Camille Page #3

- Where are my marrons glacs?

- I ate them, madame, six months ago.

What a pity.

However, I'm glad of this opportunity

of returning something belonging to you.

- Yes?

- I found it on the floor when I came back.

- And you kept it with you all this time?

- Yes.

- Always with you?

- Always with me, like an old friend...

...to remind me that I'm not

the Baron de Varville.

That's not a very romantic reason.

No, I kept it as a warning

against romance.

How sensible.

Has it made you very cynical?

- Yes, very.

- Is that why you've never called on me?

- Perhaps.

- I'm sorry. One needs friends.

Well, I've been looking for you.

Monsieur, you can see for yourself,

she's quite well again.

Oh, no, Nanine.

Well, or would be

if she took proper care of herself.

Why would my health interest

Monsieur Duval?

Because he came every day

when you were ill...

...to ask how you were

and to leave flowers.

He's the one?

Tell her yourself.

He just said "a friend," so I thought...

- All right, Nanine. Wait for me downstairs.

- Yes, madame. Monsieur.

- You might have asked to have seen me.

- Well, I knew there were so many others.

There were no others.

None during all those weeks

the doctors thought I might die.

Not even the Baron de Varville?

Baron de Varville chose

to be in England at the time.

No, you were the only one

that took the trouble to ring my bell.

- But now...

- Now I'm well again, and all goes merrily.

Would you come to a party I'm giving

tomorrow night? It's my birthday.

Aren't you afraid

you're not strong enough yet?

Oh, I'm afraid of nothing

except being bored.

- It's supper after the theater.

- Thank you, I'll come with pleasure.

And bring this book as a present.

Have you read it?

- I never read anything. What is it?

- Manon Lescaut.

- Who was she?

- A beautiful girl...

...who lived for love and pleasure.

It's a beautiful color.

It should be a very good story.

Yes, it is, but it's rather sad.

She dies in the end.

Well, then I'll keep it, but I won't read it.

I don't like sad thoughts.

However, we all die.

So perhaps this will be sold again

someday at an auction after my death.

- I thought you didn't like sad thoughts.

- I don't. But they come sometimes.

- Au revoir, Monsieur Duval.

- Goodbye.

Marguerite, my child, are we waiting

for someone, my dear?

- Or are we just waiting for supper?

- Both.

I was so afraid you wouldn't come.

- Here's the book I brought you.

- Thank you.

We were just about to sit down.

- Will you come?

- Oh, I remember you, young man.

- You're the bogus baron.

- Tactful as always, Prudence.

- You may all sit where you wish.

- Thank you so much.

Now, I'm going to sit next to Gaston,

and you sit over here.

Thank you.

Oh, Marguerite,

how charming this table looks.

- And how are you this evening, madame?

- Very well, and how are you, monsieur?

Good gracious, listen to them.

Why so formal?

Why not? This is a very elegant soiree.

Well, elegant or not,

if I'm going to enjoy my supper...

...I've got to take off these tight shoes.

Help me, Gaston.

Can't you manage to hold it

a little higher?

There.

- What are those little fellas on that dish?

- Partridges, madame.

- Put some on my plate.

- Some? How many do you think you'll get?

Partridges are not oysters, you know.

Well, they don't look

much bigger than oysters.

- What's the joke?

- The funniest story I've ever heard...

...in my life. I shall die!

- Tell me, tell me.

- Get closer.

- Tell me.

- Oh, no, tell me.

Well, no fair. Tell us all.

Tell me the story, Gaston.

I know what's coming, but you go on.

I want a laugh too. Tell me the story.

I'll tell you. You've probably heard

it before. It's as old as Prudence.

- What's that about my being old?

- I said the story was as old as you are.

I'm 36.

Drink your wine, Armand.

He's as sad as a drinking song.

What's the matter? Are you shocked?

No, certainly not.

Only, I know all Gaston's jokes.

In fact, I told him most of them.

I'd sooner they weren't repeated

at your table.

Oh, come, come.

You must remember, I'm not a colonel's

daughter just out of the convent.

Bravo! Bravo!

I do this better than anybody.

Nobody can do it as well as I can.

- Slower, Charles, you're going too fast.

- You're getting tired.

If you don't stop playing,

Olympe will drop dead.

She can't keep that up forever,

she's not so young.

Faster, I'm just getting into the mood.

You'll drop, dear.

Well, go ahead and drop. I don't care.

- Sit beside me, dear.

- I'm not tired.

I appreciate you. I love you.

I love you.

Now, don't go away. I adore you.

- Play a waltz, Charles.

- I don't want to. I want to play a polka.

Very well, play a polka.

Dance with me, Gaston.

Dance, everybody.

Oh, it's you.

What's happened? You look ill too.

No, it's...

It's seeing you like this, suffering.

It's nothing.

- It lasts only a minute.

- You're killing yourself.

If I am, you are the only one

who objects.

Now, Armand, why don't you go back

and dance with one of those pretty girls.

Come. I'll go with you.

What a child you are.

Your hand's so hot.

Is that why you put tears on it,

to cool it?

I know I don't mean anything to you.

I don't count.

But someone ought to look after you.

And I could if you'd let me.

Too much wine

has made you sentimental.

It wasn't wine that made me come every

day for months to find out how you were.

No, that couldn't have been wine.

- So you'd really like to take care of me?

- Yes.

- All day, every day?

- All day, every day. Why not?

Why should you care

for a woman like me?

I'm always nervous or sick

or sad or too gay.

But I do care for you.

You know what you should do?

You should get married.

Come, come.

You're young and sensitive.

The sort of company you're in tonight

doesn't suit you at all.

- Nor you.

- Nonsense.

These are the only friends I have,

and I'm no better than they are.

However, I've given you

some very good advice.

Now, let's go back.

What on earth am I going

to do with you?

No one has ever loved you

as I love you.

That may be true,

but what can I do about it?

You should go away

and not see me anymore.

But don't go in anger.

Why don't you laugh at yourself a little

as I laugh at myself...

...and come and talk to me

once in a while in a friendly way.

That's too much. And not enough.

Don't you believe in love, Marguerite?

I don't think I know what it is.

- Oh, thank you.

- For what?

For never having been in love.

How funny you are.

That's right, laugh at me.

Perhaps your laughter will cure me.

Nothing else seems to.

I believe you're sincere, at least.

After all, when one may not have

long to live...

...why shouldn't one have fancies?

You see, I'm not laughing anymore.

Take this and come back to me

when it dies.

- How soon will that be?

- Tomorrow night.

Look...

...it's dead already. Now.

- That's impossible.

- It's not. Send those people away.

- I can't.

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