

It is the church that the guilds of Reims bade me to build.

Who cares for you, there?

I have always lived as a workman.

A bale of straw between two stones is enough for me.

A little lard on some bread.

What ring is that, Violaine?

A ring that Jacques gave me.

Is that all you have to give me for Saint Justice?

Will that not be enough to pay for one small stone?

But Saint Justice is a great stone.

Ah, I am not from the same quarry!

Young girl,

I know the good stone under the juniper trees.

In the same way, I know men and women.

But not girls, Master Pierre!

They are too delicate for you.

You love him dearly?

It is a great mystery, between the two of us.

How beautiful is the world, and how happy I am.

How beautiful is the world, and how unhappy / am.

Man of the city, can you hear high up there,

the song of that little soul singing?

It is a lark.

Forgive me, for I am too happy,

because he whom I love loves me,

and all is equal between us.

Fly straight up to Heaven!

As for me, to ascend a little,

I need a whole cathedral under me, atop its deep foundations.

And tell me that you forgive Jacques for marrying me.

No, I do not forgive him.

It is hard to be a leper.

It is you who have brought upon me this evil with your beauty,

with your poisonous smile.

The poison was not in me.

I know it!

It was in me.

And this sick flesh has not cured this tainted soul.

Vision of eternal beauty, thou are not for me.

I am not a vision.

Be a man, Pierre.

Be worthy of the flame which consumes you.

Poor Pierre.

This church alone will be my wife,

wrenched from my side like an Eve made of stone,

as I slumber painfully.

Violaine, my soul, I shall never see you again.

Who can know this?

I take with me your ring.

And who knows whether I take with it the soul of Violaine,

my child, so that I might build a church with it.

Farewell, Pierre.

Farewell, Violaine.

Poor Pierre.

The toad speaks under the leaves

with a silver tongue.

Why do you look at me in that way?

Come, say what you have to say.

You well know that no one can tell you anything,

I have to chase you just to sew on a button!

How the little girls have grown up.

Them?

To whom will we marry them off?

Marry them?

Oh, deceitful woman!

Why must you think one thing, only to first say the opposite?

I will say nothing more.

Jacques Hury.

Well?

I will give him Violaine

and he will take the place of the son that I did not have.

It is I who taught him everything he knows.

Livestock, people,

weapons, tools,

traditions, God,

the value of thinking before speaking.

I saw him grow into a man as he watched me.

I have a doubt.

Well?

Mara slept in my chamber this winter when you were sick.

Well?

And we talked at night, in our beds.

Well?

How do you know for sure that he loves her?

And Mara, if she gets it into her head to marry Jacques,

her will is as hard as iron.

Jacques will wed Violaine.

Well, he shall marry her then.

Now, I have something else to tell you, old woman.

I am leaving.

You are leaving?

And where are you going?

- Away. -To Château?

Further than Château.

To Bourges, to the other King?

To the King of Kings, to Jerusalem.

Lord!

Is France no longer good enough for you?

There is too much sorrow in France.

But we are very comfortable here.

That is why.

We are too happy, while the rest are not happy enough.

Anne, that is not our fault.

Nor is it theirs.

I don't know, I do know that you are here and that I have two children.

Surely you can see that everything has been disturbed from its place,

and everyone looks frantically around to find theirs.

I am weary of being happy.

Such is the wickedness of the world, we each desire to enjoy our possessions,

as if they had been created just for us.

And the smoke sometimes seen in the distance,

it is not the stubble of cut straw in the fields that burns.

Who calls you far away from us?

An angel blowing a clarion.

What clarion?

The clarion that makes no sound, but that all can hear.

The clarion that summons all men every now and then,

to allow the cards to be dealt out anew.

You are still young and beautiful, to me.

And the love that I have

for my gentle black-haired Elisabeth is great.

My hair is grey.

Say yes, Elisabeth.

Yes, Anne.

Have patience, Zabillet,

I shall return soon.

Soon shall come another separation.

Today? You mean today?

As early as today.

And now, I shall go to find Jacques.

Tell him that she is not to marry him, or I will kill myself!

Moro!

I shall hang myself in the woodshed. Where we found the strung-up cat.

You are wicked. Jacques Hury loves her.

I know that you do not love me.

She thinks she's the Saint of the 11 OOO virgins.

It is I, Mara, who speak the truth. That is what infuriates people.

You are spiteful.

When you were a child, you didn't cry out when you were beaten.

Tell him I will kill myself.

And him? How do you know he wishes to wed you?

Doubtless, he will not.

- Well... - Well?

What do you say?

- I am to go to Jerusalem as a pilgrim. - What?

You heard me.

You shall be the father here, in my stead.

I do not understand you.

I am leaving.

The sun is like our glistening ox,

and the rain is our banker.

Some look to men for their reward,

but ours comes straight from Heaven itself.

The earth clings to the sky,

as the body clings to the spirit.

Behold the son I have chosen.

Jacques Hury.

I am leaving.

You shall obey him.

When you are wed, do not scorn the love of your father.

Jacques, take her, and take my name from her.

Love her each day of your life, like bread that leaves one no hunger.

But who knows whether she still cares for me?

Who knows?

Do you care for me, Violaine?

It is Father who wishes it.

Do you wish it too?

I wish it too.

How shall we live our lives together?

Think about it, while there is still time.

I have you and hold you, your hand and the arm with it,

and all that comes with the arm.

Parents, your daughter is no longer yours. She is mine alone.

What do you say, Mother?

I am glad indeed.

Oriole my friend

Who eats the wild cherries

And spits out

The stones

The Oriole sings.

What does he say?

That the rain of this past night was like a downpour of gold for the earth.

What else does he have to say, the little bird?

That the weather is fine. That God is great.

That there are still two hours before noon.

Bring me my shoes, bring me my cloak.

What do you mean, you are leaving?

It's as if he had heard nothing.

Put my shoes on me.

Farewell, Elisabeth.

Bring me my horse.

This final time, I shall give you your bread.

- You will not see me again. - Farewell, Elisabeth.

Farewell, Mara. Be kind.

Farewell, Father.

Farewell, all.

What is the matter, little child?

You have exchanged a husband for your father.

Alas, Father! Alas!

Good day, Mara.

My lord.

I believe you dreamed this tale that you told me the other day.

What tale?

The tale about the stonemason.

You are speaking of Violaine?

I blush for that little girl.

It is shameful to give oneself away like that.

Without, within, and the core.

I know that she belongs wholly to me.

Yes.

How righteously he speaks!

How sure he is of these things that belong to him!

You're just a bumpkin from Braine!

The only things one can own are those one can make, take or earn.

Jacques, you are a tall, handsome young man.

Do not tease me.

- All the same, it is a pity. - What is a pity?

He thinks everything is his, like a peasant,

in the middle of his little round field.

You will be made to see that it is the opposite.

Oh, my betrothed amidst the boughs in bloom, ha ill

Jacques. Good day, Jacques.

What is this delightful dress?

I wore it for you.

It is the habit worn by the nuns of Monsanvierge,

which the women of Combernon have the right to wear twice.

The first time, on the day of their betrothal.

The second, on the day of their death.

How beautiful is the world,

where you are the share that has been set aside for me.

Good day, my wife.

Good day, sweet Violaine.

From now on, you must never cease to be by my side.

How beautiful this hour is. I ask for nothing more.

What a lonely place this is, how secret it is to be here with you.

Your heart is enough, I am with you.

Tomorrow, in view of everyone, I will take this queen in my arms.

Take her, and do not let her go.

Tell me once more that you find me beautiful.

Yes, Violaine.

Show me your left hand.

My ring is gone.

I am more than a ring.

After all, I am doing no harm by loving you.

It is God's will, and my father's.

Who shall take you from my arms?

Do not touch me.

Am I a leper?

Heed what you are undertaking in taking me for your wife.

No man is witness to our union, none but the Almighty.

And it is not the July sun that enlightens us,

but the light of His countenance.

Violaine!

I am no clergyman, nor monk, nor holy.

I have a duty, and I will fulfil it.

You must not ask me to understand what is above me.

Heaven is for the Heavenly, and earth is for the earthly.

Because wheat does not grow by itself

and here a good ploughman is needed.

Each of us has his place,

and that is justice.

But me, I do not love you just because it is fair.

And even if that were not so,

I would love you still, and more.

I do not understand you.

You love me so, and I can only do you harm.

There can be no justice between the two of us.

I do not understand you!

My beloved,

do not force me to tell you my great secret.

A great secret, Violaine?

So great that you will no longer ask to marry me.

I do not understand you.

Is my soul not enough?

Take it.

I am still here, breathe it in.

Were we to be joined, death itself would not obliterate us more than love.

What more do you want to do with me?

Why do you wish to take for yourself what belongs to God alone?

The hand of God is on me and you cannot protect me.

We will not be husband and wife in this world.

What are these strange words, so tender,

so bitter?

I believe you wish to test me, and you are toying with me.

And yet I am scared

and I see you in this robe which frightens me.

It is not the finery of a woman,

but the apparel of a priestess who offers a sacrifice.

Turn not towards me this face which is no longer of this world.

Sweet bird.

The sky is beautiful, but it is beautiful too to be caught.

The sky is beautiful, but so too is it worthy of God himself

that a man's heart be filled, without leaving any space empty.

Do not damn me by depriving me of your face.

No doubt, I am a dull and ugly man,

but I love you,

my angel, my queen, my darling.

It is no longer right that I keep for myself this secret.

It is a message so profound

that neither life, nor Hell, nor even Heaven can slow its pace.

But tell me once more that you love me.

I love you.

Give me your knife.

Give me the knife.

What is this silver flower branded on your flesh?

Leprosy.

How difficult it is to convince you.

Which sickness is the most monstrous? Leprosy of the soul or of the body?

The only one I know is of the body.

So you do not know the other?

And so, you no longer wish to marry me?

Daughter of the Devil!

Such is the great love that you had for me.

Such is this lily that I had chosen.

Get away from me!

I am far enough away, you have nothing to fear.

Further away than you were from your leprous pig!

You are speaking of Pierre de Croon.

It is him of whom I speak, whom you kissed on the mouth.

It is true.

You do not deny that this man took you and possessed you?

I deny nothing.

But I still love you.

Say something.

If you have nothing to say,

I will believe it.

Speak!

I beg of you. Tell me this is not true.

Mara always tells the truth.

What will you do?

Remove this robe. Depart this house. Obey the law.

Well?

Find my way to the place that is set aside for people like me.

The Géyn leper colony.

Go, remove that robe, and find clothes for travelling.

May I soon feel rising up beneath me this immense edifice of mine,

may I lay my hand on this indestructible thing

that I have built

and which is held together thanks to each constituent part.

My work, where God can be found.

Go, pray for us.

And what is the crazy old man doing?

Where is he now?

There it is.

The king may come.

He can come whe'ever he likes, we 'ave done our bit.

Peaceful encounters take place

atop mountains of ash and fire.

Everything is upset and disturbed from its place.

Everyone looks frantically to find where theirs is.

Deus, in adjutorium meum intende.

Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina.

Gloria Patri et Filio, et Spiritui Sancfo.

Stout erat in principio, et nunc el semper, amen.

Vox clamantis in deserto:

Parate vias Domini

et erunt prava in direct a et as per a in vias plan as.

- Truly, you've done a good job! - Hark!

Ah no, it still ain't him.

Otherwise we'd be able to hear the bells of Bruyéres a-ringing.

He had his supper in Fisme.

'Tis a nice wee Christmas, for sure.

'Tis Christmas Day

when our King Charles comes back to get hi'self crowned.

She is just a simple child of God who brings him back to his hearth.

Joan, that's what they call her. The Maid!

Christmas! Cheep cheep cheep.

Christmas, Christmas, once more!

It's mighty nippy!

Best keep thine eyes open, to better see a wee man in red

next to th' king.

'Tis her.

On a great black horse.

These past six months, she's been keepin' her pa's oxen.

And now, she holds a banner with Jesus writt'n on it.

And the English flee ahead like mice.

What're they up to, that lot o'er there 2

The two bells o' the cathedral, they're knellin' the midnight Gloria

and until the French arrive, the bells won't never stop a-clanging.

My name is Agnes. I am youth.

What do ye mean, why didn't ye stay down there?

Master Pierre de Croon, he sent me to Fetch some sand.

He concerns himself with sand at this time?

He says his work is not to make roads for the king,

but a dwelling for God.

What good is building Reims, if the king cannot travel to if?

What good is a road, if there is no church at the end?

No good Frenchman is he.

Anyone caught tattling politics here,

we blacken his nose with the bottom of the frying pan.

- It's said he is a leper. - It is not so.

His flesh is as pure as that of a child.

It matters not that his body be sick, it's not with his body that he works.

He better not hear you say that.

I remember when he punished one o' us, who'd sat all day drawing.

He sent him to work up the scaffolds for the whole day,

saying that by the end of the day,

he would learn two things better than by drawing or measuring:

the weight a man can carry, and the height of his body.

It was thus that he instructed us in building God's dwelling

in which each of us is like a hidden foundation,

made up of our inches, hands, cubits

and our span,

and outstretched arms, and feet,

and paces.

All this is accomplished from within,

like the work of the bees, and as the soul does for the body.

That is the work of holy grace.

The wee man speaks well.

Are the people of Chevoche here?

That's us.

- Praised be Jesus Christ. -So be it.

Does the leper girl live with you?

Not in our home, but right nearby.

It looks like you're holding a child in yer arms.

It's awful cold for takin' wee bairns outside for a walk.

The child is not cold.

That's her rattle there!

Such o pity that she in'? dead.

She'll be asking after some food, no doubt.

She don't forget that!

Ho-hey, Faceless! Joan, what did I say!

- Ho-hey, you're all rotted away! - Catch this!

Where does she go?

It's me, Violaine.

Is it you, Mother?

It's me, Violaine, Mara, your sister.

It is good of you to come. But do you not fear me?

I fear nothing on this earth.

Your voice has come to resemble Mother's.

Violaine, our dear mother is no more.

And Father has not yet returned.

- And you two? - We are well.

We have three more ploughs. You would not recognise Combernon.

Are you happy together, Mara?

Yes. We are happy. He loves me.

Praise be to God.

Do you not see what I am carrying in my arms?

I have eyes no more.

Only the soul endures in the withered body.

- How then can you walk so straight? - I hear.

What do you hear?

Things that exist by me.

And me? Do you hear me?

What do you want?

To Praise with you this God who has brought the plague on you.

Let us praise Him, then, on the eve of His Nativity.

The chasm hauled up by the fish

One must turn to God when everything else is gone.

He, at least, will not fail us.

What do you know of He who is invisible and of Whom nothing is revealed?

He has not become more so than everything else for me.

He is with you, little dove, and He loves you.

As He Himself is with all of the wretches.

His love is great.

Like the love of the flame for the wood when it burns.

He to whom you yielded your body has forgotten you.

I did not yield my body.

Gentle Violaine. Dishonest Violaine.

Did I not see you tenderly kissing Pierre de Croon?

The wretched man was a leper, and I was so happy that day.

In all innocence.

Like a little girl who kisses a poor little boy.

Do not tell me you willingly forsook Jacques, leaving him to me.

No, I am not so virtuous.

Why ought I believe your deceitful word?

Would it have been better that I leave him no regrets?

Now, I am happy with him

and I have borne him a child.

A sweet little girl.

And so, will my leprosy be cured?

No, as long as there is a pound of mortal flesh to consume.

Will the love in my heart be cured?

Never for so long as there is an immortal soul that nourishes it.

Does your husband know you, Mara?

What man can know a woman?

Happy is she who can be utterly known, and can give herself utterly.

You have transferred to God your faith.

Love created pain and pain created love.

What use is this blind love

that bestows upon others neither light nor warmth?

If you were to spend one night in my skin,

you would not say that this fire has no heat.

These are truly unhappy times.

The people have no father.

They look around and find no answers.

That is why my body withers here

like Christendom as it crumbles.

Suffering is mighty, when it is as wilful as sinning.

You saw me kissing that leper, Mara.

The chalice of pain is deep,

and once brought to your lips, it cannot be freely removed.

My pain is greater than yours.

Take it.

What is it?

My little daughter. My child.

It's her poor little body.

Take it, I give it to you.

What do you wish me to do, Mara?

I tell you she is dead.

Her soul lives on in God.

You won't fool me with your God-fearing sermon.

This milk that is boiling in my breast, it's crying out to God.

How cold her little face is.

He knows nothing yet.

He was not at home?

He has gone to Reims, to sell the harvest.

Whom did she look like?

Him. Only her eyes were like mine.

Poor Jacquin.

I did not come here to hear you say "Poor Jacquin"!

What do you want of me?

Give me my child that I gave to you!

You only gave me her remains.

Bring her back to life for me!

Is it in my power to resurrect the dead?

What good are you then?

Good to suffer and to pray.

Give me back the child you have taken from me.

But you can see the child is dead.

She's not dead, you hag! With your beastly heart!

If I could talk to God like you do,

He would not have stolen my child from me so easily!

It is written

that you can blow on this mountain,

and cast it down into the sea.

I could, if I were a saint.

You must act like a saint when a wretch begs of you.

Why do you come to torment me in my grave?

All I ask from you is my child.

Listen.

Those are the chimes of the Christmas bells, Mara.

A child is born to us.

Give me back mine.

The wind is blowing this way.

Let us pray with all the universe.

Do not cry.

It is not the time to cry,

when the saviour of all men is born to us.

Do you see this Book? Read to me the Christmas Service.

"The Prophecy of Isaiah."

"The people who walked in darkness

"have seen a great light.

"Those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death,

"upon them hath the light shined,

"for unto us a Child is born,

"and the government shall be upon His shoulder,

"and his name shall be called...

"Wonderful, Counselor,

"Mighty God.

"Everlasting Father.

Prince of Peace."

Listen.

I hear nothing.

Read on, Mara.

"Our Saviour, dearly beloved, was born this day:

"let us be glad.

"For there is no proper place for sadness

when it is the day of birth of Life."

The King of France goes to Reims.

"Let the sinner be glad that he is offered forgiveness."

"For the son of God has taken on Himself

"the nature of man,

"in order that the inventor of death, the Devil,

might in turn be conquered."

Ave Maria, ave gratia plena.

Dominus tecum.

I am not worthy of this book.

Violaine, I wish I could be different.

Read on, Mara.

You do not know whose voice sings the response.

"It is right, too,

"that He be born in Bethlehem.

"For Bethlehem indeed means House of Bread."

What is the matter?

I feel on my face the breath of a new dawn.

Violaine! Violaine!

Is it your arm that stirs?

Be at peace, Mara.

It is Christmas Day, when all joy is born.

I bring you tidings of great joy, for a man is revealed to the world.

Take it, Mara.

You would not leave me this child forever?

It lives! It lives!

It lives and we live.

It's me, Aubaine.

Do you recognise me?

What is it, my joy? What is it, my treasure?

Violaine!

What is the meaning of this?

The child's eyes were black.

And now they are blue like yours.

This hope warms us like coffee.

Hey there!

What is it you want?

Open up!

- Who goes there? - I said open up!

Jacques Hury, do you not recognise me?

Pierre de Croon.

It is I.

What have you brought to us here?

It was my choice to bring her to you here.

Why here?

That she might at least die under her father's roof.

Jacques,

here is Violaine.

Leper, go scrub your sores with the other wretches.

I am cured.

And she too will be cured in time.

You are more leprous than she and I.

Is it true that she kissed you on the mouth?

It is true.

Poor child.

I leave you with her.

Who is there?

It is I, I am close to you.

Good day, Jacques.

Are you still angry with me?

Why did you kiss that leper on the mouth?

There are still other things we have to say.

I have nothing more to say to you.

Why did you kiss him?

He was so sad, and I was so happy.

I do not believe you, Violaine.

Cruel Violaine.

No, not cruel, but sweet.

Sweet Violaine.

It's me, Violaine,

I am the only one whom you loved.

Jacques...

It was too beautiful.

We would have been too happy.

If you had believed in me,

who knows whether you could not have cured me?

Should not I have believed my eyes?

You should have believed your eyes, that is right.

Must it be death that parts us once more?

You are forever lost to me.

Tell me, why am I lost?

You are dying.

What good is this body to me,

if it hides away my heart so that you do not see it?

Salvation is near.

Blessed be the hand that guided me that night.

What hand?

The hand that silently took mine,

and guided me.

Where?

Where Pierre de Croon found me.

Under a great mound of sand,

a whole cartload of sand heaped upon me.

Did I bury myself there?

Who did this?

God Almighty!

I do not know.

It matters little.

Do not curse.

I shall get to the bottom of it.

Do not speak in vain.

I have only a little time to be with you.

Stay.

Don't leave.

I shall stay.

I won't leave.

Do you remember that blemish on my flesh

that I showed you, beneath my breast?

Did I not tell you

that you shall not tear me from your soul?

I no longer want you to be joyful.

It is not fitting that you laugh.

For as long as you remain far from me.

Violaine.

Help me in this, my dearly beloved.

The bitterness of the ailing patient who sees the shadow on the sundial,

and of the soul who hears its calling.

And as for me,

you refused to accept anything from me.

Do you think I know nothing of you?

Did they not tell you that your child was dead?

Mara swears the child was simply sleeping.

Did you not see that your daughter's eyes are no longer the same?

They are blue now, like yours.

Yes, Jacques.

She was dead.

Who brought her back to life?

God.

And with God,

the faith and the despair of her mother.

And you?

Yes.

When I felt the dead child lying on me,

your own flesh and blood,

my heart shrank, and the iron reached inside me.

That is what I was holding in my arms.

Everything that is yours, I shall never possess in this life.

Do you mean to say the child is truly risen from the dead?

It was dead.

All of a sudden, in a single instant...

I felt its little head moving.

And life sprang from me, all at once.

In a single instant.

And life rushed back to my blighted flesh.

I know what stirs that little sightless mouth

which seeks the breast with its unforgiving teeth.

Do you forgive me?

Deceitful woman.

You are your mother's daughter.

Whose hand was it that took yours, that so graciously guided you?

I do not know.

I believe I do know.

You know nothing.

You understand nothing of women.

Of their misfortune.

Was it only a hand that helped?

I know nothing of it.

What good would knowing do?

I am still alone.

Not alone.

With this beautiful child that I have returned to you.

Your destiny must to be mapped out, and your fate chosen.

There is no more happiness for me.

You were not promised happiness.

Toil. That is all that is asked of you.

Tell me, what is but one day far from me?

Soon it shall pass.

And when your time comes

and you will see the great door creak and swing open,

you will find me on the other side, waiting for you.

Oh, my betrothed amidst the boughs in bloom, hail.

You remember?

And now, you must take me from here.

Have me carried to the shelter

that my father built for the needy.

No, Jacques... Not you.

Summon Pierre de Croon.

He was a leper. I hold no dread for him.

All is ready?

They are readying the coffin.

Tomorrow, at first light, all will be ready.

Is there food and drink enough for those we may have to receive?

Old man, it is your daughter who we lay in the ground

and that is all you have to say.

What are you looking for, Sister?

Flowers, to lay over her heart, in her hands.

There are no more flowers.

All that is left is the fruit.

Push to one side the foliage, you'll find the last violet.

She rests as if in a deep sleep,

like someone who knows who cares for them.

My chubby little daughter, who would awake roaring with laughter

in her little cradle.

What have you against me?

It was I who asked Mother to speak to her

that day when you returned from Braine,

because I burned with desire to wed you.

If not, I had decided to hang myself on your wedding day.

But God, who can read our hearts,

allowed the leprosy to take her.

And yet Jacques could never stop thinking of her.

That is why I killed her.

So that the one whom I love and who is mine,

would belong to me just like I belong to him, wholly.

And this man,

who belongs to me and who is mine,

should he be cut in two?

With one half here, and the other in the Chevoche forest.

And my child, who is mine own,

should she have been cut in half, and split between two mothers?

One for her body,

and the other for her soul.

Who was most faithful to you, Jacques,

between me and Violaine?

Violaine, who betrayed you for some leper.

Yielding, she says, to God's counsel,

with a kiss.

Her return to me brings with it nightfall.

I worship God. Let Him stay where He is.

Our wretched lives are so short, may He leave us in peace.

Am I at fault for loving Jacques?

Was it for my joy?

Or for the devouring of my soul?

Who loves me?

Who never loved me?

The disgrace of she who is not loved.

My love is not born of joy, but born of pain.

This pain is enough for those who do not know joy.

Only I may give it to you.

Do you not recognise me, Jacques? I am your wife.

Come then, Mara.

It is Violaine who forgives you.

It is she, you corrupted woman, who reunites us.

Dead words.

My vigour is gone, like a widowed woman with no child.

How beautiful it is to live.

And how immense is God's glory.

But it is good, too, to die,

when all is done

and little by little there flows over us,

a darkness cast by a gloomy shadow.

Poor Violaine.

And you, little child!

What blue eyes she has!

Look at the beautiful rainbow! The beautiful rainbow!

Pierre,

now comes the time when the women and the newborn children

can teach the wise old men a lesson.

Is the object of life simply to live?

It is not to live, but to die,

and to give what we have with laughter.

That is eternal youth.

Do not weep, Jacques, my friend.

Pierre,

I saw on my path the churches that you brought into this world.

How beautiful is the stone

and how soft it is in the hands of the architect.

What beliefs it sustains, and what shadows it casts.

With those stones, together with the soul of Violaine, my child,

I shall build a church.

Violaine is no stone to me.

I do not wish the light of her beautiful eyes

to be covered.

Only the light of her soul is with us.

How beautiful you are, my child.

Walk ahead, Violaine, and I shall follow you.

Violaine and Elisabeth,

soon I shall be with you once more.

Marguerite from Paris

Lend to me your shoes so grey

To take me to paradise

How fine it is, how warm it is

I hear a tiny bird

That goes "cheep”

I am at the threshold of death

and I am filled with a mystifying joy.

The Lord's angel brings tidings of peace,

and the child trembles at its mother's breast.

Man of little faith, why do you weep?

Because I go to my Father and to your Father.

Thanks be to God, He has loosened the stone in my heart.

So that I might live entwined with my God,

like the vine and the olive tree.

The Angelus prayer rings out once more

to the Heavens and the eager earth, with the time-honoured tidings.

Voice-of-the-Rose, God is born.

God has become man.

He is dead.

He is risen.

The three peals, like an unfathomable sacrifice,

are gathered to the bosom of the uncorrupted Virgin.