A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT
Saturday the 6th of January, 1917,
five condemned soldiers were escorted to Bouchavesnes
at the Front in the Somme.
Watch out for the wire!
The first, once cheerful and adventurous,
wore the tag number 2124. He was drafted from the Seine area.
On his feet were boots, taken from a dead German.
Before becoming 2124, he was known as Bastoche
and was hooked on a pretty redhead,
a certain Véronique Passavant.
He was a carpenter.
Taking a break from his woodwork, they'd go for a beer
at Little Louis' bar, in Golden Hand St.
He'd taken his boots from an enemy who no longer needed them.
Stuffed with straw or newspaper,
they replaced his old clodhoppers.
He was court-martialed for self-mutilation.
Gunpowder had been found on his wounded hand.
He faced the death sentence.
Watch out for the wire!
The second soldier was tag number 4077,
also from near the Seine.
He was a welder for the State Railways, in Bagneux.
His name was Francis Gaignard,
nicknamed Six-Sous.
He knew the poor build the canons of their own destruction,
but it's the rich who sell them.
He tried to explain it to the troops,
but he wasn't a good speaker.
And cheap wine, poverty's best friend,
deadened the soldiers' eyes,
making it difficult to get through to them.
Number 1818 was surely the bravest and the toughest of them all.
He had once killed a fellow officer...
an officer who kicked the dead.
Get up!
You swines!
You lazy cowards!
You! Get up!
Attack! Attack!
You! Get going!
No one ever found out.
Benoît Notre Dame was a farmer from Dordogne.
One August morning,
they came to get him at his farm
and sent him off on a train.
Watch out for the wire!
The telephone wire is the only link to the land of the living.
A flimsy wire, their only chance for President Poincaré's pardon.
Even if the only one to still believe in it
is him. Number 7328, recruited in Corsica.
Angel Bassignano.
According to all who'd known him,
he was no angel at all.
He was a liar, a cheat, a show-off,
a sneak and a troublemaker.
Before all this,
Tina Lombardi worked as his whore.
He'd received a 5-year sentence for an affair of either love or honour,
depending on who he was talking to.
It was, in fact, a conflict between village pimps.
Summer 1916, common-law criminals were enlisted
to beef up regiments melted in the fires at Verdun.
They gave him the choice.
It's been shitting shells round here!
No, it's been rather quiet.
Who are those for?
Well, actually... you'll be attacking tomorrow.
We're getting a head start.
Watch out for the wire!
The fifth was a "Cornflower", the nickname for the class of '17.
He was five months shy of 20.
These days, everything scared him.
French canons short-firing,
the wind that heralded the mustard gas attacks,
executions to set an example.
He hadn't been like that before,
quite the opposite,
braving storms as he helped lighthouse keepers.
And then came one shell too many.
There you go... The winning ticket back to your fiancée.
The ticket for a court-martial.
Turn a blind eye, Sarge. He's been through enough.
They could execute him.
- Be human for once. - Shut up!
Please, Sarge!
Shut up!
The first time Mathilde and Manech made love,
he fell asleep, his hand on her breast.
Each time his wound throbs,
Manech feels Mathilde's heart in his palm.
Each beat brings her closer to him.
If Manech were dead, Mathilde would know.
Since the death notice,
she stubbornly holds on to her intuition, like to a flimsy wire.
She never gets discouraged.
And Mathilde is of a cheerful disposition.
If that wire doesn't lead her to her lover, never mind...
she can always use it as a noose.
In June 1920, Mathilde received a letter from a nun.
A patient at the Rennes hospital wants to see her.
He'd met Manech in January '17 at the Front in the Somme.
August 1912.
Handsome, wasn't I?
It's a De Dion,
with direct drive.
Please, tell me about Manech.
In January '17,
I escorted five condemned soldiers.
He was one of them...
Yes.
I was to take them to a front-line trench.
Gendarmes were waiting with the prisoners
near a bombed-out cemetery.
What are you doing with those German boots?
Waiting.
What for?
Poincaré's pardon? You'll wait!
He'll sign it!
I shouldn't even have been condemned.
I'm Corsican, not French!
Leave him be.
He's lost it, but that's for the best.
Finished, Lieutenant?
The cold has saved that one.
Gangrene would've got him in summer.
And Manech?
Was he in pain?
They had to cut off two fingers,
but he wasn't suffering anymore.
I led them to a trench,
called "Bingo Crépuscule".
Bloody hell!
Couldn't you have lost them on your way?
A kick in the ass to get rid of them!
My orders are to bring you these five.
And I'll tell you my orders!
I'm to throw these guys over the top
and leave them to die like dogs
between our line and the Jerries'!
Those are my damned orders, Sergeant!
You see, Sergeant, with the Jerries,
It's a little too calm? Let's start the fireworks
and watch all hell let loose!
Soup, guys! You're lucky, it's still warm.
Beetroot and fennel.
What can I get for you?
A large hot chocolate and some bread with honey.
I'd kill my parents to get you that!
Do you mind, Lieutenant?
He's an orphan!
He'll get it. Célestin Poux is the "Mess Hall Marauder",
the "Kitchen Raider".
Fifteen minutes later, he came back with it all.
Salted Guérande butter,
lavender honey,
and...
cocoa from Nigeria!
Grand...
Tell me, Cornflower,
you've no one to write to? A fiancée?
Mathilde.
Her name is Mathilde.
I hear her heart beating, like Morse code.
We're engaged.
Luckily, we won't have to wait till the end of the war.
Now I can go straight home after the execution.
Should I spare you the rest?
I'm lame, not dim.
What happened?
We opened the barbed wire
and equipped the five against the cold.
Célestin Poux gave up a red woolen glove to protect your fiancé's hand.
Are they far?
Too far for grenades, too near for artillery.
Gas is out of the question. The gasser always gets it!
Think they'll make it?
If they're not blown to bits, they'll starve and freeze.
Either way, it'll amuse the Jerries.
A Corporal gave Bastoche, the carpenter, a hug.
It was Corporal Gordes.
They clearly knew each other before the war.
And then,
over they went.
- Shit... - Shut up.
- Shit! - Shut up!
September '14.
150 pound weight, easy!
And I wasn't at my best!
But that morning,
in January '17, was Manech still alive?
At dawn, Favart called out their names.
Apart from the Dordogne farmer, they all replied.
Bassignano!
Sir!
Bouquet!
What now?
Langonnet!
Yeah, still here!
The Cornflower, hide yourself better.
Notre Dame!
That's all I know.
I wrote up my report with a heavy heart.
About time, Esperanza! The Brits are replacing us, we're off.
So, Bingo-thingy?
What's that?
The condemned prisoners' list, signed by Capt. Favourier.
Give it to me.
Don't just stand there like that. This isn't Pompeii!
You've been promoted. You're off to the Vosges.
Even so, Sir,
this expedition is going to be hard to swallow.
Lucky you.
Where you're going, there's mustard gas and throat lozenges.
The famous Vosges sweets.
Dismissed!
A few months later, I was wounded, in the Somme.
I ended up in the same ambulance as Chardolot,
a corporal from Bingo Crépuscule.
But he only had a few days left to live.
It's me. Esperanza.
Bingo Crépuscule, remember?
Sorry, I don't recognize you.
The five thrown over into no-man's-land,
what happened to them?
What do you think?
No one made it.
Your conscience bothering you, Esperanza?
You should've stuck around.
You'd have seen capital Ms,
underwear being waved and a flying albatross.
You're delirious with fever!
We sent over five men and recovered five stiffs.
Conclusion...
My eyes are gone but I can imagine your expression and I like it.
He really spoke of capital Ms and an albatross?
And underwear.
Here you go, Miss.
In here
are the prisoners' belongings I was to return to their families.
My health's prevented it.
That's the letter the Dordogne farmer, Notre Dame,
wrote to his wife.
I sent the original just after Bingo.
You're here because of the mustard gas?
Not even. Damned Spanish flu!
Death moves in mysterious ways.
If you can't cry, try talking.
If you can't talk, say nothing.
But sometimes, talking can bring on the tears.
Tears say what you can't say,
if you get my drift?
Otherwise, you can just keep that sour-face!
Little Louis, tell Véro I'm thinking of her.
Shame she won't talk to me.
Saw Biscuit, we patched things up.
Adieu, my friend. Bastoche.
"Benoît Notre Dame, number 1818. I won't be writing for a long time. "
Tell old Bernay I want to settle up by March.
His manure's too costly, watch out for him.
Tell my Baptistin that I so love
that he'll be fine if he listens to his dear mother.
She's the kindest person I know. Love you. Benoît.
"For Tina Lombardi, from Angel Bassignano. "
If Chickpea comes in before dinner's called, Manech is alive.
I'm not hungry.
Dinner's ready.
Mathilde, dinner!
Coming!
Mathilde was born the 1 st of January, 1900.
It's easy for calculating her age.
In 1903, her parents died in the n° 44 bus accident.
Since then,
Mathilde often says to herself,
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust... "
Her uncle and aunt,
Sylvain and Bénédicte, have raised her,
with her parents' life insurance invested by Pierre-Marie Rouvière.
When she was five, Mathilde came down with polio.
She was bedridden for months,
despite mustard compresses...
pendulums
and four-leaf clover infusions.
Today, Mathilde is twenty.
She plays the tuba.
It is the only instrument capable of imitating a distress call.
Chickpea, the dog, farts in his sleep.
When she hears it, Bénédicte never fails to say,
Doggie fart, gladdens my heart.
Mathilde needs daily treatment.
Since the Armistice, Georges Cornu, a swimming champion,
massages her.
She used to get embarrassed, but she got over it.
Mathilde sometimes imagines that Georges admires her,
tormented with desire.
What's more, he once said,
You do have a fine figure, Miss.
And I've kneaded quite a few.
After that, how should she call him?
Dear Georges...
My dear Georges...
Jojo...
Sometimes, before falling asleep,
she imagines herself in arousing situations.
Mathilde doesn't need to fantasize for very long
before reaching fulfilment.
Since his disappearance,
she can't bear to think about her fiancé as she satisfies herself.
That's the way it is...
If I were you, Mathilde, I'd forget him.
Why chase pipe dreams?
If he was alive, you'd have heard from him.
He was taken prisoner.
And stayed with a German girl with braids and big boobs!
A Breton boy eating sauerkraut!
Impossible!
- Can I help? - Keep your feet on the ground.
I stand on my own two feet!
- What? - Never mind.
I heard you anyway.
But your dreams don't stand up.
Manech can't have been taken at Bingo.
Our men took the trench facing it.
Normally, it's the winners
who take prisoners.
So he's lost his mind.
Or he's in hiding, to avoid hard labour.
Stop dreaming, Mathilde!
Face up to it.
You'll find a husband, despite...
Something's off-key.
I'll find the "Mess Hall Marauder", Célestin Poux.
What can I get for you?
Or the Corsican's whore. She might know more than me.
Tomorrow, I go to Paris.
What for?
To find a survivor from Bingo Crépuscule.
Germain Pire, Private Detective The Peerless Pry
I'm used to handling red-hot affairs.
I've a cupboard full.
Scandals that would've been brushed under the carpet...
brought to light by Pire's prying.
Take this big affair...
very delicate.
In '17, a train derails. 425 soldiers on leave, dead.
The enquiry reveals how an officer ordered the departure,
despite faulty brakes.
A total cover-up by Poincaré's government.
The victims' families only hope of finding the officer?
Germain Pire!
The Peerless Pry.
Peerless, Miss. I found their officer,
to the military's great displeasure.
Granted, he was dead and buried.
I'll just pack my bags and be on my way to track down Poux Célestin
and the Corsican's fiancée.
And your fees, Mr. Peerless Pry?
The Pry only bleeds dry sitting ducks, Miss.
For you, I can do...
20 francs a day.
Plus expenses, of course.
Why so kind?
Hélène, come and say hello.
Don't worry about expenses. Germain Pire eats little,
doesn't drink and tips sparingly.
Notre Dame de Paris?
Not Notre Dame de Paris!
I'm calling from Paris about Notre Dame Benoît!
Benoît Notre Dame!
A strapping, good-hearted farmer.
Died for his country.
I've lost many a parishioner.
Are his wife and Baptistin still there?
Quiet! Miss Minet, I can't hear a thing!
No. She upped and left one day, with no forwarding address.
Is that a choir I hear?
Of course, it's a choir! We are in a church, Miss!
But that's no hymn at your end!
Thank you, Father. Goodbye.
Bingo Crépuscule!
I can't make head nor tail of it!
I thought you liked defending lost causes.
Your impertinence was charming at 10, not at 20!
Then start taking me seriously.
You're wasting your money on a grotesque crusade!
Bingo Crépuscule! Why not Yippee doodle-doo?
I want access to army archives.
Let's say there's an ounce of truth in this.
If one man has survived, he risks hard labour!
And you know it!
Your prying would put him in great danger!
Be reasonable.
Your parents entrusted me...
"Ashes to ashes... "
That's just it.
They entrusted you with my happiness.
Goodbye.
Thank you, Pierre-Marie.
Don't be like that, my dear Mathilde.
I'm thinking of your future.
Sorry to see your health's worsened, despite the massages.
I'll see what I can do.
It doesn't only happen in Lourdes!
I'm looking for Tina Lombardi. I knew her when she was little...
Ladies, I'm Tina Lombardi's uncle
and I'd like to know...
Excuse me...
I look after the Lombardi family's interests
and I'm looking for Tina.
She's come into some money.
You're the one looking for Tina Lombardi?
Well, actually...
Ever been to Corsica?
Very pretty, very picturesque.
But Tina's walking the street
somewhere else.
Luckily, a highly-placed member of the Police
picked up her trail in Bar-Le-Duc.
Valentina Emilia Maria Lombardi, aka Tina,
was registered in 1916
near the 23rd regiment's camp of Marseilles.
Since the Armistice, the chick has flown the coop!
I've lost her trail, but I've been busy.
She's disappeared into thin air.
So, you're giving up.
Not at all.
Pire never admits defeat. Pire is stubborn.
Pire's peer doesn't exist.
Perfect! Thank you.
Just a little bit.
Not my eyes.
Careful with that!
What can I get you?
This is my fiancé.
And him,
the carpenter...
I think you know him.
My throat's dry.
- "Good glass of wine... " - "Keeps the doctor in line. "
My great-aunt's motto.
Died in 1911 in Besançon, she was 99.
Never sick a day...
Good luck.
Touch wood.
The war?
A hyena in the Botanical Gardens.
I was showing off, stroking it.
Bastoche and Biscuit made this.
Biscuit?
His best friend. They met in 1910
during the floods, saving a lady's life.
Bastoche was talented
but Biscuit... a genius.
A magician with a chisel!
He pegged all the articulations.
This is for you.
"Louis, tell Véro I'm thinking of her.
"Shame she won't talk to me.
"Saw Biscuit, we patched things up.
"Adieu, my friend. Bastoche. "
To patch things up means they'd argued. You know why?
A mystery.
They went through hell together,
the Marne, the Woëvre, the Somme...
Then one day, and who knows why, they stopped talking.
Biscuit was transferred.
He died in a military hospital bombing.
I'm glad they finally patched things up.
They won't be queuing up outside, today.
Pour me one?
She's thirsty!
A wooden hand, a heart of gold.
To love.
True love!
But who was Véro?
Véronique Passavant. His regular, his woman.
They often came in together.
Why would they have argued?
He may have strayed and she wouldn't forgive him.
There you go. '17, this way.
What exactly are the red files?
Secret defence.
You need a mandate from someone high up.
Of course, they're upstairs!
Go and help him.
Let's say you were someone high up...
then you could give us the mandate.
If I thought like that, I wouldn't be an officer.
Consider yourself lucky you've been allowed in.
It usually takes months.
It looks tidy but it's really a mess.
So, the Somme...
The Bouchavesnes sector, trench 108.
What a state...
Look at this. Appalling!
May I help?
Thank you for replying favourably to the General...
We're very good friends.
Bouchavesnes... two friends of mine died there.
Dreadful, the battles in that trench...
Paris wasn't much better.
Couldn't even find a taxi after the opera.
So I heard!
We'd like information on trench 108.
Posting slips, trenches 104, 105.
Trench 107. Where's 106?
Trench 108.
How annoying, it's written on both sides!
Trench 108.
"Dug by the Germans, taken by us in 1916 and renamed
"Bingo Crépuscule. " Why not Yippee doodle-doo?
"January 6th, nothing to report.
"The 7th, heavy combat with losses.
"Killed in action: Capt. Favourier, history teacher.
"Lt Benoît Estrangin, insurance agent.
"Corporal... "
Strange.
Certain losses are filed confidential.
Confidential? You mean...
Sorry.
Can't you...
Sorry, we can't look any further.
Not even the General.
Please.
Thank you for the time you've taken.
You're welcome.
Nothing here of interest. Posting slips, commissary bills.
The routine.
I assumed as much.
It was to be expected.
You've gone too far!
I do hope this paper wasn't filed secret defence!
You must tell me if it's important.
It's nothing.
Just a leave.
From the President?
That's right.
President Poincaré sometimes granted a leave
to a deserving soldier.
End of story!
I'll see you out.
Corporal Bouquet Kléber...
Corporal Gaignard Francis...
Private Notre Dame Benoît...
Private Bassignano Angel...
Private Langonnet Manech...
For self-mutilation, you are sentenced to death.
Lf, before the count of 7, the train hasn't entered the tunnel,
or the ticket inspector hasn't come,
Manech is dead!
1, 2, 3,
4, 5, 6...
Ticket, please!
April fool!
When the newspaper strike is over, we can place your ad.
"Reward for information concerning Bingo Crépuscule. "
Encouraging her won't bring back her appetite.
Take her to the Quimper Fair.
What for?
A change of scenery.
You might meet a nice boy.
What for?
To get married and have children. Tell her!
Can you pour me one?
You drink now?
"Glass of wine keeps the doctor in line. "
Where's that from?
Dead-Hand barman with a wooden hand.
His aunt's motto. Died at a hundred, in Besançon, 1911.
Repeat that?
In Besançon, in 1911,
a 99 year-old lady left behind a wooden-handed nephew,
owner of the Dead-Hand bar, in Golden Hand St,
to whom she often said what Sylvain just asked me.
She's already drunk!
Look!
An albatross is stubborn.
He knows he can outlast the wind.
Hey, my gravel!
My gravel!
Véronique Passavant, 17th of July, 1920.
I'm writing from Little Louis' bar. He told me about you.
I must tell you about an encounter
which left me quite shaken up.
I headed for Bastoche's workshop. I was feeling down.
I want to talk to Bastoche.
Bastoche?
He died. At the Front in the Somme. Didn't you know?
I know something else.
What?
From the hospital, where I care for dying syphilitics,
a patient sends you this.
If you don't want to die, covered with oozing sores, answer me!
The comrade hiding with your Bastoche...
Tell me...
tell me he's Corsican.
I was already traumatized by nuns when I was little!
Tina Lombardi knows something we don't.
What?
The Lombardi girl...
she knows something we don't.
That would prove Bastoche had escaped.
With another condemned prisoner.
That hussy obviously thinks it's her Angel.
But if Bastoche had escaped, he'd have looked out for Manech.
If he escaped...
Give me that.
With "ifs", a flea could carry an elephant.
Maybe.
But without "ifs", might as well hang myself.
Thanks to you, I spend my time picking gravel out of the lawn!
When I see gravel, I make it a point of arriving in style.
For the Miss.
Leprince Hardware, Paris, 25th of July, 1920.
Sunday lends itself to writing. I'm replying regarding
Célestin Poux and other survivors from Bingo Crépuscule.
I knew the fellow. The smartest thief I ever met.
Thanks to him, I never went without!
Olivier Nergeton, Animated Toys.
Célestin Poux was our salvation,
aka the Mess Hall Marauder or Justa Bit More.
He falsified losses,
making up numbers to give double rations.
If you should see him, tell him we'll never forget him.
Etienne Morillon, teacher, 3rd of August, 1920.
He always had us laughing.
He had even trained the company's mascot for us!
Good morning. What weather!
Germain Pire, private detective.
Mathilde has spoken of you.
Sylvain!
Tell Mathilde to come down.
That Mr. Pry is here to see her.
Poux's been hopping around.
Two days in Dreux, then Troyes, Castre,
five days in Sète.
It'll take luck and patience to land him.
Too bad.
Hélène, some savoury biscuits.
Taste them.
Tell me what you think.
The kitchen's more comfortable.
Thank you, Bénédicte.
I'll leave you.
Poux can't stay in one place, whereas Tina Lombardi...
she's got us running in circles.
I know. And she's the queen of disguise.
Anything new on Biscuit?
That's Benjamin Gordes.
The day he won
the Carpentry Prize for the sixth consecutive year.
That's right.
Biscuit,
Bastoche's best friend,
is none other than Benjamin Gordes.
A soldier from their company
said they were like brothers before it went sour.
- Why won't you tell me? - Stop it!
Tell me!
I don't want to fight you, so stop it!
Why won't you talk?
Whose idea was it?
Mine? No, it was your idea!
Bastard!
It was his idea!
All because of a woman!
Véronique Passavant finished with Bastoche in June '16.
And just after, he fought like a mad dog with Benjamin Gordes.
Don't need to be Pythagoras!
They didn't meet again before Bingo Crépuscule?
Where it all ended!
No, where it all begins, Mr. Pire.
Where it all begins...
Tina Lombardi is sure Bastoche is alive.
What made him different from the others that evening?
He was the only carpenter?
Something made Bastoche different from the others.
His German boots!
He was the only one with German boots!
Of course. You're right!
Tina Lombardi's discovered that a man with German boots survived!
I bet he was seen with a comrade!
I saw two soldiers who looked like tramps.
One wore boots taken from a Jerry.
He was holding up the other.
We also know Bastoche had patched things up with his best friend!
Exactly!
Did it change the course of events that night?
If I don't break the peel,
Gordes managed to save Bastoche and Manech.
I'm never going to get that pie in the oven!
I must go back to Paris.
Again? That money's going up in smoke.
"Ashes to ashes... "
Pilot fish!
Excuse me, Elodie Gordes?
Over there, selling carrots.
Thank you.
Never seen him!
Which one don't you know?
Him, by any chance?
Why did Bastoche and Biscuit argue? Was it over you?
I have nothing to say!
- I want to know! - Leave me alone!
They last met at Bingo Crépuscule.
My fiancé was also there. With Bastoche.
In that shithole of a trench!
I want to understand.
I want to understand!
It's not what you think.
I can't talk about it. Give me your address.
My spelling's terrible
but I'll explain it all in a letter.
I promise.
Go ahead! My gravel!
Nothing for me?
What?
Nothing for me?
Just the newspaper.
They talk about everything except Elodie Gordes.
Very funny!
You should read it, one can learn things!
Has the President opened an inquest on Bingo Crépuscule?
He might have done,
if he hadn't fallen from a train in his pyjamas.
Well, he wears pyjamas!
He wears pyjamas!
We recovered five stiffs.
Conclusion...
We knew you were a thief. But a pyromaniac?
All for me?
No. Just this one.
If I'm not picking up gravel, I'm picking up the postman!
The gravel's gone? A fair fight.
Fighting is never fair.
- Can I offer you a short one? - Won't say no.
Miss, I beg you to keep my secret to yourself.
When I met my husband, he already had four children.
None were his.
Out of kindness, he'd married a widow with TB.
She was Polish, like me.
He adopted her children before her death.
I was also an unmarried mother.
He then found himself the father of five,
though he couldn't have any of his own.
You're going to run me over!
We had four years of tenderness.
We had plans.
We dreamt of seeing the sea together.
Then the war came.
I thought Bastoche would take care of him,
their being posted together.
But during his leave, in September, 1915,
just after the battle of Artois,
I knew nothing would ever be the same.
Over there, it's all we have to keep going.
Once, in a burning field, I saw some comrades...
Their cartridge belts exploded like fireworks.
Once, we even had to use the body of a friend
as a shield.
There had been something on his mind.
He came out with it on the second night.
If I desert, the gendarmes will come and get me.
My only way out is to have a sixth child.
If you have six children, they send you home.
As I said, he couldn't have children.
I didn't dare think what was on his mind,
but he just wouldn't let it go.
It's not betrayal if I'm asking you.
Especially if it's with Bastoche.
Don't touch!
The five aren't mine, so why not a sixth?
You'd have nine months to wait. The war will be over by then.
It will never be over. Never!
They'd be nine months of hope. Have you no heart?
And then one day, I found a note from Kléber Bouquet,
known as Bastoche,
saying to tie a coloured cloth at the window if he wasn't to come up.
Coffee?
I'd love some!
- After you. - Please.
Thank you.
Sugar?
No, thank you.
It's mother of pearl?
Yes, Benjamin made it.
- It's odd... - How strange we never met.
The children aren't here?
Yes, but...
they're playing outside.
- A pick-me-up? - Please.
No, no... Sorry.
I don't fancy one.
Neither do I.
Elodie, we'll say we've done it.
It'll calm him down.
It will make things easier for you, for me...
for everybody.
Funny how your smile opens the parentheses.
I'll close them as late as possible...
In two days, at the train station.
Come on...
give me one last smile.
To close the parentheses.
I didn't even get pregnant!
But soon, fear no longer tormented my husband.
It was jealousy.
"Where? When? Often? Which positions?"
"Did you enjoy it?" It became a living hell for both of us.
Now, Bastoche is dead, as you know,
and my husband was killed in a hospital bombing.
It's a relief to confide in you. At times, I think I'm going mad.
Elodie Gordes.
Matti! Hurry up.
Mr. Rouvière is on the phone. He's waiting.
Come on!