Remontons les Champs-Élysées (1938) - full transcript
The footnotes of history on the Champs D'Elysée ,as viewed by Guitry:It all began under Marie De Medicis's regency when Concini (a nasty Italian:why do French always choose treacherous aliens to rule ?)was the real master:Les Champs Elysees were then just a large path through the wood .Later on ,a two-bit fortune teller told king Louis the Fifteenth he would die six months after the marquis De Chauvelin ; so the monarch sent all his sawbones to the noble man to take care of his health ;he put him on a diet because "if you die,my own days will be numbered".
LET'S GO UP THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES
Please multiply
2,834,783
by 621,862.
Well?
Well, well...
Today is 15 September 1938.
Yes, sir!
How odd.
What if we forgot this exercise,
which doesn't seem so urgent?
Would you like me
to talk of something else?
Yes, sir!
You don't really care
what 2,834,783
multiplied by 621,862 is, do you?
No, sir.
Neither do I, if you must know.
Shall I entertain you for an hour?
Yes, sir.
Then I shall try.
But I shan't dilly-dally.
I shall go directly
to the most beautiful of avenues.
Have you heard
of the Champs-Elysées?
I like your laughter
that bears witness to your irony.
However...
permit me to bring it to an end.
So you know the Champs-Elysées.
All know this magnificent avenue
that goes from Place de la Concorde
to the Arc de Triomphe.
But have you ever wondered
about its history?
For a history it has.
Indeed, a very fine one.
Varied, unexpected, entertaining
and dramatic...
at times.
It goes from one extreme
to the other.
It's a fine history
because it is that of France.
I'll tell it in small details,
according to my taste.
I shall tell its stories
rather than its history.
For reasons you shall learn,
I'm particularly fond of this avenue.
Whenever I return to Paris,
I cross it with little feeling.
I love and understand
its embankments,
its old streets
and even its boulevards.
But on the Champs-Elysees,
my heart beats exquisitely,
because it's there that Paris
smiles at you from all angles.
The supreme honor
for our glorious soldiers
has been a march past there.
Our best-known unknown soldier
rests in peace there.
As an homage to visiting sovereigns:
a drive down the Champs-Elysées.
And as lovers,
something they'll know later,
what do we say to taxi drivers?
"Take the Champs-Elysées."
Route, road and direction
to happiness eternal.
"Take the Champs-Elysées!"
It's a non-address,
it's a straight-line detour.
Taking the Champs-Elysées
with the one you love
is a drive to the unknown.
So let's take the Champs-Elysées,
since I have
some revelations to make.
Revelations?
Extremely important ones.
Indeed.
So without further ado,
I shall begin.
Can you all see
the Champs-Elysées?
Well, back in 1617,
there was a dense forest here,
populated by wolves, foxes
and boars.
The Rouvray Forest.
Named for its oaks, not the man.
Thank you.
It was Marie de Medici,
mother of Louis XIII,
who wanted an avenue leading away
from her Tuileries Palace,
though it was built
by her minister Concini.
- Un momento...
- No!
Let's not speak Italian
in the presence of the king.
A Florentine like her,
and an adventurer,
Concini governed France,
and did so badly.
The king, only 16, realized this
and hated him for it.
We French have always tended
to retain foreigners
who were far from necessary.
"Splendid, beautiful, magnificent,"
thought the king.
"As all roads lead to Rome,
Concini could take it to go home!
"The toad gets rich at our expense,
keeps me from power
"and has designed these huge grounds
to hold me prisoner."
Mother agrees with him.
It's awful.
There he is.
They're approaching.
Be on guard.
I hate to see him
with Albert de Luynes.
The king needs lighter,
more frivolous advisers.
Yes.
You're right. And hang me
if I don't hang him tomorrow.
- Here to talk affairs of state?
- No, your Majesty.
We came to announce
that tomorrow at 11 o'clock,
a boar hunt will be held here.
Well I never!
Why does his Majesty laugh?
Because I too just planned
a boar hunt.
But this is even better.
You look after your hunt
and I'll look after mine.
And we shall judge
which is the best.
Madame. Adieu, Monsieur.
The queen and Concini
were bowled over.
What could the king mean?
And why that exasperating laugh?
The next day,
as Louis XIII tracked a fierce boar,
the Baron de Vitry
caught up with Concini
and in the king's name
snared him.
A fine double for Louis XIII.
When Vitly came with the news,
the king had the mort blown twice.
The boar was hung by its trotters
and roasted.
And the other wild beast
met a similar fate.
Later, one hung by its trotters
the other by his feet,
they were both roasted.
I leave it to you to approve or not
of such customs.
But calmly remember
what's done is done.
- Yes, sir.
- Good.
For 100 years, from 1617 to 1717,
the Champs-Elysées didn't change.
It was opened to the public and
gentlemen crossed paths with yokels.
This is the Rand-Point.
This path would become
the Avenue Montaigne.
On it stood
Paris's first open-air dance hall.
It was small, but quite something.
People met there, sat there,
fought duels
and greeted the king
as Louis XIV passed
on his way to Versailles
to oversee the construction
of the Chateau.
Long live the king!
It was a gorgeous spectacle,
since Louis XIV
lived far from humbly.
And thank God too.
For if he had been modest,
France would have
no Chateau de Versailles.
People say kings overspent,
that they used our money
without our say-so.
But in building such splendors,
were they not putting our money
to one side?
The years passed.
1715 saw the autumn
of the Sun-King's life.
He climbed, young and triumphant
into this carriage
and, 50 years on, stepped out
aged, fallen, unrecognizable.
The boy welcoming him
is his great-grandson, Louis XV.
I hastened to reach Louis XV
and I shall speak long of him.
I shall speak neither well
nor ill of him.
He was a beloved king
in the first half of his reign.
He was called "the Beloved".
But later,
he became the most hated king ever.
Unpopularity is irksome
for a monarch.
But ceasing to be popular
is irreparably bad.
His equestrian statue by Bouchardon
was begun when he was adored
and finished 18 years later
when he was hated.
"The Beloved" took on
an ironic and cruel meaning.
One night,
two men climbed up the statue,
hung a placard round the king's neck,
saying, "Pity a poor blind man"
and bandaged his eyes.
In truth, it was love that was blind.
He loved Madame de Pompadour.
Or rather "still loved".
By "still love",
we mean "love a little less".
He was most attached to her.
But feeling most attached
is realizing one isn't free.
But one's fifties
are demanding and impatient.
Let's jump several years to 1764.
The Champs-Elysées have changed.
The forest is a park
and the alley an avenue.
Note these young trees.
You'll watch them grow.
Small pavilions arose in the woods.
So-called "hunting lodges".
Carnivals and circuses
were also allowed
to temporarily set up camp.
We've always loved
freaks and monsters.
Handsome creatures measure
the distance that separates them.
While the ugly can make
favorable comparisons.
Elephant men and bearded ladies
softened expressions
and led to the conclusion
"I'm better than that!"
Does the good sir wish to come
into my small home?
Why, pray?
To know your future.
To you, who know so well your past,
I will tell your future.
And my present?
Your present will be my gift.
Come.
Come, I shall.
Roll up, roll up!
Come and see the Siamese twins.
- Ah, so they're from Siam?
- Don't talk to me, sir.
I'm irked as it is.
Someone stole my wig
and my boots pinch.
- What was your question?
- Are they from Siam?
No, sir.
When we say "Siamese",
it doesn't mean they're from Siam,
but that they are twins
joined by a single membrane.
So they're not from Siam?
No. One's from England,
the other France.
They give me nothing but trouble.
Now what is it?
She wants to get married.
I've a right to.
She wants to be a nun.
I want to get married.
- They're mad
- No, not mad.
Incomplete one without the other.
It's complicated.
The one who wants to love
has no heart.
The other one has it.
The one who wants to be a nun
has no faith.
The other one has it.
No, come on.
What is it?
- You're going to die.
- When?
- Not just yet.
- Just as well.
Rene, leave the little girl alone.
Yes, Father.
Oh, and I also see...
What she feared most became true.
Pompadour was no longer loved
by her royal lover.
In melancholy,
he had fallen in love with love.
He loved only love.
- See you soon.
- I hope so.
He loved only one woman,
but now it was women.
He loved any woman
as long as she was lovable.
It was the terrible time
of the deer park.
How delightful:
hiding behind Hecate to signal to me.
- Would his Majesty forgive me?
- 'Tis done.
- I'd love to know.
- Know what?
What the deer park is.
- Heaven on earth.
- Can we visit it?
- How old are you?
- 16.
- Am I too young?
- No.
Not too young.
You're just right.
- I heard you were seeking a doe.
- You know what that is?
Somewhat. I hear the buck
is most voracious.
And when he is hungry,
he is served a doe on a divan
and he devours her with kisses.
- And you're not afraid?
- No. I wish to die like the other does.
Die?
A doe told me about it.
She saw him last night.
She said, "Oh, he killed me!"
As you come back, I'd like to go.
Do you think the buck
would take me as his doe?
I think so.
- And would he kill me?
- Yes.
And if you die well,
you'd have all you need to live.
I love still and love sincere,
when I give myself up
to disturbing pleasures.
Due to my years
I need double measures.
The dear Marquise is anxious.
She creates a void around the king
with her dreadful awkwardness.
- Chauvelin.
- Sire?
Our game of chess!
I love chess.
I like it less still.
You must not
Be astonished
That my young age is the reason
And that of the four seasons
The one I prefer
You must not be astonished
Is autumn
Diplomat, soldier and gallant,
Chauvelin was the king's best friend.
He often had odd encounters
and Louis XV loved to hear of them.
Anecdote?
Yes, Sire.
Yesterday I was strolling
along the Champs-Elysées,
when I was drawn
by a ravishing face.
Whether from Provence
or from North Africa
didn't matter. I followed it.
As a fantastic prediction,
she told me I would die
in the same year
as your Majesty.
Isn't that amusing?
No. Not really.
It barely makes me smile.
It doesn't appear amusing at all.
How can one meet her?
I want to see her promptly.
Dubertret!
Majesty?
Two envoys from the king,
two policemen, recognizable
even in plain clothes,
collared her.
Secretly taken to Versailles,
she was presented to the king.
She was afraid.
The king reassured her.
You risk nothing.
But I would like to know
what you see on our palms.
First, me see lovely hands.
You have a kingly hand.
- That wasn't the question.
- Regardless, you have pretty hands.
What do you see
on both our palms?
Well, me see...
And no lying.
Never lie. Me can't.
Me want to, but me can't.
Me see a little friend
dying in the same year
as you.
When will he die?
- That's the question.
- No...
- Me never say.
- Why not?
Because me don't know.
Me no silly.
Dates...
Dates are for eating!
Never say.
Are you poking fun?
Oh no!
He is too powerful for that.
Who'll die first?
Little friend.
Yes. Me certain of that.
That's the main thing.
How much time between our deaths?
- 1 month? 2 months? 3 months?
- 6 months.
Not bad.
In the meantime,
you have lovely eyes.
As she speaks freely, so shall l.
Where will you sleep tonight?
No. Me not know.
For a mind reader,
that's a bad sign.
Let's see, seer.
You who can see the future
read your own palm.
Maybe you'll see
how you'll spend this coming night.
Oh! Us? Together?
I'm no soothsayer,
but I'm sure of it.
Isn't it written?
On my palm it's hard to read.
Shame!
But I can read your face
like a book.
The Marquis de Chauvelin
regretted being so talkative.
- You again? Always you!
- King's orders.
I was mad to have mentioned
that prediction.
7, 8, 9, 10...
Jack, Queen, King!
Since that fateful day,
my life is poisoned.
The king's surgeon
examines me every morning.
- Nothing!
- Is that worrying?
Yes!
I'm fine,
but he bleeds me once a week.
King's orders.
He surrounds me with precautions:
fur collar in April,
woolen hose in September.
Yes. I know: "King's orders!"
- My food is controlled.
- A little melon.
- No wine.
- Very little meat.
And no gravy!
- I still have my cakes.
- No cakes.
- Why? They're so tasty.
- King's orders!
- Dear God...
- Protect yourself.
Protect me!
- Silk scarf.
- In August.
King's orders.
Careful! No nubile mistresses.
No imprudence.
Your life is precious,
since mine depends on it.
- You deprive me of all.
- Natural, my dear friend.
I want to preserve you.
We shall die in the same year.
I, six months after you.
By prolonging his life,
I prolong my own.
So I gather.
- She's charming.
- Very.
- Don't I know you.
- Yes, Majesty.
- Don't I know you well?
- Yes, Majesty.
So I thought.
I know her well.
We only have your leftovers.
When there are any!
We'll meet again.
Now, back to the subject.
You deprive me of all
and yourself of nothing.
Deprive myself?
But you're well.
No precautions for me.
You take them.
You'll see.
Go over there for a moment.
Chauvelin... Your arm.
I feel tired.
Please, don't get up.
Goodnight. Please stay.
Goodnight. Goodnight.
As long as you have nothing,
I'm in no danger.
The more I deprive you,
the less I deprive myself.
So no harm comes to you,
you'll stay at Versailles.
You'll sleep here, while I go out.
Yes, sir. Thus it is.
Sleep in my bed.
I'll have it so!
Don't wake up.
I shall wake you.
In 2, 4 or 6 hours.
- My boots and cloak?
- Ready, Sire.
I'm doubly anxious.
But what torments me the most,
the king's illness
or his health?
- Pompadour's annoyed.
- Indeed.
And an annoyed woman
is often annoying.
- She annoys the king.
- A pity.
- And kings hate that.
- As do all men.
- Is my carriage ready?
- Yes, Sire.
Perfect.
- Shall I accompany the king?
- No.
As for you, sleep fists clenched.
Nice and warm under the covers.
Sleep enough for two,
so as to make up for the strength
I shall lose. Farewell.
Was he truly ill earlier?
Has he truly gone to bed?
I need to know.
How wrong she is.
' No!
" YES!
- You believe so?
- I do.
Incredible.
It was sworn to me.
Favorites see themselves
as married women.
And are treated as such:
they are deceived.
She cannot prevent Louis XV
doing as he pleases.
She shouldn't hold secret confabs.
She shouldn't listen to gossips.
She shouldn't trust them.
If she doesn't want to know,
she should close her eyes.
Absolutely!
He slept.
Well, Chauvelin did.
But eyes are fooled at night.
So for her, all was well.
The king reached the Champs-Elysees.
Where was he going? To one
of the aforementioned pavilions.
He was enamored by a pastel.
A ravishing pastel
that came to life in his presence.
16, angel eyes, a sweet mouth,
and flowering perversity.
He had joined her
every other night for a week.
Her mother corrected her faux pas.
For some reason,
he called her Louisette
and had introduced himself
as the Marquis de Chauvelin.
Spirits calmed, Pompadour returned.
Her friends had made
a thousand plans
for her required position.
- To keep the king, do this.
- No. Rather, this.
If I were you...
There's only one solution.
No! Give up the fight.
Take my advice.
The king is old enough
to return to childhood.
If he wants a plaything,
give him one.
If you choose her,
you can make her vanish
when he grows too fond of her.
Indeed.
I've a list
of the youngest, prettiest,
stupidest and most venal maids
in France.
Pick the king's plaything yourself,
and you shall keep him.
I'll pick this one by chance.
- I believe in chance.
- Chance is God himself.
I wonder how He got involved?
I shan't tarry.
I'll leave in secret.
- Alone?
- I prefer.
- Where to?
- Her home.
I would that you were freer.
You are not at ease.
- I'm timid.
- Why?
You're a marquis.
- Does that impress you?
- Of course.
- A marquis isn't much.
- Be quiet.
- If I were a duke?
- I'd look away.
And if I were king?
I'd die.
- Well I'm not.
- You hardly need say.
Chance is often right.
Two hours later,
Pompadour was at the pavilion
where, in the king's arms,
Louisette was losing her timidity.
This very instant.
- She's not alone?
- No. But that is no matter.
- The king must come first.
- In this case, I'm not so sure.
Darling, come quickly.
Excuse her, Marquis.
It's of extreme importance.
Your cloak, quickly.
Quickly.
Yes. Don't ask.
It's most unexpected.
I'm quite overcome.
You make a mother happy.
If your father could see you,
he'd be proud.
Go, my girl.
Follow this fine lady.
And do as she says.
Sorry, Marquis.
I'm sure you'll understand.
Don't be angry with her.
Madame de Pompadour is taking her
to the king.
- What?
- To Versailles.
My hat. My cloak, if you will.
- Are you displeased?
- No.
Not displeased.
It's more consequential than that.
We're being followed.
In here.
Stick to my instructions.
Your future depends on it.
I understand, madame.
Who are you?
A plaything sent by a lady
to your Majesty
- to give him sweet dreams.
- What a good idea!
Stop there, Chauvelin!
- Give me back my bed.
- But, Majesty!
Majesty?
9 months later,
as is often true of 9 months,
Louisette gave birth
to a bouncing baby named Ludovic.
The king gave him 200,000 pounds.
He has your hands.
As long as he has, please God,
your lovely face.
- He's so small.
- He's an infant.
He had other children.
But he adored this one
and lovingly taught him to walk.
Ludovic, come and see!
He gave him a carriage
drawn by two small goats.
That's why such carriages
still run on the Champs-Elysées,
a royal concession since 1770.
His visits grew further apart.
But two or three times a year,
the king stopped at the pavilion.
The boy jumped into his carriage
and into his father's arms.
The king had his flaws.
But despite his flaws
and his errors,
we owe him a lot. For one night
he said to his minister...
- Choiseul.
- Sire?
What if we annexed Corsica?
Corsica?
Corsica is an excellent outpost
on the route to Africa.
But there are
more pressing matters.
I do not share your opinion.
Since we have the chance,
let's seize it immediately.
So be it.
This was in 1769.
Among the pregnant women
in Ajaccio at the time,
was a certain Letizia Bonaparte.
Let's not go too far,
but it is a fact:
if the King of France
had not annexed Corsica then,
six months later,
on 15 August 1769,
Napoleon would have been Italian
and the world different.
But God wanted things otherwise.
Shortly after, on 5 December 1773,
the king was playing chess
with his friend Chauvelin.
Pompadour had died
and had been replaced
by Madame du Barry.
Seductive and adorable,
Louis XV lost his head over her.
And later, she would lose hers
at the guillotine.
The king had turned 64.
Chauvelin was a mere 57.
He had aged,
but nothing signaled his death.
10 years had passed
since the gypsy's prediction.
That night,
Chauvelin seemed oddly distracted.
The king watched him.
- What's wrong, Chauvelin?
- I don't know.
- You look sickly.
- I do feel a certain angst.
- Are you in pain?
- No, Sire.
But that hardly reassures me.
- I feel unwell.
- Chauvelin! Live, dear friend!
- Stay alive.
- I ask only that.
It's not through lack of trying.
But I get the impression
that your Majesty...
has only six months more to live.
Chauvelin!
Someone help him!
Chauvelin!
Alas.
He died at Versailles
in the arms of Louis XV
on 5 December 1773.
- The date today is...?
- 5 December, Majesty.
Exactly six months later,
on 7 May,
the king died.
His death was dramatic,
abominable, horrible.
I won't spare you the details.
He had contracted smallpox.
All kinds of jokes were made.
Kings never have anything small.
A king dies differently.
Custom has it
that courtiers parade in and out
day and night.
This constant to-ing and fro-ing
seems uncivilized to us,
but more uncivilized,
was these gentlemen's lack of grace.
They did not want to enter.
Of the forty lords
who should have been present,
there were only six.
When his agony began,
they became even scarcer,
through fear of contagion.
On the eve of his death,
the king was abandoned.
The word seems excessive,
but it is not.
The dauphin and his wife,
Louis XVI et Marie-Antoinette,
were in their apartments
facing those of the king.
They prayed...
Dear God, protect me!
They were to be informed
of his death
by a candle at Louis X V's window.
Once he had let out
his dying breath,
it was to be blown out.
It sounds like savagely.
The court was there,
crammed in and muttering.
I bet you 25 louis
he doesn't make it.
There were quarrels
and raised voices.
And even bursts of laughter.
On the night of his death,
he confessed for 17 minutes.
Below his windows, the people sang.
Oh, my dear friend!
My pain is becoming intolerable.
May his Majesty endure it
to pay for his sins.
If it's to pay for my sins,
I must suffer much longer.
Gentlemen, the king is dead.
The king is dead?
Long live the king!
He who had reigned for 60 years
was alone in his room.
Customary honors for deceased
sovereigns were dispensed with.
His body was placed
in a double oak coffin
and only three missionaries
performed the wake.
He was shamefully buried at night.
Among the indifferent,
cruel or curious subjects,
only two wept that night:
Louisette and Ludovic,
a charming, innocent victim
with a surprising fate
that oppressed
rather than favored.
You may well wonder
why I speak with such insistence
and tenderness
of the son Louis XV conceived
at 54 years old.
Well, let me tell you why.
Louis XV was born in 1710.
When he was 54,
which was in 1764,
he conceived a son
who was named Ludovic.
So Ludovic was born in 1765.
When he was 54, in 1819,
he became father to a son.
This second boy, born in 1820,
was my father, Jean-Louis.
When he was 54, in 1874,
he became father to a son.
And this third boy, born in Paris
on 15 September 1874, was me.
I am the great-grandson
of Louis XV.
I'm touched by your spontaneous
show of sympathy,
but I haven't finished.
When I was 54, in 1928,
because I was born in 1874,
I became father to a fourth boy
who is now 10
and about whom I shall speak.
I'm sure you remember
the prediction that came true.
King Louis XV died at 64,
in 1774.
His son Ludovic died at 64,
in 1829. Just like his father.
My own father died at 64, in 1884.
Like his father and grandfather.
And it's because I begin
my 64th year today
that I tell you the incredible,
fateful story
of this lineage.
What do you think of these four men
who fall madly in love at 54,
commit the same blunder
by becoming fathers
and die 10 years later
with impressive punctuality?
It's good to know
you'll live till 64,
but not to know
you'll go no further.
At 24, it's fine:
"I still have 40 to go!"
But when you're 64:
"I don't have long left."
It's most irksome.
But let me backtrack
and tell you
of my handsome grandfather.
For he was handsome.
We all are.
Until a certain age.
- Study hard.
- Yes, Mother.
You must become a well-educated man
- now you know who your father was.
- Yes, Mother.
In the year 987,
Hugues Capet
founded the Capetian dynasty...
Long live the king!
- There's Capet!
- There's the king!
- Mother!
- I'm here, darling.
My nephew is passing.
Can I get a closer look?
You call Louis XVI your nephew?
He's Louis XV's grandson
whereas I'm his son.
True. You were born 20 years after,
but you are his uncle.
Go and wave to your nephew.
Won't you wave
to your step-son's son?
Yes. I'm coming.
Long live the king!
Get your first look at the king.
- Why are they mocking him?
- They're not.
They hail him without loving him.
- Well?
- Looks a bit stupid.
Let's hope he enjoys
what's left to him.
- 20 years we've wanted rid of them!
- He'll pay for the others.
Around that time,
another event unfolded.
A singular man arrived
at Louisette's home.
Yes?
As a solitary walker,
I invent dreams.
I will write
Reveries of the Solitary Walker.
As I was passing by,
I had a dream:
if I were to own your land,
I would transform it thus.
- May I?
- Please do.
I would make
a spacious outdoor café,
which could become a cabaret
seating 1,000 people.
You could call it
Le Café or Le Concert
des Ambassadeurs.
- My plan appears farcical?
- Unexpected.
I'm not mad.
Everything is transforming.
Everything is evolving.
I'll leave my plans.
Study it and we'll meet again.
Goodbye.
- May I ask your name?
- It will mean nothing to you.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
citizen of Geneva.
See you soon.
But she never saw him again.
A famous puppet show
appeared on the Champs-Elysees
in the immediate vicinity
of Louisette's pavilion.
Its charming director
soon became very popular.
Its success was so huge
that 200 years on,
it's still a triumph
on the spot
where it made its debut.
4 planks of wood, 3 characters
and the same stories
for two centuries.
That's something
absolutely unique.
Three revolutions,
two fallen empires,
exiled kings and the puppets are still there.
And why should he leave?
His jolliness is a necessity.
His aim in life:
to beat the policeman.
Regimes and surroundings change,
but he doesn't care.
For he has always mocked all.
He remains alive.
Hello, pretty neighbor.
These past 6 months,
I've been waiting for a chance
to talk to you.
We chat a lot.
But chatting is very little,
- when one wishes to talk.
- Talk to me?
Oh, indeed!
But I wouldn't dare.
I'm naturally shy.
Being a puppeteer,
I'm usually hidden when I talk.
It disturbs me to see and be seen
when I say things
- that are important.
- Ask an interpreter.
I have one.
It won't take long.
It's important but can be said
- in 3 syllables.
- I await your message.
I shall send it.
I have 3 syllables to say for him.
Listen carefully: he loves you.
He'd like to say it himself.
100,000 times he'd say,
"I love you."
And the echo would reply...
15 years pass.
Louisette and the man are married.
She loves her husband's profession
and plays the female roles
with great aplomb.
The sky has darkened.
It is June 1791.
The royal family
returns from Varennes.
After his pitiful flight,
the wretched Louis XVI
is brought back to Paris.
Ludovic is 26.
This return grieves him.
Bloodthirsty voices are raised:
saving the king
became his obsession.
For him, the king's safety
depended on public opinion.
But who embodied this
at sessions of the La Convention?
The tricoteuses.
Those merciless shrews,
those furies of the guillotine.
Out!
I share the opinion of Robespierre.
I urge the people to rise up
against corrupt politicians.
Silence!
We have a way of
reducing the rich to the level
of the sans-culottes: leave them
nothing to cover their behinds!
You laugh as you go to the beyond
In the wagon stepping back
Like crayfish
And like a crab
Climb up those steps
Who laughs last laughs loudest
As you put your head
On the block
Ludovic planned to coax women
into saving Louis XVI.
But how to go about it?
United, they were too formidable.
So he realized
that to convince them,
he must take them one by one
and seduce them.
His 200,000 francs were useful.
He had ravishing girls
and hideous girls.
Did he get his way?
On the contrary.
He had many disappointments.
Some let him,
encouraging him
with a hypocritical smile
or pitiful eyes.
Others, smarter and more venal,
claimed to be converted
to his cause.
He gave them
the money they demanded
to bribe the Temple prison guards
or their brothers.
One led him on for 3 days.
She wanted to know more.
She was a singer,
but she had him singing.
Demure then sluttish,
saying yes then no,
she had him lose his mind.
In trying to conquer her,
he became enamored.
Like a blind toy in her hands,
he told her everything:
his plans for the king's escape,
his kinship with the king,
his mother's love for Louis XV,
his 200,000-franc endowment,
their small home,
his puppeteer step-father
converted to the royal cause...
Then she jumped at him
to scratch out his eyes.
She badly wounded him.
She showed him the door,
promising
he'd hear from her again.
She kept her word.
He was unlucky.
She was Maraf's servant
and pregnant with his child.
Oh yes...
- See, citizen?
- Yes.
Hello, citizen.
What's that?
A new, extremely ingenious guillotine
that he's proposing.
How's it new?
It has two places.
Imagine the time we'd save.
I'll think it over.
Until tomorrow.
I have something to tell you.
Go ahead.
She obtained a warrant
to arrest Ludovic,
his mother and step-father,
on the very day,
24 October 1792,
when Marat declared
that to rest easily,
another 270,000 more heads
needed to roll.
Ludovic, aware of the danger,
didn't return home for two days.
As his eye was injured, he stayed
at a hotel in a blind alley.
But great misfortune had struck.
the previous evening,
during a show,
his mother and step-father
had been arrested.
Two plain-clothes policemen
waited to arrest them.
Louisette and her husband
were guillotined six days later,
as was the director
of another theatre
for the same reason.
What I tell you is true.
They were in the very last wagon
crammed in with 45 other poor souls.
On learning of this,
Ludovic swore to avenge them.
He would later have the opportunity.
But he didn't take it,
as you will soon discover why.
But first,
let's look at the following events
on the Champs-Elysées.
It is 9 November, or 18 Brumaire
on the revolutionary calendar.
General Bonaparte
is pacing beneath the trees.
He's thinking.
Ludovic, ruined,
no longer wears a wig.
He has turned the pavilion into
a fashionable ice-cream parlor.
He must hide his background
and move with the times.
In palaces,
the fleur-de-lis is covered up.
Bonaparte has chosen
the letter "N" as his insignia.
1804. A man takes an evening stroll
on the Champs-Elysées.
Philippe Lebon,
inventor of the gaslight.
His idea was refused only to be
adopted in England a year later.
That evening, in the shadows,
he was murdered.
When I said the Champs-Elysées
wasn't lit well enough
and that it was dangerous,
I wasn't wrong.
My invention is wonderful.
Lighting by gas.
If they had listened to me,
a man wouldn't have been murdered
tonight in this place.
Too bad for them.
I told them.
I swear,
when you've invented something,
you're happy to be proved right.
Bonaparte and Josephine descended
the Champs-Elysées, acclaimed.
Today, the Emperor descends
with Marie-Louise
in a carriage that can turn
into a hotel room.
Marie-Louise will pass smiling
there where 17 years earlier,
her aunt Marie-Antoinette
lost her head.
1811. The height of the Empire.
Ludovic, barely recognizable,
sees his ice-cream parlor
growing success.
The rich meet there
for his delicious ices.
3 vanilla ices!
3 vanilla ices!
Coming right up.
Sorry.
It's the new waitress.
- Is that you?
- Yes.
You must serve the customers.
Or else what purpose do you serve?
And serve them quick.
I like your pretty little face
with its malicious eyes.
- Our ices?
- Coming right up!
Hurry now.
Waitress!
I'm seeing to her!
She can't go any faster.
Go on.
But don't tire yourself out.
Pretty little face.
And come back quick.
1814. The fall of the Empire
and the accession of Louis XVIII.
Long live the king!
In the royal palaces,
the Bourbon emblem reblooms.
Then the eagle flies back
for 100 days.
Finally, Waterloo
and the definitive departure.
The Champs-Elysées sees his outline
one last time,
under the same trees
where he paced 16 years before.
I often think of those two men.
For me, they are two distinct men.
Imagine them meeting,
their surprise,
and what they would say.
- Well, well! Could I be wrong?
- You're not.
Was I this young man?
What? Is this fat man me?
We're very different.
We loved different women.
I loved Josephine.
I didn't know Marie-Louise.
Age changes you,
but to this extent!
- This 28-year-old general...
- Who ends up a private.
- Emperor.
- Not any more.
- I will be when I die.
- That depends on England.
You can always count
on your enemies.
I worked so hard
to make a name for myself.
You just thought of a first name.
You wanted to be Napoleon.
Why didn't you stay a republican?
Because you weren't sincere.
No. You were never
a true republican.
The real emperor between us was you.
To designate our supporters,
they called them "Bonapartistes"
and never "Napoleonians".
If you could do it all again,
would you?
Oh... not for an empire!
We return to reality. As his outline
vanishes from the Champs-Elysées,
Louis XVIII descends it
to take his place
on the worm-eaten throne
of his forebears.
Let's catch up with the Emperor
on St Helena.
Come in.
The year was 1819.
He was in love with a Swedish girl
who followed him.
She gave into him with abandon,
happiness and passion.
As an orphan,
she owed nothing to nobody.
9 months later,
a daughter was born.
He was both
her godfather and father.
Named Léone,
she was his last joy on earth.
I'll talk of her again.
Now, back to Paris
and my grandfather.
It was April 1819.
While taking some air,
a girl passed by who resembled
his tricoteuse of yore.
He couldn't believe his eyes.
This could be his chance
for revenge!
I'll be back in 5 minutes.
Where is the lady going
in such a hurry?
To Place Sainte-Odile
on the Champs-Elysées.
Were I to accompany her?
She wouldn't be
in the least put out.
- What?
- Nothing.
- Am I ugly?
- I was wondering.
Tell me when you know.
Come on.
The resemblance was striking.
That pale face, naive eyes
and mocking smile.
That same perverted, fearful charm.
And she gave him proof
of her heavy past:
her taste for destruction.
Breaking pipes...
Oh, what fun!
Hitting the Turk's head...
Oh, what delight!
No! He's a real Turk.
Sorry, monsieur.
Oh, I'll try that!
And hurling balls
at defenseless manikins,
causing heads to roll.
Don't miss him!
What's wrong with her?
She laid them all to waste.
She was drunk on pleasure
and he pulled her into the shade.
The resemblance seemed
even stronger.
Saying yes then no,
then finally giving in.
She gave in, but he was smitten.
He would ask her,
but she headed him off.
- So, am I ugly?
- I've forgotten all about that.
Do you want to ask me something?
Yes, but it would break the spell.
I prefer to wait a while.
She was free and gay.
He took her home.
"Hush. A little mystery.
Come here.
"Close your eyes and be quiet."
She was poor, young, supple,
slender and had lovely eyes.
enamored, he hired her first
as a waitress.
He then fell in love.
When she finally confessed
she was Marat's daughter,
it was too late for vengeance.
Why tell? He loved her.
He had sworn to get revenge
and let the chance slip by.
Better still,
he married her 6 months later.
And it lasted till the end,
for she made him happy.
Ludovic was 54 when my grandmother
gave birth to my father.
When he died 10 years later,
my grandmother
joined a convent.
The only evidence of her past
as the daughter of a tricoteuse
was knowing how to light fires,
bleeding pigs
and cutting the heads off chickens.
On 5 May 1821,
Napoleon died on St Helena
and became immortal.
On only one day a year,
5 May, the sun sets in the center
of the Arc de Triomphe.
Louis XVIII died
and Charles X acceded.
What can I say of him?
He was strikingly anonymous.
Of course "X"
is the Roman numeral for "tenth".
But he could have been "X"
for practically unknown.
Time passed.
Louis-Philippe became king.
Note the resemblance
between my father and his.
Same profile, same grace,
same gentleness.
There's the king,
riding with his five sons!
How handsome they look!
D'Aumale, Montpensier, Orléans,
Nemours and Joinville.
5 sons: the lineage was assured,
but none of them reigned.
France was back to normal,
with foremen struggling
to get work done
by lazy workmen.
God willing,
we shan't ever see the opposite.
Let's stay in the happy days
of 1830,
when progress was for all to see.
Ready! Watch closely.
Come and see this!
This is the century of progress!
May I?
While tidying up,
I came across this blueprint.
It's badly drawn but ingenious.
It's signed JJR. A total mystery.
- It's an amateur's hand.
- Surely a friend of my mother's.
The design seemed
so original and intelligent,
I didn't hesitate.
This JJR fellow was no imbecile.
You can get an idea
of the garden from here.
- It's huge.
- I'll have 1000 places.
I'll keep the name
chosen by the mysterious JJR.
- Le Concert des Ambassadeurs.
- Very good.
But the work is long.
- Several more months?
- Four.
- I'll have to close the pavilion.
- Naturally.
- What will you do?
- I don't know.
- Come on a trip with us.
- A trip?
To fetch the Emperor's ashes
from St Helena.
It's tempting.
But I'm not sure it's my place.
- You're French?
- Yes.
Well?
- It's due to who my grandfather was.
- Politics then?
I'm a royalist through and through.
- No more than we are.
- That would be difficult.
- Don't you know who we are?
- No.
- Joinville and Montpensier.
- Your Highnesses!
His Majesty having decided
that his son
should fetch the ashes...
- We're more royalist.
- Your Highness is right.
He enrolled with no idea
that what was urging him to go
was his destiny. For what did he see
on disembarking at St Helena?
An unexpectedly exquisite creature:
Léone, the Emperor's daughter.
They stood side by side
at the heart-wrenching ceremony.
When the coffin was opened,
he was so well preserved
that all present fell to their knees.
They made a disparate
yet harmonious couple.
He fell in love with her
and told her 2 days later.
She appeared to share his feelings.
But she was hesitant about marriage.
She was the Emperor's daughter,
which is far from nothing.
But he was not unworthy.
"You are daughter of the Emperor.
I am grandson of Louis XV.
"We're quits."
His reply enchanted Leone,
and they wed one month later.
They opened
Le Concert des Ambassadeurs.
It was an immediate, huge success.
We'll be packed.
Quite a knock.
Come in.
Yes?
If it's for a free seat...
No. I'm looking for employment.
In the orchestra.
The best one: conductor.
I'm a conductor. Forgive me.
I heard...
I'm unhappy with mine.
Mr Brunin recommends me to you.
Thank you.
- If what he says is true...
- I believe so.
- Bravo. You're German?
- Saxon. I was born in Leipzig.
As a composer,
I could write
- some pots-pourris.
- Interesting.
I'm very poor.
A few coins
- would suffice.
- You start tomorrow.
With joy.
- Rehearsal at 2 p.m.
- Understood.
Your name?
Thank you.
Richard Wagner.
The next day, Wagner rehearsed
his pot-pourri on the favorite
which did not bear the stamp
of his genius. Rather odd.
The Ambassadeurs musicians
found him surprising.
My father was delighted
with his find.
A few days later,
things turned sour.
It was my father's fault.
He's excellent, but I don't want him
using his own compositions.
- Tell him so.
- I did tell him.
One more time and he's gone.
His music is dreadful.
It's a piece I composed last night.
Let's go through it.
Thank you.
For wanting to give the premier
of Tannheuser in Paris,
Wagner, alas,
was thanked by my father,
though not how he should have been.
Despite this incident,
the success of the Ambassadeurs
increased.
- Are you amused by this life?
- Immensely.
Such happiness!
We'll long speak of his glory
Under our thatched roofs
Our humble roof in 50 years
Will know no other history
The villagers will come...
If they knew who we were,
it would seem funny.
Funny, but sad too.
They'll never know.
It's our business.
Mother, shorten our watch
Some say he brought us harm...
I mean it:
I find this profession interesting.
Truly. Choosing songs,
having them sung well...
It can influence people.
- In what way?
- Oh, I don't know.
Tell us of him, Grandmother
Grandmother
Tell us of him
My children, in this village
Followed by kings he passed
So many moons ago
I had just been married
I climbed the hill on foot
And stood where I could see
He wore his little hat
And his gray riding coat...
- What's that?
- A new song.
He said
"Hello, my dear"
"Hello, my dear"
He spoke to you, Grandmother?
- Who by?
- Béranger.
I chose it.
Are you mad at me?
No. I love you too much.
But if anyone shouts,
"Long live the Emperor," it's out.
Long live the Emperor!
You can take it out.
They already know it.
The Republic calls us
Learn how to fight or to cure
When the people sing,
danger is not far off.
It took one gunshot...
to spark the 1848 revolution.
Poor Louis-Philippe left.
A departure arranged in 20 minutes.
A lamentable emigration
of the king and Queen Marie-Amelie.
A pitiful departure for England
after a stop in Honfleur.
The end of an adventurous life
for an intelligent prince
who enriched France, loved peace
and was a fine king.
Maybe one day
he'll be recognized as such.
A sad stay in this inn
where the king hid
beneath an unlikely hat
and behind dark glasses.
Those people unnerve me.
They're very mysterious.
I'd like to know their name.
- Ask them.
- I hadn't thought of that.
It's an innkeeper's right.
Monsieur, Madame, may I be so bold
as to ask for your name?
- Our name?
- Why yes! You must have one.
Certainly.
To come across as true republicans,
do you know the name they chose?
Mr and Mrs Lebrun.
Amazing,
but very true.
My parents were divided
over the republic.
The Emperor and the Bourbons
faced off.
- Where are we going?
- Where have we been?
- What's happened to France?
- It followed its destiny.
I do not agree.
Good riddance!
Speak differently of the king!
- France doesn't want a king.
- We may have lost
the Orleans,
but the older branch remains.
We don't want it.
France wants an empire.
An empire?
Never!
I'd prefer a republic!
Do you seriously see France
as a republic?
Chance would be a fine thing!
Long live the Emperor!
- Long live the king!
- Long live the republic!
Don't write "Long live the king"!
So we're not ripe for a republic?
Gentlemen!
All opinions are allowed.
But if anyone shouts
"Long live the Emperor!"
I'll give him a bunch of fives!
Have you seen the new hats?
Simply lovely.
When you three are all ministers,
you'll remember it.
Yes, step-father.
Politics is all the rage.
People don't realize
it's become a career.
It's now a profession,
like architecture,
chemistry and joinery.
You need certain talents to do it.
It helps if it's...
Well, if it's passed down
from father to son.
Funny lot, the republicans.
They're against hereditary monarchy,
but I bet that in 30 years,
they'll follow in father's footsteps
as politicians.
All Frenchmen
think they can be politicians.
They can't cure
their wife's sore throat,
they call a plumber for a leak,
but they'd take power
if it was offered to them.
- Sorry, I'm deaf.
- Why not say so earlier?
I couldn't get a word in.
Now I have to repeat it all
to someone else.
Long live the Emperor!
I can't bear this.
I'd rather separate
than listen to you.
The first one, fine.
But this one, never!
Separation was inevitable.
And it happened swiftly.
- Adieu!
- Adieu.
And here's the Second Empire.
For me,
the Second Empire was a waltz.
Take a look
at the famous Mabille Ball,
where all Paris sang, danced and fought.
In 1840, we danced the polka.
In 1850, we danced the Lancers.
Later, we caused quite an uproar.
But in 1852,
Olivier Métra was conducting
and the waltz began, gently at first.
It was perfected by the Duo de Morny,
the Emperor's brother.
We waltzed in the Tuileries,
waltzed with our hearts,
waltzed with our feelings,
our customs, our governments.
No sooner elected
than they were ousted.
"We don't want you anymore.
Next!"
Ephemeral ministers overturned,
a whole endless stream of them.
You're right to smile.
They got rid of you
even before your hair turned white.
Jacques Offenbach
made Métra waltz
and his baton became a wand.
Boys waltzed with girls
in the streets.
The bourgeois waltzed at home.
All France waltzed.
France had fun.
It re-adopted Offenbach.
I can hear the noise
of boots, of boots...
A noise that augured ill.
The noise grew louder every day.
War came,
and the boots were Prussian.
1870,1871.
Defeat. Disaster.
The surrender of the Emperor
at Sedan.
France was invaded.
Fly the white flag.
Then the saddest of days:
the Prussians descended
the Champs-Elysées to Schubert.
That day, a young woman
approached a man who was weeping.
My father greeted
my repentant mother.
They were never apart again.
Soon after, on 15 September 1874,
the fruit of their reconciliation,
I was born
in the same pavilion
as my father and grandfather.
10 years later, my father died.
My mother is still alive.
She's 116.
She talks a lot of the future.
My life is odd,
because it's a double life.
I'm a teacher.
On Sundays?
On Sundays I'm something else.
What do you do on Sundays?
- The puppet show!
- Quite.
Me too.
I've been going for 32 years.
I sold the Ambassadeurs
and bought the puppet theatre
as retribution
for the suffering I cause you.
- On weekdays, I annoy you.
- Yes, sir.
- On Sundays, I amuse you.
- Yes!
I may punish you sometimes.
But I never hand out detentions
on Sundays.
I should be the first punished.
My recompense is your laughter.
I spend hours with my puppets
and this lovely lady,
my wife of 10 years.
A quick word on her:
she was lost, I found her.
I found her on the Champs-Elysées.
But don't think
she may have been left there
by one of the presidents
of the Third Republic.
As for my son, who's 10,
well, children,
he's sitting amongst you.
This is him.
Great-great-grandson of Louis XV,
of the Emperor Napoleon
and a tricoteuse.
He's not sure whether to put
his hand on his heart
like Louis XVI,
in his tunic, like the Emperor
or in a fist,
like his great-grandfather.
But he does know one thing:
in any circumstance,
however serious,
there are 3 words we all agree on
and can say in unison:
Vive la France!
Please multiply
2,834,783
by 621,862.
Well?
Well, well...
Today is 15 September 1938.
Yes, sir!
How odd.
What if we forgot this exercise,
which doesn't seem so urgent?
Would you like me
to talk of something else?
Yes, sir!
You don't really care
what 2,834,783
multiplied by 621,862 is, do you?
No, sir.
Neither do I, if you must know.
Shall I entertain you for an hour?
Yes, sir.
Then I shall try.
But I shan't dilly-dally.
I shall go directly
to the most beautiful of avenues.
Have you heard
of the Champs-Elysées?
I like your laughter
that bears witness to your irony.
However...
permit me to bring it to an end.
So you know the Champs-Elysées.
All know this magnificent avenue
that goes from Place de la Concorde
to the Arc de Triomphe.
But have you ever wondered
about its history?
For a history it has.
Indeed, a very fine one.
Varied, unexpected, entertaining
and dramatic...
at times.
It goes from one extreme
to the other.
It's a fine history
because it is that of France.
I'll tell it in small details,
according to my taste.
I shall tell its stories
rather than its history.
For reasons you shall learn,
I'm particularly fond of this avenue.
Whenever I return to Paris,
I cross it with little feeling.
I love and understand
its embankments,
its old streets
and even its boulevards.
But on the Champs-Elysees,
my heart beats exquisitely,
because it's there that Paris
smiles at you from all angles.
The supreme honor
for our glorious soldiers
has been a march past there.
Our best-known unknown soldier
rests in peace there.
As an homage to visiting sovereigns:
a drive down the Champs-Elysées.
And as lovers,
something they'll know later,
what do we say to taxi drivers?
"Take the Champs-Elysées."
Route, road and direction
to happiness eternal.
"Take the Champs-Elysées!"
It's a non-address,
it's a straight-line detour.
Taking the Champs-Elysées
with the one you love
is a drive to the unknown.
So let's take the Champs-Elysées,
since I have
some revelations to make.
Revelations?
Extremely important ones.
Indeed.
So without further ado,
I shall begin.
Can you all see
the Champs-Elysées?
Well, back in 1617,
there was a dense forest here,
populated by wolves, foxes
and boars.
The Rouvray Forest.
Named for its oaks, not the man.
Thank you.
It was Marie de Medici,
mother of Louis XIII,
who wanted an avenue leading away
from her Tuileries Palace,
though it was built
by her minister Concini.
- Un momento...
- No!
Let's not speak Italian
in the presence of the king.
A Florentine like her,
and an adventurer,
Concini governed France,
and did so badly.
The king, only 16, realized this
and hated him for it.
We French have always tended
to retain foreigners
who were far from necessary.
"Splendid, beautiful, magnificent,"
thought the king.
"As all roads lead to Rome,
Concini could take it to go home!
"The toad gets rich at our expense,
keeps me from power
"and has designed these huge grounds
to hold me prisoner."
Mother agrees with him.
It's awful.
There he is.
They're approaching.
Be on guard.
I hate to see him
with Albert de Luynes.
The king needs lighter,
more frivolous advisers.
Yes.
You're right. And hang me
if I don't hang him tomorrow.
- Here to talk affairs of state?
- No, your Majesty.
We came to announce
that tomorrow at 11 o'clock,
a boar hunt will be held here.
Well I never!
Why does his Majesty laugh?
Because I too just planned
a boar hunt.
But this is even better.
You look after your hunt
and I'll look after mine.
And we shall judge
which is the best.
Madame. Adieu, Monsieur.
The queen and Concini
were bowled over.
What could the king mean?
And why that exasperating laugh?
The next day,
as Louis XIII tracked a fierce boar,
the Baron de Vitry
caught up with Concini
and in the king's name
snared him.
A fine double for Louis XIII.
When Vitly came with the news,
the king had the mort blown twice.
The boar was hung by its trotters
and roasted.
And the other wild beast
met a similar fate.
Later, one hung by its trotters
the other by his feet,
they were both roasted.
I leave it to you to approve or not
of such customs.
But calmly remember
what's done is done.
- Yes, sir.
- Good.
For 100 years, from 1617 to 1717,
the Champs-Elysées didn't change.
It was opened to the public and
gentlemen crossed paths with yokels.
This is the Rand-Point.
This path would become
the Avenue Montaigne.
On it stood
Paris's first open-air dance hall.
It was small, but quite something.
People met there, sat there,
fought duels
and greeted the king
as Louis XIV passed
on his way to Versailles
to oversee the construction
of the Chateau.
Long live the king!
It was a gorgeous spectacle,
since Louis XIV
lived far from humbly.
And thank God too.
For if he had been modest,
France would have
no Chateau de Versailles.
People say kings overspent,
that they used our money
without our say-so.
But in building such splendors,
were they not putting our money
to one side?
The years passed.
1715 saw the autumn
of the Sun-King's life.
He climbed, young and triumphant
into this carriage
and, 50 years on, stepped out
aged, fallen, unrecognizable.
The boy welcoming him
is his great-grandson, Louis XV.
I hastened to reach Louis XV
and I shall speak long of him.
I shall speak neither well
nor ill of him.
He was a beloved king
in the first half of his reign.
He was called "the Beloved".
But later,
he became the most hated king ever.
Unpopularity is irksome
for a monarch.
But ceasing to be popular
is irreparably bad.
His equestrian statue by Bouchardon
was begun when he was adored
and finished 18 years later
when he was hated.
"The Beloved" took on
an ironic and cruel meaning.
One night,
two men climbed up the statue,
hung a placard round the king's neck,
saying, "Pity a poor blind man"
and bandaged his eyes.
In truth, it was love that was blind.
He loved Madame de Pompadour.
Or rather "still loved".
By "still love",
we mean "love a little less".
He was most attached to her.
But feeling most attached
is realizing one isn't free.
But one's fifties
are demanding and impatient.
Let's jump several years to 1764.
The Champs-Elysées have changed.
The forest is a park
and the alley an avenue.
Note these young trees.
You'll watch them grow.
Small pavilions arose in the woods.
So-called "hunting lodges".
Carnivals and circuses
were also allowed
to temporarily set up camp.
We've always loved
freaks and monsters.
Handsome creatures measure
the distance that separates them.
While the ugly can make
favorable comparisons.
Elephant men and bearded ladies
softened expressions
and led to the conclusion
"I'm better than that!"
Does the good sir wish to come
into my small home?
Why, pray?
To know your future.
To you, who know so well your past,
I will tell your future.
And my present?
Your present will be my gift.
Come.
Come, I shall.
Roll up, roll up!
Come and see the Siamese twins.
- Ah, so they're from Siam?
- Don't talk to me, sir.
I'm irked as it is.
Someone stole my wig
and my boots pinch.
- What was your question?
- Are they from Siam?
No, sir.
When we say "Siamese",
it doesn't mean they're from Siam,
but that they are twins
joined by a single membrane.
So they're not from Siam?
No. One's from England,
the other France.
They give me nothing but trouble.
Now what is it?
She wants to get married.
I've a right to.
She wants to be a nun.
I want to get married.
- They're mad
- No, not mad.
Incomplete one without the other.
It's complicated.
The one who wants to love
has no heart.
The other one has it.
The one who wants to be a nun
has no faith.
The other one has it.
No, come on.
What is it?
- You're going to die.
- When?
- Not just yet.
- Just as well.
Rene, leave the little girl alone.
Yes, Father.
Oh, and I also see...
What she feared most became true.
Pompadour was no longer loved
by her royal lover.
In melancholy,
he had fallen in love with love.
He loved only love.
- See you soon.
- I hope so.
He loved only one woman,
but now it was women.
He loved any woman
as long as she was lovable.
It was the terrible time
of the deer park.
How delightful:
hiding behind Hecate to signal to me.
- Would his Majesty forgive me?
- 'Tis done.
- I'd love to know.
- Know what?
What the deer park is.
- Heaven on earth.
- Can we visit it?
- How old are you?
- 16.
- Am I too young?
- No.
Not too young.
You're just right.
- I heard you were seeking a doe.
- You know what that is?
Somewhat. I hear the buck
is most voracious.
And when he is hungry,
he is served a doe on a divan
and he devours her with kisses.
- And you're not afraid?
- No. I wish to die like the other does.
Die?
A doe told me about it.
She saw him last night.
She said, "Oh, he killed me!"
As you come back, I'd like to go.
Do you think the buck
would take me as his doe?
I think so.
- And would he kill me?
- Yes.
And if you die well,
you'd have all you need to live.
I love still and love sincere,
when I give myself up
to disturbing pleasures.
Due to my years
I need double measures.
The dear Marquise is anxious.
She creates a void around the king
with her dreadful awkwardness.
- Chauvelin.
- Sire?
Our game of chess!
I love chess.
I like it less still.
You must not
Be astonished
That my young age is the reason
And that of the four seasons
The one I prefer
You must not be astonished
Is autumn
Diplomat, soldier and gallant,
Chauvelin was the king's best friend.
He often had odd encounters
and Louis XV loved to hear of them.
Anecdote?
Yes, Sire.
Yesterday I was strolling
along the Champs-Elysées,
when I was drawn
by a ravishing face.
Whether from Provence
or from North Africa
didn't matter. I followed it.
As a fantastic prediction,
she told me I would die
in the same year
as your Majesty.
Isn't that amusing?
No. Not really.
It barely makes me smile.
It doesn't appear amusing at all.
How can one meet her?
I want to see her promptly.
Dubertret!
Majesty?
Two envoys from the king,
two policemen, recognizable
even in plain clothes,
collared her.
Secretly taken to Versailles,
she was presented to the king.
She was afraid.
The king reassured her.
You risk nothing.
But I would like to know
what you see on our palms.
First, me see lovely hands.
You have a kingly hand.
- That wasn't the question.
- Regardless, you have pretty hands.
What do you see
on both our palms?
Well, me see...
And no lying.
Never lie. Me can't.
Me want to, but me can't.
Me see a little friend
dying in the same year
as you.
When will he die?
- That's the question.
- No...
- Me never say.
- Why not?
Because me don't know.
Me no silly.
Dates...
Dates are for eating!
Never say.
Are you poking fun?
Oh no!
He is too powerful for that.
Who'll die first?
Little friend.
Yes. Me certain of that.
That's the main thing.
How much time between our deaths?
- 1 month? 2 months? 3 months?
- 6 months.
Not bad.
In the meantime,
you have lovely eyes.
As she speaks freely, so shall l.
Where will you sleep tonight?
No. Me not know.
For a mind reader,
that's a bad sign.
Let's see, seer.
You who can see the future
read your own palm.
Maybe you'll see
how you'll spend this coming night.
Oh! Us? Together?
I'm no soothsayer,
but I'm sure of it.
Isn't it written?
On my palm it's hard to read.
Shame!
But I can read your face
like a book.
The Marquis de Chauvelin
regretted being so talkative.
- You again? Always you!
- King's orders.
I was mad to have mentioned
that prediction.
7, 8, 9, 10...
Jack, Queen, King!
Since that fateful day,
my life is poisoned.
The king's surgeon
examines me every morning.
- Nothing!
- Is that worrying?
Yes!
I'm fine,
but he bleeds me once a week.
King's orders.
He surrounds me with precautions:
fur collar in April,
woolen hose in September.
Yes. I know: "King's orders!"
- My food is controlled.
- A little melon.
- No wine.
- Very little meat.
And no gravy!
- I still have my cakes.
- No cakes.
- Why? They're so tasty.
- King's orders!
- Dear God...
- Protect yourself.
Protect me!
- Silk scarf.
- In August.
King's orders.
Careful! No nubile mistresses.
No imprudence.
Your life is precious,
since mine depends on it.
- You deprive me of all.
- Natural, my dear friend.
I want to preserve you.
We shall die in the same year.
I, six months after you.
By prolonging his life,
I prolong my own.
So I gather.
- She's charming.
- Very.
- Don't I know you.
- Yes, Majesty.
- Don't I know you well?
- Yes, Majesty.
So I thought.
I know her well.
We only have your leftovers.
When there are any!
We'll meet again.
Now, back to the subject.
You deprive me of all
and yourself of nothing.
Deprive myself?
But you're well.
No precautions for me.
You take them.
You'll see.
Go over there for a moment.
Chauvelin... Your arm.
I feel tired.
Please, don't get up.
Goodnight. Please stay.
Goodnight. Goodnight.
As long as you have nothing,
I'm in no danger.
The more I deprive you,
the less I deprive myself.
So no harm comes to you,
you'll stay at Versailles.
You'll sleep here, while I go out.
Yes, sir. Thus it is.
Sleep in my bed.
I'll have it so!
Don't wake up.
I shall wake you.
In 2, 4 or 6 hours.
- My boots and cloak?
- Ready, Sire.
I'm doubly anxious.
But what torments me the most,
the king's illness
or his health?
- Pompadour's annoyed.
- Indeed.
And an annoyed woman
is often annoying.
- She annoys the king.
- A pity.
- And kings hate that.
- As do all men.
- Is my carriage ready?
- Yes, Sire.
Perfect.
- Shall I accompany the king?
- No.
As for you, sleep fists clenched.
Nice and warm under the covers.
Sleep enough for two,
so as to make up for the strength
I shall lose. Farewell.
Was he truly ill earlier?
Has he truly gone to bed?
I need to know.
How wrong she is.
' No!
" YES!
- You believe so?
- I do.
Incredible.
It was sworn to me.
Favorites see themselves
as married women.
And are treated as such:
they are deceived.
She cannot prevent Louis XV
doing as he pleases.
She shouldn't hold secret confabs.
She shouldn't listen to gossips.
She shouldn't trust them.
If she doesn't want to know,
she should close her eyes.
Absolutely!
He slept.
Well, Chauvelin did.
But eyes are fooled at night.
So for her, all was well.
The king reached the Champs-Elysees.
Where was he going? To one
of the aforementioned pavilions.
He was enamored by a pastel.
A ravishing pastel
that came to life in his presence.
16, angel eyes, a sweet mouth,
and flowering perversity.
He had joined her
every other night for a week.
Her mother corrected her faux pas.
For some reason,
he called her Louisette
and had introduced himself
as the Marquis de Chauvelin.
Spirits calmed, Pompadour returned.
Her friends had made
a thousand plans
for her required position.
- To keep the king, do this.
- No. Rather, this.
If I were you...
There's only one solution.
No! Give up the fight.
Take my advice.
The king is old enough
to return to childhood.
If he wants a plaything,
give him one.
If you choose her,
you can make her vanish
when he grows too fond of her.
Indeed.
I've a list
of the youngest, prettiest,
stupidest and most venal maids
in France.
Pick the king's plaything yourself,
and you shall keep him.
I'll pick this one by chance.
- I believe in chance.
- Chance is God himself.
I wonder how He got involved?
I shan't tarry.
I'll leave in secret.
- Alone?
- I prefer.
- Where to?
- Her home.
I would that you were freer.
You are not at ease.
- I'm timid.
- Why?
You're a marquis.
- Does that impress you?
- Of course.
- A marquis isn't much.
- Be quiet.
- If I were a duke?
- I'd look away.
And if I were king?
I'd die.
- Well I'm not.
- You hardly need say.
Chance is often right.
Two hours later,
Pompadour was at the pavilion
where, in the king's arms,
Louisette was losing her timidity.
This very instant.
- She's not alone?
- No. But that is no matter.
- The king must come first.
- In this case, I'm not so sure.
Darling, come quickly.
Excuse her, Marquis.
It's of extreme importance.
Your cloak, quickly.
Quickly.
Yes. Don't ask.
It's most unexpected.
I'm quite overcome.
You make a mother happy.
If your father could see you,
he'd be proud.
Go, my girl.
Follow this fine lady.
And do as she says.
Sorry, Marquis.
I'm sure you'll understand.
Don't be angry with her.
Madame de Pompadour is taking her
to the king.
- What?
- To Versailles.
My hat. My cloak, if you will.
- Are you displeased?
- No.
Not displeased.
It's more consequential than that.
We're being followed.
In here.
Stick to my instructions.
Your future depends on it.
I understand, madame.
Who are you?
A plaything sent by a lady
to your Majesty
- to give him sweet dreams.
- What a good idea!
Stop there, Chauvelin!
- Give me back my bed.
- But, Majesty!
Majesty?
9 months later,
as is often true of 9 months,
Louisette gave birth
to a bouncing baby named Ludovic.
The king gave him 200,000 pounds.
He has your hands.
As long as he has, please God,
your lovely face.
- He's so small.
- He's an infant.
He had other children.
But he adored this one
and lovingly taught him to walk.
Ludovic, come and see!
He gave him a carriage
drawn by two small goats.
That's why such carriages
still run on the Champs-Elysées,
a royal concession since 1770.
His visits grew further apart.
But two or three times a year,
the king stopped at the pavilion.
The boy jumped into his carriage
and into his father's arms.
The king had his flaws.
But despite his flaws
and his errors,
we owe him a lot. For one night
he said to his minister...
- Choiseul.
- Sire?
What if we annexed Corsica?
Corsica?
Corsica is an excellent outpost
on the route to Africa.
But there are
more pressing matters.
I do not share your opinion.
Since we have the chance,
let's seize it immediately.
So be it.
This was in 1769.
Among the pregnant women
in Ajaccio at the time,
was a certain Letizia Bonaparte.
Let's not go too far,
but it is a fact:
if the King of France
had not annexed Corsica then,
six months later,
on 15 August 1769,
Napoleon would have been Italian
and the world different.
But God wanted things otherwise.
Shortly after, on 5 December 1773,
the king was playing chess
with his friend Chauvelin.
Pompadour had died
and had been replaced
by Madame du Barry.
Seductive and adorable,
Louis XV lost his head over her.
And later, she would lose hers
at the guillotine.
The king had turned 64.
Chauvelin was a mere 57.
He had aged,
but nothing signaled his death.
10 years had passed
since the gypsy's prediction.
That night,
Chauvelin seemed oddly distracted.
The king watched him.
- What's wrong, Chauvelin?
- I don't know.
- You look sickly.
- I do feel a certain angst.
- Are you in pain?
- No, Sire.
But that hardly reassures me.
- I feel unwell.
- Chauvelin! Live, dear friend!
- Stay alive.
- I ask only that.
It's not through lack of trying.
But I get the impression
that your Majesty...
has only six months more to live.
Chauvelin!
Someone help him!
Chauvelin!
Alas.
He died at Versailles
in the arms of Louis XV
on 5 December 1773.
- The date today is...?
- 5 December, Majesty.
Exactly six months later,
on 7 May,
the king died.
His death was dramatic,
abominable, horrible.
I won't spare you the details.
He had contracted smallpox.
All kinds of jokes were made.
Kings never have anything small.
A king dies differently.
Custom has it
that courtiers parade in and out
day and night.
This constant to-ing and fro-ing
seems uncivilized to us,
but more uncivilized,
was these gentlemen's lack of grace.
They did not want to enter.
Of the forty lords
who should have been present,
there were only six.
When his agony began,
they became even scarcer,
through fear of contagion.
On the eve of his death,
the king was abandoned.
The word seems excessive,
but it is not.
The dauphin and his wife,
Louis XVI et Marie-Antoinette,
were in their apartments
facing those of the king.
They prayed...
Dear God, protect me!
They were to be informed
of his death
by a candle at Louis X V's window.
Once he had let out
his dying breath,
it was to be blown out.
It sounds like savagely.
The court was there,
crammed in and muttering.
I bet you 25 louis
he doesn't make it.
There were quarrels
and raised voices.
And even bursts of laughter.
On the night of his death,
he confessed for 17 minutes.
Below his windows, the people sang.
Oh, my dear friend!
My pain is becoming intolerable.
May his Majesty endure it
to pay for his sins.
If it's to pay for my sins,
I must suffer much longer.
Gentlemen, the king is dead.
The king is dead?
Long live the king!
He who had reigned for 60 years
was alone in his room.
Customary honors for deceased
sovereigns were dispensed with.
His body was placed
in a double oak coffin
and only three missionaries
performed the wake.
He was shamefully buried at night.
Among the indifferent,
cruel or curious subjects,
only two wept that night:
Louisette and Ludovic,
a charming, innocent victim
with a surprising fate
that oppressed
rather than favored.
You may well wonder
why I speak with such insistence
and tenderness
of the son Louis XV conceived
at 54 years old.
Well, let me tell you why.
Louis XV was born in 1710.
When he was 54,
which was in 1764,
he conceived a son
who was named Ludovic.
So Ludovic was born in 1765.
When he was 54, in 1819,
he became father to a son.
This second boy, born in 1820,
was my father, Jean-Louis.
When he was 54, in 1874,
he became father to a son.
And this third boy, born in Paris
on 15 September 1874, was me.
I am the great-grandson
of Louis XV.
I'm touched by your spontaneous
show of sympathy,
but I haven't finished.
When I was 54, in 1928,
because I was born in 1874,
I became father to a fourth boy
who is now 10
and about whom I shall speak.
I'm sure you remember
the prediction that came true.
King Louis XV died at 64,
in 1774.
His son Ludovic died at 64,
in 1829. Just like his father.
My own father died at 64, in 1884.
Like his father and grandfather.
And it's because I begin
my 64th year today
that I tell you the incredible,
fateful story
of this lineage.
What do you think of these four men
who fall madly in love at 54,
commit the same blunder
by becoming fathers
and die 10 years later
with impressive punctuality?
It's good to know
you'll live till 64,
but not to know
you'll go no further.
At 24, it's fine:
"I still have 40 to go!"
But when you're 64:
"I don't have long left."
It's most irksome.
But let me backtrack
and tell you
of my handsome grandfather.
For he was handsome.
We all are.
Until a certain age.
- Study hard.
- Yes, Mother.
You must become a well-educated man
- now you know who your father was.
- Yes, Mother.
In the year 987,
Hugues Capet
founded the Capetian dynasty...
Long live the king!
- There's Capet!
- There's the king!
- Mother!
- I'm here, darling.
My nephew is passing.
Can I get a closer look?
You call Louis XVI your nephew?
He's Louis XV's grandson
whereas I'm his son.
True. You were born 20 years after,
but you are his uncle.
Go and wave to your nephew.
Won't you wave
to your step-son's son?
Yes. I'm coming.
Long live the king!
Get your first look at the king.
- Why are they mocking him?
- They're not.
They hail him without loving him.
- Well?
- Looks a bit stupid.
Let's hope he enjoys
what's left to him.
- 20 years we've wanted rid of them!
- He'll pay for the others.
Around that time,
another event unfolded.
A singular man arrived
at Louisette's home.
Yes?
As a solitary walker,
I invent dreams.
I will write
Reveries of the Solitary Walker.
As I was passing by,
I had a dream:
if I were to own your land,
I would transform it thus.
- May I?
- Please do.
I would make
a spacious outdoor café,
which could become a cabaret
seating 1,000 people.
You could call it
Le Café or Le Concert
des Ambassadeurs.
- My plan appears farcical?
- Unexpected.
I'm not mad.
Everything is transforming.
Everything is evolving.
I'll leave my plans.
Study it and we'll meet again.
Goodbye.
- May I ask your name?
- It will mean nothing to you.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
citizen of Geneva.
See you soon.
But she never saw him again.
A famous puppet show
appeared on the Champs-Elysees
in the immediate vicinity
of Louisette's pavilion.
Its charming director
soon became very popular.
Its success was so huge
that 200 years on,
it's still a triumph
on the spot
where it made its debut.
4 planks of wood, 3 characters
and the same stories
for two centuries.
That's something
absolutely unique.
Three revolutions,
two fallen empires,
exiled kings and the puppets are still there.
And why should he leave?
His jolliness is a necessity.
His aim in life:
to beat the policeman.
Regimes and surroundings change,
but he doesn't care.
For he has always mocked all.
He remains alive.
Hello, pretty neighbor.
These past 6 months,
I've been waiting for a chance
to talk to you.
We chat a lot.
But chatting is very little,
- when one wishes to talk.
- Talk to me?
Oh, indeed!
But I wouldn't dare.
I'm naturally shy.
Being a puppeteer,
I'm usually hidden when I talk.
It disturbs me to see and be seen
when I say things
- that are important.
- Ask an interpreter.
I have one.
It won't take long.
It's important but can be said
- in 3 syllables.
- I await your message.
I shall send it.
I have 3 syllables to say for him.
Listen carefully: he loves you.
He'd like to say it himself.
100,000 times he'd say,
"I love you."
And the echo would reply...
15 years pass.
Louisette and the man are married.
She loves her husband's profession
and plays the female roles
with great aplomb.
The sky has darkened.
It is June 1791.
The royal family
returns from Varennes.
After his pitiful flight,
the wretched Louis XVI
is brought back to Paris.
Ludovic is 26.
This return grieves him.
Bloodthirsty voices are raised:
saving the king
became his obsession.
For him, the king's safety
depended on public opinion.
But who embodied this
at sessions of the La Convention?
The tricoteuses.
Those merciless shrews,
those furies of the guillotine.
Out!
I share the opinion of Robespierre.
I urge the people to rise up
against corrupt politicians.
Silence!
We have a way of
reducing the rich to the level
of the sans-culottes: leave them
nothing to cover their behinds!
You laugh as you go to the beyond
In the wagon stepping back
Like crayfish
And like a crab
Climb up those steps
Who laughs last laughs loudest
As you put your head
On the block
Ludovic planned to coax women
into saving Louis XVI.
But how to go about it?
United, they were too formidable.
So he realized
that to convince them,
he must take them one by one
and seduce them.
His 200,000 francs were useful.
He had ravishing girls
and hideous girls.
Did he get his way?
On the contrary.
He had many disappointments.
Some let him,
encouraging him
with a hypocritical smile
or pitiful eyes.
Others, smarter and more venal,
claimed to be converted
to his cause.
He gave them
the money they demanded
to bribe the Temple prison guards
or their brothers.
One led him on for 3 days.
She wanted to know more.
She was a singer,
but she had him singing.
Demure then sluttish,
saying yes then no,
she had him lose his mind.
In trying to conquer her,
he became enamored.
Like a blind toy in her hands,
he told her everything:
his plans for the king's escape,
his kinship with the king,
his mother's love for Louis XV,
his 200,000-franc endowment,
their small home,
his puppeteer step-father
converted to the royal cause...
Then she jumped at him
to scratch out his eyes.
She badly wounded him.
She showed him the door,
promising
he'd hear from her again.
She kept her word.
He was unlucky.
She was Maraf's servant
and pregnant with his child.
Oh yes...
- See, citizen?
- Yes.
Hello, citizen.
What's that?
A new, extremely ingenious guillotine
that he's proposing.
How's it new?
It has two places.
Imagine the time we'd save.
I'll think it over.
Until tomorrow.
I have something to tell you.
Go ahead.
She obtained a warrant
to arrest Ludovic,
his mother and step-father,
on the very day,
24 October 1792,
when Marat declared
that to rest easily,
another 270,000 more heads
needed to roll.
Ludovic, aware of the danger,
didn't return home for two days.
As his eye was injured, he stayed
at a hotel in a blind alley.
But great misfortune had struck.
the previous evening,
during a show,
his mother and step-father
had been arrested.
Two plain-clothes policemen
waited to arrest them.
Louisette and her husband
were guillotined six days later,
as was the director
of another theatre
for the same reason.
What I tell you is true.
They were in the very last wagon
crammed in with 45 other poor souls.
On learning of this,
Ludovic swore to avenge them.
He would later have the opportunity.
But he didn't take it,
as you will soon discover why.
But first,
let's look at the following events
on the Champs-Elysées.
It is 9 November, or 18 Brumaire
on the revolutionary calendar.
General Bonaparte
is pacing beneath the trees.
He's thinking.
Ludovic, ruined,
no longer wears a wig.
He has turned the pavilion into
a fashionable ice-cream parlor.
He must hide his background
and move with the times.
In palaces,
the fleur-de-lis is covered up.
Bonaparte has chosen
the letter "N" as his insignia.
1804. A man takes an evening stroll
on the Champs-Elysées.
Philippe Lebon,
inventor of the gaslight.
His idea was refused only to be
adopted in England a year later.
That evening, in the shadows,
he was murdered.
When I said the Champs-Elysées
wasn't lit well enough
and that it was dangerous,
I wasn't wrong.
My invention is wonderful.
Lighting by gas.
If they had listened to me,
a man wouldn't have been murdered
tonight in this place.
Too bad for them.
I told them.
I swear,
when you've invented something,
you're happy to be proved right.
Bonaparte and Josephine descended
the Champs-Elysées, acclaimed.
Today, the Emperor descends
with Marie-Louise
in a carriage that can turn
into a hotel room.
Marie-Louise will pass smiling
there where 17 years earlier,
her aunt Marie-Antoinette
lost her head.
1811. The height of the Empire.
Ludovic, barely recognizable,
sees his ice-cream parlor
growing success.
The rich meet there
for his delicious ices.
3 vanilla ices!
3 vanilla ices!
Coming right up.
Sorry.
It's the new waitress.
- Is that you?
- Yes.
You must serve the customers.
Or else what purpose do you serve?
And serve them quick.
I like your pretty little face
with its malicious eyes.
- Our ices?
- Coming right up!
Hurry now.
Waitress!
I'm seeing to her!
She can't go any faster.
Go on.
But don't tire yourself out.
Pretty little face.
And come back quick.
1814. The fall of the Empire
and the accession of Louis XVIII.
Long live the king!
In the royal palaces,
the Bourbon emblem reblooms.
Then the eagle flies back
for 100 days.
Finally, Waterloo
and the definitive departure.
The Champs-Elysées sees his outline
one last time,
under the same trees
where he paced 16 years before.
I often think of those two men.
For me, they are two distinct men.
Imagine them meeting,
their surprise,
and what they would say.
- Well, well! Could I be wrong?
- You're not.
Was I this young man?
What? Is this fat man me?
We're very different.
We loved different women.
I loved Josephine.
I didn't know Marie-Louise.
Age changes you,
but to this extent!
- This 28-year-old general...
- Who ends up a private.
- Emperor.
- Not any more.
- I will be when I die.
- That depends on England.
You can always count
on your enemies.
I worked so hard
to make a name for myself.
You just thought of a first name.
You wanted to be Napoleon.
Why didn't you stay a republican?
Because you weren't sincere.
No. You were never
a true republican.
The real emperor between us was you.
To designate our supporters,
they called them "Bonapartistes"
and never "Napoleonians".
If you could do it all again,
would you?
Oh... not for an empire!
We return to reality. As his outline
vanishes from the Champs-Elysées,
Louis XVIII descends it
to take his place
on the worm-eaten throne
of his forebears.
Let's catch up with the Emperor
on St Helena.
Come in.
The year was 1819.
He was in love with a Swedish girl
who followed him.
She gave into him with abandon,
happiness and passion.
As an orphan,
she owed nothing to nobody.
9 months later,
a daughter was born.
He was both
her godfather and father.
Named Léone,
she was his last joy on earth.
I'll talk of her again.
Now, back to Paris
and my grandfather.
It was April 1819.
While taking some air,
a girl passed by who resembled
his tricoteuse of yore.
He couldn't believe his eyes.
This could be his chance
for revenge!
I'll be back in 5 minutes.
Where is the lady going
in such a hurry?
To Place Sainte-Odile
on the Champs-Elysées.
Were I to accompany her?
She wouldn't be
in the least put out.
- What?
- Nothing.
- Am I ugly?
- I was wondering.
Tell me when you know.
Come on.
The resemblance was striking.
That pale face, naive eyes
and mocking smile.
That same perverted, fearful charm.
And she gave him proof
of her heavy past:
her taste for destruction.
Breaking pipes...
Oh, what fun!
Hitting the Turk's head...
Oh, what delight!
No! He's a real Turk.
Sorry, monsieur.
Oh, I'll try that!
And hurling balls
at defenseless manikins,
causing heads to roll.
Don't miss him!
What's wrong with her?
She laid them all to waste.
She was drunk on pleasure
and he pulled her into the shade.
The resemblance seemed
even stronger.
Saying yes then no,
then finally giving in.
She gave in, but he was smitten.
He would ask her,
but she headed him off.
- So, am I ugly?
- I've forgotten all about that.
Do you want to ask me something?
Yes, but it would break the spell.
I prefer to wait a while.
She was free and gay.
He took her home.
"Hush. A little mystery.
Come here.
"Close your eyes and be quiet."
She was poor, young, supple,
slender and had lovely eyes.
enamored, he hired her first
as a waitress.
He then fell in love.
When she finally confessed
she was Marat's daughter,
it was too late for vengeance.
Why tell? He loved her.
He had sworn to get revenge
and let the chance slip by.
Better still,
he married her 6 months later.
And it lasted till the end,
for she made him happy.
Ludovic was 54 when my grandmother
gave birth to my father.
When he died 10 years later,
my grandmother
joined a convent.
The only evidence of her past
as the daughter of a tricoteuse
was knowing how to light fires,
bleeding pigs
and cutting the heads off chickens.
On 5 May 1821,
Napoleon died on St Helena
and became immortal.
On only one day a year,
5 May, the sun sets in the center
of the Arc de Triomphe.
Louis XVIII died
and Charles X acceded.
What can I say of him?
He was strikingly anonymous.
Of course "X"
is the Roman numeral for "tenth".
But he could have been "X"
for practically unknown.
Time passed.
Louis-Philippe became king.
Note the resemblance
between my father and his.
Same profile, same grace,
same gentleness.
There's the king,
riding with his five sons!
How handsome they look!
D'Aumale, Montpensier, Orléans,
Nemours and Joinville.
5 sons: the lineage was assured,
but none of them reigned.
France was back to normal,
with foremen struggling
to get work done
by lazy workmen.
God willing,
we shan't ever see the opposite.
Let's stay in the happy days
of 1830,
when progress was for all to see.
Ready! Watch closely.
Come and see this!
This is the century of progress!
May I?
While tidying up,
I came across this blueprint.
It's badly drawn but ingenious.
It's signed JJR. A total mystery.
- It's an amateur's hand.
- Surely a friend of my mother's.
The design seemed
so original and intelligent,
I didn't hesitate.
This JJR fellow was no imbecile.
You can get an idea
of the garden from here.
- It's huge.
- I'll have 1000 places.
I'll keep the name
chosen by the mysterious JJR.
- Le Concert des Ambassadeurs.
- Very good.
But the work is long.
- Several more months?
- Four.
- I'll have to close the pavilion.
- Naturally.
- What will you do?
- I don't know.
- Come on a trip with us.
- A trip?
To fetch the Emperor's ashes
from St Helena.
It's tempting.
But I'm not sure it's my place.
- You're French?
- Yes.
Well?
- It's due to who my grandfather was.
- Politics then?
I'm a royalist through and through.
- No more than we are.
- That would be difficult.
- Don't you know who we are?
- No.
- Joinville and Montpensier.
- Your Highnesses!
His Majesty having decided
that his son
should fetch the ashes...
- We're more royalist.
- Your Highness is right.
He enrolled with no idea
that what was urging him to go
was his destiny. For what did he see
on disembarking at St Helena?
An unexpectedly exquisite creature:
Léone, the Emperor's daughter.
They stood side by side
at the heart-wrenching ceremony.
When the coffin was opened,
he was so well preserved
that all present fell to their knees.
They made a disparate
yet harmonious couple.
He fell in love with her
and told her 2 days later.
She appeared to share his feelings.
But she was hesitant about marriage.
She was the Emperor's daughter,
which is far from nothing.
But he was not unworthy.
"You are daughter of the Emperor.
I am grandson of Louis XV.
"We're quits."
His reply enchanted Leone,
and they wed one month later.
They opened
Le Concert des Ambassadeurs.
It was an immediate, huge success.
We'll be packed.
Quite a knock.
Come in.
Yes?
If it's for a free seat...
No. I'm looking for employment.
In the orchestra.
The best one: conductor.
I'm a conductor. Forgive me.
I heard...
I'm unhappy with mine.
Mr Brunin recommends me to you.
Thank you.
- If what he says is true...
- I believe so.
- Bravo. You're German?
- Saxon. I was born in Leipzig.
As a composer,
I could write
- some pots-pourris.
- Interesting.
I'm very poor.
A few coins
- would suffice.
- You start tomorrow.
With joy.
- Rehearsal at 2 p.m.
- Understood.
Your name?
Thank you.
Richard Wagner.
The next day, Wagner rehearsed
his pot-pourri on the favorite
which did not bear the stamp
of his genius. Rather odd.
The Ambassadeurs musicians
found him surprising.
My father was delighted
with his find.
A few days later,
things turned sour.
It was my father's fault.
He's excellent, but I don't want him
using his own compositions.
- Tell him so.
- I did tell him.
One more time and he's gone.
His music is dreadful.
It's a piece I composed last night.
Let's go through it.
Thank you.
For wanting to give the premier
of Tannheuser in Paris,
Wagner, alas,
was thanked by my father,
though not how he should have been.
Despite this incident,
the success of the Ambassadeurs
increased.
- Are you amused by this life?
- Immensely.
Such happiness!
We'll long speak of his glory
Under our thatched roofs
Our humble roof in 50 years
Will know no other history
The villagers will come...
If they knew who we were,
it would seem funny.
Funny, but sad too.
They'll never know.
It's our business.
Mother, shorten our watch
Some say he brought us harm...
I mean it:
I find this profession interesting.
Truly. Choosing songs,
having them sung well...
It can influence people.
- In what way?
- Oh, I don't know.
Tell us of him, Grandmother
Grandmother
Tell us of him
My children, in this village
Followed by kings he passed
So many moons ago
I had just been married
I climbed the hill on foot
And stood where I could see
He wore his little hat
And his gray riding coat...
- What's that?
- A new song.
He said
"Hello, my dear"
"Hello, my dear"
He spoke to you, Grandmother?
- Who by?
- Béranger.
I chose it.
Are you mad at me?
No. I love you too much.
But if anyone shouts,
"Long live the Emperor," it's out.
Long live the Emperor!
You can take it out.
They already know it.
The Republic calls us
Learn how to fight or to cure
When the people sing,
danger is not far off.
It took one gunshot...
to spark the 1848 revolution.
Poor Louis-Philippe left.
A departure arranged in 20 minutes.
A lamentable emigration
of the king and Queen Marie-Amelie.
A pitiful departure for England
after a stop in Honfleur.
The end of an adventurous life
for an intelligent prince
who enriched France, loved peace
and was a fine king.
Maybe one day
he'll be recognized as such.
A sad stay in this inn
where the king hid
beneath an unlikely hat
and behind dark glasses.
Those people unnerve me.
They're very mysterious.
I'd like to know their name.
- Ask them.
- I hadn't thought of that.
It's an innkeeper's right.
Monsieur, Madame, may I be so bold
as to ask for your name?
- Our name?
- Why yes! You must have one.
Certainly.
To come across as true republicans,
do you know the name they chose?
Mr and Mrs Lebrun.
Amazing,
but very true.
My parents were divided
over the republic.
The Emperor and the Bourbons
faced off.
- Where are we going?
- Where have we been?
- What's happened to France?
- It followed its destiny.
I do not agree.
Good riddance!
Speak differently of the king!
- France doesn't want a king.
- We may have lost
the Orleans,
but the older branch remains.
We don't want it.
France wants an empire.
An empire?
Never!
I'd prefer a republic!
Do you seriously see France
as a republic?
Chance would be a fine thing!
Long live the Emperor!
- Long live the king!
- Long live the republic!
Don't write "Long live the king"!
So we're not ripe for a republic?
Gentlemen!
All opinions are allowed.
But if anyone shouts
"Long live the Emperor!"
I'll give him a bunch of fives!
Have you seen the new hats?
Simply lovely.
When you three are all ministers,
you'll remember it.
Yes, step-father.
Politics is all the rage.
People don't realize
it's become a career.
It's now a profession,
like architecture,
chemistry and joinery.
You need certain talents to do it.
It helps if it's...
Well, if it's passed down
from father to son.
Funny lot, the republicans.
They're against hereditary monarchy,
but I bet that in 30 years,
they'll follow in father's footsteps
as politicians.
All Frenchmen
think they can be politicians.
They can't cure
their wife's sore throat,
they call a plumber for a leak,
but they'd take power
if it was offered to them.
- Sorry, I'm deaf.
- Why not say so earlier?
I couldn't get a word in.
Now I have to repeat it all
to someone else.
Long live the Emperor!
I can't bear this.
I'd rather separate
than listen to you.
The first one, fine.
But this one, never!
Separation was inevitable.
And it happened swiftly.
- Adieu!
- Adieu.
And here's the Second Empire.
For me,
the Second Empire was a waltz.
Take a look
at the famous Mabille Ball,
where all Paris sang, danced and fought.
In 1840, we danced the polka.
In 1850, we danced the Lancers.
Later, we caused quite an uproar.
But in 1852,
Olivier Métra was conducting
and the waltz began, gently at first.
It was perfected by the Duo de Morny,
the Emperor's brother.
We waltzed in the Tuileries,
waltzed with our hearts,
waltzed with our feelings,
our customs, our governments.
No sooner elected
than they were ousted.
"We don't want you anymore.
Next!"
Ephemeral ministers overturned,
a whole endless stream of them.
You're right to smile.
They got rid of you
even before your hair turned white.
Jacques Offenbach
made Métra waltz
and his baton became a wand.
Boys waltzed with girls
in the streets.
The bourgeois waltzed at home.
All France waltzed.
France had fun.
It re-adopted Offenbach.
I can hear the noise
of boots, of boots...
A noise that augured ill.
The noise grew louder every day.
War came,
and the boots were Prussian.
1870,1871.
Defeat. Disaster.
The surrender of the Emperor
at Sedan.
France was invaded.
Fly the white flag.
Then the saddest of days:
the Prussians descended
the Champs-Elysées to Schubert.
That day, a young woman
approached a man who was weeping.
My father greeted
my repentant mother.
They were never apart again.
Soon after, on 15 September 1874,
the fruit of their reconciliation,
I was born
in the same pavilion
as my father and grandfather.
10 years later, my father died.
My mother is still alive.
She's 116.
She talks a lot of the future.
My life is odd,
because it's a double life.
I'm a teacher.
On Sundays?
On Sundays I'm something else.
What do you do on Sundays?
- The puppet show!
- Quite.
Me too.
I've been going for 32 years.
I sold the Ambassadeurs
and bought the puppet theatre
as retribution
for the suffering I cause you.
- On weekdays, I annoy you.
- Yes, sir.
- On Sundays, I amuse you.
- Yes!
I may punish you sometimes.
But I never hand out detentions
on Sundays.
I should be the first punished.
My recompense is your laughter.
I spend hours with my puppets
and this lovely lady,
my wife of 10 years.
A quick word on her:
she was lost, I found her.
I found her on the Champs-Elysées.
But don't think
she may have been left there
by one of the presidents
of the Third Republic.
As for my son, who's 10,
well, children,
he's sitting amongst you.
This is him.
Great-great-grandson of Louis XV,
of the Emperor Napoleon
and a tricoteuse.
He's not sure whether to put
his hand on his heart
like Louis XVI,
in his tunic, like the Emperor
or in a fist,
like his great-grandfather.
But he does know one thing:
in any circumstance,
however serious,
there are 3 words we all agree on
and can say in unison:
Vive la France!