Children of Paradise (1945)

[bunniefuu]

Path? presents the restored
Les Enfants du paradis.

This involved 4K digital scanning
of the original nitrate negative

and two nitrate fine grain masters.

Refurbishing of elements and 4K scans

were done at
Immagine Ritrovata (Bologna).

Reconstruction
and picture restoration

were done by ?clair Laboratoires
(Paris).

Sound was restored from
the original sound negative scan

by L. E. Diapason (Paris).

The poor state of certain shots
could not be improved.

Theatre scenes include shadow effects

typical of 19th century
stage lighting.

Other scenes respect the soft-focus
effects of the cinematography.

THE CHILDREN OF PARADISE

PART ONE
"THE BOULEVARD OF CRIME"

Old clothes to buy.

Step right up. Truth is here.

Come in and see her.

Once you've seen her, she will fill
your thoughts, haunt your dreams.

Totally unadorned,
naked for all to see.

You can pay as you leave.

Our show is enticing.

Audacious. Arousing.

For those with eyes to see.

For lovers of beauty.

Step right up, gentlemen.

None of your "Stage door, please."

You can't fool me.

You bluff your way in
to catch the show for free

and from a box seat.

It's the manager I want to see.

The manager. Is that so?

What do you want from him?

It's simple.
I want to see him... so he hires me.

Hire you. And why not
put your name on the marquee?

In great big letters.

Why not, Mr. Still Life?

- Hey, you.
- Yes, I see it, foresee it.

My name up there in huge letters.

Fr?d?rick... Fr?d?rick Lema?tre.

Etch that on your feeble,
doddering memory.

Remember the name.

Look.

Not bad. You know her?

Not yet.

You smiled. Don't deny it.

How marvelous.
Isn't life beautiful.

And you're just like it,
you're beautiful, too.

You've been running.

Yes. After you.

After me? But you ran toward me.

Yes. I saw you a moment ago.

The shock. The emotion.
Before I could move, you were gone.

So...

So?

So as I hate to follow a woman,

I ran ahead so I could meet you
face to face.

Now I'll never leave you.
Which way?

That's simple.

You go your way, I go mine.

They may be the same.

And why not?

I have a rendezvous.

Rendezvous? O Cruel Fate.

Together for two minutes
and you're leaving me already.

Why? For another, of course.

And you love this other?

I love everyone.

I don't mind, I'm not jealous.

But this "other" is.

How do you know?

All men are... except me.

But let's talk about us.
We have so much to say.

Do we?

Yes, we do.

First, my name. Fr?d?rick.

Now tell me yours.

They call me Garance.

Garance. How lovely.

It's a flower.

A red flower, like your lips?

Well?

Well, good-bye... Fr?d?rick.

You can't abandon me,

all alone on the Boulevard of Crime.

When will I see you again?

Soon, maybe.

Chance will tell.

Paris is so big.

Paris is so small
for such great lovers as we.

You smiled, don't deny it.

How marvelous. Isn't life beautiful.

PUBLIC SCRIBE

"My love, light of my life,

time weighs on my heart
like chains on a convict's limbs.

Come back, I beg you.

Never again, I swear...

Yes, I solemnly swear

never to raise my hand against you,

as I once did."

Will that do?

Will it? It's grand, moving.

If that don't bring her back,
nothing will.

Poor fool.

You gotta admit, it's swell.

What is?

Being educated.

My poor Avril.

Honest, Mr. Lacenaire.

How d'you find the words?

Enough nonsense.

Down to business.

Have you the silverware?

It's sterling.

Sterling, indeed.

Spoons today. Clocks yesterday.

Here's my guardian angel.

I'll see you tonight.

Out of your well, my angel, my sweet?

The well's over with.
And so is the Truth.

So soon?

The customers got too demanding.

Truth, but only from the neck up.

They were disappointed.

Those good people wanted more.

"The whole truth."
I understand them.

The costume must suit you.

Maybe, but it's always the same.

How modest. How chaste.

It's not that.

They're just so ugly.

Ugly, indeed.

I'd like to stamp them all out.

Still cruel, Pierre-Fran?ois?

I'm not cruel, I'm logical.

I declared w*r on society long ago.

Any recent victims?

None, my angel.
See? No trace of blood.

Just some ink stains.

But I'm planning something grandiose.

You're wrong to smile.
Truly, I'm not like other men.

My heart doesn't beat like theirs.
Absolutely not.

Have you ever been humiliated?

Never.

Nor I. But they've tried.

Beyond the limit for a man like me.

As a child, I was more lucid
and clever than the others.

They never forgave me.

I had to be like them,

talk like them.

"Lift your head, Pierre-Fran?ois.
Look at me.

Eyes down."

They crammed my mind with books.

Old books.

So much dust in a child's head.

A fine childhood.

My worthy mother favored
my dim brother.

My confessor would say,

"You are too proud.
Withdraw into yourself."

So I withdrew into myself.

And there I remained.

The fools.

Leaving me alone with myself,
yet warning me against bad company.

How thoughtless.

But what a splendid destiny.

To love no one.

To be alone.

To be loved by no one.

To be free.

True, I love no one.

Not even you, Garance.

But you are the only woman
for whom I have no contempt.

I don't love you either.

That's fortunate.

Then why these daily visits?

Because I don't demand
what all other men do?

You're no coquette. So why?

I'm bored.

Do I amuse you?

Yes, you talk all the time.
It's like watching a play.

It's entertaining and relaxing.

You don't take me seriously.

If I were vain, I'd be deeply offended.

But I have no vanity,

only pride.

And I'm sure of myself.

Absolutely sure.

Thief by need, m*rder*r by calling,
my path is charted out.

I'll walk with my head high...

until it drops... into the basket.

My father used to say,
"You'll end up on the guillotine."

You're right.
Always listen to your parents.

Still writing plays?

In my idle moments.

"Misconduct." A tragedy?

No, a slightly ribald farce.

I loathe tragedy.

Such an inferior genre.

Characters who k*ll one another,
yet never get hurt.

How depressing.

Here comes Judgment Day.

It's Jupiter.

Alias Jericho,
because of my horn.

Alias Medusa,
because of my gaze.

Greetings, Lacenaire.

My respects to Beauty.

What do we have today?

How much?

I have no secrets from the lady.

My compliments.

Don't mention it.

How much?

Twenty francs.

You're joking.

Remember,
they call me the Tightwad,

the Niggard, the Rat,

cause I scavenge... like a rat.

Step right up,
ladies and gentlemen.

A franc for the boxes
if you're well-to-do,

four centimes in the Gods
if you're badly off.

Come in and see...

"Perils of the Virgin Forest"
or "Crime and Virtue."

A pantomime that's magic,

exotic, pyrotechnic.

Come in
and see a girl of 15

pursued by a mountain lion.

A forest fire.

An abduction by balloon.

And you shall see me,
the one and only,

the incomparable
Anselme Deburau.

I who performed in the harem
before the Grand Turk

and his 82 Turkesses.

But inside you won't see...
have no fear...

this one here.

Because he's a know-nothing.

A dolt.

A sleepwalker...

even sitting down.

An unbelievable nincompoop.

A deplorable blockhead.

An utter good-for-nothing.

And this, alas, is my son.

Here sits the shame
of an artistic family,

a famous father's despair,

the cause of his gray hair.

When I say my son,

luckily I exaggerate.

One night...
it was a full moon...

he fell from above...

into a bucket.

When I got home
it was already too late.

But I won't wash dirty linen in public.

The show's about to begin.

A unique show.

For the penny-pinchers,

the tightfisted, the miserly,
or the parsimonious...

the management, sparing no expense,

leaves them Baptiste,
free of charge.

Say, Baptiste,
if you have pups, save me one.

He really looks stupid,
doesn't he?

I think he has nice eyes.

Nice eyes.

That deserves a hand.

My watch.

Someone stole my watch.

My gold watch.

She did it.

It had to be you.

Thief!

Let go of me. You're crazy.

And she insults me.

Thief! Police!

Officer! Someone!

What's going on?

This gent had a watch, now he doesn't.
And he blames me.

Why? A mystery to me.

Naturally, you're innocent.

As a lamb.

Are you sure of this?

Absolutely.

Arrest her.

It wasn't me.

So you say.

Any witnesses?

Me.

I'm a witness.

What did you see?

The whole thing.

What do you have to say now?

Why, nothing.

I'm sorry.

Anybody can make an error.

An error of justice.

May I go now?

You're free.

Fine, because I adore freedom.

You're on next. Look alive.

What are you sniggering about?

Artists don't laugh here,

the audience does.

Here's Jericho, alias the Trumpet,

alias the Flask, for my drinking,

alias Woe-Is-Me, for my hard lot.

Greetings, stage manager.
Here are the props:

a hunting horn, a royal blue tunic,
three skulls,

gold epaulettes,
patent leather shoes

and a wedding gown.

Interested, Nathalie?

It's contagious.

Another pillar of salt.

Love cheers the heart.

Same old story?

Her father against it?

He wants what she wants.

No, it's that dunce.

He should count his blessings.

I'll have to do something.

It's no business of yours.

They also call me The Spark,
The Stoker, The Dove-keeper,

because I like to unite turtledoves.

How now, my lovely.

Show us your palm.

An amazing fate line.

Oh, fate and me...

Don't be silly.

It says here it will all work out.

Take it from a wise old pappy.

You'll marry the one you love.

Do you think so?

It's plain to see.

And when you set up house,

remember old pappy
has sterling silverware

at a reasonable price.

Sorry to interrupt your daydream,

but I'm looking for the manager.

Is it important?

I'm warning you,

the manager's in a foul mood.

Then I'll try him another day.

But he's in a foul mood every day.

Well, then, I'll try my luck.

Wait here.

What a charming playhouse.

What a fine profession.

It would be,

if it fed us properly.

"Speak to me."
About nothing, probably.

This fop here?

You're on.

Young man?

Remember, post the fines.
"Seraphin, two francs:

On-stage drunk and swearing."

There they go again.

What's got into them?

They sense a storm brewing.

You can't imagine. My theater
is torn by hatred and jealousy.

We perform on a volcano.

This isn't pantomime,
it's a vendetta, a corrida.

They're worse than
the Horatii and the Curiatti.

Worse than...

The Montagues and the Capulets.

Never heard of them.

It's Shakespeare. Romeo...

Don't know him.

Alas, few know and appreciate
Shakespeare.

Who knows you?
Who appreciates you?

What do you want?

I keep asking you.

What I want...

I want to act.

Act. Act.

You've got the wrong theater.

We're not allowed to act here.

We walk on our hands.

I can do that.

And you know why?
They bully us.

Why? They fear us.

If we put on plays,
they'd have to close

their great, noble theaters.

Their public is bored to death

by museum pieces, dusty tragedies
and declaiming mummies

who never move.

But the Funambules
is full of life and movement.

Extravaganzas.

Appearances, disappearances,

like in real life.

And then... Wham. The kick.

Wham. The slapstick...

like in real life.

And the audience.

Sure, they're poor,

but they're pure gold.

Look, up there

in the Gods.

Watch out, the old fogey.

The king of the desert.

Shut up!

We can't hear the pantomime.

He hit him too hard.

Did he?

You animal.

You snake.

You'll pay for this.

Friends,

he dared strike Anselme Deburau.

Help, Barrignis.

Curtain!

Fine everyone 3 francs.

Pull them apart.

Curtain.

Stop this instant.

It's shameful.

What's shameful

is a lowly Barrigni
striking a Deburau,

like a traitor, and in public.

I demand an apology.

Yes, an apology.

Apologize, and on with it.

The audience is losing patience.

A Barrigni never apologizes.

We're leaving for a better offer
across the Boulevard.

You're not serious.

To work for Saqui?

Yes, right this minute.

Come, Barrignis.

This is a fatal blow.

A conspiracy. A disaster.

Stage manager, a chair.

O Deceit. Treachery.

They stabbed me in the back.

Curtain! Curtain!

What a disaster.

Listen to them.

My dear audience.

Refund! Refund!

How's that?

Refund?

Never. I'd rather...

I don't know... anything.

Or anyone.

I'm your man: I'm anyone.

I'll slip into my character's skin

and show my stuff.

But I don't know you.

Where have you played?

What parts have you done?

Lion parts.

I've done the whole lion repertoire:

Gulf of Lions,
Richard the Lion-Hearted, Pygma-lion.

Thieves! Thieves!

Hurry. They'll tear the place up.

The voice of the people.

The Christians demand a lion.

Disaster upon disaster.

How much...

Wages, already.

No. How much time on stage?

As little as possible.

I'm warning you:

It won't be easy to call me off.

Relax, I know the plot.

Enter Pierrot...

Pierrot.

We lost our Pierrot.

Disaster.

What about Baptiste?

Never.

Never will my unworthy son
tread the boards with me.

They loved him out on the street.

You saw it?

The cashier saw it.

The cashier? Vox populi.

She's got an infallible eye.

She's never a centime off.

Get Baptiste.

I protest.

And I command.

Go on.

The Funambules is sinking.

The rats are abandoning the ship.

Storm winds blow...

the audience howls...

I'm sole captain on board... after God.

I'll make an announcement.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Prepared for any sacrifice,

the Funambules Theater

is proud to present,

for the first time,

at no extra charge...

What is it, Baptiste?

Nothing. Why?

Yes, there is something.

You're handsome.

You know you are, because I love you.

Today, you're even more handsome.

You're shining.

What's that flower?

A flower.

A flower.

Are you glad to perform at last?

Perhaps.

I'm happy, too.

I have such faith in you.

Oh, Baptiste, if only you wanted to,

we could be so happy together.

But you don't love me.

I know.

You're fond of me.

I don't want your fondness.

I want your love.

Loving is so easy.

You're doing it on purpose.

Or you're in love with someone else.

This flower.

What's this flower?

Someone gave it to you?

Who was it?

Answer me, Baptiste.

Remember,

you said I was your friend,

that you had no secrets from me.

Answer me.

Was it a woman?

Where did you meet her?

Do I know her?

What's her name?

I don't know.

I was gazing into a well.

Others were looking, too.

But only I saw her.

Still dreaming and laughing at me.

It's true.

What more can I say?

I saw her again, by chance.
She gave me this flower.

That's all.

That's all.

Well, it's not much.

And you love her.

Oh, yes, I love her.

How you said that.

My little lambs, you're on next.

You look fine, Baptiste.

A nice touch, the flower.

It will get a laugh.

You know the plot:
You love her, she laughs at you.

Play the fool. Nothing to it.

Look alive, children.

This mulled wine is splendid.

It goes down like God
in red velvet tights.

To your health, Baptiste.

And to yours, friends.

Remember that tonight
you drank with Julius Caesar.

Julius Caesar or another.

Charles the Bold, Attila,

Henri IV, Ravaillac.

Yes, I'm sure of it.

It's my destiny to resuscitate
the great men of this earth.

They played their parts.

It's my turn now.

Give me my chance.

Rise, Julius Caesar.

Fr?d?rick is here.

I'll dust him off,

and drag his shadow across the boards.

He'll live again

to astonish the world once more.

Thanks to me.

Go ahead and laugh.

I won't end my days at the Funambules

in a lion's skin.

A lion who can't even roar.

What torment, when inside me here,

there's an entire orchestra,

a whole universe.

Words and phrases leave you cold.

You tell your story without speaking.

And you do it so well.

You really astonished me.

You speak with your legs,

answer with your hands.

A glance, a shrug,

a step forward, back...

and they understand
in the Gods.

They understand,
though they're poor.

I'm like them.
I love them, I know them.

Their lives are small,
but their dreams are grand.

I don't want only to amuse them.

I want to move them,

frighten them,

make them weep.

All that without a word?

Without a word.

That's not easy.

Think it's impossible?

Not easy. It's not the same.

Barkeep.

Consider yourself lucky
I can pay for a drink.

But not a bed.

Try my place, the Post House.

A hotel?

No, but they let rooms.

On credit?

If not, I'd have to move.

You really don't want
the second-floor flat?

A small room is fine.

What a shame.

It's perfect for a bachelor.

It has flower-print curtains.

But I'll show you the rooms upstairs.

I'm sorry it's so late, Madame...

Madame Hermine.

Don't apologize.

I usually turn in late.

I often read for hours... in bed.

Love stories, no doubt?

Mr. Baptiste, this young man
knows a woman's soft spot.

After you, Monsieur...

No, after you.

Oh, please.

Good night, Fr?d?rick.

Good night, Madame Hermine.

Going out at this hour?

He goes out every night.

A real alley cat, your Mr. Baptiste.

"Silent, stealthy as a cat in the night,

He slinks through the shadows
towards love's light,

To his beloved, his heart's pyre,

His naked companion,
atremble with desire."

How beautiful, Mr. Fr?d?rick.

And slightly...

And slightly...

And slightly?

You'll make me say something silly.

After you, please.

After you.

Here are the rooms.

This one's quite nice.

Yes, quite pleasant, cheerful.

Or if you prefer this one...

It has a double bed.

Yes, I'd prefer that.

A double bed.

Poor Fr?d?rick.

All alone at night in a big bed.

But beds are for sleeping,

no matter the size.
Not so?

Of course, Mr. Fr?d?rick.

Well, I'll leave you.

Good night.

The key's in the door.

I always leave my door unlocked.

You do?

A pretty lady might wander in.

"A pretty lady."

Young people are so demanding today.

Did I say you were homely?

Alms for a poor blind man.

Why do you tiptoe by?

To avoid giving me anything?

Why won't you give alms
to a poor blind man?

Why?

I have no money.

No money?

Hear that, bird?

That's a good one.

Folks strut around with full pockets.

Easy to pick when you can see.

It's not my trade.

His trade.

Hear that, bird?

Hasn't a cent, but he's got a trade.

A fine trade that feeds a man.

A fine trade, even so.

May I sit here a moment?

I've walked a lot and I'm a bit tired.

What are you doing wandering
the streets at this hour?

Taking in things.

Hear that, bird?

Taking in what?

Everything.

Say, you're nosy.
Too curious, you are.

Say, pilgrim,
would your trade be...

Oh, no. Don't worry.

We're not worried.

We just don't like "flies,"
the bird and me.

So, where do you work?

At the Funambules.

You sell oranges?

No, I perform.

Perform?

Yes, pantomime.

I just love pantomime.

I often go.

You?

Sure, I can't see it,

but a friend describes it all.

So that's it.

So you're an actor.

Why didn't you say so?

Let's celebrate.

Sure, let's get a drink.

And when I say a drink...

Thank you, but...

Thank me when we're good and drunk.

Let's go, bird.

Your coach is leaving.

We're not going far.

It's just around the corner.

"The Red Breast."

You're curious,
so you're in for a treat.

Shall I lead?

No, thanks. I know the way.

Nice name, eh?

"The Red Breast."

On account of the former owner.

He got bled one night behind his bar.

So the name "Red Breast" stuck.

Take a seat.

We'll be fine here.

This is my place.

Hullo, Silk Thread.

Hullo, Little Louis.

Rotgut and your best grub.
I've got a guest.

Something for the bird, too?

Naturally.

Is this gold or imitation?

I'll see.

Gold. You didn't get taken.

Thanks.

Can't believe your eyes, funambulist?

It's quite simple.

Out there, I'm blind.

A hopeless case, blind as a bat.

In here, I'm healed.
A miracle.

So I do some appraising.

Jewelry, stones, gold.

What d'you say, artist?

Nothing? You're a wise man.

Never say a thing.

Do you dream about cats?

Do you dream about dogs?

Have you seen troubled waters?

Here's the key to your dreams,
bound and illustrated.

Greetings, boss.

Lacenaire's on his way
with his merry g*ng.

Mum's the word.

I get it, thanks.

Here's Jericho, alias the Trumpet,

alias the Sandman,

alias Sweet Dreams,
because he cures nightmares.

Do you dream about snakes, fires,
new-born babes?

Believe it or not, Silk Thread,

a real collector's item.

Well, I'll be.

You here, Baptiste?

In a place like this?

What would Deburau say? And Nathalie?

Don't mention Nathalie.

So gentle, fresh as a rose,

pure as a lily.

I won't listen. I don't like you.

I don't care about you.

I told you so. Leave me alone.

Hear that, Silk Thread?

Try and be helpful...

What I said is for your own good.

Here comes high society.

Greetings, Mr. Lacenaire.

It's wonderful.

What's wonderful?

Everything.

Life.

His lawyer tells him not to talk.

But the priest says,
"Confession is half remission."

So he confesses.

But the judge says,
"You k*lled and confessed.

Off with your head."

The man, disappointed, protests:

"But you said confession
was half remission."

But since justice had to be done,

they cut off half his head.

That's a good one.

Why so sad and silent, my angel?

Life is beautiful.

Why do you always harp on death?

I only talk about
other people's deaths.

Mine is for later.

What can I say?

Life is like that.

Philosophers think of death,

beautiful women think of love.

So, that makes you all philosophers.

Why not?

How cheerful, charming and neat
your philosophy is.

And love is cheerful,
charming and neat, perhaps?

A sight better.

I've seen 'em lovesick,

but you take the cake.

I'm not one to give advice,

but if you want to wake up tomorrow,

you'd best leave now.

The former owner...

they're the ones who did him in.

I shouldn't tell you.

She doesn't love him.

It's obvious she doesn't.

Must you go?

I'm tired and bored.

This is serious.

Never have I felt for a woman...
- Love, Pierre-Fran?ois?

Spare me your nonsense.

I desire you, that's all.

But I have my pride.

So you want me to make the first move.

Your head's too hot for me,

and your heart too cold.

I worry about drafts.

I watch my health.

A pity.

We could have done
astounding things together.

I'd spill torrents of blood

to give you rivers of diamonds.

I'd settle for less.

What a lovely hand.

May I, Lacenaire?

Your future, beauty?

If it amuses you.

But I don't believe in it.

I only believe in what I love.

Such as?

Anything, anyone.

Still, if you predict traveling,
I wouldn't mind.

That's just what I do see: a journey.

And a long one, too.

To India, maybe?

Why India?

Because it's far away.

The consultation's over, Jericho.

But explain this for me:

I dreamed about you.

You were in the street, shouting:

"Ragman. Used clothes for sale?"

But in my dream I heard something else:

"Rat-on-the-man. Friends for sale?"

Do you really deal
with those "gentlemen"

and sell friends?

Lies. As sure as I'm called...

You're called Snitch, Forked Tongue,
13th at Table.

That's spiteful talk.

It's not spite, but I suggest
you be more discreet.

You'll betray me, my angel.

It's your right.

You're wrong.

You will, my angel.
If need be, with my help.

Leave me alone. You tire me.

I came here to have fun, to dance...

Would you dance with me?

How 'bout that, Mr. Lacenaire?

- Who is he?
- Nobody.

An actor at the Funambules.

An actor. What a breed.

I see why the Church
buried them at night.

I didn't recognize you at first.

But be careful.

They're vicious.

Be careful.

I don't care.
What could happen to me?

I'm so happy.

How 'bout it, Mr. Lacenaire?

If that's your pleasure.

Let go of him.

What about my window?

Say, owner...

can't we have fun...

at "The Red Breast"?

I didn't mean to...

It's late.

I'll escort you home if you like.

Poor Avril.

What do we do?

Nothing.

Unless someone disagrees.

Lacenaire doesn't complicate
his life over a woman.

No great deal, women.

Back to serious matters.

Once a month, bank messengers
carry small fortunes.

Attacking them outside
is common and risky.

And one might catch cold.

Best to work at home, by appointment.

So I rent an apartment,
and when the bank messenger calls...

He gets the message.

You catch on so quickly, Avril.

You don't look that strong.

I'm not strong.

But back there...

I had a rough childhood.

I learned how to defend myself.

You were unhappy?

When I was, I slept.

I dreamed.

But people don't like that.

So they beat me
to wake me up a little.

Luckily, my sleep was heavier
than their blows,

and I fled them in my sleep.

Yes, I dreamed,

I hoped,

I waited.

For you, maybe.

Even back then?

Why not?

I surely saw you in my dreams.

Stop smiling.

By throwing me that flower

you may have awakened me for good.

You're a funny boy.

You're so beautiful.

No, I'm just alive.

The most alive of all.

I'll never forget tonight
and the light in your eyes.

Just a glimmer, like everyone else.

Down there,

look at the lights of M?nilmontant.

People sleep and wake.

Each has a glimmer
that glows and fades.

It's nothing much.

I can't even find the room
I lived in with my mother.

In M?nilmontant?

I was born and grew up there,

very happily.

Yet Mother was poor
and my father left her.

She worked for others as a laundress.

She loved me, I loved her.

She was lovely and cheerful.

She taught me
how to laugh and sing.

Then she died

and everything changed.

You were left alone.

I was 15.

Around here,
a girl who grows up too fast

isn't alone very long.

Please don't be sad. It pains me.

Me, sad? I'm as happy as a lark.

I love your laugh.

So do I. I'd be lost without it.

And me, without you.

Tell me your name.

You're shaking. Are you cold?

I'm shaking because I'm happy.

Happy because you're here, near me.

I love you.

Garance, do you love me?

You talk like a child.

People love that way in books,
in dreams.

Not in real life.

Dreams, life... they're the same.

Else life's not worth living.

But it's not life I love. It's you.

You're the nicest boy
I've ever met.

I won't forget tonight, either.

I like you.

I love you.

Love is such a simple thing.

A storm.

You'll be soaked.

So what?

You've no coat.

I'll take you back.
- Where?

Home.

I don't have a home.

I quit my job.

The lodging went with it.

I can get you a room
where I live.

A room?

Yes, do come.

Don't wake the house for a room.

Where is she?

Coming. Coming.

It's you, Mr. Baptiste.

What is it?

Miss...

Excuse me, I was upstairs.

Someone's ill. Nothing serious.

Can I help you?

A room. She was caught in the rain.

Of course. Caught in the rain.

She's charming. Take her to room 10.

A good thing I left the key in the door.

Have a good night. And no bad dreams.

You're drenched.

The storm's passed.

I'll hang my dress out to dry.

Turn around if you're embarrassed.

It's not bad here,
though it's a bit sad.

Why sad?

It's always sad when you sleep alone.

You can turn around now.

Charming costume.

It's like being in India.

You're so beautiful.

But I must let you sleep.

I'm not very sleepy.

Remember,
you could work at the Funambules.

But I can't do anything.

I'll help you. You need work.

Why not? I could show my legs.

The public doesn't ask for much.

But I love you.

Please don't be so solemn.

It chills me.

Don't be angry,
but I'm not the way you dreamed.

You have to understand me.

I'm simple, so simple.

I am what I am.
I want to please those I like.

And when I want to say yes,
I can't say no.

I prefer moonlight, don't you?

The moon?

Of course, the moon.

My homeland, the moon.

"He's not one of us.
He's not like us.

One night during a full moon,
he fell to Earth.

He dreams of the impossible."

Why "impossible,"
if I can dream it?

You don't realize how much

I want you to love me
the way I love you.

"Yet I'll not shed her blood

nor scar that whiter skin than snow

and smooth
as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die,
else she'll betray more men.

Put out the light, and then..."

Yes, let's put out the light.

Good night, Desdemona.

Good night, Othello.

I am as I am

I'm made as you see

When I feel like laughing

I laugh heartily

I love those who love me

Am I really to blame

If the one that I love

Is never the same?

Charming outfit.
But I prefer the other one.

A question of taste.

Exactly.

Do you live here?

Of all places to meet.

"Paris is so small
for such great lovers as we."

You're alone, I hope.

Sadly, all alone.

Left to do penance.

Poor Garance.

You're not afraid, all alone at night?

The sun will be up soon.

It's an early riser.

And you?

Me.

What does it matter?

If it's up before us,
we close the shutters.

And your door, my love, is it locked?

I'm not afraid of thieves.

What's there to steal?

The incomparable Baptiste, my own son,

his father's pride,

is the sole author

of the show we present today:

"The Palace of Illusions"
or "Lovers of the Moon."

Unique in the annals
of the Funambules Theater,

the show, ladies and gentlemen,
is in its fourth week,

for ever more select audiences,

at still reasonable prices.

Only 1 .50 francs for a box,
30 centimes in the Gods.

Have you ever seen
such a splendid creature?

She's ravishing, simply ravishing.

Now I know where you spend
your evenings.

And nights.

Wrong, as usual, Georges.

I've never even met the young lady.

Hard to believe.

Perhaps.
But absolutely true.

I haven't dared.

Hey there, Baptiste.

The laurels adorning his father's brow

have bloomed overnight on my son's.

A family of prodigies.

And him? Isn't he prodigious?

He's clearly gifted.

But he's no mime.

What is he?

An actor.

It's marvelous.

Quite amusing.

How funny.

Those people are amazing,
simply amazing.

Someone shouted on stage.

A three-franc fine. Five francs.

Who was it?

My daughter?

Just three francs.

What got into you to yell?

You know it's forbidden.

Do you want to shut us down?

Answer me. Why?

I was frightened.

Frightened of what?

Baptiste frightened me.

He frightens me.

You don't understand.

You don't see, you don't feel.

You don't see how he's changed.
He's not the same.

The way he looks
right through you now,

as if he were lost.

Lost forever.

You've lost your wits.

Never has Baptiste been
more cheerful and alert.

A father knows best.

You may know him,

but I love him,

and I see his torment.

And that rope.

That was his idea.

A fine idea, no?

A splendid idea.

The son is worthy of his father.

Mine beat the craft into me,
with the motto:

A kick in the butt, if well aimed,
makes the whole world laugh.

It's true.

There's an entire order, a science,
a style of kicks in the butt.

Alas, traditions die out.

Audiences always want something new.

Something new. Novelty.

What does that mean?

Novelty is as old as the hills.

Distress... That's meaningless.

Are you distressed?

It's not the same.

Why?

Because I have faith.

Faith?

I hope...

I believe one day you'll love me.

You're sweet.

So are you.

We're not to blame for the situation.

But it's so stupid and unfair.

We run in circles, like circus horses.

I love you. You don't love me.

You love Garance.

She loves Fr?d?rick.

How can you say
she loves Fr?d?rick?

I don't know.
Because they live together.

That proves nothing.

If all couples living together
were in love,

the earth would glow like the sun.

They don't live together.

They only pretend to live.

Your pantomimes are k*lling me.

I'm dying of silence,

like others die of hunger or thirst.

As a boy in church,

I wanted to speak from the pulpit
in the priest's place.

Don't get angry.

You gave me a fright.

I thought you wanted a raise.

I've such expenses.
We'll work it out.

You could be the sideshow barker.

That might tide you over.

Sideshow? Why not?

Anything, anywhere,
but not dumb shows for deaf-mutes.

I'd rather play a cr*pple running
in the streets, singing ballads.

Or play hospitals for the blind.

Joan of Arc was blissful.
She heard voices.

I don't ask for that much.

I'd be glad just to hear my own
sometimes.

Sweet nightingale,
where have you been?

At last, rose of my days,

light of my nights.

My raven-haired blond Isolde.

My sweet, gentle Iphigenia.

Let me know when you finish.

Ingrate, you'd still
the voice of love itself.

The voice of love.

What's on your mind, lovely sphinx?

Nothing.

A lot of things.

I was thinking that all over the world,

there are lovers
who make love in silence,

or else they use simple words.

Everyday words.

I think that's beautiful.

Aren't you happy with me?

You're not happy with me either.

Me?

If you were,
would you joke all the time?

If you thought I was happy,

would you try so hard to amuse me?

Not happy, not unhappy.
We're somewhere in between.

We're not in love. No one's to blame.

All the same,

it's nothing to be proud of.

"A gentle moonbeam
in her pitch-black hair."

Would you rather I badger you
with questions,

pry into your memories,

spy on you,
follow you in the street,

hugging the walls
on which I've written your name?

Or should I shake you awake at night

to ask who you're dreaming of?

Besides, that's unnecessary.

Why?

You dream out loud, my love.

Out loud?

Yes, my love.

Only last night.

You talked in your sleep.

What did I say?

Nothing much.

"Baptiste!"

I said "Baptiste"?

Yes, my love, that's what you said.

Anything else?

Nothing.

Just "Baptiste."

That's all?

That's all.

What do you mean?

But isn't it enough
to fill my heart with despair?

O perfidious creature. Othello
k*lled Desdemona for much less.

For nothing.

Othello became a widower
by his own hand.

For nothing.

For a trifle. A little handkerchief.

A batiste handkerchief, no doubt.

Someone insists on seeing you.

Why all the flowers?

Has someone died?

Yes, someone has died.

An overconfident man
who thought he'd seen everything.

And you k*lled him.

You're frightening me.

Have no fear.
Because of you, another man is born.

He entrusts his life to you.

To do what?

As you wish.

I am your prisoner.
Do with me as you will.

All that I possess...

and I possess a great deal...

all that is mine, I lay at your feet.

Forgive me.

Never have I been so moved,
so overcome.

I express myself poorly.

I realize I speak
in platitudes, banalities.

What I say is of no importance.

What matters is your reply.

One word can change your life.

Tomorrow, if you wish,

the most feted beauties
will bite their lips bloody

hearing your name.

Their rarest jewels
will pale next to yours.

The finest equipages...

I'm afraid of horses.

Don't say no.

Why say yes if I don't want to?

Then say nothing.

Let me hope.

While you do all the talking.

And being overcome,
you'll spout more banalities.

Diamonds, horses, the strap,
the oats, then the harness.

The easy life.

If it all fell from heaven,
I might say yes.

But the way you talk:

"One word can change your life."

So my life is a trifle.

A bagatelle of a life.

What if I enjoy my little life?

But you just walk in and take over.

You take inventory.

I appeal to you.
Fine and dandy.

What if someone loved me?

Out of the question.

You're much too lovely
to be truly loved.

Beauty is an exception,

an affront to an ugly world.

Men rarely love beauty.

They pursue it to blot it out,
forget it.

Are you a hunter?

Don't misunderstand me.

I'm being serious.

I merely offer you shelter.

Shelter?

I've changed.

It's regrettable, but I can't help it.

Ever since I saw you,

I've been dreaming absurd,
childish things.

I'm getting old,
or else lightning struck.

I no longer exist,

I'm shattered.

Listless, made of air,

cardboard, like this chicken.

Lightning struck.

And that's thunder.

A three-franc fine.

My apologies.

I know how troublesome I've been.

Who sounded the thunder?

I did.

You know the fine: three francs.

You owe me three francs.

But there's no rush.

I have work and enough to live on.

Enough to live on.
I hope that's true.

Allow me to take my leave.

Forgive me if I've looked foolish.

Your beauty alone
is the cause of my confusion.

I haven't introduced myself.
Unforgivable.

Count Edouard de Montray.

Do keep the card.

One never knows.

Misfortune strikes at random.

Someday you may need help or protection.

If you do, come what may,

I remain your faithful servant.

You can have complete faith in me.

Flowers.

A wreath.

Just as I said, a funeral.

Mine, perhaps.

You're mad.

Why say that?

Why shouldn't Baptiste
have his funeral?

Like everybody else.

It's true, I think of it sometimes.

A good idea: Baptiste takes
his secret to the grave.

Stop it.
It's stupid to talk that way.

His secret.

His little glimmer.

The memory of the night
he thought he'd be happy forever.

Spare me that expression.

A funeral's not so sad.

A few rays of sunshine
and everyone's happy.

Think of it this way.

It's merrier than a wedding
with just a groom

and no bride.

I don't like this wedding bouquet.

I hate these flowers.

I hate everyone.

That man who was just here.

I hate Fr?d?rick.

I hate myself.

Baptiste? Who's this Baptiste?

His beloved doesn't love him,

he's a nothing, a will-o'-the-wisp,
an automaton, a bogeyman.

No more Baptiste.

Here lies Baptiste.

Life gave him a red flower,

a good beating,

a pinewood overcoat.

Who says I don't love you?

I say so.

How would you know?

When it comes to Baptiste,
I know, see, understand, feel.

I forbid you.

It's true. You have nothing to say.

Of course, I don't mean you're lying.

But I know.

All the love in the world
for Baptiste is mine, mine.

There's no room for others.

It's fate. It's written.

I have it all.

That's how it is.

Go ahead and smile.

I always do.

You're lucky.

I hardly ever smile now.

Nor do you.

You were so lively,
devoted to your work.

Stop it, please.

Leave me, leave us alone.

Get out, do you hear? Go.

It's your fault he's like this.

Forgive me for saying that.

It's not just jealousy,

but I have so much faith.

I'm absolutely certain

Baptiste and I
were made to be together.

Mr. Forestier?

Second floor, rear.

Places. Our prey is here.

The hamper's in place. Fine.

You give me the creeps.

Remember: He knocks,
I let him in, you hit him.

If necessary, I finish him off.

He's in luck.
Mr. Forestier's rarely in.

In the two weeks he's been here,
I've seen him twice.

What's he like?

A gentleman.

Commended by Miss Garance, oddly.

- You don't like her?
- I ignore her.

She bamboozled poor Mr. Fr?d?rick.

But I rented the flat.

A well-bred boarder is a nice change.

Murderers!

Murderers!

What is it?

Just a drunken brawl.

I'll get the police.

Murderers!

Poor Avril.

You were as white as a sheet.

Like the victim.

His face was so close. His eyes.

You should've hit him sooner.

- What will you have?
- A stiff brandy.

A hot chocolate.
With cream.

Like a lion, you hear?

Quiet, please.

You say this "Mr. Forestier"
knew Miss Garance?

An odd name, no?

I fought like a lion.

They thumped me,
but I held my bag like a lion.

My head's solid.
- Enough.

A solid head, all right.
It took the shock.

You were saying.

I don't know. I'm in such a state.

Mr. Forestier.
Such a gentleman.

But when I asked Miss Garance,

she said,
"Don't know any Forestier."

Thrown from the third floor.

Horrible.
A father of six children.

The third floor.

I heard he jumped
from the third floor...

because of a woman.

What happened?

A man threw his wife out the window.

Horrible.

A mother of six.

You can't go in.

I live here.

All right, then.

That's her.

I know her.

I arrested her over a watch.

She went free, but it was suspect.

Better and better.

Anything you say
may be used against you.

I'm not talkative.

We'll see about that. Sit down.

What do you call yourself?

I never call myself.

I'm always here. There's no need.

But others call me Garance.

That's no name.

It's a flower.

My real name, my maiden name, is Claire.

Claire what?

Claire as the day.

Your surname.

My mother was Reine.

Madame Reine. She didn't have family.

A foundling, as they say.

Your trade?

I'm an artiste.

I'm surprised Madame didn't tell you.

Put down "artiste."

Artiste... in the boudoir.

Why so rude?

We're not rude. We're just joking.

Where do you perform?

And since when?

The Funambules. About three weeks.

Just passing through town.

And before that?

I was a model.

Sure. For who?

Lots of people. Mr. Ingres, for one.

Don't know him.

He's a bit like you.

He fiddles around.

None of your jokes, my girl.

You joke, too.

I imagine I needn't ask the lady
what outfit she poses in.

A beauty like that?

Some question.

This is my inquiry.

Your inquiry's done,
since I'm safe and sound.

He threw his wife out the window?

He doesn't look mean.

That's enough.

What did I do wrong?
I don't understand.

You'll understand soon enough.

But first tell us
who this Mr. Forestier is.

I told the lady I didn't know him.

The nerve.

But you may know him by another name.

Young, dark clothing,
manicured hands,

very mannered speech,
and impeccable white shirts.

Ring a bell? White shirts?

You know,
I used to be a laundress.

A respectable trade, at least.

Yes, and it could even be pleasant

if folks were cleaner.

Chief, I saw the fellow with her.

I did.
The day you stole the watch.

So you deal in watches, too?

It wasn't me. You let me go.

I was sorry I did.

If it wasn't her, it was him.
And they were together.

Why the face?
This watch business is nothing.

Just an appetizer
before the main course:

attempted m*rder.

Accessory. That'll get you
five or six years, at least.

It's for your own good.
We're only trying to help you.

We set the table.
Now fork out.

Hands off.

Respect, is it?

Why not? I'm innocent.

That'll do.

Pack her off.

Pack me off. Careful.

Fragile: Work of art.

Use a bit of tact, please.

You don't know who you're dealing with.

Kindly inform this person I've been
the victim of a judicial error.

END OF PART ONE

COMING UP: PART TWO

"THE MAN IN WHITE"

CHILDREN OF PARADISE

The famous mime Baptiste Deburau
passionately loves

a minor actress, Garance.

Out of timidity, he misses his chance
to conquer her.

Instead, she becomes the mistress

of the great actor Fr?d?rick Lema?tre.

At the Funambules Theatre,

a rich dandy, Count de Montray,

offers her his protection.

She turns him down.

But when wrongly accused

of taking part in a m*rder attempt
by her friend Lacenaire,

Garance holds out the count's card

to the astonished police.

PART TWO
"THE MAN IN WHITE"

Several years have gone by...

The worst play ever seen
on the Boulevard.

The absolute worst.

- Why do it then?
- Because I signed on.

- Why did you sign?
- I need money.

You earn a fortune.

I end up with nothing,
since I spend more than I earn.

Hurry up.

The authors are impatient.

Alas.

THE INN OF THE ADRETS
IN REHEARSAL

If punctuality
is the courtesy of kings...

It's not that
of Fr?d?rick Lema?tre.

And they call them authors. Really.

Why do honest folk persist
in writing tales of brigands?

Even convicts could write better
than that.

At least they have experience.

A drink, my little kittens.

For pity's sake.

Thank you, child.

Not at all convincing.

Poor Robert Macaire.

What's going on, my kittens?

I can't hear you.

We're sad.

We both love you,

but we're friends, so...

So?

We don't want to quarrel.

Then do as I do.

Act.

It's your chosen profession.

When I act, I'm madly in love.

You hear? Madly.

At the final curtain,
the audience leaves with my love.

Understand?

I make the audience
a gift of my love.

The audience is gratified,

and so am I.

Then I become sensible,

calm and free again,

silent as Baptiste.

Not that again.

That's all I hear.

"Have you seen Baptiste?"

Even Th?ophile Gautier:

"Don't miss Baptiste in The Ragman.

A masterpiece."

Calling a pantomime a "masterpiece."

Th?ophile's gone too far.

Don't touch.

It's a souvenir.

It pricks.

"Viper of memory, stab of regret,

red light of oblivion."

It's all nonsense, fantasy, hot air.

What I like is reality.

Only two acts, but well made.

Compliments to the authors.

What vulgarity, really.

You think it's funny.

Well, I don't, you hear?

That's it. We've quarreled.

Are you angry with me?

Excuse me.

What is it?

Nothing.

Just some people waiting for you.

Poor authors.

Not them.

They started rehearsals
without us ages ago.

Admirers, no doubt?

That's it... "admirers."

I'm coming.

Back in a moment, my sweet.

Tidy up after you finish
snooping around.

Poor costume. As bad as mine.

The manager wants you.

So, where are our knaves?

- You make debts, you pay them.
- The cad.

Box his ears.

Jealous husbands, angry creditors.

As usual.

Grumblers and malcontents.

A fog of men.

You go first.

We'll plunge into the fog once more.

Gentlemen?

Swindler.

My money.

My bills.

You ham.

Help.

They're striking Robert Macaire.

Call out the cossacks.

They're k*lling Frederick the Great.

So I run out of the inn
when I hear the shot.

You rush over to the body.

Where the body should be,

as Mr. Lema?tre isn't here.

Fine.

Shall we?

The hour of justice strikes.

You won't escape punishment.

Bang!

Alas, you have k*lled him.

O woe.

He was a wicked man,

but he was my husband.

Excuse me. I got carried away.

However, I would like
just a bit more...

A touch more...

A touch more feeling.

Yes, that's right. Feeling.

Feeling, feeling, and more feeling.

Dare I hope, gentlemen,
my costume is to your taste?

Not bad. It has something.

This must be some kind...

Of a joke.

Robert Macaire and his evil sidekick

haven't been to their tailor's,

but in a penal colony.

They're bandits, not dandies.

But that eye patch.

It's hideous.

The eye behind it
is even more hideous.

Gentlemen, let's not argue again.

He's here, so let's rehearse Act II,

scene 9.

On with it.

I'd rather do the scene
with the gendarmes.

It's funnier.

We are not here to amuse the gallery.

A pity.

Oh, well, if you insist.

Come on, Latour, old girl. Scene 9.

My son.

You give me the courage to face

the wretch behind our misfortune.

Egad, my wife.

Yes, your wife and victim.

Woeful Marie.

She does look glum.

Spare us your asides.

On with it.

I am found out.

You betrayed me, Marie.

To save my son.

To save your son,

you betray his father.

Alas.

I shall feign to be moved.

Marie.

My poor Marie.

Robert. My poor Robert.

Could you really have committed
all those crimes?

What can I say, Marie?

No one's perfect.

Stop!

That's not in the play.

So?

Your play's empty.

It needs some padding.

Outrageous!

That's right.

Your wretched "inn" is empty.

Think the audience
will bring their supper?

They'll bring tomatoes.

You call this a drama?

Some drama.

And in three acts.

One each. So no one feels cheated.

Three acts.

I call them actionable.

Don't play with words.

What can I play with? Your ideas?

You have none.

Come now, Fr?d?rick.

We can't be insulted by someone
who got his start in pantomimes...

On his hands.

Why not?

You wrote a play with your feet.

Monsieur!

You force us
to take drastic measures.

Monsieur, you signed a contract

and have received...

And spent.

...a generous advance.

Are you prepared to honor
your obligations?

Are you prepared to perform our play?

Why, certainly, gentlemen.

Provided it plays along.

Enough.

We have a description of the culprit.

Don't try to escape.

You're surrounded.

One of them calls himself R?mond,

but we know his real name.

It's Robert Macaire.

And Robert Macaire...

Is you.

Prove you're not him, if you can.

He's in a bind. It's not in the play.

By the time he thinks of a line,

I'll have escaped again.

Come on, Rover, let's be off.

The drama isn't played out yet.

Fr?d?rick, please, come back.

Stop them.

They'll get away.

Don't move, you're surrounded.

Just when I get a chance
to see the play.

Enough speeches.

Surrender.

To whom? You clever boy.

Come now.

You've been unmasked.

We know you're Robert Macaire.

If you're not Macaire,

the escaped convict,

answer me this:

Who are you?

I am Fr?d?rick Lema?tre.

Liar.
You're under arrest.

Not again.

Shall we k*ll him?

k*lling gendarmes never hurt anybody.

Fall down, you fool.

You're dead.

Alas, you've k*lled him.

O woe.

He was a wicked man,

but he was my husband.

Don't worry, dear widow,

it was a false alarm.

Dry your tears.

Your little hubby lives.

Not for long.

It had to end like this.

I die.

Farewell, Marie.

Forgive me.

I wasn't a bad man.

It was the company I kept.

I was but the arm that executes,

the hand that strikes,

the foot that leaves its mark

in the dust of crime.

But the true criminals,

those who plotted in the shadows...

I point out to Divine Justice.

The true authors of this crime
are there.

A triumph.

A disgrace...

...without precedent.

So, gentlemen,
I trust you're satisfied.

Monsieur, you've insulted us.

Only your ignorance

prevents you from seeing
that by insulting us,

you have deeply insulted
the Dramatic Arts.

You have sacked and trampled
our oeuvre,

debased our prose.

It's good luck.

Vulgarian.

We demand satisfaction.

As you like. Tomorrow morning?

Not a duel.

The Holy Trinity feels offended,

so we have to cross swords.

Arrange it.

Let them draw straws.

I'll fight the winner.

You may have the choice of arms.

I'll be at the chestnut grove
at dawn...

with my seconds.

A wise precaution.

What are you doing here?

How did you get in?

Hands off. It's a souvenir.

It might be one for me, as well.

Who knows?

And who are you?

My name will mean nothing.

As you're famous enough for two,
let's forego introductions

and get to the purpose of my call.

I'll be brief. I need money.

Everyone does.

More or less.

Maybe, but I'd like to know
why you come to me.

I don't even know you.

No matter.

I know you.

All Paris knows you.

You're too kind.

But let's not get carried away.

Yes, you are already famous,

and no doubt rich enough

for a man at bay
to appeal to you, quite simply.

At bay?

It's a matter of life and death.

Seriously?

Do I look like I'm joking?

I'm not rich,

but perhaps Fate sent you.

I won at the lottery last week.

I haven't spent it all.

You're in luck.

I'd give it all
to a friend or brother.

But as I haven't the honor
of knowing you...

all I can say is:

Let's share it.

If this little amount can help,

it's all yours.

"Quite simply."

You amaze me.
Actors are said to be misers.

Great ones, especially.

Fine, then.

There's still progress to be made.

You practice a peculiar craft.

The finest.

No doubt.

But you make hearts beat

every night at the same hour.

You don't understand.

That's the beauty of it.

It's dazzling.

To feel and hear your heart

and the heart of the audience

beat at the same time.

How promiscuous.

If my heart starts to beat loudly,

I take special delight
in being the only one to hear it.

May I ask what the owner
of such a heart does in life?

If I told you,
you wouldn't believe me.

I write plays in my spare time.

You're an author.

An neglected author, no doubt.

Yes, neglected.

But I have no regrets.

I write light pieces,

but nowadays people prefer tragedies.

I'm fond of one of my plays, though.

A short piece full of joy and sorrow.

Two lovers are parted, reunited,

then parted again.

The setting, all in soft green:

a garden, a fountain.

Interesting.

But tell me...

now that we're acquainted...

was this money business

really a matter of life and death?

Yes.

For you.

For me?

Had you been so foolhardy
as to refuse...

I can assure you the blade
doesn't retract into the handle.

You don't think Fr?d?rick
would resist?

I didn't come here alone.

Incredible.

Like a scene from the play.

Happy now?

I sure am.

This imbecile is
a great admirer of yours.

The thought of...

I felt sick.

No, really?

How nice.

So there are decent folks
in every trade.

So, did you enjoy the play?

Don't ask.

The boy is shy about his feelings.

But you were there tonight?

Well?

Interesting.

I wouldn't criticize...

Please do.

It's not every day
you come across a specialist.

A connoisseur.

This is marvelous.

Do me the honor of supping with me.

I had it prepared for the authors.

But I doubt...

It's most kind of you,
but we don't wish to intrude.

And you must be tired.

Not at all.

Just famished.

No formalities. Let's eat.

If you insist.

I have to regain my strength.

I have a duel at dawn.

It must be unpleasant
to die on an empty stomach.

A duel?

With whom?

With some fool.

You'll k*ll him, I hope?

If we had to k*ll every fool...

Indeed.

Yet it would make life
so much easier.

And with success at our doorstep.

You're k*lling the goose
that lays the golden egg.

The goose might...

k*ll us.

Gentlemen, please.

I'm the only one dueling.

Because you're the only one...

...who can use a p*stol.

A p*stol.

Here he comes.

And for once, he's on time.

He's drunk.

Gentlemen, my apologies.

No time to change into black.

We talked all night.

The time flew by.

True, we're not here
to exchange pleasantries,

but lead.

Let me introduce my seconds,

who, for political reasons,

shall remain nameless.

You can't be serious.

You're not your usual self.

My usual self? What's that?

You can't even walk straight.

No matter.

I'm not going far.

Besides, in such ceremonies,

the line of sight is the shortest
distance between two points.

NO PERFORMANCE

It's sold out, I tell you.

And tomorrow?

Not a seat left.

Unheard of.

A ticket seller without tickets.

Oh, Mr. Fr?d?rick.

You're hurt?

From a pigeon sh**t.

A peck in the arm.

I bet the pigeon's worse off.

Is that why you're closed?

I heard your play
was a hit last night.

The talk of the Boulevard.

It's like with Baptiste.

Things were slow,

and then all of a sudden...

It's incredible.

The whole town's fighting for seats.

But you'll find me one.

That won't be easy.

I've got an idea. Come on.

A young society woman
comes every night,

all alone, incognito,
to see Baptiste.

Lucky Baptiste. Is she pretty?

I don't know.

She wears a veil

and leaves without saying a word.

Excuse me, Madame, just this once.

A seat for an injured gentlemen.

It's all right.

Garance!

Fr?d?rick!
What brings you here, sir?

"Paris is so small
for such great lovers as we."

Why the sir, Garance?

Don't be angry.

I'm like that with everyone now.

O Desdemona. Perfidious creature.

To walk off like that, saying,

"See you later,"

and then vanish for years.

And when she decides to return,
she asks innocently,

"What brings you here, sir?"

I never left.

I knew you'd be back.

I waited in this chair.

For years.

You haven't changed.

Neither have you, Madame.

But, in fact, you have.

You have changed.

You're more desirable than ever.

And I don't know...

you're...

More distinguished?

You're hurt?

It's nothing. It's already healed.

There are other wounds
that take longer to heal.

Wounded pride, perhaps,

but a wound all the same.

So it was that man,

Desdemona,

that man with the flowers
you left with?

Where did you go?

Where did he take you?

That nabob.

To India?

I did go to India.

But not for long.

I lived in England most of the time.

And Scotland.

Is Scotland beautiful?

Yes...

But it's so far away.

I love only Paris.

Paris and its memories.

Baptiste, for example.

Baptiste,
whom you watch every night.

As if you didn't know
that Fr?d?rick Lema?tre

also performs nightly.

Listen to the Gods.

I used to laugh like that once.

I'd burst out laughing,
just like that, without thinking.

But nowadays...

You're sad.

No, but I'm not cheerful either.

A spring broke in the music box.

The tune is the same

but it's in a different key.

He's marvelous.

He's gentleness itself.

How does he manage to look so cruel?

So you love him?

Since I left,

not a day goes by
that I don't think of him.

He knows you come every night
to see him?

No. He has his life, I have mine.

What would be the point?

This can't be happening to me.

This is absurd.

What is it?

I think I'm jealous.

I don't know.

I've never felt anything like this.

It's insidious, unpleasant.

It infects your heart.

You try to reason,

but your reason fails you.

Do you realize, Garance?

Just now,

because of you, because of Baptiste,

I felt jealous.

Me, jealous.

And full of regrets.

That man,

that traveler taking you away,

and me letting you go.

And to make things worse,

there's Baptiste
performing like a god.

It's not that I want him to be awful,

but maybe just...

Yes, just a bit bad.

Not bad.

But mediocre...

I'd have liked that.

At least,
when I talk about it, it stops.

You see? It wasn't so serious.

A slight attack.
You're already recovered.

Recovered?

Why should I recover so fast?

What if I enjoyed it?

What if jealousy was helpful to me?

Useful, even necessary.

Thank you, Garance.

Thanks to all of you,

I can at last play Othello.

I didn't feel the character.

He was alien to me.

Now he's a friend, a brother.

I've found him.

Othello, my heart's desire.

After you, Desdemona.

I'll go embrace Baptiste.

I owe him that much.

Shall I take a message?

Really, Fr?d?rick.

I mean it.

True, I may be jealous,
but I understand.

And he has a wife and child.

That makes me feel better.

Whereas that other man...

Well, Garance?

You might mention me.

And if he seems to care,

say I'm passing through Paris,

that I'm leaving soon,

and that I'd be happy,

so very happy,

if he came to say hello.

So it's you, ingrate.

After all these years.

But the prodigal son returns.

Don't forget Alexis's fine
for being drunk, brawling,

and breaking a vase.

Five francs.

The fine's gone up?

Noblesse oblige.

The price of success.

You're not doing so badly yourself.

I'm glad. Bravo.

You've come.

And I took the first step.

On one hand.

Hardly.

I've been to see you several times.

And no hello?

I didn't dare.

Besides, I was so moved.

You're a great actor now.

The greatest.

Really, no.

What you do is sublime.

No, it's you.

There are many great actors.

A few, anyway.

But great mimes...
before you there was no one.

You're unique.

You invented it all.

I'm glad you like my work.

It's Nathalie.

You're a real beauty now.

I'm not beautiful, Fr?d?rick.

Just happy.

Beauty and happiness go together.

This little fellow's yours?

What's your name?

Baptiste.

Like his father.

Quite a family, is it not?

Greetings, Fr?d?rick.

It's truly a great day

when the greatest actor
in Europe and beyond

at last calls on the world's
undisputed masters of pantomime.

And there we are.

Greetings, all.

This is Jericho,

alias Wild Boar,

Lone Sleeper.

I can't stand his repulsive looks
and distasteful voice.

Here you are, bandit, body snatcher.

Don't start.

Shame on you.

You stole my looks, my identity.

You're not the only ragman in Paris.

Besides, you supplied the costume.

I didn't realize what it was for.

Every night, Baptiste kills
a poor old man like me...

as entertainment.

What an example.

Enough, friend.
You're drunk and babbling.

Go home to bed.

I may be drunk,

but I've still got principles.

Why don't you ever say hello
to OI' Papa Joshua?

You're just like your father.

You despise and shun me.

What's Baptiste got against me?

Nothing.

Only that you don't mind
your own business.

Is it his business
what is or isn't mine?

I've always lived all alone.

So I take an interest in others.

Always alone.

That's no life.

No one to love me.

Nothing, zero, naught.

If I were a widower,
at least I'd have memories.

But no woman would have me.

They preferred
little fly-by-nights and libertines.

Listen, Nathalie.

Let me tell you something.

Sure, it's none of my business,

but it's for your own good.

Spare me your gossip.

Just listen. This won't take long.

Garance is back.

She's here, in Box 7,

and she's waiting for Baptiste.

Garance!

Like the flower.

Box 7. Don't forget.

Mama.

Listen.

It's true, you know.

I often miss the Funambules.

Do you also have good memories
of our work together?

Yes, good memories.

You're not angry with me?

Why should I be angry?

Garance.

Let bygones be bygones.

It's all behind us now.

Come in.

Hello, Madame.

I have a message for you.

I came to say we're happy together,

Mama, Papa and me.

Did your father send you?

No, Mama did.

But Mama, Papa or me...
it's the same.

Mama was right.

About what?

You're beautiful.

When I grow up,
I'll get married

to someone like you.

Or like Mama, if I can.

You're a darling boy.

Are you married?

You don't have a little boy?

I don't have a little boy.

Then you're all alone?

Yes.

I'm all alone.

Weren't you curious about this woman

who comes to see you every night?

Perhaps you're used to it.

You're on, Baptiste.

Listen, Baptiste.

I should have told you sooner.

That woman is Garance.

She's back, but not for long.

She'd like to see you,
you understand?

What's wrong?

Good evening, my angel.

Pierre-Fran?ois.

Who?

Ah, yes, Pierre-Fran?ois.

Forgive me. I lose track
of all the names I use.

A childish precaution.
The police are so inept.

Unlike me.

I am well informed.

For example,
I knew about your return at once.

I learned where you were living,

and with whom.

Nothing escapes you.

And I know they've put
my angel in a gilded cage.

I'm not throwing stones.

I've been in prison myself lately,

and in the provinces.

Not even a hint of a smile?

I used to amuse you.

Have you lost your gaiety,

or is it so unpleasant to see me?

On the contrary,

I'm glad to see you.

Yes, it reminds me of...

An entire era.

Yes, the easy years,

the happy days, the good life.

Never look back at the past,
my angel.

It leaps at your throat
like a mad dog.

I was lucky enough to be happy.

Despite all.

Back then.

Don't be silly.

Then as now.

Time has nothing to do
with happiness.

Really?

And the man in white?

Do you think your friend,
the mime, is happy?

To think I had
the absurd notion of k*lling him.

Comical, no?

One might as well stab
at a breeze or a moonbeam.

And the other one: Fr?d?rick.

I considered him too.

I even called on him
on an amusing pretext.

Which was?

To ask this complete stranger
for money.

He'd refuse and...

And he gave it to you?

A large sum. Amazing.

Unselfish people still exist.

People.

Actors aren't people.

They're every man and no man.

People of high society:
Those are people.

Like Count de Montray,

one of France's richest notables.

- You've changed.
- Have I?

You used to speak of yourself,
rarely of others.

But what's become of you?

I've become famous.

A few sensational crimes.

The name Lacenaire has been
in the crime columns.

Hunted by police in the provinces,

while he is here in Paris
with his guardian angel.

You're a celebrity.

I'm becoming one.

But upon reflection,
I'd have preferred literary success.

Never satisfied.

They say the count
is a generous patron of the arts.

I'd enjoy meeting him.

Do you really need to?

Don't worry.

I'd like to meet the man
who laid the icy hand of wealth

on the pale shoulder of my angel.

There were no strings attached.

I'm still free.

Perhaps.

That's what bothers me.

It's so painful to see you again,

and find you unchanged.

I'd prefer to find you
ravaged, submissive,

rendered stupid by wealth.

Then I could have lived
with an easy conscience,

and my fine idea of mankind.

My poor Pierre-Fran?ois.

You think I'm a monster, don't you?

Possibly,

but you're not the only one.

Alas.

Edouard de Montray, I presume?

Himself.

I was so anxious to meet you.

And now I have. I'm delighted.

How amusing.

Amusing and unexpected.

And to whom...

No one. It's of no importance.

You do realize that I find
your manner most distasteful.

Who are you, Monsieur?

Is it not absurd to ask people
who they are?

Excuse me?

That's why they're so evasive.

They give you the easy reply:
a name, a title.

But who they are really,

who they are deep down,
they conceal with great care.

You speak for yourself.

No, everyone. You as well.

I find your ways quite indiscreet.

You don't know me,
yet you ask who I am.

The nerve.

Enough.
Where can my seconds...

Pointless. I'm not a man who duels.

Absolutely not.

That explains things in part.

Or if I do,
the choice of arms is always mine.

I choose one, just one,

and I keep one for me, on me,

and I k*ll when I'm sure,
when it pleases me.

Of course, it's more expeditious.

To each his own method.

Quite.

I presume
you have nothing more to say.

Valentin.

I warn you I am not a man
one throws out.

I would regret
having to k*ll a servant.

Have no fear.

Valentin is an old retainer
to whom I'm very attached.

Will you show the gentleman out?

Good evening.

Good evening, my friend.

How strange.

When I'm not home you sing,

but when I come in, you fall silent.

You only like serious music.

Sadly, our tastes differ.

May I ask where you spent
the evening?

At the Funambules.

Again.

And you,
at those ghastly animal fights.

"Ghastly" is too strong a word.

They threw a mangy bear
to three mastiffs like a bone.

It wasn't sport, but butchery.

A most dreary evening.

And the Funambules?

I won't be going back again.

I'm delighted.

Don't belittle the Funambules.

You forget we met there.

Which no doubt explains

your pious nightly pilgrimage?

No, my friend.

The contrary would surprise me.

May I know the name of that man
who just left?

Were you at the Funambules
with him?

That man?

I see.

An old acquaintance.
He came to say hello.

A most peculiar individual.

What does he do?

He writes.

To be perfectly honest,
when I knew him,

he was also a thief,

and something of a m*rder*r.

I hope there was nothing

between you and this individual.

I trust you entirely.

No merit in that.

I've never had a chance
to lie to you.

True enough.

Oblige me by seeing such people
as seldom as possible.

Actors, perhaps,

but thieves, murderers...

isn't that rather shocking?

Remember the young Scot you
challenged to a duel in Edinburgh?

I remember quite well. Why?

He wasn't nearly
as good a shot as you.

Of course.

Everyone knew it.

But you k*lled him anyway.

Feelings, Garance,
in an affair of honor...

All because I smiled at him.

Yes.

In public, and frequently.

But I told you
I was thinking of another.

Please understand
how much I want your love.

For yourself.

Don't torment me.

You know what I'd do for you,
because of you.

Because of me.

I love you as no man...

Could ever love me.

So why complain?

I want you to love me.

I do love you, my friend.

You're charming, rich, witty.

Friends admire you, others fear you.

You appeal to women.

Everyone loves you.

How could I not do the same?

Stop it.

You know what I desire,
what I want.

You're incredible.

Not only are you rich,

but you want to be loved
as if you were poor.

But what about the poor?

Be reasonable.
Don't deprive them of everything.

Understand me...

I do.

And I'll continue to do
my best to please you.

But don't ask the impossible.

However, if you like,

if it makes you happy,

tomorrow all Paris will know
I'm mad about you.

Yes, mad.

I'll shout it from the rooftops.

But to you, privately, my friend,

I say this:

I loved a man,
and I still love him.

I came back to Paris to see him.

He let me know he'd forgotten me.

All I can think of now

is to leave once again, to get away.

NO PERFORMANCE

Come in.

Your dinner, Mr. Baptiste.

Thank you, but I'm not hungry.

You're being unreasonable.

True, I'm unreasonable.

Shutting yourself up like a monk.

Monks pray.

I sleep, I dream.

Everyone's looking for you.

Hardly everyone.

The Funambules is closed.

Your wife, your son, your father,

the whole troupe...

you can't just forget them like that.

But I couldn't go on living
like an idiot in an asylum,

with everyone around me whispering,

"What's wrong? Is he ill?"

I even saw a doctor
to make them happy.

What did he say?

That I was fit as a fiddle.

"Mild depression, overwork.
It's nothing."

And his prescription?

"Go see Baptiste.

That will cheer you up."

What if I don't want to cheer up?

What's today?

Thursday.

Tonight's the premiere
of Othello, with Mr. Fr?d?rick.

You should go.

It will cheer you up.

Oh, sorry.

Othello would make
a nice pantomime.

A man kills his beloved

and it kills him, poor man.

A sad, absurd tale,
like so many others.

Like mine or yours, Madame Hermine.

You spend your empty days
in your empty rooms

with your poor empty heart.

It's all so absurd and sad.

Like me.

Years ago, I stood here by this bed,

in this very room.

And she stood there, smiling, happy,

so lovely in the fresh night air.

And she said,

"Love is so simple."

And I didn't listen.

I didn't take her in my arms.

I set conditions:

"Love me as I love you."

And I shut the door,

forever, between my love and me.

What are you doing here?

I'm talking to myself.
Not to you.

Forgive me.

I didn't mean to be unpleasant.

You've helped me
and been so discreet.

It's only natural.

I can't...

I can't stay here any longer.

All alone.

I have to get out. I have to walk.

Did he eat?

He will.

Good.

Thank you for telling me.

I was so anxious.

It's only natural, between women.

He needs to be alone.

We mustn't disturb him.

He's not like other men.

Of course not.

He's like a sleepwalker on a roof.

If you call him, he falls.

That's Baptiste.

We mustn't call him.

We have to leave him,

wait until he's calm

and wakes on his own.

When he wakes,

he'll come back.

Get me some poison, Iago, this night.

I'll not expostulate with her

lest her body and beauty

unprovide my mind again.

Do it not with poison.

Strangle her in her bed,

even the bed she hath contaminated.

Let her rot

and perish

and be damned tonight,

for she shall not live.

Such savagery
and lack of decorum.

I can't say I like
this Mr. Shakespeare.

True, one goes to the theatre today
not for the play,

but for the actors.

Don't forget, my friend,
you insisted on coming.

No doubt I had my reasons.

Hang her.

I do but say what she is.

The pity of it, Iago.

The pity of it.

May I?

Of course.

"Desdemona came tonight.

Othello is no longer jealous.
He is cured. Thank you."

You see?

I assure you, you're wrong.

Naturally, I'm wrong

and you're innocent.

Othello, too.

Please tell me the truth.

Is it him?

No, my friend, it's not him.

That handkerchief which
I so loved and gave thee

thou gavest to Cassio.

No, by my life and soul.

Send for the man and ask him.

Sweet soul,

take heed.

Take heed of perjury:

Thou art on thy deathbed.

Dying: easily said,

and just as easily done.

Why do you laugh?

Because if we duel in the morning

he won't be here to talk of death
in the evening.

You're mad.

Why should you care,

if it's not him you love?

k*ll me tomorrow:
Let me live tonight.

Nay, if you strive...

But half an hour.

Being done, there is no pause.

But while I say one prayer.

It is too late.

The play's not over.

We're just going to the foyer.

I really must congratulate
this remarkable actor.

If you do, I'll never see you again.

Nor him either, for that matter.

Come.

Where?

I don't know. Anywhere.

Monsieur, you play
the bloodthirsty brute so naturally.

You're too kind.

I merely played him
as Shakespeare wrote him,

as naturally as possible.

A peculiar fellow,
this Mr. Shakespeare.

I hear he made his literary debut
as a butcher's apprentice.

Why not?

Which would explain
the bestial nature of his plays,

and his popularity among
dockers and carters.

And kings.

I see why I found this play
so distasteful and shocking.

I'll buy my coachman a seat.

It's worth trying.

Then allow me to offer you a box

for your horses.

"It's worth trying."

I thought you'd forgotten me.

I thought I'd lost you forever.

I've never forgotten you.

You were even in my dreams.

You saved me from growing old,

dull and used up.

My life was so empty.

I felt so alone.

I kept thinking
I had no right to be sad

because someone loved me.

But I still love you.

I always have.

And do you love...

Don't answer.

I won't ask for anything.

You're here.
That's all that matters.

Here, alive in my arms,

like the first time.

I ask for nothing.

Only...

the warmth of your body against mine,

that mouth of yours.

Those eyes of yours.

My compliments.

You were superb.

May I introduce...

No need.

We met once before.
One time too often.

Amusing.

These gentlemen seek a quarrel
with me,

all very politely, I admit.

We all must k*ll time in some way.

Gentlemen, you're wrong
about my friend here.

I haven't known him long,

but in his way,

he's a remarkable fellow,

and not lacking in talent.

All kinds of talents, no doubt.

It takes all kinds to make a world,

or unmake it.

Amusing.

An amusing pleasantry.

Quite.

You really find him amusing?

Then let us amuse ourselves.

Besides, we run no risk.

The gentleman doesn't duel.

Absolutely not.

How do you exercise your talents
these days?

Since you ask,

I'm putting the finishing touches

to something
that will cause a sensation.

A tragedy, no doubt.

A comedy, a farce.

Or a tragedy, if you prefer.

It's all the same.

There's no difference.

Or so little.

For example, if a king is deceived,

it's a tragedy of infidelity.

He's deceived not by his wife...

But by Fate.

Yes, Fate.

But if it's a poor devil

like you or me,
Monsieur de Montray...

and I use "me"
as a figure of speech...

it's no longer a tragedy,

but mere buffoonery,

a sorry tale of cuckolds.

Yet it's the same wood
under the pauper's cap

or the king's crown.

The dead wood of love

rotting in the heads of the unloved.

Always the same matter,

the same stories, the same tears.

So the genre is nothing.

My play need only amuse.

Starting with the author.

- If it's performed.
- Don't worry, gentlemen.

It will be.

It's in progress as we speak.

If you'd like a role...

Very funny.

It is very funny.

But, I warn you, there are murders,

and at the final curtain,

the dead won't rise for a bow.

This man is a bore.

Shall we throw him out?

Good idea.

Don't try to humiliate me.

I'm not some character
out of a farce.

But you are.

And I'll prove it.

What have you done?

It doesn't concern you.

Gentlemen, I've just savored
a most exquisite moment.

Too bad for you.

I said I wasn't a man
to be thrown out with impunity.

Again, this doesn't concern you.

How do you know?

Jealousy belongs to all
if a woman belongs to none.

They're going to duel.

Because of us?

Because of me.

But not before tomorrow.

So?

We have the night before us,

with us,

for us.

If I'm not at home,
I'll be at the baths,

where I'll be expecting...

My seconds.

You do me a great honor

sending to the next world

a man who is not part of yours.

You see here a man who's been ousted,
unceremoniously.

But the mere thought of them

k*lling one another over a woman,

because of me,

comforts me.

So we'll be seconds again?

I doubt we'll be asked this time.

Too bad. I like duels.

That can be arranged.

If not a duel,

you may be witness to something else.

Because in this affair of honor

I, Lacenaire, am the offended party.

Offended, insulted, even humiliated,

because they threw me out,
ignominiously.

How lovely the moonlight is.

Look.

It's shining for us,
like that first night.

And like that first night,

the window is wide open.

It's wonderful.

Everything is the same.

Nothing has changed.

The table in the same place.

The bed I slept in.

You haven't changed either.

The same gentleness in your voice.

The same light in your eyes.

A little glimmer.

Your heart beating against my hand.

You were right.

Love is so simple.

Carnival time.

Life is beautiful.

A bath, gentlemen?

We merely wish to see
Count de Montray.

At this hour? He's resting.

He's expecting us.

In that case,

please follow me.

What is it?

Two gentlemen.

They say you're expecting them.

Two gentlemen.

Show them in.

My poor Avril.

The play is over.

You can go now.

You'd be wise to go
to the country for a while.

What about you?

Me. I'm staying here.

I won't risk losing my head
to a country executioner.

Absolutely not.

It was a wonderful night.
But I must go.

I can't let Fr?d?rick die
because of me.

What will you do?

Find Edouard.

Tell him I lost my head.

I'll beg him not to duel.

Will he listen?

Yes.

If I say I love him,
and him alone.

You're incapable of lying.
He won't believe you.

He doesn't care if it's not true.

I know him.

All he really wants
is to hear me say it.

What matters is not that I love him,

but that I love no one else.

That's love to him.

What if he asks you
to leave with him?

I'll go.

Perhaps I'll come back.

I'd have to leave someday.

Why?

You know why.

You have a sweet little boy.

Stop it.

You love your little boy,

and you love your work.

And Nathalie.

It's you I love.

- Wait here and be good.
- Will you be long?

No, I'll come back for you.

What for?

It's a surprise.

Don't leave me.

I can't bear it.

What about me? I have only you.

Excuse me.

I came by...

I thought you'd be alone.

All alone.

You see, it's carnival today.

Our son was so happy.

So I came by...

He's dressed as a hussar.

A lovely hussar uniform.

Please don't let me
stand here like this.

It's awful.

Talk to me at least.

Answer me. Say something.

Anything.

Tell me to go away, laugh in my face.

Is that all you can say?

I really must go.

Again.

How easy it must be.

How easy what must be?

Easy to go, then come back.

You go. You're missed.

Time works for you.

Then you come back,

embellished by memory.

That must be easy.

But to stay and live with someone,

share his everyday life...

that's something else.

You can't fight that.

I've lived with him for six years.

So have I.

You, too?

Me, too.

Anywhere, everywhere, every day.

And every night.

All those nights
spent at another's side,

I was with him.

Let her finish.

I want to know everything
about you two,

know what's left for me.

If there's enough to live on.

What do I care if you love him?

You don't count.
You don't exist for me.

Listen to me.

Answer me.

I'm not afraid to suffer.

Everybody suffers.

But I must know.

Tell me now.

Without thinking about it.

Look at me.

Were you always thinking of her
while living with me?

You don't dare answer.

But your silence tells me
a lot of things,

things I do understand.

Answer me.

Were you always thinking of her?

Answer me. Even at night?

What about me?

What about me?

The game's up. Time to go home.

Let me go.

For shame.

As sure as I'm called Old Maid,

Wise Counsel, Prim and Proper,

for my sense of morality.

Let go. You make me sick.

Out of my way.