Revenge of the Musketeers (1994) - full transcript

12 Holland coifs...

12 holland coifs.

6 sackcloth frocks,
2 hair shirts...

8 and 6.
14 and 2 make 16.

16 ecus of three livres.

16 ecus.

4 shirts in Artois linen.

4 shirts in Artois linen.

8 sols, 3 liards.

The Devil... half-naked!

Vade retra. Satanas!



Upon my soul, it's Beelzebub!

- It's an African native.
- A native?

A human being with a soul,
like you or me.

A black soul?

Naturally. But baptism
and prayer can wash it clean.

Stop cackling and take him
to my room.

Duke Crassac takuteka?

Not you, Eloise.
Sister Huguette, come!

And you, pray!

Your presence profanes
a sacred place.

Where's the Negro? Talk!

Never!

Don't waste time!
Search and find him!

- Eloise, for the love of God!
- You milksops! Zounds!



She curses!

You needn't fear.
God will protect you.

Sit down.

Let no one in!

How do you say it in African?

Madame!

Up there.

I forbid you!
This is sacrilege!

You will be excommunicated.

She has the key.
Search her.

Don't you dare!
I'd die first!

Aah!

Who told you to?
Bungler!

You told me.

I just said to search her.
That's all. Nicely.

Wait until my father hears of this!

What madness to let him escape.
If he should talk...

Talk to whom, my lord?
He can't mumble a word of French.

But a Negro in the Perigord!

They're for shipping to the Americas,
not touring the provinces.

A robust specimen, too.

The best are always
the first to go, my lord.

Goddamn.
A 30-pistole Negro...

- Maybe more.
- Goddamn.

I loathe swearing, but goddamn!
Why sail so near the coast?

To unload the secret cargo...
the sacks and chests.

I'd have sent a boat out.

I also wanted

to visit my family nearby.
It's been seven years.

Your kind can do without kin.
10, 15 years.

How long will it take?

As long as necessary,
my lord.

A week, maybe two.

Goddamn.

And that?

What's all this?

The latest St. Etienne muskets,
Swedish triggers...

Unsurpassable! And they
throw them on the ground!

For the culprit...

10 lashes. 12.
24!

12 in front, 24 behind!
42!

Whip the whole lot of them!

Eloise, my child.

I know you as if you were my own.

When the Lord took
your poor mother...

Your father entrusted you to my care,
to raise and protect you.

I'll get my father
and his regiment.

We'll crush them.

No, Eloise.

Listen. The woman in red...

I have proof here
that can condemn her.

Swear to me.

I swear, Mother.

The wicked are many
and our little sisters weak.

Swear not to...

I swear not to leave
you unavenged, Mother.

No, no.

I swear it, a sacred oath...

I'll avenge you, Mother.

- Do I look all right?
- Short in the legs.

Squat gardener,
stout choirmaster.

I stole what I could.

Don't squabble.
It's a perfect fit.

It feels nice.

We could start
a new fashion.

Women in trousers?

In public?
Horrors!

God won't allow such obscenity.

Leave God out of it.

Did he give us legs to hide them?

I rather like mine.

And mine?

I can show mine, too.

Sure you won't come along?

No.

Here we eat every day.

Greetings, lads!
Want to fight for the kingdom?

Come on, you sissies.

There's gold
and glory to be had.

Coronation's coming.
The king is 16 now.

No more toy soldiers.
Now it's war, with real soldiers.

I won't leave
without five volunteers.

Come on, sign up!

Roast leg of lamb, my boy.

And how's the soup?

Do you swillpots hear me?

A glass of wine!

I'm thirsty, too.

Give him a glass.

"Demoiselle..."

No.

Everywhere you're billeted,
you'll share everything...

Bed, bread,
salt, candles, wine...

The mistress, too.

"Dance...

Butterfly, dance."

"Love..."

You're home by winter
to make a little soldier,

and off you go.

Go on, sign!

Sign up for the high life!

Can't write? Make a cross.

"Dance, butterfly...

Dance. Love..."

Writing love letters to the lads?
Keen on pansies?

If you like men, my boy,
the army opens its arms.

And the rest.

You can write. So sign up.

You'll room together, dearies.

In the same room. Imagine!

- What's he doing?
- How clumsy of me.

He did it on purpose.

Catch him!
Catch him!

- My lamb.
- So what?

You could help.

- A fine sword!
- Heredity.

You know how to ride, I hope?

I'm better on foot.

Hyah.

Whoo!

Leave it.

- You guessed right off?
- Love's not as blind as they say.

- Where are we going?
- To my father in Paris.

I was just there. I know it well.
I'll accompany you.

Paris is a fickle town,
infested with rogues and scoundrels.

You need protection.

Against whom? You?

- I wonder what Father's like.
- You never saw him?

It was so long ago.

No portrait or medallion?

A soldier never bothers
with such nonsense.

But he's famous.
If I told you his name...

- Try me.
- D'Artagnan.

Of course.

And me...
I'm the son of Richelieu.

Wait for me!

Eloise!
Wait for me!

The army really missed out
on something.

Negroes are in fashion at Court.
Not like Mohammedans.

- What's that?
- We don't know. It's under study.

They have seven wives.
Only their eyes show.

In the Americas, there are
red men called "Redskins."

They grow feathers on their heads.

I love the stories you make up.

It's my trade. I'm a poet.

Eloise.

Oui.

A question.

Oui.

Do you love me?
I mean, truly?

Love is like Mohammedans, Quentin.

I don't quite know it.

It's under study.

Where's the Rue aux Ours?

My last coin. Pray for the plague
to take Mazarin.

I feel like a returning exile.
The weather's always like this?

Always.

Mazarin's work again.
You see why I write my pamphlets?

Let's go. There's a price on my head.
If I'm caught, it's the Bastille.

The cardinal's guard! Make way!

The cardinal's guard!

Stop, thief!

This is it.

I'd prefer to go alone.

The class has started.

What class?

En garde.

En garde.

En garde.

En garde.

En garde.

Constance!

That will be all for today.

- The time isn't up.
- It's up when I say it's up.

Lovely.

Comely.

Graceful.

Charming?

Happy.

For a moment there...

I took you for your mother.

Hey!

You owe me
for your last lessons.

You'll get some chickens.

No more chickens. An ox!

What's this outfit?

Travel clothes.

I'd forgotten how green
your eyes were.

It's all right.

Some convent!

Letting you travel
without paternal approval.

Mother Superior will hear from me.

She's dead.

Dead?

I didn't know she'd been ill.

Planchet! It's our little girl.

- It's Eloise.
- Eloise?

Little Eloise? Our own?

Yes, yes.

You recognized Planchet?

He's aged badly.

But Mother Superior's death doesn't
justify being in Paris alone.

It's crawling with cutthroats.

Men without work,
women without men...

Really, that outfit!

Should I ride with my novice robes
rolled up on my thighs?

After all these years
of neglect, this is my welcome?

Even if your situation is poor.

But my situation is excellent.

Had you opened your arms,
it would seem like a palace.

You can live here.

Planchet has his shop.

He gives me credit
and the best meals.

I'm not here for a banquet, Papa,
but for help.

Help?

Her dying words were,
"Find your father. He will act!"

Naturally.

Naturally.

Mother Superior
was right about that.

But, temporarily,
this isn't quite the moment.

The king?
Refuse his most valiant sword?

The king wants his courtiers
to bow and scrape.

But I have trouble stooping.

Age, no doubt.

I left the king's service...

Against my wishes.

Anyway...

For 20 years I wore
breastplate and jerkin...

And I clung to a rank
beneath my worth.

No advance,
no retreat, no life.

After 20 years and a day,

I drank a few bottles
of velvety Vouvray wine...

And went to that ragamuffin
kinglet to speak my mind...

That he was a scamp, a glutton,
an ingrate who betrayed his word.

Jealous of his savior,
I saved him...

His mother, Mazarin, the lot.

You said all that?

Yes.

Not so much in those words,
but in essence.

- He didn't arrest you?
- I was in command of the musketeers.

I'd personally have had
to order my own arrest.

I'd have disapproved,
and thus disobeyed.

So, my little girl...

Your timing is bad.

It's not my timing!

Mother Superior died
for this document.

Let me see.

This piece of paper?

- Does anyone know?
- I can hold my tongue.

It's a state secret, I'm sure of it.

Looks more like
a laundry list with a blood stain.

A murdered nun, a bloodied Negro...
For a laundry list?

It's a conspiracy!

Black riders,
the woman in red...

No blue unicorn
or green dwarf?

If you won't act,
I'll go to the king.

Quentin la Misere, at your service.

- Who is that?
- A poet.

- La Misere is my pen name.
- Look here, monsieur.

You're disrupting
a family reunion. Out!

- As for seeing the king...
- This may not be the moment, sir.

I thought I told you...

I request your daughter's hand.

He's beginning to get on my nerves.
Out!

- Not without a reply.
- 'Ods bodkins! Here's your reply!

- lf you kill him...
- Who said "kill"?

In front of my fiancee!
The man's mad!

Think you're d'Artagnan?

I told you.

You just said he was a soldier.

D'Artagnan?

Him? You?

My idol!
I'm one of your greatest admirers.

I wrote a poem to you
on the Bastille wall.

And I'm going to marry his daughter!

No offense, fellow, but vamoose!

D'Artagnan's daughter!

Oh!

Run off with that clown?

And if I marry him?

- I forbid you!
- Then I will marry him.

My little Eloise, be reasonable.

It's normal you fall for the first man
you meet fresh out of convent.

You dumped me in that convent.

Dumped you! Don't say that.

Always on the move,
jump in the saddle, sword in hand!

How could I have raised
a young lady?

You played the hero.

I nearly became a nun
out of boredom!

Horrors!

That's only for the ugly or stupid.

Little Eloise.

How she's grown!

Remember how she'd hide
behind your boots, Captain?

- And now...
- Oh, yes, I remember.

And how, at La Rochelle, I cradled her
under a horse when it rained.

West wind, rainy season.

Eloise, little Eloise

You mounted the guard while I...

Aged body. Just awful!

Of course it's pointless asking
if your Quentin la Misere is rich.

Were you when you arrived
on your yellow mare?

Ha. My yellow mare.

She was splendid!

How she'd jog along the road to
Meung, chewing daisies.

This is no time for reminiscing.

Past a certain age, child,
that's all you have.

Bad memories you survived...

Good memories you savor.

I have 43 souvenirs.

Aramis' embroidered handkerchief.

Porthos' famous baldric.

A baby tooth
of the soon-to-be Louis XIV...

To whom I fed mush in hard times.

A lock of Athos' hair.
We'd made an exchange.

Athos.

You might have warned me.

My dear Athos.

The earth smells so good.

Remember what Aramis used to say?

"Just part of her charms
to lure us below."

I was counting on you for advice.

Zounds!

What a muddle.

I don't know what to do
with the child.

She's my daughter.

Yes, Eloise. Who else?

If you could only see her.
What a beauty!

The very image of her mother.

Her grace, her style,
and what's more, ardor, spirit.

And a temperament.

But how do I handle her?

A mere word, her claws flash.

Gone, our musketeer days.

The four of us, always together...

Always fighting, never beaten,
our swords always drawn.

I haven't seen Aramis in years.

Porthos has buried himself
in the provinces...

Like you in your hole there.

Egad!

I might have sat on your face.

You never were much of a talker.

Eloise?

Eloise?

You gutless turd!

I entrust her to you,
tell you to protect her...

And you're taken like a novice.

How many were they?

She did it. Little Eloise!

I put up a fight.

How could she?
I locked her in!

She whined, "Good Planchet,
I have a secret to tell you."

So I open the door a bit.
I see a big tear on her little cheek.

The rest is pure guesswork.

She put me out
in the blink of an eye.

Bloody goose!

My little girl!

Where can she have gone?

- Where?
- How should I know? Holy turds!

Face unknown, no leave to pass!

Marquis or no, it's no!

The Duke and Duchess d'Aloigny
de Blecourt and their daughters!

Let them pass!

Make way!

Mr. Ambassador of Spain.
I left my backgammon

to give you some delightful news.

His Majesty has renounced
his alliance

with Mr. Cromwell's England.

You see, you were wrong to worry.

That's not what we'd agreed upon.

His Highness misunderstood me.
It's my horrendous accent.

I'd understood that...

Indeed, you understand so well.

Yesterday, Protestant England
had to be our ally. Bravo.

But today, we receive the ambassador
of very Catholic Spain.

Hence, this treaty
with Cromwell is forgotten.

Isn't that underhanded?

The price of peace.
Underhanded, but efficient.

By renouncing this treaty,
we reassure the Catholic powers.

If we can just keep their armies
immobilized until winter...

Mr. de Turenne
will have time to prepare.

And come the spring, attack!
Surprise! Victory! Bravo again.

- But I signed the treaty with England.
- Indeed.

How can I renounce it then?
It's sheer betrayal.

It was an absolutely secret alliance.

If it's known,
the alliance is worthless.

Thus, His Highness has no scruples
in denying its existence.

And one more reason...

Denying the alliance
makes it secret again,

and thus perfectly valid.

The more I learn,
the more I like politics.

I have a talent for all things.

Only poetry can do justice
to your eyes.

He paid a compliment!

He paid a compliment.

- Mademoiselle.
- Eloise d'Artagnan.

I came on an important matter.

To plead your father's case?

No. He would have come himself.

She blundered.

He dares not come to ask my pardon?

Must he send a messenger?

I, who know all, had no idea
d'Artagnan had a daughter.

He hides you for fear you'd make
too many jealous rivals.

Come into my study.

Play for me. If you lose, you pay.

- And if I win?
- It's mine.

Ah.

Attack a convent!
Nothing commands respect anymore.

They were like mad dogs.

They dared kill a Mother Superior?

Their chief did it
on orders from the woman in red.

Why? One doesn't kill a member
of the clergy without good reason.

There is a reason,
eminence, a conspiracy!

Yes, child, but what conspiracy?

My spies know of eight.

- This makes nine.
- Mama mia!

There was a document.
The Negro came for it.

What document? For whom?

And why a Negro?

Africa! Almighty God!

I already had Europe on my back.

A poor Italian can handle Europe,
but this is too much!

Beware, Mazzarino!

This document is vital
to your understanding of things.

- What kind of document?
- Secret, and in code. Devastating!

The Negro dropped it
when he was captured.

His Eminence must be informed!

Your fear of La Misere
is nearly ended.

You know, the poet who denounces
your greed, taxes, and abuses...

That's enough.
Calumnies.

Who calls you "the green miser"
and "the red shrew"!

- Enough! You have him?
- Just about.

He was foolish enough
to come back to Paris.

We're trailing him.
He's as good as taken.

The Bastille
for Mr. Quentin la Misere!

Now let them try
to accuse me of greed.

I provide free board to my enemies.

So, I presume
you've brought this document.

No. The Mother Superior burned it.

I won't keep you any longer.

The Mother Superior?
You said she was dead.

Yes, but she burned it anyway.

If I hear anything...
Thank you for your precious time.

I'm sure we'll meet again soon.

What strange creatures women are.

We were chatting, she was charming,
and suddenly something bit her!

You knew her father.

In another life, Your Eminence.

Did you notice?

She was about to talk...

And just as I signed,
she turned pale.

The document must be on her.

She saw your signature as clear as
God's writing on the walls of Babylon.

My signature. Yes, my signature.
She recognized my signature.

If I may anticipate your admirable
powers of deduction...

- It means that...
- She's seen it before!

But where?

I sign so many pieces of paper.

On the document.

- The secret document.
- The secret document.

Quick! Catch her!
I must have that document!

I must know which of my secrets
is no longer a secret.

Did the sisters teach you
to disobey your father?

I forbade you to see the king.
Get down!

You're hurting me!
I'll make a scene.

- Mademoiselle is difficult.
- Weren't you?

I wasn't a girl!

Oh!
Zounds!

- Where are you off to?
- To save Quentin.

Cowards! Brutes!

Paws off!

Got it!
The cardinal will be pleased.

Monsieur, you are a boor.

Eloise!

I prefer you dressed
as your sex.

Don't cross swords!

Parade seventh, counter parry.

Quick riposte!

That's the Athos Thrust.

That's the Aramis Thrust.

- Ohh!
- And the Porthos Thrust.

Academic, but never outmoded.

Aaaah!

Don't look away, girl.

Learn to harden the fiber
in your eye now.

True goodness comes of a dry eye...

And a gentle heart.

Isn't this your mother's dress?

I recognize it.

It suits you.

Let's go and have a cleanup.

I have a secret, too.

- The message?
- Still warm from the vixen.

But where is my signature?

An anonymous plot, perchance?

"Dance, butterfly, dance.
Love, damsel, has your glance.

My wings burn all the same
on this wind of flame.

I, a shadow in pain,
haunt your castle in Spain."

Too poor to be a poem.
It's a coded message.

"Wind of flame." A clear threat.

"I, a shadow."
Shadow in French is "ombre."

"Hombre" is Spanish for "man"!

Your Eminence.

The sacked convent is on
the Duke of Crassac's land.

I thought he'd given up conspiracy
for slave trading.

For which he pays his taxes.

I know, but this message...

The mention of Spain...

Pbht!

Trust my experience.

This stinks to high heaven
of conspiracy.

I smell insurrection.

Your gout, Your Eminence.

The pose, Your Eminence.

But we must learn...

...d'Artagnan's part in all this...

And why he sent his daughter.

At 12 fencing lessons a week,

it will take 6 months to pay
for the damage you caused.

But admit there's a plot.

Mazarin is surely involved
with the conspirators.

What a dolt I am!

There was a one-eyed man with him.
It's a sign!

Ever since the serpent in the Garden.

One-eyed serpent?

Yes.
The sisters said so.

But not in the Queen's Jewels Affair.

Always your queen's jewels,
your yellow mare.

Not yellow. It was buttercup.

What of it?

Planchet!

Have you seen my fiance?

A youth said, "I'll come to her
when the moment is ripe."

Is that all?
Gentle Planchet.

Well, I saw him run by
two minutes later

with six of Mazarin's men
on his tail.

- I'm going!
- No, you're not!

If he's your fiance,
you must obey him.

He said he'd come here,
so you must stay.

Go get ready.

Let's talk business, Planchet.

It's time I paid off
an old debt, my friend.

- I owe you 1,000 livres.
- 2,000 livres.

2,000? You don't say!

Fine, then. I won't check.

Put four on this table.

What?

You want your money, don't you?

Can't you explain?

No theorizing.

The mathematics of finance
are concrete.

4 bags of 1,000 livres here.

All right.

From the salted pork...

What are you doing?

Doing the combination for my cache.

Here. Salted pork.

Two shelves up, red currants.

Six pots to the right...

Rhubarb honey, three down.

Kippers.

Then nine...

Nine.

Right or left?

Left.

Split peas.

Why not go straight to the peas?

A humble grocer may indulge
a taste for enigma, monsieur.

You asked for 4,000 livres.

- Here they are.
- Fine!

My debt is paid.
What a relief.

But paid...

Much too late, yes. Forget it.

But these 2,000 livres, Planchet,

won't gather dust
behind your split peas.

They are your 50 percent stake
in a great undertaking.

Me, 2,000, and you, 2,000.

You flabbergast me, monsieur.
I put out 4,000 livres.

And I gave you back 2,000.

You put in two, I put in two.

Two and two make four. Simple, no?

Why all the fuss?

We are going to thwart
a conspiracy, Planchet.

I shall receive pardon,
pension, promotion,

which you will share,
but you haggle!

Can't we start again
in front of the girl?

No, no, no, no.

Money matters are never discussed
in the presence of children.

Reason like a philosopher,
not a shopkeeper.

You put up
the greater amount.

But I provide my sword,
the resolve to save my skin...

And my friends.

You, the money, me, life.
An equitable split.

Your friends...
But will the adventure tempt Aramis?

And Porthos?

True. Porthos.
Without him...

I doubt that Aramis will be tempted,
as you say.

You'll spoil the blade.

But I hope our old friendship
will win over his reticence.

As for Porthos,
your Westphalian ham, pate,

and goose will do the trick.

No! You already have six pates,
three terrines, and a roast.

We'll find a convent
for you on the way.

Not another convent!

I bring you a conspiracy
on a platter.

I'll see the king, then.

He was fond of me
until I mentioned you.

Did you hear that?

Didn't you learn about French
kings and their maladies?

The pains in Francis ll's ear,

Charles IX's head,
Henry lll's belly...

But the illness

of the soon-to-be
Louis XIV is the worst...

A heart problem.

He sighs for every beauty
he sees,

and I loathe sighing kings.

So the only remedy...
the convent!

You just want to get rid of me.

Why, of course.

But I'll miss you.

He'll be calm in 5 minutes.

It's just his Gascon temper.
I know his bad moods.

When Richelieu once tried...

Quentin?

Quentin!

Mazarin's henchmen are after me.
I "borrowed" the carriage.

Well-timed!
We can all go in it.

Planchet, ride ahead to Porthos'.

Use your mule and take my horse.

Does Monsieur d'Artagnan think
I'm at his disposal?

Hmm?

Did he honor me
with his presence

at my first wife's funeral?

No.

Did he deign to attend
my second wedding?

My second widowerhood? No.

Did he invite me to
the ex-musketeer's banquet

of Monsieur de Trevise?

Treville.

What did I say?

Nothing. It happens.

My good Planchet,
I've scrapped for less than that.

You must remember how touchy I am.

Here's the answer you're to take
to your master.

It's no, damnation!

Let the Gascon come crawling.

The answer will still be
no, no, no...

And no!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Do I remember?

The yellow mare,
a canary on four legs.

And her color
wasn't the worst thing.

- She smelled of garlic.
- Smelled of garlic!

She didn't smell.
Some Sancerre, please, my boy.

She reeked of garlic.

If you don't believe me,
we can ask Aramis.

Oh, Aramis.

Your Grace!
Your Grace!

Away with the intruders!
Never disturb a bishop's meditations.

But, Your Grace, the gentlemen insist.

Well, Aramis?
Must we break down your door?

God almighty!

You, out!
Off with these!

I want a lightning poison...
lightning!

That strikes like a divine curse.
Yours takes three hours!

I can make it two.

No! I don't want it liquid.
I want it edible.

This damned lab of evil
costs me a fortune.

I want results!

An ointment.
I touch you, you're dead.

Easily said, my lord.

You're a doctor!

Killing people is no problem.

I feel distracted,
as if Mazarin is here...

Watching us.

Be calm, Clovis.

It happens to men of your caliber.

Anxiety before triumph.

Triumph, certainly.

But why the cardinal's interest
in a far-off convent?

All those missives and queries...

And I'm out of carrier pigeons.

The Mother Superior
wouldn't die quietly.

She recognized me.

Goddamn!

An inquest will expose me...

And me means you.

We must set things in order.

"In order"? You mean...

A clean sweep.

You can't mean...

Clean.
No more witnesses.

But that dago cur has spies.

Mazzarino will send an emissary.

He never acts
without sizing up the risks.

He's a man of reflection.

You're a man of action.

A man of action. True!

I keep forgetting.
Shall we?

"Castle in Spain."
"Castle in Spain." No.

"Dance, butterfly, dance.
Love, damsel..."

I'm sure there's neither love
nor damsels.

Three days and not a clue!
Riccardo!

Riccardo! You cracked
the Pope's last code.

- What kind of team is this?
- We are doing our best.

But you read the pope's cipher!

The pope's cipher... rubbish!

A stupid cipher, simplicity itself.

Replacing vowels by consonants
and vice versa

With every 7 th letter.
Child's play.

I'm no amateur, Monsignore.

But this is terrifying and infernal.

This is something new.

Something new.

"My wings burn."

We've tried, Your Eminence.
It's not invisible ink.

Crassac's pigeon has arrived.

He says a ship was driven
towards land by a storm.

Escaped Negro. Pursuit to a convent.

A blunder.

A blunder?

A blunder.

A Mother Superior murdered.

Your Crassac takes me for an idiot.

His answer is so stupid,
it confirms my suspicions.

The man's trafficking
more than slaves.

To traffic without me
is to traffic against me.

Here is proof of its gravity.

Everyone knows I am for sale.

Not trying to buy me

means he wants not
a piece of the cake,

but the whole cake.

He wants my place!

None of that. No, no. G|razie.

Believe me, the key is here.
To work, gentlemen!

Almost finished, I think.

"4 frocks, 8 sols, 3 liards,"
which gives us...

Jeremiah 48:3, verse 7.

Fifth word, again...

"Choronaim."

Voila.

Choronaim.

Let's read it over.