Le trésor de Cantenac (1950)

[bunniefuu]

THE TREASURE OF CANTENAC

This work was produced at

Photosonor Studios in Courbevoie

Then it was fully developed at Eclair

Laboratories in Epinay-sur-Seine

and it's a film by...

Come in.

Rene Genin, priest of Cantenac,

and Roger Legris, village idiot.

How are they?

- Very amazing.

Very surprising? Well, my God...

Gentlemen, please.

You're well, Mr. Sacha Guitry?

- Until proven otherwise, yes.

Do you have time to make a movie?

- We always have half an hour ahead.

Well, sir...

I find your story fascinating,

to the extent that...

Hello, miss?

Would you like to send

me a complete crew?

Yes, yes, right away. Thank you.

Mr. Fernand Rene.

I'm the village drunk.

You see what you have to do.

Ladies, please.

Mrs. Fusier-Gir,

the haberdasher of Cantenac.

Mrs. Pauline Carton,

the parish priest's maid.

Do you want to advertise

Milly Mathis, the

owner of the cafe,

with Henry Laverne

and Paul Demange.

One being her husband,

and the other, her lover.

Mr. Marcel Simon,

the centenary of Cantenac.

And here is Ramir.

No, but listen...

I beg your pardon.

If you all talk at once, I won't

be able to write anything down.

- Here's how it starts.

- A nice morning...

No, it was one evening.

No, no. It was a Thursday.

It's probably for a movie.

Ronnier will surely edit it.

Mr. Baron de Cantenac,

with his son-in-law and his wife.

Ladies and gentlemen,

the named villagers:

Robert Seller, the carpenter;

Luce Fabiole, the washer during the day;

Numes Jr., the postman;

Jacques Sablon, the roadmender.

Are you aware of

the miraculous event

that happened in Cantenac?

- I'm very interested,

I admit it.

- Let me tell you.

- Go ahead.

On September 2, at 8:20 a.m...

Here is Sophie Mallet, the goose girl;

Pierre Juvenet, the butcher;

Marthe Sarbel, the baker;

Yvonne Hebert, the ironer;

Claire Brilletti, the nanny;

Georges Spanelly, the architect.

Take the trouble to go up.

Here is Jacques de Feraudy, the blacksmith;

Leon Walther, the butler;

Solange Varennes, the

shepherdess; Aziza Ali, the gypsy;

Roger Poirier, the gardener;

Germaine Duard, the servant.

Would you mind going

up to the waiting room?

This is Bob Roucoules, the doctor;

Paillette, the midwife;

and Grethen, the carpenter.

Come up, gentlemen.

Varougeanne, the gypsy;

and finally Bever, the gravedigger.

That's how it ends.

- And it couldn't have ended better.

- We all think so.

What are all these people?

They're nice.

They just told me about

an extraordinary film subject.

In this film, you will play

the role of Mademoiselle,

if miss wants it.

Provided that you play the

role of Baron de Cantenac.

I can refuse nothing to the baron.

He is a man, in fact, who

never denies himself anything.

Gentlemen, we're starting

a new movie in a month.

Francois Caron, would you like

to be the production manager?

Francois Gir, be my assistant.

Renoux, do the decorations.

Ramettre, be the operator.

And please call up

the recruits again.

Mr. Louis, sound engineer.

Miss Lefevre, be the script girl.

Mr. Muller, be the stage manager.

Oh, and here's Louiguy!

Do you want to make music?

Yes? So much the better.

Three, four!

Once upon a time there

was a small village which

sat modestly between

Paimpol and Draguignan.

It was a lovely little village.

There are no ugly villages

when viewed from a distance.

Its name was Cantenac.

It had been there

for centuries and

it had never been

talked about before.

Imagine what's coming

to happen to it is a miraculous adventure.

And it is precisely this adventure

that I'm going to tell you about.

But I have to start

at the beginning, and

I want to ask you

the following question:

do you know what a village is?

Do you know how it starts?

Well, it starts with a castle.

It's hard to believe, but

that's the way it is.

A great lord decides one

day to have himself built

a magnificent castle.

When you have

such a castle built,

we need many things.

To build it, we need everything.

And to live there,

we need bread, milk,

fruits, vegetables and flowers.

Alas, we need meat.

How not to hang

the beauty of this rider and the

nobility of the gesture of the worker.

Maintaining the lord

has no more harmony

no grace than the gesture of a worker

when he does his work with love.

So close to the

castle a village rises,

which the day before

was still only a hamlet,

and which seems to come out of

the ground at the call of the steeple.

You have to have your

reason for being on earth.

This is why the castles

of old knew how to

make themselves

useful by creating villages

which sometimes became towns.

Because give and take.

When the village feeds the castle,

the chateau supported him

by providing him with work.

And that's how in the 16th

century, our little village was born,

and such is the lord who

brought him into the world.

It's been around for almost 500 years.

But it must be admitted that it

has hardly existed for 150 years.

It barely survives, poor thing.

Because it no longer has

a castle. It's finished.

Since the Revolution, since 1793.

But let's put an end to all that,

because now the village rooster

tell the rooster in the steeple

that it's 5 o'clock.

The bell tower repeats

it and others will say it.

Now the houses are

slapped by the shutters.

Then at the thresholds of

the doors and in the frames

of the windows appear,

puffy and almost all sullen,

5, 10, 1 5, 20 faces of peasants.

Let's get to know them.

We are going to learn some great things.

Because there are many

extravagant things in this village.

And speaking of

extravagant things, here

without further ado is

the boozer of the place

and the village idiot.

This sweet drunkard

is a subject of curiosity:

we have never seen him drink

and we always see him drunk.

It's because he hides to drink.

In my opinion, he should do the opposite.

He should drink openly

and hide when drunk.

As for this little guy who sneaks

around, who appears, who disappears,

who likes to fade away,

to prank everyone, he

plays a fairly discreet

role in the adventure,

although it is essential.

We will soon have the proof.

Oh! It gets dark early this morning.

Since she is coming to us,

allow me to present her to you.

Why does she walk like this?

Why so many ways?

Why is she wearing

her hair this way?

Because she had

been to Paris one day.

She deserved a lesson,

and Prosper gave it to her.

And this lesson did him great good.

She knew love, and soon

she became the village crane.

That's what it's like

to have been to Paris.

But let's be serious. Here

we have two men in evidence:

the mayor and the priest.

Both have their

own strongholds, and

it's not just the road

that separates them.

The mayor is disbelieving,

profane, sectarian.

He clings to his opinions

as if someone wanted to take

them from him, whereas no

one in Cantenac shares them.

It is the same with the priest,

poor, dear and holy man.

Nobody talks to him.

He doesn't talk to anyone.

Here is the reason.

Between this mayor,

who sits on the edge of the

wells, as if to prevent

the truth from coming out,

and this priest whom everything

divides: the character and

the ideas, the mission of

one, the function of the other,

yes, between these two

men, there is something.

One thing that makes their

hostility grow more serious every day

and deeper still.

These men are both

brothers, and they are twins.

The fight had been terrible

between them not long ago, and it

is claimed that one evening

they had both come into conflict.

The two men had

fought bitterly over the

villagers, who soon, not

knowing which way to go,

and desiring to lead a

peaceful existence on

earth without closing

the sky irremediably,

one day made the

double determination

not to set foot in church again,

nor to meetings organized at the

town hall for an

obvious purpose.

These people preferred

to have no opinion of any

kind, neither political

nor religious, no, no, no!

"May they both work it

out and leave us alone."

However, there are two

concessions that everyone,

Panurge's sheep if there

ever was one, willingly made:

every 4 years they

voted for the mayor, and

at the time of death,

the night having come,

they called the priest.

And if they only vote

at the last second,

they only called

the priest at the

last minute, when

all hope was lost,

so as not to have trouble with

the mayor in the event of recovery.

Poor priest!

What a bizarre existence he led!

It was always in vain

that he shook his bells.

He no longer baptized, never

confessed, never laughed at me.

And as for his mass, he

always said it in a low voice,

his servant serving as an altar

boy, since no

child in the village

did not agree to

fulfill this pious duty.

She did it against the

consent of the priest

and against the

formal will of the bishop.

This Eulalie, a cantankerous

and devoted creature, moreover,

acquitted herself of this duty

in a rather unexpected way.

She applied herself to sparing

the goat and the cabbage.

She served him his

mass as she served him

his lunch, so without

manners and promptly.

She considered that it was one

more meal that her master took,

and pretending to ignore

the rites and customs,

gave her a hand

since she was his maid.

She kept the

genuflections for the house

which would not have

failed to be observed there.

Then the mass being

said, she passed in front

of the mayor with her

forehead held high,

since she could claim

that the pious duty she had

performed was part of the

housework she had to do.

But if the influence of

the priest was almost nil,

it was not the same

with that of his brother.

This was exercised without control.

He was jeopardizing the

future of the village.

It was his, the school,

and he took advantage of it.

R, o, b...

That these names are

forever engraved in the

memory of men, what

could be more natural?

But do they have to

be exclusively those?

It is true to add that

it was understood,

but not listened.

His young audience had

concerns of a different order.

Cantenac was

spinning very bad cotton.

To say that he

lived on isn't even

exact, he was rather dying out.

By dint of living on themselves,

to marry together and

reproduce among themselves,

the inhabitants of Cantenac

have all become parents.

Relatives more or less close.

In such a small village, there

cannot be distant relatives.

Those who are not called

Pidoux are called Lacassagne.

It's one or the other.

There are only two

names left in the village.

The other names have disappeared,

as if absorbed by these two.

But the Pidoux are very prolific.

In about forty years, they will

have absorbed the Lacassagnes.

And already today, if

someone dared to call:

"Hey, Pidoux", we would see

two-thirds of the

village turn around.

Did we see in Cantenac, coming

from elsewhere, a living soul?

In truth, never.

Except for Dr. Laragounias,

who came by every month,

passed through the village,

and never even set foot there,

because he came by bicycle.

- No need for my services?

- Nope.

Go your way, mister charlatan.

And you, at least,

try to go straight.

- No need for my services?

- No, doctor.

Give him 40 francs to hear

himself say: "Don't eat too much,"

no thanks.

- You are too late.

My husband died yesterday.

Push my leg back and

I'll give you my clientele.

As for those, it is something else.

And even the opposite.

It is not without reason that

he prudently deviates from it.

Called by them last

year, he had given

this woman a massive

dose of calomel

who had, unwittingly,

saved his life, which

this man harbored a

grudge against him forever.

So, for one reason or another,

Laragounias was

unpopular in Cantenac.

When he passed by the cemetery,

the idiot never failed

to shout at him...

Hey, doctor, send us people!

In truth, Cantenac is so badly

placed and so devoid of interest

that no one ever has the

opportunity to come or go there.

Now and then a stray car

pretends to drive through the

village, but as soon as it sees

him, as if he were repulsive,

she goes back in

reverse and takes the

straight path, a path

that is not straight.

I would be remiss if

I did not mention an

unexpected visit which

made Cantenac so excited.

This visit takes place

a month or two before

the considerable,

unexpected, miraculous event,

which was to completely

transform Cantenac.

This is the reason why I cannot

dispense with

telling you about it.

A caravan of gypsies

who came from

who knows where,

wandering and pitiful,

stopped in the village square to the

great astonishment of the inhabitants.

From this trailer,

we saw a creature

descend, barefoot and tanned,

oily hair, copper sequins

and tambourine, who

pretended to dance

as if for herself alone,

but all the same with

an ulterior motive.

- Instead of arguing...

- Look what's happening to us.

What she was hoping for

finally happened, and when

she saw that the majority

of the village was there,

she stopped dancing,

and in a fluent gibberish,

she informed that

she was not only a

dancer, but also read

the lines of the hand.

For the modest sum of 1

franc, she flattered herself

that she could tell everyone

their immediate future.

Yes, but that, their future...

They already had an idea of ​​it.

And 1 franc is still 1 franc.

And these women, they do

not make fun of the world?

Everyone was

dying to consult her.

One of them had to start.

It was a woman.

Another followed her.

Then it was a man, then others.

And all of them in the end passed away.

Two hours later, they

knew what to expect.

Their future no longer held any

secrets for them,

and it was obvious.

They were worried and

tormented, more than usual.

She had made the mistake of

predicting their next happiness.

Madness, let's see.

Tell these people they

were going to be happy,

it was to tell them that

they were unhappy.

She realized it, alas too late.

They had conceived for

her a strong resentment:

"She took our money,

this moricaude!"

Our Romanichelle

hastened to leave the village.

"She leaves!"

"Trickster!," "thief,"

"garbage," "b*stard!"

Running after her,

they threw stones at her.

One of them broke her

window pane and injured her.

Oh, not a lot, but too many.

They were proud of it that day.

But they will regret it.

Shall I tell you about coffee?

Certainly.

He plays a key role here.

It is the meeting place for

peasants, who are bored at home.

At nightfall, they come

there, and there they

are grouped 4 by 4, around

a shackle or a weasel.

Looking at them closely,

would you believe that

these men are living

happiest time of their day?

They seem angry together.

It is not so.

These are not people who

do not talk to each other.

These are people who no

longer speak to each other

because they have told

each other everything.

For them to speak to each

other, there must be a death.

She is dead.

- My poor Simon! It's horrible!

- My poor friend!

A death or a birth.

"He's a little guy!"

In truth, nothing else

happens in Cantenac.

But a birth does not have with

them the success of a death.

The first movement of joy

passed, they listen with a

distracted ear to the story of

an event planned for months

and which is of little interest to them.

A death is something else.

There is the unexpected in the

agony, and sometimes, mystery.

Some already they

are distressing, but

others bring to laugh,

to laugh and to think.

Especially since there are always

a few questions of money involved.

And finally, death hangs

in the face of them all.

To be born is done.

Let these men to their

thoughts, to their belotte.

Turning to the

patrons of the cafe,

we observe a curious threesome.

Here are the husband and the lover.

And the woman, here she is.

I will not have the

impropriety to judge

the physical attractions

of this woman,

for I would be remiss

to grieve those men who

regard her as beauty

and grace personified.

They speak of her as

we spoke of Castiglione.

Her eyes, her arms,

her breasts, her hips

and her smile, they

are so charmed by it

that everything is a pretext

for them to sing his praises.

It is precisely because

they agree on this

crucial point that these

two men hate each other.

They don't have

the same political

opinions, but basically

they don't care.

They are equally

bad players, and their

checkers games are

sometimes stormy,

but 5 minutes later,

they both clink glasses.

Nothing that separates

them separates them.

But because they agree

on the beauty of this

woman, here they are

divided because of a hyphen.

Besides, this fat man

makes them tremble with fear.

Because his jealousy

is terrible and constant.

He shouldn't see

her doing any favors

to that weakling.

And it's been going on for 15 years.

He watches them.

And the other two

don't trust it, believe me.

When they want to kiss

what precautions

do they not take?

The other is on the eye. He

chases them into his room.

And when he takes them

together, there is no dead hand.

It's a big kick in the a*s

put him back in his place.

One would be entitled to

ask this man so jealous the

reason for which he supports

this undesirable presence

near the loved object.

But that is a question

that cannot be asked.

Because this big

authoritarian man is the lover.

The weakling is the husband.

As for the child

of this woman, let

him not kiss his

father on the 1st,

because his real

father is him, the lover.

The weakling knows it, the woman

remembers it, and

the child guesses it.

- Hold on, hold on, hold

on, hold on, hold on, hold on!

In this house there

is a real phenomenon.

So look, here is his old

son, and that's the word,

87 years old, who plagues

from morning to night.

He is his youngest son.

The two eldest died of rage.

Not rage, rage.

You will soon know why.

This is his granddaughter, who is only 65,

but who looks at least 83,

undermined by her bad mood.

His great-great-granddaughter,

22 years old.

Here is his great-grandson

coming out of the little place,

and who now enters

his 47th year grumbling.

Finally he, the phenomenon, here he is.

Born in 1821, he is now 128 years old.

But it must be admitted that

it appears to be barely 110.

And there he is, smiling,

making his great-great-great-grandson

take his first steps,

aged, if I may say so, 18 months.

These 126 years which separate

them also seem to bring them closer.

Don't they have the same difficulty

putting one foot in front of the other?

The old man can still walk

and the child can already walk.

Which of the two is

the other based on?

Wouldn't the child be

making the old man do

his last steps?

To the table!

It's soup time.

And here are 6 generations

who immediately group together,

the ancestor having for vis-a-vis

the last offspring of his race.

The same precautions are

taken for the old man and the

child, for the same small

accidents are to be feared.

One has no more teeth,

and the other has none yet.

Yes. But where does it come from that, with the

exception of the centenary and the little child,

the four middle generations

have such sullen faces?

And what do those wicked,

cruel, ruthless,

hateful looks mean,

launched as if on the sly

towards this mischievous

old man who realizes it?

Why do the four of

them seem impatient?

Why such great concern?

What are they waiting for?

They are waiting for the old man to die.

They are worried because

they do not see it coming.

We've been waiting for

his death for 60 years,

and he knows it, and it amuses him.

Not only does he not die,

but he looks younger, the bugger.

Last year he wasn't doing so well.

But see it, look at it!

You would swear his

son is older than him.

It's odious, really.

It's immoral too.

One has no right to make

one's inheritance wait like this.

It shouldn't be allowed.

It should be agreed that past the

hundred, we share our property.

Is this old man so rich that they

are waiting for his death like this?

Oh, it's much more complicated than that.

He's not just rich,

he may be very rich.

What he has is a treasure.

This treasure, he hid it.

And no one has ever been able to find out.

The house, they have visited

it 100 times from top to bottom.

They turned the

garden soil 10 times,

in vain.

Is it upstairs? Is it on the left?

Am I there right?

If they knew where the treasure is hidden,

the old man would have died

accidentally a long time ago.

From time to time, like

that, he calls them to him

and said to them: "My treasure,

"You will not know where he

is until the moment of my death.

"But until then..."

And that's the moment

they're waiting for, watching for.

Oh that, but...

Thus, to amuse himself, the

old man gives them false joys.

False joys that deal

them a mortal blow.

So much so that he

saw die of exasperation

his wife, then his

brother, his two sisters, his

brother's three children

and his two eldest sons.

But tell me, now

his youngest son

seems to spin a very bad cotton.

Such a bad cotton that

positively here it goes.

Squeak! An embolism.

We were waiting for the death of the

father, and it is the son who is leaving.

It's so funny.

And our cent en

aire can't help but

think as soon as

he'll bury them all.

And here is another one to whom his

treasure will have passed under his nose.

His joy is shared by his

great-great-great-grandson,

whose new death increases his

rights to the inheritance by one degree.

Here is the small

store where they

sell everything,

socks, nails, sardines...

Let's stop for a

moment: it's worth it.

The haberdasher

leaves. She goes for an

errand, and claims she'll

be back in 10 minutes.

His daughter is there,

and she is the curiosity.

She is the only pretty

girl in the village, but the

village does not know

that she is a pretty girl.

These people only see one thing:

she is not like the others.

They know what it's

like to have a beautiful,

fat, plump girl, a girl

with cheeks like apples,

whose buttocks we slap

to tell him that we find

it to his liking and that

we are a gallant man.

A, of course, they

know it, but they

don't know it's nice

not to be vulgar,

to have a nose like that

and hold your head up high.

They don't go so far as to say

it's a monster,

but most think so,

because it seems monstrous

to them to have such a

high forehead, such white

skin, such fine features,

a neck so thin

and so flexible, and

delicate hands,

so long, so slender.

-A tie, something that

matches my complexion.

She doesn't seem normal to them.

They say she has monkey

hands, they think

she's too skinny,

and believe she has tuberculosis.

The centenarian remembers

that his great-great-grandmother

had that same

little head no bigger

than a fist at the top

of a very long neck.

Eulalie, who had known her grandmother,

claims that she already looked

like her when she was still little.

The physical

singularities of this girl, to

believe them, had

to skip a generation,

as well as eczema,

arteriosclerosis and constipation.

-Do you have oilcloth notebooks?

Because they tell him you.

She is the only one in

Cantenac that no one knows.

They conclude that it is a minnow

who thinks he's come

out of Jupiter's thigh.

Can we have a coil like this?

Can we have a reel like this?

Yes.

And you?

- Give me a glass of mirabelle plum.

How do you say?

A glass of...

Oh sorry.

In place of mira belle, would

you by any chance have

shoelaces?

- I have one pair left.

- Oh, that's too much for half.

I only want one.

It's for the one-legged.

It is his birthday.

I'm saving you the other for his party.

- How much?

- 5 francs.

Keep it all.

Have you seen these colors?

Say, I'm talking to you.

Provided she gave me

the lace of the left foot.

Whether or not they

consider her a monster,

one fact is that

she is already 24

and no guy has

asked her to marry him.

It worries youth, without

awakening any other feeling,

at least it seems to him.

There are only certain

more very young married men

who recognize something

in him. They don't know what

but it makes them blush,

especially when

their wife is next to

her, and they can

make comparisons

that their half, much

wiser, usually repeals.

So, are you frozen in front of her?

That day, Blanche went too far.

She leaned over the

flat window of the counter

as if to say to him:

"Take care of yourself, if you

are ill with the bronchial tubes."

the other suddenly opened

the window, as if to say to him:

"So go fix your face yourself."

- Why did you fight?

- For nothing.

- Then tell me for whom?

- But for no one.

Can you swear to

me it's not for Paul?

He even refused my hand.

Look at them both leaving together.

If you hurt her, you'll

have to deal with me.

I hope you understood me.

- What's wrong with me, mom?

- I don't know.

-She didn't really know.

She wondered if it

wouldn't become a habit in

the country not to ask

for her daughter's hand.

No one asked her, but

as the years passed,

she imagines that she is

asked less and less of her.

What happened to you also

happened to your grandmother.

And who you look like exactly.

So she ended up

marrying just anybody.

I want to marry anyone, mom.

I went out for that.

I chose you...

- Anyone.

He's still a man.

Who is it, mom? He is old?

Nope. He is very young.

You want to see it?

I let him in there.

- Won't you tell me who it is?

- Nope.

I want you to be surprised.

Would you like to marry her?

-Oh no!

I'm stupid, but I'm not stupid.

Why do not you want?

Because she is too beautiful.

The idiot alone guessed

that she was ravishing.

By the way, why does

everyone think he's an idiot?

Because he has baroque

ideas and whims, as

those who are out of

the ordinary often have.

They call him stupid because he

has an ugly little dog on a leash.

And that he tells her stories,

which is not a

sign of foolishness.

They say he's stupid

because he sometimes laughs

for no reason, when he

deserves it all the more.

They say he's stupid

because every evening at dusk,

he goes alone to the

cemetery and leaves a daisy,

a poppy, sometimes even

an ear of wheat, on the

grave which is in the

center of the enclosure.

But since the

16th century, this is

where the lords

of this village rest.

Because if since 1793,

they no longer have a castle,

at least they kept the

habit of being buried there,

among these beloved countries.

- "Alain Pidoux, master glassmaker.

"The Sire de Cantenac, poet and captain.

"Jean-Francois, squire to King Henry IV."

And we have, in short, an

aspect of the village as it once was.

There, the castle remains,

surrounded by thatched cottages.

"Philippe de Cantenac, Bishop of Perpignan.

"Amedee de Cantenac, Marshal of France.

"Vivien de Cantenac,

member of the Institute."

Because if we destroyed

the cradle of this

noble family, we neglected

to ransack its tomb.

"Pierre de Cantenac,

"Ambassador of France."

So much so that not

being able to be born here,

Jean de Cantenac dead on the scaffold,

Antoine de Cantenac

died in exile, all the barons

of Cantenac were brought

there when they died.

The latest, Arthur de Cantenac,

was deposited there

on April 12, 1922.

He had committed suicide.

But are there still any Cantenacs left?

There is one more,

no more, and here it is.

Here is the last Baron de Cantenac.

He is a 70-year-old man

who is as poor on his own

as all the cottages in

his village put together.

If I compare them, it's

because he looks like Cantenac.

Wrapped in his greenish

cape, he looks like he is

covered in ivy, and under

his big exorbitant straw hat,

one would think he was wearing stubble.

What he loses in happiness and

youth, he regains in picturesqueness.

He lives in a pavilion in

the heart of an old farm,

itself located 10 leagues from Paris.

How does he live? In slow motion.

And like his village,

he is slowly dying.

Nothing prevents him

from giving life a tip

of the hat, which

his village cannot do.

He is perfectly free to

hasten this end which

sometimes seems to

him a little slow in coming.

Because is it living to

vegetate like this in this shack

and under conditions

which, though

exceptional, are no

less heartbreaking?

And to have so many chickens, to

have a gardener,

a flock of geese,

one must have some

fortune, it will be said.

Well, no.

Monsieur le Baron has returned.

- You think?

So let's hurry.

And here they are hurrying.

And to have this

perfectly stylish old butler,

and this pleasant

and considerate cook,

you have to have pensions.

No, again.

Because these people

whom he kept for 30 years

in his service have

now become his guests.

After making a fortune

with the baron, they

bought this farm

and took him in there.

They are not content to be

unpaid by him, they lodge him

free of charge in their homes,

feed him and serve him.

With as much love as respect.

They wouldn't

accept it otherwise.

They became peasants

for their pleasure,

but at mealtimes,

duty above all else,

they resume service

with their old master.

Thank you. Thank you.

He lives in this way, in

furniture that he intends to leave

them, surrounded by tables

which constitute his only possession.

Because the fortune of the baron

currently amounts

to 12,500 francs.

Not a penny less,

not a penny more.

And all in all, very quickly,

wouldn't it be better to end it?

What could he expect from life?

Nothing.

Fate? A miracle.

He no longer hoped for it.

Dramatic situation which

was to leave him cold.

He had sworn to cut

short his life abruptly

at a time when existence would

no longer seem livable to him.

That is why the event must

have left him doubly cold.

But the fatal hour had come that morning.

His will was soon made.

The little that

remained of its past

splendour, furniture,

objects and paintings,

he offered it to his servants.

M. de Cantenac

realized something

he had never thought of before:

he had been an absolutely

useless man all his life.

He had never done

anything with his ten fingers.

By not having played

any specific role

on earth, he would

have had bad grace

to attach importance

to its abolition.

And if he slowly hid his will,

it was not in the hope that

someone would come to

prevent him from k*lling himself,

no, no, but he didn't mind

being the impassive spectator.

He would have been sorry for

lacking in self-control at such a moment.

He reviewed his life, regretted

never having been to Florence,

for not having lived in

the eighteenth century and

for never having seen

Sarah Bernhardt in Phedre.

He had adored women,

but indiscriminately.

He congratulated himself

that he had never had any

illusions nor about the

feelings they showed him,

nor on those he felt for them.

Familiar now with the

idea of ​​disappearing,

he felt a kind of

bitter pleasure,

and as long as he

closed his eyes, he

saw very well that he

was no longer there.

He liked to imagine this now

respected chair, therefore vacant.

His objects, his pipe,

his razor, his comb,

his shaving brush,

have become relics.

He grouped them in thought

among the works of art.

Only the fate of his glasses

tormented him a little.

Not being able to see anything without

them, what would they see without him?

But everything else,

he was mourning.

His decision having been made

and the hour of his departure

fixed, what was this engraving

which held his attention?

And who also held his hand?

It was a beautiful drawing

from the eighteenth

century, one of

Hubert Robert's finest.

It was the Chateau de

Cantenac, with its little village.

An idea suddenly occurred

to him: to know Cantenac.

This old tree had some

impatience in its roots.

To have seen his village,

rush there head first before

going there soon feet first.

24 hours later, the

Baron de Cantenac

entered Cantenac

in a surprising crew.

This bulky old gentleman

dragged by such a small horse,

there was indeed enough

to surprise our villagers.

But their surprise was

matched only by his.

For if these did not come back,

this one, for his part,

could not believe his eyes.

If they found it all funny,

he found them very sad.

And if he made

some of them giggle,

he perceived things

that upset him.

And met looks that

would have made her cry,

if he hadn't turned his head away.

He had a completely

different idea of ​​his village.

And he was extremely affected by it.

So much so that, moreover,

he shortened the visit.

He wanted to go where

his fathers' castle once

stood, but not having

a taste for ugly things

and little fond of sinister

impressions, he turned back.

Why walk among old stones?

Why run after the

witnesses of a bygone past?

Since this castle is no more,

isn't it better to imagine

it, resplendent, haughty?

His thoughts led him to the

cemetery, where

miraculously spared,

this final abode was intact.

The peasants had

followed him. He didn't care.

With peace of mind, listing

all his ancestors, he became

more familiar with the

idea of ​​joining them soon.

While at Cantenac he was

putting his ideas in order,

his servants were cleaning

Fontenay from top to bottom.

Having collected

himself for a few minutes,

he retraced his steps

and went to the church.

-Oh my God!

Baron de Cantenac had

entered the holy place to ask

the parish priest to

record certain declarations

what he had to do with her.

Which were certainly

of the keenest interest,

but which he had to keep secret.

He didn't speak to anyone

else, then got

back into his cart.

He walked away, his heart

sorry to have come.

His little town...

He had said hello to her, he

was saying goodbye to her.

- Have you seen this old gentleman?

- I saw him.

So what?

If he'd told no one who he was,

everyone had an inkling of it.

Apart from the hundred in

air, who had not seen him,

everyone was convinced that

the baron had paid them a visit.

Some agreed that they

would not be surprised,

others that it would

not surprise them,

and in vain the mayor defended himself

against it, he defended himself badly.

And if it was the Baron de Cantenac?

The centenary, obstinate,

pretended there was no more Cantenac.

- What do you know about that?

- What do you mean?

If there was still one left, he would know.

What makes you say that?

The look he has. Yes perfectly.

I think he looks very great.

I agree with you.

Give me your hand.

- Why did you refuse?

- I didn't dare take it.

Why do you dare today?

Because I have a

feeling you won't pull it off.

Mom, it's a Cantenac.

Now I'm sure.

Word of it was spreading,

and now it was a certainty.

The centenary himself was shaken.

Some claimed they

would get their hands on it.

But how had they guessed it?

I don't know, but

when an adventure is

miraculous, it is

from beginning to end.

One of them had to know more,

and it was the priest.

The old gentleman

and he had had a talk.

Prosper was sure of it.

Therese, Onesime,

Isidore and himself

had seen them, with their

eyes seen, talking together.

And it wasn't the priest who was talking.

Well then, let's get it

over with. Blandina!

What had he said to her

that was so extraordinary

for the priest to sign himself.

The priest stammered but

didn't want to say anything.

What did Blandine want from

him, who was coming like this?

The centenary wanted

to see him immediately.

He was going to die? Not at all.

What he was waiting for was

more urgent than extreme unction.

They kept telling him that this

visitor was the Baron de Cantenac,

and that the priest knew it.

He wanted to know the end of it.

We were going to see how

he managed to confess a priest.

Did that old gentleman tell

you his name was Cantenac?

No. He didn't say it, but I have

every reason to believe him.

And for what reason?

He told me to say mass for

the dead for M. de Cantenac.

And how can he know that in advance?

I wonder that too.

It made me prick up my ears.

If he knows in advance that he is going

to die, he is going to commit suicide.

He didn't tell you anything else?

He told me he would arrive

here on Thursday to be buried.

This must be prevented at all costs.

Did he give you his address?

- Yes.

- Well, go ahead.

Ah... that's all.

Good.

And he orders Claire

to lend him his bicycle.

- Mine?

- Of course, his.

They have skirts, these people.

And let the priest bring

the baron back to him.

Because he has capital

revelations to make to him.

Only, attention:

motus to everyone.

And the priest swears it.

At least, he promises.

And off he went.

And all of them asked, "Where is he going?"

Where he's going? To hell.

Back home, finally, I understand myself,

Mr. de Cantenac didn't waste a second.

His decision to end his

life was strengthened

by the visit he had

just made to his village.

In 5 minutes, I'm yours.

Our holy man is hurrying.

He meets a gentleman who read it.

He is so unaccustomed to it

that he wonders if he knows it.

The priest of Cantenac.

Let him come in.

The priest transmitted

the centenarian's request

to him, and 10 minutes

later they were on the road.

Hey, I had done well

to remove the b*ll*ts.

Here he is!

- Sit down.

- Sit down.

Thank you.

Sit down.

And now, let's not waste a minute.

I recognized you right away.

You have strong blood,

you people, the Cantenacs.

No need to ask you for

your papers, you are family.

You are of two species.

You are tall and strong, with

a nose... a nose like you have,

or else you are

blessed with a very

small head mounted

on a stork's neck,

as we have a curious one...

- Specimen?

- Yes.

As we have a specimen with

the yarn of the haberdasher.

But finally, this...

I recognized you right

away, thanks to the portrait

my father had made of

your great-grandfather.

Did your father know my great-grandfather?

-Yes.

We are a hundred in aires in the

family from father to

son since Bouvines.

My grandfather was born

in 1698.

And he died at 103.

And he had my father at 70 years old.

We're not only centenarians,

in the family.

We also make love,

and without difficulty, even

when one is dilapidated.

Back to what interests us.

My father was born in 1768.

So he was 25 years old

when the Revolution broke out.

You know what happened. People...

Quite well-meaning, no doubt.

They came here, they burned the

castle, seized the

Baron de Cantenac,

who, sensing misfortune,

and he was right, since

misfortune has happened:

he ascended the

scaffold three days later.

So, the night

before, he sent for

my father, who was his servant,

and entrusted him with a treasure.

- "A treasure?"

- Saying these words:

"When the time is right, you

will give it to my son Antonin."

What did my father do?

- I don't know.

He buried the treasure. Hey, is that...

You had to be careful.

A few years later, calm having

returned, he sought out Antonin.

Oh, sorry, sorry! Baron Antoninus.

Excuse me.

He looked for Baron Antonin

but he did not find him.

He was exiled.

The fool.

Oh sorry!

I agree with you. And he died in America.

- You should never go into exile.

- Never.

But that one was your great-grandfather.

Who was your grandfather?

- Henri de Cantenac. Died in w*r.

- And your father?

Arthur de Cantenac.

He k*lled himself in Monaco.

Ruined at the game.

- Ouch, ouch, ouch!

But then tell me you don't have to

rolling in money.

- Nope.

- You're not poor after all?

-Yes.

So I arrive on time

with your treasure.

- You can tell.

How funny that you

are so poor being so rich.

Well, being so rich, maybe.

For the treasure is there

money, is it precious stones,

are these family heirlooms?

- Don't you know?

- I don't know at all.

I never wanted to know.

My father never knew either.

All I know is it's

bulky, it's heavy,

in a sort of trunk that big.

Are there pistols,

are there knives,

is it old scrap metal?

We will find out tonight.

Or rather tonight.

There is an old

abandoned house in the

village that for 50 years

I have been passing

for a haunted house so

that no one comes near it.

That's where I hid it.

So we'll both go

tonight at midnight.

I go there every 10 years.

I look, I feel,

and then I leave.

I always have the key on

me, hanging around my neck.

I even pass it on my back

when my nose bleeds.

That night, when

everyone was in bed,

when the last candle

was finally blown out,

and while midnight

struck from all the steeples

of France, the Baron de

Cantenac and our centenary

went to this haunted

house which jealously

concealed the treasure

of the barons of Cantenac.

The door was not closed.

She never was.

The old man knew that thieves,

prying and ghosts themselves

never enter houses

whose doors are open,

because thieves,

prying eyes and ghosts

are necessarily

fearful people, who

when they don't

have to force locks,

are afraid of encountering

other thieves, indiscreet people

and even ghosts in houses

that do not close properly.

It - the treasure - is in the attic.

It is hidden under old bags.

Here are the bags. Let's lift them.

Oh, curses!

The treasure is no longer there.

Its trace is there, on the floor.

Let's follow its trail.

They hear a snoring that

panics them and reassures them.

Do ghosts snore?

Monsieur le Baron, framed like this,

you look like one of your ancestors.

Hush, let's move on.

Let's go slowly.

That's where we snore.

The idiot!

The idiot sleeps soundly

over the treasure he guards.

I changed it.

Where he was, there were too many rats.

I don't like rats.

- What are you doing here?

- We make the ghost,

Both.

Why are you ghosting?

- To keep your treasure, of course!

- How do you know

what is a treasure?

- It can be guessed, these things.

In such a box, double-locked,

it would be unthinkable to keep

cow dung.

- How do you know

what is mine?

- Because you have, grandfather,

the small, laughing

and always sideways

eye of the man who

possesses a treasure.

And also because only you dared

to talk about the haunted house.

And finally, because I saw

you enter it one

night, like a thief,

and come out empty-handed.

Since then I've been watching

over him by sleeping on

it, wrapped in an old bed

sheet, ready to play the ghost

if anyone came.

- You are a brave little man.

Because I'm stupid.

You may be telling the truth

but you already know too

much not to know more.

- Do we open it in front of him?

- "We open it in front of him."

Besides, it's not bad

that we have a witness.

- The treasure is yours.

You have all the rights.

But there are only costumes.

Yes. Who constitute in the order a

real treasure embroidered with honor.

- How heavy is that one!

- Honors are heavy.

And this one, and that one...

-Oh, for example!

What is that?

It's the leather apron

of a master glassmaker.

- That of Alain Pidoux.

- Perfectly.

And that's all.

- But yet it was so heavy.

- There must be a false bottom.

Yes, maybe.

No, I do not see.

I've found it! Take your

hands off, you'll see.

GOLD COINS!

And how much!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

6, 7, 8, 9, 10,

11, 12, 13, 14, 15...

Now, this treasure having

been realised, the baron

noticed that he inherited

an unexpected fortune,

considerable certainly,

but all the same calculable.

That's millions, many

millions, but not billions.

So there was no splurging.

What was he going to do?

His decision was soon made: Cantenac.

This fortune came to him from

Cantenac, and it belonged to him by right.

Cantenac. He had no other idea.

Make it happy, yes, but

make it your own way.

Distribute the gold to

these unfortunates: the idea

had occurred to him, but

he had quickly dismissed it.

It would have been to make misers of them,

and that's not how

you make people happy.

It was then that he

conceived the phenomenal

project of bringing life

back to his little village,

to start from scratch,

to start all over again.

48 hours later, he

received a notorious

architect whom he

had brought from Paris.

He explained to him

what he expected of him.

From the following Thursday,

he was no longer the same.

His little Horse was

raised to his 20th

power, and to realize

his extravagant dream,

he went back to his little village.

But, passing through Thibervalle...

He stopped at a notary's.

Master Jadoux, notary?

Do you have land for

sale around Cantenac?

Are you chasing me?

Are you deaf?

Mute?

I'm a buyer. Yes, yes, yes.

Immediately.

Thank you.

Tell me, my dear master,

the formalities will be settled later.

Goodbye.

- Goodbye.

Having acquired a hundred

hectares, he went

there immediately.

He was welcomed there by

the parish priest, who asked

him to consider himself

at home in the presbytery.

Mr. de Cantenac immediately

accepted the priest's proposal.

The same day, after dinner, from

these plots of land

he had just acquired,

he made a fair division

among the villagers,

who couldn't believe

their ears or their eyes.

Eulalie, who assisted

him kindly, gave him

valuable information

about his fellow citizens.

Pointing out to him which were

the poorest or the most meritorious.

"4 children," she said.

Or: "weak bronchi."

the indication she

provides him on Fortune

encouraged the baron to

offer him a plan of a vineyard.

Fortune told himself that he

was not the only one to like wine.

Here!

The baron found that Paul

Pidoux did not lack distinction.

But his astonishment was even

greater when he saw

Virginie Lacassagne.

Who is this person?

She's the haberdasher's daughter.

Ah, it's the haberdasher's daughter.

The baron remembered that the

centenarian had spoken to him about it.

He had given her a faithful,

significant description

and moreover tendentious.

Definitely, the proverb speaks

true: birds of a feather flock together.

She was beautiful, she was young.

He was young, he was handsome.

And jealous too.

Baron de Cantenac

did not expect so much.

Would things go wrong? No.

Because over this treasure

the idiot watched too.

You wouldn't have a field

of daisies by any chance?

And the distribution continued,

their faces lighting

up with a childish

smile which charmed the baron.

But that was still nothing.

The men no longer wandered

idle through the streets of the village.

Their tools, scythes,

rakes, shovels, pickaxes,

spades, they carried with

pride on their shoulders.

From dawn, they

worked in the fields, and in

the evening, they had

what gives a job done:

clear conscience.

Sidonie herself had pretended

to make herself useful.

She was dragging this cow

she was talking to like a big dog.

"Do you want to come

here right away? Come on!"

Fortune, the inveterate

alcoholic, claimed

that in future he

would only drink milk.

The intention was not bad,

and it should be encouraged,

but having lost the

habit of walking straight,

he had a tendency to

bump into things everywhere.

Lady, you don't

improve overnight,

everything has to be measured.

The mayor had understood this well.

He was beginning to

water down his red wine.

N, A, P...

These great men already,

he added them to the others.

WE...

Then, resolutely, he

gave them all a hug.

The children couldn't believe it.

They would see many more.

The lord of the village was

preparing a huge surprise for them all.

On the spot where

the castle of his fathers

once stood, he built an

unexpected residence,

on which he based

the greatest hopes.

Conforming to the

beautiful drawing of Hubert

Robert and according to

the baron's instructions,

the architect had

ex*cuted the model.

"That pleases you?"

"Yes, I like it very much.

"I didn't want it to

be old or modern.

"It doesn't have to be new or old.

“I want it to be very

simple and very beautiful.

"That is to say, it

has to be very French.

"I wish a mansion would be built

"like a phrase from

Voltaire or Anatole France."

But of that he must not

breathe a word to anyone.

"Hey, over there!

I see you three!"

No one was allowed to scale these walls.

The villagers became

familiar with the joy of living.

These were reconciled.

This one proposed to marry Eulalie,

if she promised never to run it.

When evening came, they sang.

-If I had to list all

the kisses she gave

I could well count 100,000.

And more

And more

And that's precisely

why I love it

-LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA...

Others were dancing.

What are you doing all alone?

I don't have a dancer.

-Oh good!

I go down.

They were both burning to dance.

Both means together.

But it was up to the one

who wouldn't invite the other.

Marivaux, Marivaux,

here are a lot of your tricks.

He thought her skirt

was lovely, but he

remembered that

of this Romanichelle.

He wished it had

been a little longer.

She, she wished

him a less dirty suit.

Miracle of love, her

skirt was getting longer.

Miracle of love,

his suit was clean.

Miracle of love, her

skirt went to the floor.

Let's embrace

The rumba that begins

Indicate to lovers

Its rhythm and cadence

Let's embrace

Let's be at his mercy

Let's respect its pace

and commit like this

A foolish recklessness

Dance, dance, dance with me

Without knowing if my

heart is faithful or mocking

disloyal or sincere

Hold, hold, hold me tight

And you'll know tomorrow

if you're just a canary

And if I'm mean

Sing, sing, sing with me

And if you betray

me I don't care today

Tomorrow I leave you

Don't, don't, don't give your heart

The rumba that ends

Indicates to lovers

That's the end of the dream

Let's open our eyes

wide and say thank you

To have us like this

Makes commit in cadence

A foolish recklessness

Dance, dance, dance, dance

Dance, dance...

Two hours later, tired of dancing,

they were drinking near the

pond, which was not a good idea.

Unless you like mosquitoes,

you have to stay away from ponds.

Oh, the camels!

And Fortune, whose

return to drinking was

celebrated, claimed

that, against mosquitoes,

there was no other

system than his.

To get rid of a mosquito,

you must not waste

a moment, not make a

gesture, not say a word.

So, hold on, Prosper...

-Hurry up!

He will never have it, his mosquito.

While his... Offering him his

arm and looking like nothing...

it waits for it to arise.

One, two... He got it.

But now the haberdasher

sees one on her cheek.

Perfect.

Oh no, thank you.

Isidore prefers his mosquito.

As for Gustave, see, he is already stung.

- No, not like this.

- He caresses me. Leave us.

Very well.

- There! Perfect!

- Nope! We argue.

Well, excuse me.

Oh, here's a beautiful one!

Oh, and then this one.

Because, under the

pretext of mosquitoes, they

took the opportunity

to settle old quarrels.

All quarrel being settled, good

humor reigned

henceforth in the village.

They were only thinking of having fun.

They thought only of working.

Anxious to embellish herself, this

one was beginning to eat up her fund.

And most had bought bicycles.

What are you doing with these flowers?

We just found out

that this gypsy, the one

who predicted we were

going to be happy...

She stands on the road to Thibervalle.

We bring them to him

as a token of gratitude.

We will share them there.

She'd like that better than stones.

Well, did it make him happy?

No more than that?

She told us that it was

not worth thanking her.

Yet she predicted happiness for us.

But she admitted to us

that for 10 years, she had

been predicting the same

thing in all the villages.

She'd made fun of us.

Want to see something

extraordinary? Look.

To the great astonishment of

all, the mayor was seen who,

having walked for a long

time in front of the church,

finally get in there.

For some, this behavior

seemed abnormal.

Wasn't he going to attack

his unfortunate brother?

Didn't he have to

tell the baron about it?

The mayor looked in vain for

his brother in the deserted church.

Where was he hiding?

He wasn't hiding, he

was in the confessional.

Someone was going to confession,

whose feet the mayor saw.

So he waited.

If asked what, he would

have said, "My turn."

Does it seem disturbing to you

that the mayor entered the church?

So go see what's going on,

and if necessary, I'll intervene.

The person who was

confessing left the confessional.

It was Eulalia.

She went to confession every

morning at the priest's request,

because he had lost the habit.

She accused herself

of 5 or 6 imaginary sins,

and the holy man

could get his hands dirty.

I am listening to you, my child.

I am not your child,

I am your brother.

- It's you?

- You can see it.

- No, I don't.

But I hear it's you.

Has anyone seen you?

- Me, I'm not ashamed.

Would you come to confession?

- Not exactly.

I would like you to forgive me

and we kissed. - forgive you,

I can do it like we're here, but

we're kissing, it's not so easy.

Let's go out

together.

THEY KISS, MR. BARON!

THEY'RE KISSING!

So life is beautiful.

And what for a long time

the baron wanted to do,

he did that day.

He had seen Virginie many

times but had never spoken to her.

Miss, I read it to you.

I bow to you.

Would you please welcome me

a moment? - Sure.

Mademoiselle, I wanted to

see you, and see you up close.

- "Up close?"

- Yes.

To better realize... My God!

Absolutely striking resemblance

between my grandmother's

mother and you, miss.

My ancestors loved

their villagers very much.

And please don't

be surprised or upset

by a resemblance

that calls into question

Madame your great-great-grandmother.

I am all the less upset

than our villagers of old

loved their lords very much,

and especially their lords.

Don't listen.

He's charming.

- He's not a liar.

- Why?

You're charming.

A year later, the architect

came to the presbytery.

Monsieur le Baron, it's all over.

I kept my word.

I haven't been there

yet, I kept my word.

And they both went

there, model in hand.

"I look at her well, I am impressed by her,

"and I will be his pity

if your model lied."

But the model was sincere, and

the miracle exceeded his hopes.

Admirable.

Moving.

Wonderful.

I made you both ask,

not so that you would

have the first of the

surprise for my village,

but to ask you to please help me

to put some order in these windows.

Would you like?

These are the costumes, the uniforms

of those who were my ancestors.

Here's the habit of Pierre de

Cantenac, Ambassador of France.

Here's the cassock of

Monseigneur de Cantenac.

And that?

This is the leather apron

of a master glassmaker

who lived in the 16th

century, Alain Pidoux.

- Wasn't he a nobleman?

- He became one later.

Do you know what a true noble is?

A man who ends up

bearing the name of his

village, so much he has

value, courage or pride.

Now this master glassmaker

was from Cantenac.

One day there he became "de Cantenac."

There is no greater honor than

to bear the name of one's village.

He was the founder of our dynasty,

and soon, very soon, we

will have the opportunity

to honor his memory.

Can I afford to entrust them to you?

Miss?

Sir?

Nothing.

Young man?

- Sir?

Nothing.

And now let's sit down.

Miss, the day you

appeared to me,

my first thought

was to recognize you,

since in truth I recognized you.

But on reflection, I

prefer to adopt him.

I don't care if you're a Lacassagne.

If I make him Baron de Cantenac,

you become a baroness

by marrying my son.

Needless to say, this is

the happiest day of my life.

The village of Monsieur

le Baron has arrived.

Let him enter.

My dear fellow citizens, I

have two words to say to you.

Having received this unexpected

treasure from the hands of our

centenary, I made the best

use of it by building this house.

But today,

I am broke.

Yes, ruined. But...

But it might well be

let us get rich.

There is only one way to

get rich with dignity: work.

The founder of my family

was a master glassmaker.

Here is his leather apron.

This apron,

I take it back. Yes.

I'm taking this apron back.

Because to be

sumptuous, the place

where we are is

no less a workshop.

Starting from scratch, master

glassmaker, I become again.

The 32 glasses that are on this

table were made that very night.

But we are

33 drinkers.

The missing glass is mine.

I don't want anyone

other than me to do it.

And I want to hope that in 80 years,

to those who will visit this village,

you will say - I am

speaking to young children -

that it is a craftsman who, to

everyone's happiness, solved the problem.

You say in...?

80 years old!

"80 years old?"

You heard it.

If in 80 years, people

will have to be told that it

was a craftsman who, to

our luck, solved the problem,

don't worry.

I'll tell them myself.

THE END