The Princess of Montpensier Page #3

I am cured.

You mustn't have suffered much.

I suffered enough.

Before the Prince?

The Prince was the cure.

We were still almost children.

He was the handsomest boy around me.

He frightened me at first,

because he always fought for honour,

and perhaps for amusement.

These fights scarred his face.

He looked like Henri de Guise...

But it wasn't him.

It wasn't him.

I learned in the convent

never to confide in anyone.

I'm moved by your trust.

Where do we stand

in this endless war?

Battles, truce,

hostilities resumed...

Do you think it will last long?

I hope not.

Between ending and enduring,

I no longer know what I hope.

Your horse!

We took Cond's banner.

The rest fled.

Good news, cousin.

Have you any other?

Of home?

News of my cousin, your wife,

Marie?

Is the thought of sin

already a sin?

Not without desire, no.

Or it's highly venial.

And the thought with desire?

I'm not a confessor.

I'll ask him.

My confessor.

I'll ask him.

You don't only charm

my kitchen staff.

The chilblains, Madame.

Come, come.

There's no harm in a smile

here and there.

Are you still cross with me?

Cross? Why?

In fact, I'm pleased

by your sudden show of interest.

So I've ruffled you.

Please forgive me, Count.

I meant no harm.

They're only words.

Not only your words,

but your silence, too,

showed legitimate indifference.

The space required

between pupil and master.

What is your reproach, then?

No reproach.

I only reproach myself.

All this daily happiness

has blinded me.

I should have fled.

I thought age had released me

from the grip of passion.

- Are you saying...

- Yes, Madame. I love you.

You quickly forget

your own teachings.

Isn't the world's equilibrium

assured by small stars

which keep their place

in the celestial hierarchy?

Your words are forgotten.

They must have been due

to the fatigue of reading and study.

We won't discuss it again.

Do you hear the lark?

Not a lark.

An oriole.

You say oriole to scold me

for not learning the poem.

I found it meaningless.

- You don't like poetry?

- I do,

but not the singsong of the lines:

"Fluttering,

chanting, regretting..."

Bing, bing, bing!

What you call "singsong"

is rhyme, Madame.

The rhyming lines are verse.

I don't like verse.

Hence poetry.

I do.

Sometimes I do.

When I sense music or feelings.

What you call feeling

is a mere tweet of a flute.

Real feeling

has altogether more gravity,

more depth.

What's more,

in its presence,

you don't recognise it.

A lark!

It's a lark!

Herbal teas,

ointments,

elixirs and salves!

For the ladies,

cloth, ribbons, lace and silks!

But also,

beauty powders, rouge,

ointments...

- Necklaces...

- Cedar!

News! Give us the news!

Yes, news!

News, of course.

But news has a price:

Too much!

Pitch in together.

With one who can read!

Here.

To give you a foretaste,

some free news...

The son of a local bailiff

eviscerated himself

jumping out a lady's window

when her husband caught her,

arms spread...

and legs, too!

The war!

Yes, the war!

Bad times for that Huguenot hogwash

spouted by Admiral Coligny

who was run out of Grzaucourt

by our Duke of Anjou.

One hero of the day

is Duke Henri de Guise,

time and again seen

in the heat of battle.

"...time and again seen

in the heat of battle."

Your erstwhile feelings don't seem

as extinct as you claimed.

They've changed, Count!

I feel joy on hearing the merits

of a man whose exploits justify

the inclination I once had for him.

You must portion it out.

- Me?

- You.

It's your seigniorial duty.

I know nothing about what I must do.

My duties, life...

This war, for instance,

I don't know what it's about.

Religious matters, of course,

deeply felt.

- The trade in indulgences...

- Yes, I know.

The Saints, the Virgin, the Pope...

Everything the heretics reject.

But what is "real presence," really?

What does it really mean?

That the holy wafer

contains the body of Christ.

And the wine in the challis

is His blood.

St. John Chrysostom, Golden Mouth,

expressed it simply:

That which is in the cup is the same

as what flowed from Christ's wounds.

But it's a question of belief,

not understanding.

Yes, but...

It's an article of faith.

But faith?

Ah, faith!

St. Paul defines it perfectly

in Hebrews:

"Faith gives substance to our hopes

"and makes us certain of realities

we cannot see."

The same could be said about love.

For you, sir.

It's the Prince, your husband.

He wants me by his side.

You'll leave tomorrow.

Now. An escort awaits me

at Vieux-Sec.

You must write.

Give news.

With you gone,

what could interest him?

You!

Everything about you.

Your health, your reading...

How you spend your days,

what you eat...

The stars you gaze at...

- He'll gaze at the same ones.

- He doesn't know them.

The stars.

I know them.

I'll show them to him.

Write.

Where?

And how?

Ask the bailiff for messengers.

The Prince will be

with the Duke of Anjou.

They always know where the Duke is.

I acted in haste.

But I have no one

who can read and write.

And the captains don't care for me.

You won't fight.

She'll waste away from boredom

without you.

I should have left you with her.

Yes, I should have.

Anjou's tent.

He commands in the absence

of his brother the King.

Perhaps you should go in alone.

No, come.

Anjou is a man who understands.

Bread is called shleb.

Shleb.

Good.

Butter is maslo.

Maslo.

The word for herring is sledz.

So herring is what stank

when you came in?

In Poland, my lord,

even at the King's table,

they serve sledz, herring.

Sledz.

Prince! Can you pronounce that?

Sledz.

I have little talent for languages.

Place your tongue here.

Sledz.

That's better, isn't it?

Perfect! They pronounce no better

on the banks of the Vistula.

You took your time.

I always miss my friends.

Enough Polish for today.

My brother and mother wish me

to wear the Polish crown.

The King of Poland lags behind

all the other kings of Europe.

How dreadful to ingest daily

three helpings of Polish

in the hope of eating herring

on a kinglet's throne.

And they were still plotting

my marriage to Elizabeth,

English, Protestant, bald

and 20 years my senior.

I believe our birthright

comes at too high a price.

Well, cousin?

The Huguenots request a truce.

Your valour has brought them

to their knees.

You have your share in this victory.

A great share.

Not congratulating our cousin Guise?

I do each time we meet.

We are victors,

you are praised,

and yet you seem defeated.

Yes, I have wept, my lord.

My best captain lies dying.

I can do nothing to help.

I'm going back.

I just came to bring the good news.

He weeps and admits it.

I didn't think him capable

of such emotion.

Why, Prince, you did not come alone.

This is my master and friend.

I spoke to you of him.

Introduce yourself.

Franois, Count of Chabannes.

Chabannes!

Who suddenly comes over to our side

from our enemy?

How is one to believe

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