What time did you come home yesterday evening?
Why were the blinds pulled?
Where did you go on your last holiday?
Do you like eggs?
Can you swim?
Do you know a man named Boris?
How many shoes do you have?
When was your first communion?
What are you? An actress?
Dancer? Model?
Call girl? Cover girl?
Script girl?
Someone came.
Someone else was here.
Someone came.
Nora's dead.
I'm alone on the beach.
The sea breaks at my feet.
Someone else came.
Do you recognise this object?
You don't recognize this object?
No, damn it!
It was found in your room.
Maybe it was Nora's.
They found your fingerprints on it.
No other traces?
Only from the other cop who searched the apartment after the murder.
Did he take much?
I'm talking about this.
The murder weapon?
Apparently not. You know that.
So what's it to you?
But, it could have been the murder weapon.
It's a bit of glass, a toy like children play with.
So, you're still claiming that a man, about whom you know nothing,
but who seemed to be following you for weeks,
suddenly entered your house.
How did he enter?
With his key.
He had a key?
A copy, of course.
- How did he get it? - He had it made.
We always kept ours under the doormat, when we were not together.
Nora and I only had one.
One day he took it
and had a duplicate made at the locksmith on the corner.
How do you know?
I don't know. I'm only guessing.
Or he said he had lost his key...
and had the locksmith work on the door one afternoon
when we were both out.
- Or maybe - - That's enough.
Your in no position to guess.
You asked me to cooperate.
Perhaps he took our key and left us the duplicate.
Once we noticed it didn't have the same band.
If this man exists, he didn't use a key.
The inspector found the lock forced.
The killer came from outside.
Certainly not. It could have been you who forced the lock,
as a part of setting the scene.
Please continue with your version.
With or without a key, this man entered your home
and he calmly tied your friend to her bed, so he could kill her at his ease.
I'm the one who tied her.
I told you. We were playing.
She was the model for a painting.
It's true, there was no easel in the room,
nor an unfinished or blank canvas.
I wanted to take a photo and then work alone in oils.
There were brushes and paintings. The inspector must have seen them?
Only red paint?
Yes, red, why not?
When all was set up, the killer arrived
and put a knife in Nora's breast ?
- Scissors. - Yes, yours.
With only your fingerprints on them.
Of course – because they are mine.
He wore gloves... black gloves.
Why would he do that?
He was undoubtedly insane, driven to crime because the brothels had been closed.
Perhaps he, too, wanted to play?
Isn't that what they call a 'transfer'?
And you just sat and watched?
Who are you trying to fool?
Going to rape me to make me confess?
Leave me alone, you dirty man.
That's a classic trick. It won't help you at all.
He tried to kiss you?
Rape me, you mean?
And no doubt kill me after by stabbing me in the belly and between my thighs.
All men are maniacs.
They say you're guilty of murder.
Ah, not guilty. Accused. That's different, almost the opposite!
Come in.
They say you stabbed a beautiful girl right in the heart.
Was she your friend? Did you love her?
I don't know. I suppose she loved me.
That means nothing.
She had long hair,
red lips and green eyes.
They're lying! I didn't kill her.
I only thought it'd make a pretty corpse.
Perhaps you'll want to kill me too?
You're not pretty enough. And your robe hides you too much.
You like strangling? Or what?
Listen, I don't need to strangle, or anything. I have a magic power.
I only need to utter a certain phrase, to condemn to death.
I've known it for some time now.
It was at the seaside with our French teacher.
All the other girls were foolish over her.
I wanted to be alone with her.
She was fickle and would confide in anyone, it didn't matter who.
One day we all went for a walk on the cliffs.
It was too high, and the edge was unstable, steep, dangerous.
The path was too close to the edge.
Now, love is going to slip.
Are you mad?
Her heart stopped.
You have blood on your lips.
I tried to revive her. Mouth-to-mouth.
She didn't drown?
She could have lost her breath in the fall.
What are you up to, with that thing?
As you can see, listening to music.
This might be a murder weapon.
Your tales are absurd.
So let it drop, if you'll pardon the expression.
Theme of broken glass.
Talk to doctor about it.
I cut myself.
I had better suck it.
Will you suck it? If not, I might die.
Now it's you who'll die.
Perhaps you ate some glass.
There was a woman's shoe
under the glass display dome in your room.
What exactly is it?
A shoe fetish. We dipped it in the holy water of Notre-Dame.
It's for hustling.
When we're broke, Nora does a little whoring.
Me too, sometimes. But it's more dangerous when you're a minor.
We find it very entertaining, like an adventure or a party.
The blue shoe is a talisman against bad luck,
police, cranks, VD, and trouble in general.
Stand up.
Spread your legs.
Bend, idiot.
Arch your back.
Dirty whore.
Maybe dressed like that you'll pick up a sadist who'll want you to -
Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.
You're a prostitute too?
Yes, like everybody nowadays.
And you like it?
It's pleasant enough...
and excites the mind, if you understand.
You mustn't be a slave to it.
I understand.
It's better to ask for a lot of money
and do things that are more unusual and dirty.
I'm ready.
We're going to torture this whore...
but rape her first.
We had a wild time that day,
How did she bleed?
A fake African fakir taught me a trick.
I'll show you one day.
You're a monster.
Here's lawyer David.
What?
- Who are you? - I'm your lawyer.
You look like Nora.
I doubt it. Stop playing games, little one.
Likeness, repetitions, substitutions, pretence. Enough.
Your case is bad enough as it is.
What do I think? They don't guillotine little girls.
Shut up, idiot.
You know perfectly well you're innocent, but you try to prove the contrary.
Why doesn't the judge come anymore? He was nice.
He fell ill.
Yes. It's because of me. He's going to die.
He ate glass and drank my blood.
Listen. It's useless to play games with me.
I'm here to help you get out.
Your spoiled brat imagination is a waste of time on me.
Just tell me about Nora and your connection with her.
Our exact connection...
Connections, police connections...
sexual connections... domestic connections...
inverted connections...
Nora was a bitch.
She scared me. She was always punishing me.
I had to kneel and eat my soup on the floor,
nude, my hands tied behind me.
When she was broke, she made me sleep with men.
Depraved men, like all men are.
Sometimes she'd watch and caress herself.
Days when I couldn't...
because I was bleeding...
she'd tie me on the bed and whip me with a dog whip.
She'd scare me by playing dead.
You're a beached ship, an open shell,
a sticky bitch, a crushed frog.
You'll go to hell.
You'll be burned alive, disembowelled, impaled,
buried alive.
Fish slipping through the overly-thick algae...
caught in the iron bars of the sheetless bed,
reddened on the spearhead that rips the silk beneath the skin
when the sea is receding...
with dead algae in the evening,
a black border edged in white foam.
Without moving the other hand nor looking to the sea...
in the sand it drowns the violent wind
and the pale, slow, cold knife slips into the flesh.
The body pauses in a last sigh.
I am the sole cause. Death passes.
Blackbird.
Black beauty, weary seagull.
Of course, that's nice and cheap.
There. It's over.
It doesn't hurt anymore. Don't cry.
It'll be all right now.
I'll paint you that way, as St. Agatha.
- Why St. Agatha? - She was the prettiest.
She was martyred on her wedding day.
They tore her white gown
and tore off her breasts with red-hot tongs.
She's always painted that way.
What do you do in bed at night?
I say my prayers.
Afterwards, all alone in your bed?
You caress yourself?
Maybe you do it wrong?
I'll teach you.
I read an article by a doctor
who gave advice for both singles and couples...
with scientific words:
vulva, algolagnia,
cunnilingus.
That's really disgusting.
What have you done?
Sister, you'll be punished.
Here's your lawyer, daughter of a demon.
The Sisters look upset. What's wrong?
It's their problem.
You know how nuns are. They have odd private relations.
Really? What sort?
Sado-masochist.
You should change your hairstyle. Would you like me to do it?
Stop playing. This is serious.
What is serious? That I'll be guillotined?
Will it hurt?
Listen. You must help me.
What's the story with the shovel?
What story with the shovel?
Don't start acting like an idiot.
The one found in your cupboard.
The investigators are curious
because you couldn't explain its presence.
It's odd to have a shovel in a city apartment.
So come on, tell me why.
To kill the killer.
Explain yourself.
The man who spied on us, and stalked us, had a duplicate key
so we wanted to defend ourselves.
Where did you find the shovel?
In the basement.
A shovel was in the basement?
Must have been. How do I know?
I'm trying to help.
So you refuse to leave here when it could be so easy?
Oh yes, I want to get out.
You've no idea what goes on here.
Everything seems normal. The cells are very clean.
So are the nuns and the prisoners too,
but for the least error, we're taken below by a secret staircase
to the underground dungeon.
And there - it's horrible.
It's medieval.
Come on. Calm down. I'm here.
You've had a bad dream.
Hello, my child.
You're not as I expected.
- You have heard about me? - Of course.
I'm the shepherd of all lost lambs.
I'm interested in every new member of this flock.
Sister Julie says you want to confess a crime -
That is my client. I'm only her lawyer.
Ah. I see. I'll begin again.
To confess a crime that mankind doesn't punish enough:
invention.
Are you hurt?
No. Why?
It's not blood. It's red paint,
A splash of our young artist's work.
I see.
You have reassured me – a little.
I'm going now.
That's a hard chore, what you're doing down there.
Oh no, it's good exercise.
I wanted to ask you something.
I heard that...
is there corporal punishment if you do something wrong?
Punishment?
Don't worry, my dear. I'm a lawyer.
I heard of subterranean dungeons, chains, whips... even worse.
No. I've never seen such things.
Pity. It sounds like fun.
You think so? For whom?
I don't really know. For the spectators.
Are you hurt?
No, it's nothing.
I must have been scratched by a button, or bitten by a mosquito.
I didn't notice.
- You're a lawyer?
Is there anything I can do for you?
No, it's not that. But you don't look like one.
How so?
A lawyer is like a judge?
Yes, you could say that.
Or perhaps completely the opposite.
This lawyer appeared to me to be very strange.
The devil's advocate perhaps.
- You chose her? - No. She was appointed.
Ah, not a holy appointment, certainly.
Beware of these people.
Beware of this place.
Why, Father?
Accusation is just a prologue to crime.
Imprisonment breeds vice.
Religious prisons are also, alas, schools of sin.
Is it of vice, Father, that you wish to speak?
I'm not your father.
I'm pastor of the Non-United Church.
This place is hell.
Don't act holier-than-thou.
I saw your game with that Devil-branded creature.
But Father, I don't understand. Where's the evil?
Evil is there...
and there...
It's true, Father. There is one Sister who often touches me there.
I thought it was by accident.
What are you saying, poor child? Tell me the details.
As many as possible, for your salvation.
I've seen acts I don't understand.
Is that what you mean?
Acts between whom?
Nuns and prisoners, mostly the pretty ones.
Tell me. Quickly!
Describe it all,
or the God of Anger will burn you alive over a slow fire.
Father, I dare not.
Speak, you whore!
So I told him what he wanted to hear.
And it was to do that, that you requested paint and brushes?
Yes, Sister. Isn't it pretty?
Perhaps you don't like modern art?
Get dressed immediately. And wash your body,
if that's possible.
But Sister, how can I wash my soul in such a small pail?
All the perfumes of Arabia couldn't purify -
Don't touch me. Slimy, shameless, criminal!
One only needs to look at you to know that you're an assassin.
I don't understand.
Jesus was innocent
but condemned because he had a talent for irritating people.
I'll tell my lawyer what you said.
Tell her. Do you know where she is right now?
And what she's doing?
Come. Follow me.
That's an order.
Look, Sister, it's St. Veronica's cloth.
Now.
I shall have revenge.
Caress me.
- Here?
Better than this, idiot.
Last night I dreamt of the pastor. He was celebrating my marriage.
But when I knelt to pray, he caressed me under my dress.
His hand groped through the lace and up my thighs to my genitals.
I knew he was sexually obsessed.
He won't last much longer.
Now, he'll commit suicide.
All who approach you are insane, liars, perverts.
But it's all in your little mind.
While on the subject, how's your girlfriend?
You have too much imagination.
I don't know what you think you saw.
Sister Julia was with me. She saw too.
I saw only you, in a nightgown, like a sleepwalker.
Talking of Sister Julia, you pretend she hates you,
so she'd say anything to hurt you. - Who talks of hurting me?
That's not within your power. And you can stop being so familiar too.
The re-enactment is tomorrow.
Try not to act foolish for once.
I'll take you to your apartment.
The police will meet us there.
The judge too, but probably not the same one.
Probably not the same one.
Listen.
Father, listen to the blood pounding to escape.
Hear the flow of pleasure no love can purify.
Have you seen a young girl's blood streaming on her flesh like fire?
Touch my breasts and hips.
My body's a sweet, violent sea slowly flowing
away and beyond me.
Father, you must exorcise me.
Leave me, devils.
I'm already sick and old now.
Exorcise me. Rip my dress.
Claw my delicate skin.
Crush my flesh in your hands and arms.
Leave me.
Leave me in my tomb.
Punish me, Father, if you still are able.
Once you'd have burned me as a witch
after pricking my body with needles to find the Devil's mark,
hidden always in the most secret spot.
You would have thrilled at my cries and gasps.
It's too late.
Leave me, demon.
Libertarian!
Offence.
Structure.
Disorder.
Relapse.
Evidence.
Re-enactment.
Pleasure.
Recidivism.
Permutation.
Relapse. Disorder!
Toad.
Rape.
Parricide.
Division.
Inversion.
Bitch.
Games.
Sperm.
Sloth.
Whore.
One pair of shoes...
two pairs...
three pairs...
Theme of broken glass.
Blood.
The sea breaks on the beach.
So, what do we do?
We wait a little.
Wait for what?
Well, for the prosecutors, the police superintendent,
all the people who have to be here for the re-enactment.
Who will play the murderer?
I don't know. A policeman probably.
Maybe that fellow who's on guard at the door.
And who'll play Nora?
They surely have someone.
When is it supposed to start?
It's supposed to be right now, but they are always late.
We're always waiting for someone, or something.
What are you doing?
Well, the re-enactment.
Aren't they going to arrive any minute now?
In my opinion, if they are all here in an hour, we'll be lucky.
I'm thirsty.
Do you want some?
It's amazing how much you look like her.
You are insane.
Here, put this on.
Damn.
Above all, do not scream.
It's going to stop and they won't know anything.
I think I'm going to -
You have no more blood.
You're going to die.
You're beautiful.
There. It's over.
The re-enactment won't take place.
Your innocence is finally proved.
We found the murderous voyeur, and he made a full confession.
Are you injured?
Then everything will start all over again.