Papet.
Papet, it's me: Ugolin.
It's Ugolin.
It's me.
It's you, Galinette. You're back.
I'll come down.
No. Just throw me the key.
I'll be right down.
What a surprise.
- You're out of the army. - At last.
- Come in and eat something. - Not now.
I was boozing all night.
Come back for supper.
OK. I'll see you later.
No. That's enough.
She's asking if you want more.
Thanks.
When I die, you'll live here.
The Soubeyran farm will be yours.
Meanwhile you must fix up your place on the hill.
Later you can rent it to a farmer
or leave it to your kids.
- For that I'd need a wife. - Why not?
Lots of girls around here
would love to marry a Soubeyran.
There's Chabert's daughter. I bet if you tried...
I haven't god a mule: I use yours.
I've got no hens or goats: They're too much trouble.
I don't wear socks: They itch.
So what do I want a wife for?
What about love?
Whenever I'm in Aubagne
I step into the Bird Cage.
For 15 francs a month, I can choose any girl I like.
That's enough for me.
You don't want to wind up a bachelor like me.
I want to see your kids before I die.
Why didn't you ever get married?
I have to make some money before I take on a wife.
Do you have any plans?
Maybe.
I have an idea for you.
I've figured it all out
the plans and what it'll cost.
What is it?
Restoring the Soubeyran orchard
the whole Solitaire Plateau, Like it was in my father's day:
200 fig trees, 200 plum trees
200 almond trees
1,000 trees in all
in rows, ten yards apart
as beautiful as a church.
All the farmers passing by will cross themselves.
We already have so much excess fruit
we often feed it to the pigs.
I have another idea.
You're my only kin, boy.
I'll help you if I can.
Tell me. What have you got in mind?
It's a secret.
Is that you, Papet?
You can't go on like this.
You live like a caveman.
I haven't seen you in a fortnight. This house is a pigsty.
Look at this place. It stinks to high heaven.
What do you do all day?
Tell me.
Just calm down. I want to show you something.
Is this your big secret?
Fooling around with flowers?
What do you say?
Very nice.
They're Imperials.
Good stems.
What's your offer?
Well, if this was February
I might give you
50 cents
but the season's almost over
so let's say
20 cents.
All right?
All right.
You were right about the flowers, boy
but why the big secret?
I wanted to see if the soil was right first.
I knew you'd understand when you saw them.
It's not the flowers I can understand
but what the florist paid.
- What will a real set-up cost? - 15,000.
- You've got it. - You're too generous.
Not really. It's not just for you
but for all Soubeyrans, including those to come.
If her nose was her ass, she'd drop dead.
So would we.
There's one problem.
What's that?
- The water. - What water?
Carnations need a lot of water.
My hands are raw from hauling up the water bucket.
We can install a cistern.
If we water 500 plants, it'll be empty in 4 days.
That's a real problem.
We could dig a big reservoir
that would store all the rainwater.
What if it doesn't rain?
We need to find a field near a natural water source.
How about buying Bouffigue's field and spring
up at Romarins?
Is that spring still alive? My father told me it had dried up.
It's blocked up with rubble.
Years ago a nice stream flowed from it.
Old man Camoins grew loads of vegetables there.
I'll bet we could unblock it with a pickaxe.
Do you think he'd sell his farm?
Not the house
but maybe the field and spring.
He never uses them. Maybe if we offer him money...
How are you, Marius?
None of your damn business.
Don't be nasty. Are you mad at me?
Neither mad nor glad. I've got no use for you.
You may feel that way but I don't. Here I am, to see you.
You're here because you want something from me.
Right, but I want to give you something too.
I don't need anything
not even to talk: It gets on my nerves.
Just hear me out, Marius.
If you'll sell me your property: not the house
just the field and the hill
I'll pay you well.
What a nerve! Do you think I'd sell my property?
Look at these thousand-franc bills.
Go to hell. God damn you Soubeyran rats.
Don't yell like that or you'll choke
and don't insult the Soubeyrans or I'll get really mad.
He's just kidding.
Shut up, you halfwit punk.
I'll show you what I think of the Soubeyrans
lousy bastards, pigs, lying crooks...
Come down here.
- Let's hope he's not dead. - Why?
Falling from a tree can kill a man.
So much for my carnations.
Too bad. It was a perfect spot.
But if he croaks his heirs will sell the farm.
We could buy it for peanuts.
- Let's finish him off. - No. Someone might have seen us.
Do you see, boy?
Never lose faith in miracles.
Why not shave him in his bed?
I never shave anyone lying down, not even a corpse.
Where are those two going?
It's over here.
See?
The spring was by the fig tree. Don't look back.
Old man Camoins dug a trench
that went down to the end of the field there.
That way the water just ran downhill.
Got it?
Look at my foot.
See how soggy the ground is?
The water's blocked but it'd be easy to release it.
That fool let it all go to waste.
Wait a minute.
When we were hunting once, before he went nuts, he said:
My gun is my only friend. I want it buried with me.
A dead man's wishes are sacred.
Do you know if it's loaded?
I didn't look. You can't tell with a hammerless.
I bet it's loaded with buckshot.
He kept it loaded on account of the wild boars.
It could be dangerous.
It's got a hair trigger. A jolt could set it off.
- Maybe he set the safety catch? - Not him.
- So you're the heir. - No. We were only distant cousins.
But you'll get something.
No. It'll all go to his sister, Florette.
Is she still alive?
Why not? She's younger than you.
But I heard her husband died.
Who's this Florette?
Florette de Berengère, old Camoins' daughter
the pretty one.
Your uncle knew her well. Isn't that so, César?
Where is she?
In Crespin. She married Lionel, the blacksmith there.
Did you go to her wedding?
No. I was in a military hospital in Africa.
I came back too late.
I'll write to tell her her brother's dead.
If she's alive she'll claim the estate.
Yes, she's the heiress.
Some inheritance.
I don't think so. The house is still in good shape.
- It has plenty of olive trees. - They're rotting away.
They just need a tickle with a pickaxe.
Sure. That way they'll die laughing.
It never rains on that land.
You hear a storm coming close
but at the ridge the clouds split in two
and it rains on the other side.
The valley side just gets a few drops.
Maybe so
but it so happens there's a spring on Bouffigue's land.
- There was a tiny spring. - No, it was a big one.
My pa showed it to me when I was a little kid.
It was a really big stream.
You were either a baby or it had just rained...
When I saw it 30 years ago it was as thin as my finger.
Do you think a spring like that can dry up?
Springs are like pretty girls.
Neglect them and they leave you high and dry.
I saw a fig tree there last year.
So there's water there.
- There was water. - But there are new shoots.
Just look after your bar. What do you know about springs?
I say this one's dry.
I say those trees are dead and that soil's rotten.
And I say I wouldn't take that land if you gave it to me.
I haven't written for years.
Who are you writing to?
To Grafignette.
Who's that?
You don't know her. She left before you were born.
When the boys tried to kiss her she'd scratch their faces.
She sharpened her nails to a point.
That's how she wound up an old maid.
Later on, she left to work for the priest in Crespin.
She was Florette's best friend.
She can tell me all about her.
I've got an idea:
I'll go to see Florette in Crespin.
No, you won't. If she knows you want her land
she'll ask three times the price.
Besides, if she knows it's for us, she'll say no.
Why?
That's the way she is.
What can we do then?
Nothing.
Florette won't come back.
As a young woman, she loved money.
She's probably worse now
so she'll sell, but no local farmer will buy.
They have too much land already.
A stranger might buy it.
What the hell for?
To grow vegetables or flowers, like me.
- Without water? - There's a spring.
- What if there wasn't any spring? - But there is one.
You poor fool.
Listen to my plan.
It's already half buried. An accident could block it up.
What accident?
Let's say you pass by with a load of cement.
You trip, you fall, and bang:
Your cement plugs up the opening.
Here it is.
Good God! It's ice cold.
- It's cold. - Hurry up, you idiot.
Here's the hole. Hand me the plug.
No, the little one.
There's a root stuck here.
That's enough. Remember: I have to unblock it later.
- I heard a noise. - Where?
In the house.
It's not Bouffigue's ghost, just rats.
Dear César"
Will wonders never cease?
After some 30 years you write to me about Florette
and the postman delivers your letter on the very day she dies.
I'd just finished laying her out.
That's why I didn't answer sooner.
I don't think she left much money. Her husband died six years ago
and she lived on what he left.
In any case, her son will inherit.
His name is Jean Cadoret and he must be about 35.
He's a tax collector but I don't know where.
The notary's bound to locate him.
Tax collectors are never hard to find.
He's married
but unfortunately, by God's will
he's a hunchback.
What if a villager tells him about the spring?
Don't worry.
The villagers here don't meddle in other people's business.
The way you wrecked that house
any farmer seeing it will just sit down and cry.
You're right.
He'll sell it.
A pen causes less blisters than a pickaxe.
A farmer may grow a hump but a hunchback rarely becomes a farmer.
Who'd have thought Florette would give birth to a hunchback?
What do you think?
Look at the huge brambles
the olive trees, the wild rosemary.
My God! It's beautiful.
What did I tell you?
Ancient Provence, Zola's paradise.
Even lovelier than paradise.
Try sliding it down.
Hello, folks.
- Hello. - Could you use some help?
Sure. We're trying to get it down without dismantling it.
- You're very kind. - Let's see what we can do.
Thank you. Are you from Aubagne?
From Bastides, but I live nearby.
- You passed my house on the way up. - So we're neighbours.
- Almost. I'm Ugolin Soubeyran. - Delighted.
This one needs at least four men.
How did you lift it?
We loaded the crate, then put the tools in.
And now we'll do the reverse.
I've got enough tools here to set up a real workshop.
Your wife sings beautifully, even better than in church.
She's charmed many a listener. She sang operas.
- In public? - Yes, in concert halls.
My voice now is nothing like it was back then.
It must have been fantastic.
Glorious. Her best role was Manon.
That's why we've called our daughter Manon.
It's a fine spot.
A tough climb, but it's worth it. The air's pure.
Heaven on earth.
So you rented this old farm?
- I didn't rent it. - You bought it?
I didn't buy it either, but it's all mine.
Are you Jean de Florette?
I'm Jean and my mother was Florette
but my name is Jean Cadoret.
If you'd been born here it would be Jean de Florette.
What a lovely title for a song, or even an opera.
You knew my mother?
No, but her brother, Bouffigue and I were good friends.
I drink to Mother Nature, to these fragrant hills.
I drink to the crickets, to the breeze
to the ancient rocks. I drink to the clear blue sky.
Good health.
Damn. They always do that.
So you're all here on a little holiday
A holiday that'll last until I die.
I want to live in peace amongst these pine trees, happily
as long as the Lord grants me life.
That's fine but what'll you do for water?
We have a cistern here.
It's small. If it doesn't rain, it'll run out.
I own a spring too.
What spring? Where?
It's marked on the land register.
Come and see. Perhaps you can help me locate it.
See? This little circle is a well or a spring.
Where's Romarins?
Here. The spring is about
a mile away, at the end of the Plantier valley.
It belongs to us too.
I know the place. It's over that hill.
It's a big climb to the spring.
The water's good but it's just a trickle.
Is it far from here?
About an hour's walk.
We'd only need to go once a week:
our Sunday walk.
A Piedmont woodcutter and his wife live in the grotto.
The wife, Baptistine
is a sort of witch
but they're nice. They keep it clean
but you can throw them out.
God forbid. If they're happy there, let them stay.
We'll go there soon. This water problem's serious.
There's no need to hurry. For now, my well is full
and you're welcome to a few buckets a day.
I accept your generous offer.
You may be wondering why I decided to settle here.
Yes. Why did you?
It's because I'm convinced
I can only be truly happy if I return to nature.
I'm here to cultivate the authentic.
"The orthentic"?
I want to grow my own vegetables
savour oil from my olive trees, swallow eggs from my hens
and wine from my own vines.
That'll take time. Those olive trees are growing wild.
It'll take three years to revive them.
The same for the vines.
But vegetables can't grow without water.
We'll see.
Thanks to the legacy my thrifty mother left me
we have enough to live on for at least three years.
Three years. In the meantime, I have big plans.
Thanks again. I must get to work at once.
I noticed the roof leaks in a few spots.
Good luck then.
We've got energy to spare.
What's he like?
Like a city hunchback.
- A city type? - And how.
Watch your step. He may be a city chump
but hunchbacks are often smarter than us.
What will he grow?
"Orthentics". Lots of orthentics.
What's an orthentic?
Probably a plant that grows in books.
He said we have to be modern.
- I'll bet he spoke of routine. - Right.
What's that?
It's a city word.
It means that what our fathers taught us
has to go because it's not modern.
We have to be modern now.
That's just bullshit.
He talked about three years.
For me, that's a disaster.
Stop fearing the worst.
Still
Anglade or Casimir, as his distant cousins
might tell him about the spring.
That could be a problem.
No. His mother warned him to avoid folks from Bastides.
He asked me not to tell anybody he's from Crespin.
Then we'll tell everybody.
We'll say a man from Crespin bought the farm
but we won't mention that he's Florette's son.
Meanwhile, act friendly. Help him out. Lend him my mule.
Be sure to play up to his wife.
Take her almonds, a few thrushes, a bunch of figs.
That way, when he gives up he'll sell you the farm.
I offered him water from my well: a bucketful a day
but not for that reason.
What then?
What I did was no crime. It was for my flowers.
But if they drank the cistern water, they'd die.
It would always be on my conscience.
You're just like your poor mother
but you did the right thing.
I'll try and discourage him anyway. I'll say the soil's rotten
and that it never rains at Romarins.
Are you crazy?
Tell him orthentics are great, that it rains constantly
and to start on his big projects right away.
Remember: It's much easier
to slide down the slope than to climb up.
Just help him fall flat on his face.
Good morning, neighbour.
As you see, I'm taking you up on your offer.
Fine. Just help yourself.
I've been admiring the landscape.
I never really noticed it.
Beautiful.
It's vast. You can see what weather's coming.
That's true.
Come here. I'll show you something.
Do this, or else the bucket just floats on top.
If you let it sink it fills up. See?
How's your roof?
I'm a few tiles short. I have to order more.
But they'll be new and that will mar the overall effect.
- Nobody looks at a roof. - Still, it's a pity.
I've got planting to do. Just help yourself.
Many thanks.
More furniture?
This load's so heavy, I'll never make it:
1,000 pounds of pipes and wire fencing.
- What kind of pipes? - Cement pipes.
- Big ones? - And how.
How many?
About 100 feet.
- What for? - Probably for water.
What water?
Maybe he'll pipe the rainwater down to his cistern.
Are you sure?
- Who knows? There's a pump too. - What'll he pump?
I don't know and I don't give a damn.
Why does he need all that fencing?
Ready, Papa.
See these tiles?
What are they for?
For you.
I've had them for years.
I thought you could use them.
Many thanks: yet another favour I won't forget.
I've got an idea for your water.
The cistern's good for watering
but it's too small and will dry up fast.
Rainwater fills the track.
You could use large cement pipes and set up
a pipeline to the cistern so that it would always be full.
A wonderful idea.
I just happen to have some pipes on hand.
How come? And what's all that wire for?
That's a secret, a big secret.
- A new fence? - Yes but a special kind.
It'll go two feet underground.
To keep the rabbits out?
You're close, but I have other plans for the rabbits.
I don't get it.
First I'll plant a few leeks, tomatoes, potatoes and herbs:
- an hour's work a day. - A kitchen garden?
Exactly.
Next I'll plant a high-yield crop
which is essential for large-scale rabbit breeding.
Large-scale? You mean big rabbits?
We mean hundreds of rabbits a month, if not thousands.
No, Aimée. Let's stay within reasonable limits.
Bring me my guide book.
You know and raise rabbits, don't you?
I have six and my uncle has 30.
Even so, I doubt you're aware
of their amazing reproductive potential.
Look at this.
I can read but I'm no good at numbers.
It says that with a single pair of rabbits
in three years, a modern breeder
can have a monthly yield of 500 rabbits.
But this expert warns that more than 5,000 is a real health hazard.
With 1,000 males and 5,000 females
a breeder would end up with 30,000 rabbits in the first month
200,000 by the sixth month and 2 million by the tenth.
That means a whole country can be wiped out by famine.
- Really? - Tell him about Australia.
That continent 14 times bigger than France
almost perished because of one pair of rabbits.
Their offspring stripped entire fields bare.
To save the country, they built an electric fence 1,250 miles long
and slaughtered millions of them.
- You plan to raise that kind here? - Certainly not.
I believe that breed was made noxious
by the Australian climate.
Thank God. So you plan on 500 a month?
No.
I'm all for moderation.
I'll be satisfied with a quarter of that.
I'm expecting 150 a month in two years' time
no more than that.
That's more reasonable.
But just cleaning out the cages is a big job.
- That's no problem. - How come?
I want to see my rabbits run and hop about.
I'll use a modern approach: an outdoor run.
What about foxes?
You're forgetting the fence: 6 feet high and barbed wire.
A fence won't stop a fox, never.
But barbed wire might.
That's why I've decided to use artificial warrens
with cement pipe openings.
The opening will let a rabbit crawl in, but not a fox.
That's good thinking.
What will your rabbits eat?
- Here's my answer. - You'll feed them matches?
Watermelon seeds?
- Are they orthentics? - Authentic? Of course.
These are authentic cucurbita seeds from the Orient.
This plant grows with exceptional speed.
In a tropical climate
these creeping vines can grow up to 30 inches a day.
Of course we're not in the tropics here.
Thank God.
And there's no real rainy season.
The weather statistics for the last 50 years
from the Marseilles observatory note
6 days of rain in April, 5 in May
4 days in June
2 days in July, 3 days in August and 6 days in September.
- That's just an average. - It sounds about right.
But rainfall is often sporadic
and may not bring about maximum growth.
A reasonable growth estimate is about six inches a month.
You'd have a problem if they grew any faster.
Your squash plot would run down to the village.
A good point. I reckon each plant
should yield about 130 pounds of squash.
That sounds good but you've only got four seeds.
That's true for now
but in six months' time my problem will be to stop their proliferation.
But if your rabbits and squash are out of control, what then?
We'll be rich.
For if we fail, we're doomed to return to the hell of city life.
- Any news? - Yes. Good and bad.
He wants to set up an outdoor rabbit farm.
Rabbits?
Does he have a guide book?
Yes. It says you can start with two rabbits
and have 1,000 in six months
but you can't keep breeding them. They almost ate up Australia.
This isn't Australia
and it's easy to make rabbits multiply on paper.
He wants to limit himself to 150 rabbits a month.
Only 150.
A toast to the losers.
Is that guy renting the farm?
No, he told me he'd bought it.
- Is he a farmer? - No, he's a hunchback.
Where does he buy his bread?
In Ruissatel.
Is he scared my bread's poison?
No, he's avoiding the village. He's from Crespin.
From Crespin?
- That's nothing to brag about. - Not all Crespin folks are bad.
What did he do there?
- He was a tax collector. - Maybe he'll raise our taxes.
Is he staying long?
I've no idea. In any case, he's fixing up the house.
- All by himself? - Yes, with gloves on.
Some farmer.
A hunchback from Crespin: That sounds fishy to me.
Just ignore him.
Maybe he's a spy.
What can he spy on? Your chickpeas?
The Good Lord has sent us a real loser.
In six months he'll be gone.
He claims he'll succeed in three years.
That's just bullshit.
Maybe, but he has money.
Inheritance money burns a hole in your pocket.
In six months he'll be broke and we'll buy him out.
Meanwhile, let's see what he does with his Chinese squash
and his giant rabbits.
Mmm. It smells like roast pigeon.
He mustn't find the spring.
We'd better steer him away.
- Hello, neighbour. - Hello, Monsieur Jean... madam.
It's a nice day.
What's that contraption for?
With that pickaxe of yours
you'll knock yourself out for three months.
With my plough we can finish the job in three days.
Aimée
the Lord has answered my prayer.
It's from his field:
the best soil in the area.
It's worth its weight in gold.
Rich soil like that! It just kills me.
He's a good man.
- I don't like him. - That's because he's ugly.
Manon's scared of him.
Manon, I'm surprised at you.
Why don't you like him?
- He's ugly. He looks like a toad. - It's your thoughts that are ugly.
A coarse exterior often conceals a pure soul.
Look.
Manon, come here.
I have a special job for you.
You'll water these plants carefully every evening.
The man's a real joke.
He's planted his tomatoes on the north side.
They'll never ripen.
He poked his chickpeas in much too deep.
They won't yield a bowlful.
He's planted his onions at the foot of an olive tree
and he just barely covered his potatoes.
He doesn't sow his seeds: he throws them.
They'll grow in tufts, like hair on a mangy dog.
If the fool thinks he can feed a family like that...
Yet when I look at him
I laugh but I also feel sorry for him.
I feel like showing him how to do it right.
Let him do it his way.
If it's no good, so much the better for us.
Hello. Going out for the day?
We're off to the Plantier spring.
Our cistern's empty and I can't keep relying on your generosity.
My well's just about dry too.
I think it'll rain tonight.
- Why? Do you have rheumatism? - No, thank heavens.
I counted on six days' rain in May but we only got three
and we've had no rain in June, so we're owed five days of rain.
I'm giving the heavens 48 hours to settle their debt.
Which way is the spring?
Don't use the shortcut. There's an easier way.
Go to the end of the valley but stay below the village
turn right and follow the road up to the spring.
Very good. See you later.
It's beautiful.
We're the new owners
but we don't want you to move out.
We're here for some water. Our cistern's empty.
If we had that spring here our problem would be solved.
Have faith in statistics and providence.
I'm off to Aubagne. Can I get you anything?
No, thanks.
Buying more seeds?
Better than that. I'm going to get my breeders.
Come and see them tonight.
Fine. I'd love to see your first rabbits.
I'll bring your wife some snails.
See you tonight.
I chose young females who've never had a litter.
That's essential if you want to create a new breed.
Here's the male.
We'd better close the door: He's lively. He may get away.
Not from me, he won't.
Holy Mother! What's that?
It's an extremely rare crossbreed.
I've never seen one like him:
the fur of a dog, the paws of a hare and the ears of a donkey.
- Was he expensive? - Very expensive.
He's a strange one.
He's a breeder. He's not young, but he's virile.
He looks fierce.
I bet he could eat a steak.
He's been taken for a ride.
What breed did he say it was?
The Romarins breed.
Make us some baby rabbits, boy.
Start the Romarins breed.
There's not much left of the inheritance money
but I'm sure we'll pull through.
Our bills are paid and the worst is over.
I'd like you to manage the 1,123 francs we have left.
It has to last us a year.
Hopefully in three months I'll start selling my rabbits.
If need be we could sell my necklace.
I was told it's worth 10,000 francs.
Sell your necklace?
Never. I'd rather go without shoes.
Come quick.
What is it?
César.
- There's Ugolin's neighbour. - Talk about stuck-up.
You should have aimed at his hump.
Some joke.
Go on. You're too tiny.
You're too tiny.
He's too tiny. Here's a big one.
What a beauty!
A real Romarins.
Shall we take it? How much?
It won't last.
It'll do for my vines but not for his vegetables.
What can this mean?
Only one thing: disaster.
Water.
If it rains on Ascension Day
all your crops are washed away.
Stop worrying.
Remember. A wet spring always brings a torrid summer.
By the end of July his garden will be parched.
His corn leaves will crackle like patent leather shoes.
Showers in June bring nothing but ruin.
I'm off to sell my vegetables.
This is to thank you for all your advice.
It's a good job I didn't give up on my vegetable plot.
Are your potatoes out?
- Not for three weeks. - Really? Look at mine.
How do you do it?
Amandine.
I always forget she's deaf.
That's enough. I'm hungry.
The worst thing is, now he's giving me advice.
You have a fine garden
but I'm worried. Summer hasn't really started yet.
It's already July 20th and it's sure to rain in August.
- It'd be a shame to lose all this. - My cistern's overflowing.
It holds 3,000 gallons and I only need 750 per watering.
I can hold out another week.
But what if it doesn't rain in a week?
One seed yields an ear with 400 to 450 kernels, or even two.
As a rule, the yield is 400 times the seed plant.
Did you hear that?
Even using a more reasonable estimate: say, 300 times
I've planted enough for three tons of corn.
Thank you, sweetheart.
We'll also have 20 tons of squash. Even half that amount is plenty.
The manual says we only need eight tons of feed a year.
We only have 720 francs left.
- And the income from the rabbits? - It's included.
Now more than ever we need God's help.
The water's stopped.
There's no more water.
I expected this
but I thought we had a few days' water left.
If it doesn't rain tonight we'll work something out.
It's lucky, we've got the spring.
Four trips a day will kill your donkey.
We can stock 850 gallons in a week but we need rain within ten days.
Ten days? At this time of the year? I wouldn't count on it.
If the heavens let me down, could you rent me your mule?
- Sure. - Thank you.
Come on. Let's keep going.
Galinette, if this heatwave keeps up much longer
his corn will be wiped out
along with the rest.
What's wrong?
What's wrong? You scared me.
Just a dream.
It's the hunchback.
Tell him I'm not here.
Is Mr Ugolin here?
He isn't home?
Ask him if he'll rent me his mule.
I need it tomorrow. It's important.
His mule. Tomorrow. Thank you.
My chickpeas are rotting.
My apricots are dry and as small as peas.
My grapes won't make two casks of wine. What a year!
For the hunchback this means real trouble.
He needs 250 gallons a day.
All he's got to carry it is a donkey, a woman and a hump.
Another week will wipe him out.
He wants to rent my mule. It'll be hard to say no.
You idiot. If you lend him the mule, you'll save him.
It can haul 100 gallons a day.
You told me to act friendly
so I drank his white wine and called him Monsieur Jean
and now we're really friends.
What a fool. Do you want flowers or friends?
You dimwit, you sound just like your poor mother.
If you start strangling a cat, finish it off.
Believe me: If he makes it a success this year
he'll start again next year
and he'll be miserable all his life.
With the money I'll pay for his farm he can move back to the city.
We're doing him a favour by not lending him the mule.
You're back at last.
Yes, for the grape harvest.
- How are things with you? - Not so good. I'm low on water.
It's been a mighty bad year.
Even the grapes have shrivelled up like raisins.
Can you let me have your mule?
You mean Papet's mule?
- I can't. The harvest starts today. - What about later?
After Papet's harvest the mule will make the rounds.
It takes at least 10 days.
But you know
with this heatwave, we may have a thunderstorm tonight.
May God hear you.
Here's that nut.
He'll kill himself.
He can go back to tax collecting but his donkey can't.
It's her I'm sorry for.
Are mules expensive?
I think I can find one in Aubagne for about 500 francs.
I can resell it in September for a profit.
But for that
I have to ask you a big favour.
Can you let me have your necklace, just for a little while.
You're going to sell Mummy's necklace?
No. I'll just pawn it.
They'll lend me at least 2,000 francs for it.
The emeralds alone are worth that.
The mountain air will be good for the mule
and in 2 months I'll resell it.
Then we'll get the necklace back.
Then it's all right, isn't it, Mama?
Of course.
It's time for bed, now. We have a big day ahead.
Do you mind giving it up?
I already have.
What?
I've already pawned it.
- When? - Last month.
I didn't have any money left.
You bought so many things: books, tools, bran for the rabbits
and we drink a lot of wine.
- What did you get for it? - 100 francs.
- Only 100 francs? - The emeralds were paste.
Please God, make it rain.
Make it rain.
In 20 minutes, the cistern will be full.
What a beautiful storm.
Manon. I felt the first drop.
Me too, Papa.
I want to feel this blessed water run down my face.
Thank you, Lord.
But the rain's over there.
It's raining over there.
I'm a hunchback. Have you forgotten that?
Do you think that's easy?
Isn't there anybody up there?
There's nobody up there.
I'm a hunchback.
Do you think that's easy?
There's nobody up there.
What is it?
Aimée, come and see.
Look.
What is it?
It's a dust storm. I'll run to the Plantier for water.
There's no time to lose. Meet me at the spring.
Hurry. It's a matter of life and death.
Papa will fall ill.
Hurry.
Now I know why God gave me this hump.
She says she'll take out the sun.
She says if we don't take the sun out
he'll die the day after tomorrow.
All that for a few measly squash!
It kills me to see them slaving away in this heat.
If you ask me, it's his own damned fault.
His squash will never make it.
- But he has a spring on his land. - They say it's blocked up.
Maybe it didn't block up by itself.
They say the Soubeyrans might know.
- They say - Forget what people say.
The Soubeyrans do as they please.
It doesn't pay to stick your nose in other people's business.
The less talk, the better.
It's time to make our move.
His fields look like a disaster area.
He's at the end of his rope.
Offer him 6,000 or 7,000 francs but haggle a bit.
- Let me kiss you, Papet. - Cut that out. Run over there.
Take him these bottles of new wine. It'll be good for him. Hurry.
Your wine is delicious but I have to face facts.
My venture's a failure.
It's a fiasco.
I could blame it on fate or disastrous weather conditions
but I'm afraid it's due to my own stupidity
to my lack of common sense.
I thought I was clever but in fact I was blind
blind to my biggest problem: water.
That's right. You can't make it without water.
That's history now. I have a new plan.
Once I've fully regained my strength
I'll dig a well.
- Where? - I'll use a divining rod.
Are you a water diviner?
Not exactly.
But I have a guide book that should help me.
Once I've learned the technique, I'm bound to find water here.
Do you know how to make a well?
After all, a well's just a hole in the ground.
Mine will be 36 feet deep and even if it doesn't supply water
my problem's solved.
- What use is a well without water? - I can use it as a cistern.
A well that size contains 11,000 gallons of water.
Spring rains will fill it up.
In the summer months, between this well and our cistern
we can store 14,500 gallons.
That will give us 36 days' worth of watering.
We've had longer dry spells.
Where have you seen a drought lasting 36 days?
The Sahara? Or maybe in the Gobi Desert.
But not here.
Here it's mathematically impossible.
Let's drink to that.
From all you say
the only good news is that now he's drinking red wine.
- And the divining rod? - That's a real problem.
Do you think he'll learn to use it?
Hell, no. For that you need a special touch.
- But he may hire a real diviner. - Do you know any?
I knew one in Ombrées. If he came up here
he'd find the spring in a flash.
Is he still there?
Yes but fortunately in the graveyard.
A good diviner's expensive.
Did you talk money?
No. He was too drunk.
I don't think he has much left.
You can never be sure when it comes to money.
I think it moved.
How's it going?
It's getting harder to dig.
- Tough? - It certainly is.
I'm down to the white rock I told you about.
- The quaternary? - Exactly.
If there's water under this rock I'll reach it in two weeks
but if it's under the quaternary layer
it'll take six months or more.
Now I know what a ditch-digger's thirst is.
This hits the spot.
Monsieur Jean, I have to be frank with you.
You may think this is none of my business
but I feel sorry for you.
All this work you've done these last two years
It's madness. It'll kill you.
Go on. I'm listening.
Even if you finish your well, it won't help you.
You'd need a river to water so much squash.
This is no life for you, and that's the truth.
That's all very interesting.
A man like you belongs in the city.
With your education you could be a teacher or a postman
with a nice clean outfit. That's what you were meant for.
If you stay here you'll kill yourself.
I know you're out of money. It's nothing to be ashamed of
but you don't eat enough
for this kind of work and you drink too much wine.
One day you'll drop dead.
How will your wife and little girl manage then?
They're already sickly.
I've noticed.
- What's my farm worth? - To rent or sell?
- To sell. - Just a minute.
It's hard to say. I've never thought about it.
It's no summer villa
and without water it's no use to a farmer.
The second cistern will add to its value.
Perhaps
7,000.
Is that all?
- 8,000. - You'd sell your mother's house?
It's a perfectly reasonable price. That way I can ask the notary
for a 4,000-franc mortgage.
- So you won't sell? - Of course not.
I'll never sell the house where I hope to live forever
a rich man.
We can get by quite well on 4,000 francs.
I'll buy a mule, a load of miner's tools
and some dynamite to blast this damn rock.
In a year I'll pay off the mortgage and we'll be set.
Do you know what a mortgage is?
It's when the notary lends money to honest people.
What honest people?
They'll make him sign papers
and if he doesn't pay on time they'll repossess his farm.
OK, ten minutes. Now leave us alone.
There's good and bad in what you say.
The bad news is that if he's got 4,000 francs
his operation just may succeed.
On the other hand, since he's a born loser
a lot of things can go wrong
and as you know, dynamite and drinking don't mix.
In any case, a mortgage is the best solution for us.
I'll finance his mortgage myself.
If he succeeds, he'll pay me interest
and repay the loan
but if he fails
we get the farm.
You're smart, Papet, really smart.
I'm smart... because I've got money.
It's all set.
You do the honours.
Get Mama. I want her to see the water shoot up.
Go on.
What happened?
Did you have an accident, Monsieur Jean?
It's my fault.
I ran to see the water shoot up
but some rocks that'd been blown high in the sky
landed on my head.
If you can talk, it can't be too bad.
This way, doctor.
Will he be all right? It was only a small rock.
When he tried to speak just now, he ground his teeth.
He didn't suffer before he passed away.
A rock must have fractured a cervical vertebra.
Even if I'd come sooner, it was hopeless.
I just stopped the clock in Monsieur Jean's house.
Is that why you're crying?
It's not me that's crying.
It's my eyes.
What will they do now?
They must have relatives and they can sell the farm.
And you might be kind enough to buy it.
- How much do you think it's worth? - Not much.
In any case, it wasn't worth a man's life.
8,000 francs is more than generous.
If there was a water source it'd be worth twice that
but there's only a cistern. The house is old and remote.
Once you pay off your mortgage and we deduct interest and fees
you'll be left with 3,880 francs.
Sign here, please
and initial these.
I hope you realize that the buyer has been very generous.
You can live here as long as you like.
This gentleman bought it so I could rent it and farm the land.
It's your home. I'll never come in without knocking.
For me, it's Monsieur Jean's house.
I've clowned around enough. They're leaving anyway.
Let's go.
Hold on. I think I've got it.
There must be lots of water down there.
Carnations, Galinette.
15,000 francs a year.
It's liquid gold.
What was that?
Nothing... just a buzzard making a kill.
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost
I hereby name you the King of Carnations.
End of Part One