All language subtitles for Diary.of.a.Country.Priest.1951.FRENCH.720

From the Novel by
GEORGES BERNANOS

DIARY OF A COUNTRY PRIEST

Screenplay, Adaptation and Direction by
ROBERT BRESSON

I don't think I'm doing anything wrong
in writing down daily,

with absolute frankness,

the simplest
and most insignificant secrets

of a life actually lacking
any trace of mystery.

My parish. My first parish.

Must I believe
that it's only for duty's sake

that I refuse to acknowledge
my poor health?

My bicycle is very useful,

but I can't ride uphill on an empty
stomach without feeling faint.

I deliberately cut out
meat and vegetables,

eating only small quantities of
wine-soaked bread whenever I feel dizzy.

I add a lot of sugar to the wine.

I let my bread harden
for several days.

Thanks to this diet,
my head is clear,

and I feel much stronger.

Old Fabregars came
to the sacristy this morning.

Aside from the fee for my time,

God knows, Mr. Fabregars,

I'd like you to have use
of the draperies for free.

I should think so.

A lot of old moth-eaten rags
held together by patches.

What could they have cost?
- Candles are very expensive.

You do have a soft time of it.

There's no excuse
for exploiting the poor.

You like your money easy, Father.

We charge everyone the same.

As I see it, it's simple:

I ask one thing. It's only just.

Let my poor old wife
be buried decently.

The usual service.

And for that I'll not pay
a penny more, you hear?

I was still distraught
when I went to see the priest of Torcy.

God, I wish I had
his health and mental balance!

You should have
shown him the door.

Yes, shown him the door.

Besides, I know Fabregars.

The old guy has plenty.

You young priests!

What have you young men
got in your veins these days?

In my time
they made men of the church,

leaders of parishes, real masters!

Seminaries these days
send us choirboys,

young ragamuffins who think
they're working harder than anyone

because they never manage
to finish anything.

At the first sign of difficulty,

they say the priesthood isn't what
they expected and drop everything.

I will not drop everything,
I assure you.

Besides exterminating the devil,

your other dream is to be loved
for who you are.

A true priest is never loved.

The church doesn't care a whit
whether you're loved, my son.

Be respected, obeyed.

Keep order all day long,

knowing full well disorder
will win out tomorrow,

because in this sorry world,
the night undoes the work of the day.

"Keep order all day long."

The priest of Torcy's
words came back to me

as I peeled potatoes for my soup.

The right-hand man
came up from behind.

Good news, Father.

I'm getting electric light?

The council agreed to your request.

It will install electricity for you
at its own expense.

There remain
just the usual formalities.

- Will it take long?
- Two or three months. Four at the most.

I'd have loved to tell him
a thing or two about his cabaret.

He puts on a dance every Sunday

and calls it "The Families' Ball,"

where boys have fun
getting young girls drunk.

Good day, Father.

I didn't dare.

The simplest tasks
are by no means the easiest.

An awful night.

As soon as I closed my eyes,
sadness overwhelmed me.

I'd have done anything this morning
for a word of compassion or kindness.

I was expecting a lot
from catechism class,

the children preparing
for holy communion.

The girls had given me hope,
especially Séraphita Dumouchel.

Communion is

to re—to receive—

How about you?

It's to receive—

Receive Jesus
in the sacrament of the Eucharist.

And how did He establish
the Eucharist?

To establish the Eucharist,

Jesus broke bread and gave it
to His disciples, saying,

"Take and eat. This is My body."

He took wine and said,
"Take and drink. This is My blood.

Do this in remembrance of Me."

That will do for today's class.
Séraphita, come forward for a good mark.

The others may go.

Are you anxious
to make your communion?

Why not?

It'll come soon enough.

Yet you understand me,
and you listen so well.

It's because
you have such beautiful eyes.

They had plotted it together.

But why such hostility?
What had I done to them?

Miss Louise
attends holy mass every day.

Without her,
the church would be empty.

Her position as governess at the manor
dictates a certain distance between us.

This morning she buried
her face in her hands,

but at the blessing,
I could see she'd been crying.

You must feel very lonely.

Her ladyship is very kind,

but Miss Chantal enjoys humiliating me
and treats me like a servant.

Is she your only pupil?

The countess had a son, but he died.
She adored him.

No one at the manor
ever mentions him.

I'll call on the count next Thursday.

This visit to the manor
has me quite worried.

A good first impression
could spell success for my plans

for a youth club
and sports program.

The count's influence and wealth
could help me to achieve them.

The land is barren
and the barn empty.

That's true.

I'm not saying no, Father,
but give me time to think it over.

He's said to be hard on his farmers,
and he's no model parishioner.

Why has he so quickly become
the so desperately rare

friend, ally and companion?

Mrs. Pegriot will prepare it for you.
I've let her know.

I didn't dare tell him
my stomach only tolerates dry bread.

I won't taste his rabbit stew,

for which I'll have to pay
the housekeeper a half day's wages.

I could have a choirboy take it
to old Mrs. Ferrant. She'd be delighted.

Father, I approve of all your ideas.

Oh, my ideas.

But I warn you against
putting them into practice.

I don't follow.

The people here are malicious.

Believe me, I know.

If I may offer a bit of advice,

well, don't be in too much of a hurry.

Don't show your hand at once.

Let them take the first step.
There is no urgency.

It's just that these things
are dear to my heart.

As for my land and my barn,

I wouldn't discourage you.

We'll discuss them later

when we get down to working out
something practical together.

You're not looking at all well.

You should take care of your health.

My stomach is very temperamental.

I hesitate, sir,
to mention your daughter.

My daughter?
What is the matter?

I'm concerned about her sadness.

Her face is far from cheerful.

There is something hard
and rigid in her expression

far beyond her years.

Chantal sad?
You must be joking.

Could someone be rubbing her
the wrong way?

Would a little more understanding
from Miss Louise—

You're mad.

The mention of Miss Louise's name
seemed to upset him terribly.

His face hardened.

Why?

I seized the first opportunity
to return to the manor…

a decision I had arrived at quickly.

The servant was
several moments in coming.

I was sure I'd meet the count,

who was usually at the manor
Thursday afternoons.

But I met the countess instead.

I must have surprised her.

Am I disturbing you?

Not at all.

I knew she was withdrawn

and entirely absorbed
in the memory of her dead child.

She approached,
motioning to a chair.

On seeing you, I felt you had come
with some purpose in mind.

None other than to pay a call.

And that you also meant
to keep it to yourself.

I assure you.

I see I was wrong.

Your parishioners worry you
a good deal, Father.

Yet it's such a small parish.

Small on the map, madam.

It's a strange task
you've been entrusted with.

Yes, madam.

How little we know
what a human life really is.

Though I'd arrived feeling fine,

I found myself suddenly incapable
of holding a conversation

or even answering questions.

It's true that I'd walked
very quickly.

I'd lost a lot of time
with the ill Mrs. Ferrant.

Father!
Heavens, what's the matter?

You seem to be suffering terribly.

Where is the pain?

Here, in the pit of my stomach.

But it's nothing.
Nothing at all.

Forgive me, madam,
I must take my leave.

I'm seriously ill.

I was first struck
by this disease six months ago.

I went to see Dr. Delbende.

He's an old man, rumored
to be brutal, who's now retired.

The priest of Torcy
informed him I would be coming.

He palpated my stomach at length
with thick and unclean hands.

He'd just returned from hunting.

When things get you down,
come and pay me a call.

I wouldn't say that to everyone,
but the priest in Torcy has spoken of you.

And I like your eyes.

Faithful eyes.

Dog's eyes.

You and Torcy and I
are of the same race, an odd race.

The idea that I belonged
to the same race as these hefty men

would never have occurred to me.

- What race?
- The race that holds on.

And why does it hold on?
No one quite knows.

As a schoolboy I came up
with a motto for myself:

"Face up to it."

Face up to what? I ask you.

Injustice?

I'm not one to go around
babbling about justice.

I don't expect it for myself.

From whom should I ask it?
I don't believe in God.

I'm not very experienced,

but I always recognize the tone
that gives away a deeply wounded soul.

You're not up to much.

Just look at that.

Anyone can see you've not
always had enough to eat.

Well, it's too late now.

And the alcohol—what about that?

Alcohol?

Not what you've drunk, of course.

What was drunk for you,
long before you came into the world.

Séraphita worries me a lot.

I wonder sometimes if she hates me.

She torments me
with such exceptional maturity.

Morning, Séraphita.

I returned her book bag that afternoon.
I was received very roughly.

Yes, I scold myself
for praying so little and so poorly.

But do I have time to pray?

I met the priest from Torcy
on the road to Gesvres.

He gave me
a ride back to the rectory.

The bishop must be
hard up for priests

to put a parish in your hands.

I could burden you with advice,
but what's the point?

I've known pupils
who'd solve the toughest problems,

just like that, out of spite.

Where have I gone wrong?

You're too fussy.

Just like a hornet in a bottle.

But I think you have
the spirit of prayer.

Monks are more shrewd than us.

Besides, you have no common sense.

Your great schemes don't hold water.

As for knowledge of men,
the less said the better.

Face-to-face with your new parish,

you cut an odd figure.

And so?

So? Well, carry on.

What else can I say?

A bad night.

At 3:00 a.m., I took my lantern
and went to the church.

I never endeavored
to pray so much.

At first quietly, calmly,

then with an almost desperate will
that made my heart tremble.

This morning I received a letter
written on cheap paper,

unsigned.

"A well-wisher advises you
to seek a transfer to another parish.

The sooner, the better.

I feel sorry for you,
but I repeat: Get out."

I made a strange discovery:

The handwriting was identical.

Another terrible night.

It was raining so hard
I didn't dare go to the church.

I couldn't pray.

I know very well that
the desire to pray is already prayer,

and that God couldn't ask for more.

But it wasn't a question of duty.

At that moment, I needed prayer
like I needed air in my lungs

or oxygen in my blood.

Behind me, there was no longer
familiar day-to-day life

which one can leave behind
in one fell swoop.

Behind me there was nothing,

and before me was a wall.

A black wall.

Suddenly something seemed
to shatter in my breast,

and I was seized by a trembling
that lasted over an hour.

What if it had only been an illusion?

Even the saints knew
their hour of failure and loss.

I lay face-down at the foot of my bed.

I only wanted to show
complete acceptance

and surrender.

The same solitude, same silence,

but this time, no hope in breaking
through the obstacle.

There's no obstacle. Nothing.

God has left me.

Of this I'm sure.

I haven't slackened in my duties.

The incredible improvement
in my health makes my work easier.

Dr. Delbende?
Are you sure?

Dr. Delbende was found at the edge
of the woods near Bazancourt,

with his skull blown out,
already cold.

He rolled to the bottom
of a tree-lined ditch.

It's thought his gun
got caught in the branches

and went off.

The priest from Torcy kept vigil
for two nights by his friend's corpse.

He was visibly anguished.

It was rumored that
Dr. Delbende had committed suicide.

You don't think Dr. Delbende
might have—

He was very disheartened.

He believed up to the very end
that his patients would return.

His younger colleagues spread the word
that he knew nothing of antiseptics,

and his patients fled.

The paying ones, of course.
Not the others.

But the truth is
he'd lost his faith

and couldn't get over not believing.

I was in no condition to listen
to his confidences just then.

They were like molten lead
poured on an open wound.

I have never suffered so much

and likely never will again,
even when I die.

If he really killed himself…

do you think—

If anyone else
were to ask me that!

God is the only judge.

Dr. Delbende was a just man,

and God is judge of the just.

We're at war, after all.

One must face the enemy.

"Face up to it," as he used to say.
You remember his motto?

No, I haven't lost faith.

This abrupt and cruel ordeal

may have upset my reason, my nerves.

But my faith remains.
I can feel it.

I stood up with the feeling,

the certainty, that I had heard
someone calling me.

Yet I knew I wouldn't find anyone.

You'll keep your word?

Young lady, I will do what I promise.

I was overwhelmed.

I know nothing of people
and never will.

I ran to Torcy.

Father is away.

He won't be back
for eight or ten days at least.

I was so disappointed
I had to lean against the wall.

You know I can't receive you here.

What you promised to do

must be done today.

Tomorrow will be too late.

She knew I'd been to the rectory.

She is as sly as an animal!

I trusted her.
You get used to her eyes.

You imagine they're kind.

Now I'd like to tear out
those eyes of hers

and stamp on them
with my foot, like this!

Have you no fear of God?

I'll kill her!

Kill her or kill myself!

You mustn't stay here.

There's only one place
I can listen to you.

On your knees.

I don't want to confess.

You know quite well
all I ask is justice.

Ever since that beastly
woman came to the house—

Stay calm.

I am calm.

I wish you could be as calm as I am.

I heard them last night.

I was under their window.

They don't even draw the curtains!

I know they'll get rid of me somehow.

I am to leave next Tuesday.

Mama finds it very proper
and practical.

Proper!
It's enough to make you laugh.

But she believes
anything they tell her,

like a frog swallowing flies.

Don't speak of your mother that way.

You don't love her.

You even—
- Go on. I hate her!

I've always hated her.

She's a fool and a coward.

Never could stand up
for her own happiness.

Why do you look at me like that?

Leave me alone.

If you loved your father,

you wouldn't be
in this state of revolt.

I no longer respect him.

I think I hate him.
I hate them all.

I'll get my revenge.
I'll run away.

I'll disgrace myself
and make sure he hears of it.

Then he'll suffer as I have.

It seemed I could read on her lips

other words that went unspoken.

You'll do no such thing.

I know that's not
what's really tempting you.

Give me that letter.

The letter you have in your pocket.

I said whatever came to me,

and yet, strangely enough,
I was sure I was right.

Give it to me.

She didn't try to resist
and handed me the letter.

You must be the devil!

TO MY FATHER

I threw the letter
into the fire, unread.

Hers was a distress no priest
should approach without trembling.

I thought I read suicide in her eyes.

But perhaps it was
only a fleeting impulse

whose very fervor made it suspect.

I was nothing
but a miserable, unworthy priest.

I shouldn't have received Miss Chantal
or listened to her.

God was punishing me.

I knew my words
could not be taken back

and that I had to see it to the end.

I fear she may do something rash.

That's the last thing she'd do.

She's terribly afraid of death.

Those are the ones
who kill themselves.

Someone must have told you that.
It's outside your personal experience.

Are you yourself afraid of death?

Yes, madam.

But let me be quite frank:

To die is difficult.

Especially for the proud.

I fear my death less than yours.

My husband can keep
whomever he likes here.

Besides, the governess has no money.

Perhaps he's been too attentive,
too familiar…

but suppose I don't care?

After putting up all these years
with countless infidelities,

suffering absurd humiliations,

shall I now, as an old woman—

to which I'm well resigned—

open my eyes, put up a fight,
take chances? For what?

Shall I care more about
my daughter's pride than my own?

Let her put up with it as I have.

Madam, be careful.

Of what?

Of whom? Of you?

Let's not overdramatize.

Such thoughts don't dictate my conduct.
There's nothing in my past to blush about.

Blessed is sin if it teaches us shame.

Nothing but words!
Are you trying to worry me?

Well, you won't.
I have too much sense.

Anyway, we'll be judged by our acts.
What have I done wrong?

You're throwing a child
out of her home,

and you know it's forever.

It's my husband's wish.

If he's wrong—

He believes she'll come back.

And do you believe that?

- God will break you.
- Break me?

He has broken me already.

God took my son from me.

What more can He do to me?

I no longer fear Him.

God took him away for a time,

but your hardness—

Silence.

No, I will not be silent.

The coldness of your heart
may keep you from him forever.

That's blasphemy!
God does not take revenge!

Those are mere human words,

with no meaning except for you.

Are you saying my son might hate me?

You will no longer see
or know each other.

No sin could make
such a punishment just.

This is madness!

A sick man's dreams.

With my back against the wall
before this imperious woman,

I looked like a guilty man
trying in vain to justify himself.

Perhaps that's what I was.

Did you hear me?
Did you understand?

No, madam, I didn't hear.

Sit down. You're in no condition
to go anywhere.

I was saying that no sin on earth
could make such punishment just.

Nothing can part us
from those we have loved

more than life,
more than salvation itself.

Love is stronger than death.
Your scriptures say so.

We did not invent love.

It has its order, its law.

God is its master.

He is not the master of love.

He is love itself.

If you want to love, don't place yourself
beyond love's reach.

This is insane! You speak to me
as you would to a criminal.

Do my husband's infidelities

and my daughter's indifference and
rebellion and hatred count for nothing?

You might as well
say it's all my fault!

No one knows what can come
of an evil thought in the long run.

Our hidden faults poison
the air others breathe.

You'd never get through the day
if you dwelt on such thoughts!

I believe that, madam.

I believe if God gave us a clear idea

of how closely we are bound
to each other in good and evil,

we truly could not live.

Pray tell, what is this hidden sin?

You must resign yourself.

Open your heart.

Resign myself? To what?

Am I not resigned?

If I weren't, I'd be dead.

Resigned?
I've been too much so.

I should have killed myself!

That's not the resignation I mean.

Then what? I go to Mass.

I could have given up worship
altogether. Indeed, I thought of it.

How dare you treat God like that!

I lived in peace,
and I should have died in peace.

That is no longer possible.

God has ceased to matter to me.

What will you gain by making me
admit I hate Him, you fool?

You don't hate Him now.

Now at last you are face-to-face.

He and you.

- Do you swear—
- You can't bargain with God.

You must yield to Him
unconditionally.

But I can assure you

there isn't one kingdom for the living
and one for the dead.

There is only the kingdom of God,
and we are within it.

You know what I was
wondering a moment ago?

Perhaps I shouldn't tell you.

I was saying to myself,

"If there were, in this world or the other,
some place free from God,

if it meant suffering a death
every second, eternally,

I'd carry my son to that place,

and I'd say to God:

'Do Your worst and crush us!'"

Is that monstrous?

What do you mean, no?

Because I too…

have felt that way at times.

Dr. Delbende's image was before me.

His old, unflinching eyes
were on me.

Eyes which I feared to read.

If our God were the god
of the pagans or philosophers,

though he might take refuge
in the highest heavens,

our misery would drag him down.

But as you know,
ours did not wait.

You might shake your fist at Him,

spit in His face,

whip Him with rods,

and finally nail Him to a cross.

What would it matter?

It is already done.
- What must I say to Him?

Say:

Thy kingdom come.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done.

I can't.

It's as if I were losing him
twice over.

The kingdom whose coming
you have just wished for is yours and his.

Then let that kingdom come!

I must have hated God
to insult him as I did.

I might have died
with that hatred on my heart.

An hour ago,
my life seemed to me in order,

each thing in its place.

You have left nothing standing.

Give it to God just as it is.

You can't understand.

You think I'm so quickly meek!

The pride still left in me—

Give Him your pride
along with everything else.

Give Him everything.

What madness.

Forgive me.

God is no torturer.

He wants us to be
merciful with ourselves.

What's done is done.
There's nothing I can do.

Peace be with you.

I had to leave immediately
thereafter for Dombasle

and arrived home very late.

Clovis, the old gardener, gave me
a parcel from the countess.

I knew what was in it.

The small medallion, now empty,
and its broken chain.

There was a letter as well.

"Dear Father, the hopeless
memory of one young child

had me isolated from everything
in a terrifying solitude,

and it seems as if another child
has drawn me out of it.

I hope I don't hurt your pride
by calling you a child.

You are one,
and may God keep you so always.

I ask myself how you did it,

or, rather, I have ceased to ask.

All is well.

I didn't believe resignation
was possible,

and in fact it's not resignation
that's come over me.

I'm not resigned—I'm happy.

I desire nothing.

I had to tell you these things
this very evening.

We shall never speak of them
ever again, shall we?

Never.

It is good, that word 'never.'

I feel it expresses, beyond words,

the peace you have given me."

The countess died last night.

I arrived at the manor
streaming with sweat.

The count pretended not to see me.

She fell out of bed,
breaking objects on the night table.

Angina pectoris, no doubt.

She hasn't been quite herself
for some time.

On her face I had hoped to see—
I don't know—perhaps a smile.

But she wasn't smiling.

My arm was like lead
in raising it to bless her.

I left the manor about 2:00,

and catechism class ended
much later than I thought it would.

Upon returning, I found
a continuous parade of cars,

and the murmur of voices
filled the manor.

I'd have liked to spend
the night at the countess' side,

but the nuns were there,

and the canon, the count's uncle,
had decided to keep watch with them.

I didn't dare insist.

I entered her room for the last time.

The memory of our struggle

came back so vividly
that I thought I would faint.

I parted the muslin veil

and brushed her forehead
with my fingers.

I had said to her,
"Peace be with you,"

and she'd received
that peace on her knees.

What wonder, that one can give
what one doesn't possess!

Oh, miracle of our empty hands!

I thought I heard murmuring
as I passed.

They seemed to be talking
about me.

You saw my great-niece here?

Yes, Canon.

Here, and in the church.

She worked her way around you,
I've no doubt.

I treated her harshly.

Indeed, I think I humiliated her.

Do you feel you influence her?

Not at the moment.

But she won't forget I stood up to her
and that you cannot deceive God.

Her version of your meeting
is very different.

Miss Chantal is too proud
not to blush one day at such a lie.

She'll feel ashamed,

and she needs to feel ashamed.

What about you?

Oh, me…

You neglect your health.

My stomach is very touchy.

It digests only bread, fruit, wine.

In your state, I fear wine
may do more harm than good.

The illusion of health is not health.

Father,

there probably aren't two things
we agree on about how to run a parish,

but this is your parish
to run as you see fit.

One has only to hear you.

I needn't know what happened
between you and the late countess,

but I wish to cut short
some foolish and dangerous talk.

My nephew is moving
heaven and earth.

The bishop, a simple man,
takes him seriously.

Sum up in a line or two
your conversation of the other day.

I'm not asking you
to be inaccurate,

still less to reveal anything
confided to you as a priest.

The paper won't leave my pocket except
to be placed before his grace's eyes.

You distrust me?

I don't see how there could be
any report of such a conversation.

There were no witnesses.

The countess alone
could give authority for that.

Very well.
Let's drop the idea.

We'll meet again tomorrow,
if you agree.

I meant to prepare you
for your conversation with my nephew.

You're not one of those
who can speak and yet say nothing,

but unfortunately
that's what is called for.

But what have I done wrong?
What have they got against me?

That you are what you are,

and nothing can be done
about that, my child.

People don't hate your simplicity—
they shield themselves from it.

It's like a flame that burns them.

I went to the manor
as I'd promised.

Miss Chantal came to the door,
which made me suspicious.

She almost pushed me
into the drawing room.

The shutters were closed.

The countess' armchair

and the blackened logs
were still in the same place.

Young lady, I've very little time.

I will speak standing up.

Why?

My place is not here,
and neither is yours.

Are you afraid of the dead?

The governess is packing
and leaves this evening.

You see, I get what I want.

Little good it will do you.

If you stay as you are,
you'll always find someone to hate.

But the only person
you really hate is yourself.

I'd hate myself the same
if didn't get what I wanted.

I must be happy! Otherwise—

Anyway, it's their fault.

Why keep me cooped up
in this ghastly place?

Blood pounding in my veins,
but never allowed to raise my voice!

Hunched all day over boring needlework,
biting my tongue!

It's awful!

That's when I can feel—
I don't know—

this extraordinary force
building up inside me.

Life itself won't be
long enough to let it all out.

Aren't you ashamed
of such chatter?

The count arrived just then
from the fields,

smoking his pipe
with a contented air.

Has my daughter given you

the papers from
my father-in-law's funeral?

I should like this one
to be the same.

- She gave me nothing.
- Didn't you see her?

Father and I spoke of other things.

You ought to give him a free hand.

All these complications
are ridiculous.

You should sign
the governess' check, too.

Remember she's leaving this evening.
- She's not staying for the funeral?

Everyone's sure to wonder why.

Everyone?

I'd be surprised
if anyone noticed her absence.

And six months' wages?
That's ridiculous!

She deserves a bit of a break.

Life here hasn't been much fun.

Your checkbook is in the desk.

Later, later.

Very well.

I only wanted to spare you
having to discuss it with her.

She's quite distressed.

Father, I may as well be frank.

I respect the clergy.

My family's always been on good
terms with your predecessors,

terms of mutual respect
and friendship.

But no priest shall meddle
in my family affairs!

We get involved sometimes
against our will.

You have been unwillingly,
or at least unknowingly,

the cause of a great misfortune.

I don't wish you to speak
to my daughter again.

How have I caused a misfortune?

My uncle must have explained.

Suffice it to say that
I disapprove of your indiscretions.

Your character and your habits
are a danger to the parish.

My habits?

I bid you good day, Father.

The countess was buried
this morning.

Her long ordeal is over.
Now mine begins.

Where did that mixture of joy and fear
come from when I'd blessed her?

That strange tenderness?

She already belonged
to the unseen world.

Without realizing it,
I'd glimpsed on her brow

a reflection
of the peace of the dead.

One must surely pay for that!

Though I thought I must
destroy those pages

written in a moment of true delirium,

yet I would bear witness
against my own self

that my difficult ordeal,

the greatest deception
of my poor life—

for I couldn't imagine worse—

found me lacking in both resignation

and courage,

and that I was tempted to—

- Did you come on my account?
- Never mind that, my boy.

I do as I please.

You should pay a little attention
to how you dress.

That cape, for instance.

And then there's your health.

- I can't control that.
- Yes, you can.

Your diet's absurd.

Indeed, I must give you
a good talking to about that.

And you're surprised
when you feel ill!

I'd get stomach cramps too
if I ate as you do!

As for the inner life,
my lad, I'm afraid it's the same thing:

You don't pray enough.

You suffer too much to pray.
That's how I see it.

But I can't pray.

If you can't pray,
just repeat the words!

Listen, I don't think
I've been wrong about you.

Try to answer this.

I've thought a lot about vocation.

We've all received the calling,

only not in the same way.

And to simplify things,

I try to put each of us
in his place—in the Gospels.

In short, I think—or I imagine—

if our soul could drag
this wretched body of ours

back up that slope of 2,000 years,

it would lead it straight
to the very place where—

What? What's the matter?

Are you crying?

I hadn't realized I was crying.

The truth is that I always
return to the olive grove.

It was a very familiar
and natural movement for my soul.

I'd never realized it
until that moment.

Suddenly, Our Lord
had shown me grace

and revealed through
my old master's lips

that nothing would tear me
from my chosen place in eternity.

I was a prisoner
of the Holy Agony.

I didn't think you were such a child.

Your nerves are shot to bits, my son.

That's enough, now.
We can't stay here all day.

After all, maybe God
means to keep you in misery.

But trials never warp our judgment

when the welfare of souls
is in question.

I've been hearing
some disturbing things about you.

But no matter. I know
how malicious people can be.

But the foolish way you dealt
with the countess—melodrama!

I don't understand.

That business with the medallion.

The medallion?

Don't be silly! There was a witness.
Nothing miraculous about it.

- Who saw us?
- Her daughter.

You call that resignation?

Forcing a mother to burn
the one relic of her dead child.

It's like a story
from the Old Testament!

And to speak of eternal separation!

One doesn't blackmail souls,
my child.

That's your version of what happened.
I could tell a different one.

But it's essentially true.

Is that all you can say?

Yes.

Whatever happens, don't see
the daughter again. She's a demon!

I won't close my door to her.

I'll close my door to no one
while I am the priest here.

She claims her mother
fought you to the last,

and that you left her upset
and spiritually distraught.

Is that true?

You left her—

I left her with God.

The memory of your harsh words
may have tormented her as she died.

She died in peace.

How would you know?

In any case, she's dead now.

What do you expect people to think?

Scenes like that aren't good
for someone with heart trouble.

I wasn't even tempted
to speak of the letter.

I returned to the rectory.

Instead of suffering, it felt like
a great weight had been lifted.

That meeting with the priest
from Torcy was like a rehearsal

for those I was to have
very shortly with my superiors.

I'd discovered, with something bordering
on joy, that I had nothing to say.

For two days, I'd feared being accused
of something I hadn't done…

and honesty would have
forbidden me to remain silent.

But now, I could let everyone
judge my actions for himself.

I was very relieved as well

to think Miss Chantal
could have been sincerely mistaken

as to the real meaning of our talk,
which she may well have misheard.

My poor child!

So that's how it is.

I didn't understand yet.
I didn't understand anything.

Except that the strange peace
I'd just enjoyed

was the harbinger
of a new misfortune.

This isn't wine.
It's some monstrous poison.

It's all I have.

You should have asked me.

I swear.

Silence! With that stuff inside you,
it's a wonder you're not dead.

I'm glad I came.
Come, sit down.

My voice trembled
in my chest as it always did

whenever something inside told me
I had to stand my ground.

No force in the world
could have made me sit.

Listen, I'm not angry with you,

and I don't take you for a drunk.

We country people of these parts

are all more or less
drunkards' children.

Delbende put his finger
on the trouble right off.

You were born pickled
in the stuff, my poor friend.

I'm sure you had no idea.

But you slowly drifted into expecting
from wine—and what wine!—

the strength and courage you might
have gotten from a good roast.

Mind you,
you've not been offending God.

But now you've been warned,
and you'd offend Him now.

I looked at him distractedly.

He's a strong and steady man.

A true servant of God.
He too has faced up to it.

It was as if we were bidding
farewell to each other

across some invisible highway.

Above all, don't let your imagination
run away with you.

I've only one thing to say:

You are a wonderful little priest
in spite of everything.

And with no malice
to the poor woman who died—

Please don't.

You're right.
We'll not speak of that.

And now, work.

Do little things, from day to day,
while you wait.

Little things don't seem like much,
but they bring peace.

And try to pray.

Persevere.

Pray to the Holy Virgin.

She is, of course,
the mother of mankind,

but she is also its daughter.

The ancient world,
the world before grace,

rocked her in its cradle.

For centuries
its old hands protected

the wondrous young girl
whose name it didn't even know.

A little girl,
this queen of the angels,

which she still is to this day.
Never forget that.

Thank you.

Give me your blessing.

No, it's your turn today.

Here you are, Father.

No, thanks. Nothing.

It will pass.

This will put you right again.

Feeling better?

Much better, thank you.

I should have gone home.

My stomach hurt less.
I just felt a slight dizziness.

I must have fainted the first time
beyond the Auchy woods.

I thought I was
still struggling upright,

and yet I could feel
the frozen earth against my cheek.

"They'll find me half dead," I thought.
Yet another scandal.

I think I called out.

My poor head
couldn't stand it anymore.

The image of the Holy Virgin
as described by the priest

was constantly before me.

A sublime creature. Her hands—

I stared at her hands.

Now I'd see them,
now they'd disappear.

As my pain grew more extreme,

I took one of them in mine.

It was the hand of a poor child,

already roughened
by hard work and washing.

I closed my eyes.

I feared, when opening them again,

to see the face before which
every knee must bend.

I saw Him.

It was a child's face,
without the slightest radiance.

I filled it at the pond.
It seemed safer.

They're all there in the house.

I had gone out
to bring the cows in.

You shouldn't let yourself
get in such a state!

It's lucky I found you.

I thought you were dead.

- I have to get up.
- You can't go home looking like that.

What's wrong with me?

You've vomited.

It's smeared all over your face
as if you'd been eating blackberries.

You're shaking.
Let me do it. I'm used to it.

My, my. Another thing entirely
from last week at the wedding!

Come to the rectory tomorrow.

I'll explain.

Heavens, no!

I've said too many
awful things about you.

Terrible things.

I know you didn't
do this on purpose.

They probably put
some powder in your glass.

They do things like that for fun.

But thanks to me,
they won't have their fun this time.

I'll take you as far as the road.

Hurry home now.

I had a dream about you last night.
You looked miserable.

I woke up crying.

The cloth was stiff,
and the water had turned red.

I realized I'd lost a lot of blood.

I was so surprised—
fear of death came only later—

that I decided to take
the first train to Lille in the morning.

At the cock's crow,
I woke feeling fine.

Another bit of hemorrhaging.
More like spitting blood.

Fear of death.

Strange how my whole body seems
to quiver around one point in my breast.

Dawn is always so sweet to me.

Bless mornings!

I pray better.

You're going away tomorrow, I hear.

Yes.

Will you be coming back?

That depends.

It depends… on you?

On the doctor I'm to see in Lille.

I thought—

That's Olivier's motorcycle.

My cousin.

Help me

as long as you're here—

against your father's will,
I might add.

You sure keep your cards hidden.

May I ask what you think of me?

A priest has no opinions.

You have eyes and ears

and make use of them
like everyone else, I suppose.

They would tell me nothing
about you.

Why not?

You're always restless,

hoping to conceal
the truth of your soul

or perhaps to forget it.

I'm not afraid of the truth.

And if you're daring me—

I'm not daring you.

I'd only agree to hear your confession
if you were in danger of death.

Absolution will come
in due time, I hope,

and from someone else's hand.

That wasn't hard to predict.

Father will be sure
to have you transferred.

Everyone here
takes you for a drunkard.

If you only knew
what I think of life.

I want everything.
I'll try everything.

I know plenty of others have died
without managing to do that.

If life disappoints me, so be it.

I will sin just for sin's sake.

That's the moment you'll find God.

I feel like—I don't know—
insulting you!

You think you can decide my fate
against my will?

I'll damn myself if I please.

I answer for you, soul for soul.

Are you just saying
whatever strikes your fancy?

I was at the window
when you spoke with Mother.

All of a sudden,
her expression became so gentle.

I don't believe in miracles
any more than I do in ghosts,

but I think I knew my mother.

She cared for fine phrases
like a fish cares for apples.

Do you have some secret?

A lost secret.

You too will find it
and lose it in turn,

and others will pass it on after you.

Where are you going, Father?

To Mézargues, to catch the train.

Ever ridden on one of these?
Want to try?

Come on.

You're not frightened?

How could I feel
so miraculously young then?

Yes, as young as my companion.

Things suddenly seemed simple.

Youth is blessed.

It's a risk you take,
and even that risk is blessed.

Hold on!

By some premonition
I can't explain,

I understood that God
didn't want me to die

without knowing
something of this risk.

Just enough for my sacrifice
to be complete when it's time came.

Too bad you're leaving.
We could have done this again.

I like you.
We could have been friends.

Me, your friend?

Of course.

Not that I haven't heard
plenty about you.

My uncle thinks you're a filthy,
good-for-nothing little priest.

I don't suppose you care
what he thinks.

You probably don't know
I'm in the Foreign Regiment.

The Regiment?

The Legion, I mean.

If you could only see yourself.

See myself?

Without that black robe,
you'd look like any one of us.

I could see that right off the bat.

You don't mean it.

I certainly do.

What? A priest?

There are plenty of priests
out there.

My major's orderly was one.
We only found out afterwards.

Afterwards?

After his death.

How did he die?

On a mule,
strung up like a sausage,

a bullet through his belly.

That's not what I meant.

Look, I won't lie to you.

The guys like to show off
when their time has come.

They have an expression or two
you'd probably call blasphemy.

But if God doesn't save all soldiers
precisely because they're soldiers,

then what's the use?

One more blasphemy
for good measure, and then… bam.

It's always the same motto:
"All or nothing."

I bet you yourself—

You know, my uncle's right when he says
you have no social skills.

Admit it, our world isn't theirs.

I don't reject theirs.

But it lacks love.

Our chaps don't have
your wisdom in the matter.

God seems to them to stand
for a justice they despise—

a justice without honor.

Their own law has the merit
of costing a lot, an awful lot.

It's like a sacrificial altar.

Just a stone,
no larger than any other.

DR. LAVIGNE
PROFESSOR, FACULTY OF MEDICINE

I walked straight ahead
toward the station.

I entered an old church.
I didn't even know its name.

I'd never felt such a violent,
physical revulsion to prayer.

My will was helpless
in the face of it.

This way you can go on
quietly writing your sermon.

When I was young,
priests used to eat too much.

Now you're as skinny as alley cats.

Beginnings are always hard.

Never mind. At your age
you have your whole life before you.

I knew to keep calm,
I had to keep silent.

Cancer.

Stomach cancer.

The words had rung in my ears
but left my mind empty.

I had expected something else:
tuberculosis.

I think I just frowned,
like when hearing of a difficult problem.

It took me a long time to realize
I was to die from a disease

that rarely strikes people of my age.

She left me alone
with a cup of black coffee.

I felt well and even
fell asleep for an instant.

When I woke…

God, I must write it down.

I think of my last
few mornings this week,

of the cock's crow
and my peaceful window.

How fresh and pure it all was!

Even though I kept telling myself

nothing had changed inside me
over the last weeks,

the idea of going home with this…
thing… made me feel ashamed.

DRUGS AND SIMILAR PRODUCTS

Abbot Dufrety had studied
with me at the seminary

before being assigned
to a small parish.

I knew he'd taken a leave
from the ministry

only because of illness.

He was in shirtsleeves,

in those cotton pants
we wear under our cassocks,

and barefoot in his slippers.

You might have let me know.
I have an office in town.

I only camp out here.
The place is disgusting.

I'm supposed to eat a lot,
but I don't have much appetite.

Remember those beans
at the seminary?

The worst is, the cooking
has to be done right here.

I've taken a dislike
to the smell of frying.

Anywhere else,
I'd gobble up the stuff.

Nice of you to come.

Frankly, I'm a bit surprised.

You used to be a bit
narrow-minded in those days.

Excuse me.
I'll just clean up a bit.

I've had a good day,
which doesn't happen often.

What do you expect?
An active life is good for one.

But don't think
I've turned into an ignoramus.

I read voraciously.
I've never read so much.

I've got some notes here.
I'll show you.

I hope you'll stay for dinner.
We can have a nice chat.

What's the matter?

Here, drink this.

What do you expect?
We've got rotten blood in our veins.

A doctor told me once, "Intellectuals,
undernourished since childhood!"

Explains a lot, don't you think?

Don't think I'm just
making excuses for myself.

I believe in utter honesty,

with others and with myself.

When I left the sanatorium,
I wanted to test myself.

I looked for a job.

It was a question of willpower
and guts. Guts, mostly.

Mind you, I'm not telling
anyone to follow me.

There are bad times.

And if it hadn't been
for a feeling of responsibility

towards someone who
sacrificed her life for me—

Well, we can talk about that
quite objectively.

She counts for nothing
in my intellectual life.

And don't think it was a bolt
from the blue, a bewilderment!

You're surprised?

But in your place,

if I'd broken my ordination promises,

I'd rather it had been
for love of a woman,

than for what you call
your intellectual life.

I don't agree.

You don't know
what you're talking about.

My intellectual life—

What's the matter?

Answer!

I don't want to die here!

Get me out of here, anywhere!

What can I do?

I can't carry him by myself,

and we can't ask the concierge
for anything.

Don't move, Father.

It will pass.

Mr. Dufrety panicked a bit
and ran off to the pharmacy.

I'm afraid you must think
poorly of me.

The room isn't tidied up
and everything's dirty.

You see, I leave to work
at 5:00 in the morning,

and I just don't have
the strength anymore.

What is your work?

I'm a cleaning lady.

The most tiring part is rushing
from one place to another.

But what about his business?

They say there's money in it,

but he had to borrow
for the office and the typewriter.

Besides, he can't get around much.

Are you married?

No.

I was the one against it.

Why?

Because of what he is,
don't you see?

I always hoped he'd get well
at the sanatorium.

And then, if he ever wanted
to make a fresh start,

I wouldn't be in the way,
I told myself.

And what did he think of that?

Nothing.

He thought I didn't want to.

Why do you ask?

Out of friendship.

The pharmacist was right.
He just laughed at me.

It's true: The smallest
fainting spell terrifies me.

Listen.

I must talk to you.

There's little time.

Talk to me about what?
About whom?

You.

"He's agreed to meet
with the priest in Torcy.

My old master—"

Around 4:00, unable to sleep,
I went to his room

and found my poor colleague
unconscious on the floor.

We carried him back to bed,

whereupon he vomited up
streams of blood.

But the hemorrhaging ended.

While we waited for the doctor,
our poor friend regained consciousness,

but he didn't speak.

Heavy beads of sweat
covered his brow and cheeks,

and his expression
told of great anguish.

His pulse was rapidly growing weak.

He motioned
that he wanted his rosary,

which I found in his pants' pocket.

From then on,
he held it pressed against his chest.

He seemed to recover some strength

and in an almost inaudible voice
asked for absolution.

His face grew calm.
He even smiled.

Though neither humanity nor friendship
would permit me to refuse,

while discharging my duties,
I explained to my unfortunate comrade

my hesitation at granting his request.

He didn't seem to hear me.

But a few moments later,
he laid his hands on mine

while his eyes entreated me
to draw closer to him.

He then said, very distinctly,

if extremely slowly,

these exact words:

"What does it matter?
All is grace."

I believe he died just then.