Madame Bovary (1949)
As public prosecutor,
I demand that further publication|of this novel be forbidden
and that its author, Gustave Flaubert,
be found guilty of committing|the misdemeanor
of an outrage against public morals|and established custom.
This man, this Flaubert,|has created a character, a Frenchwoman,
who is at once a disgrace to France|and an insult to womanhood.
Emma Bovary,|a woman who neglects her own child,
a child that needs her,
who scorns her own husband,|a husband who loves her,
who introduces adultery|and ruin into her home,
this is our heroine.
This corrupt, loathsome,|contemptible creature,
this woman of insatiable passions,
this monstrous creation|of a degenerate imagination,
this is the heroine we are asked to pity,|to forgive,
why, perhaps, to love.
Gentlemen, nowhere in this entire work
does Gustave Flaubert ask us|to blame Emma Bovary
and find her guilty of her crimes.
The state asks you, gentlemen,
to find Gustave Flaubert guilty of his.
Gustave Flaubert, do you deny|the accusations of the public attorney?
And I don't.
If it were only that easy, gentlemen,|to confirm or deny.
The public attorney has read you|certain passages from my work.
Can I deny them?
He has summed up certain|unpleasant facts concerning its heroine,
as if he were a schoolboy|doing a problem of two and two.
But still, can I deny them?
He has indicted me|for the crime of forgiveness.
What can I say?
Forgiveness is still, as I understand it,|among the Christian sentiments.
I do not deny it.
Gentlemen, I do deny that I have made|any attack upon public morality.
I have shown you the vicious, yes,|for the sake of understanding it
so that we may preserve the virtuous.
Furthermore, I deny that Emma Bovary|is a monstrous creation
of my degenerate imagination.
Monstrous she may be,|but it was not I who created her.
Our world, your world and mine,|created her,
as I shall attempt to demonstrate.
There are thousands of Emma Bovarys.|I only had to draw from life.
And there are hundreds and thousands|of women
who wish they were Emma Bovary,
and who have been saved from her fate,|not by virtue,
but simply by lack of determination.
Let me proceed.
Let me take you back, gentlemen,
not to the passages|that the public attorney has read for you.
Let me take you back to the time|when Emma was 20,
when she was still Emma Roualt|and lived on her father's farm.
The night when Charles Bovary|first met her.
See her for the first time as he saw her.
Charles Bovary took little notice|of the farm.
It was rude, substantial, lonely,|in a way, miserable.
He'd seen hundreds of such farms.
Good evening. I should say, good morning.
Are you the doctor from Tostes?|Look, Madame Foulard, how young he is!
Could he fix a broken leg?|That's all I want to know.
I don't know.|I have no faith in young doctors.
We're just neighbors, but we never would|have called you from as far away as Tostes
except that our local doctor...
Oh, a very imposing man, I assure you,|with a beard, happens to be away.
His wife, poor man, is ill.
Madame, I share your doubts.
May I say that my only qualifications|are these, that it's a very stormy night,
that I have no wife,|that I am the doctor who came.
- Now if you'll show me to the patient...|- Oh.
...you both can go home|and get some rest.
Oh, right this way.
I want to see him set the leg, Mama.
Never mind. Never mind.
We're going home. Good night, Emma.|Try to get some rest.
A doctor should have a beard.
- Well, I thank you.|- That's it.
If those harpies are gone,|rouse out my daughter.
- She'll give you some breakfast.|- All right. Goodbye, Monsieur Roualt.
Doctor Bovary? You must be very tired.
- How is my father?|- Your...
Oh, it's a simple fracture, lower right tibia,|no complications.
I'll be back in a week or so.
Boots. Your father's gonna get along just...
He'll get along fine.
I'm sure you'll want some breakfast.|I'll try to hurry.
Oh, no, no. Take your time, please.|Take a...
Take a great deal of time.
Please sit down.
- Perfume.|- Don't you like it?
Mademoiselle, I've come into|many a farmhouse kitchen at dawn.
I've smelled many smells,|sour milk, children's vomit...
I've never smelled perfume before.
Then you do like it.|I hope you like this, too.
What are you doing here?
- Why, I live here.|- Oh.
Yes, I know, but why didn't I see you|when I came in?
I didn't let you. I looked awful.
You do me too great honor.
Dr. Bovary, when I saw you come in here|out of the rain,
and you were so wet,|and you'd come so far,
and those awful women...
I cannot do you too great honor,
and if I please you, well, then,|I am honored, too.
You know, I've been thinking,
your father's leg|might develop complications.
Perhaps I'd better come back tomorrow.
Here, gentlemen, is the monster.
Here is the corrupt|and loathsome creature.
Here is the disgrace to France|and the insult to womanhood.
Emma Roualt,|the flower beyond the dunghill.
How had she grown here?
The kitchen drudge who had dreamed|of love and beauty.
What are dreams made of?|Where do they come from?
Absurd dreams of fashion and luxury|in a farmhouse bedroom.
Who was the messenger?
Ridiculous dreams of high romance|and impossible love.
The cavalier, the serenade,|the long ago and the faraway.
Images of beauty that never existed.
These things she loved.
Emma Roualt, motherless,
had attended a convent|in the provincial city of Rouen.
Emma at first detested the convent.
The scales, the eternal scales, when|she might have been learning love songs.
The discipline, the dreadful conformity.
The eternal uniform,|when a girl's young body is budding.
Perhaps it was the discipline itself|and Emma's discontent
that drove her to dreams, and taught|a lonely girl to live within herself.
For these became the happy years,|these convent years,
when a young girl's mind could wander.
And then, as if to feed her dreams,
there was the old Swiss seamstress who|sang the love songs of the last century
and told stories about|love in a Swiss chalet
and love in a villa in Italy,
and to make|the geography lesson complete,
slipped them on the sly|novels forbidden by the sisters,
so they could read about|love in a cottage in Scotland
and love in a castle in Spain.
She lived in a world of love,|lovers, sweethearts,
persecuted ladies fainting|in lonely pavilions,
horses ridden to death on every page,
gentlemen, brave as lions,|gentle as lambs,
always well-dressed|and weeping like fountains.
Oh, love in Italy! Oh, love in Spain!
It seemed to Emma that certain places|on Earth must bring happiness,
as a plant peculiar to the soil|that cannot thrive elsewhere.
She would find it someday.
One kind of dream and another kind of life.
The convent years ended|and Emma returned to the farm.
Had she been a normal girl,|her dreams might likewise have ended,
but in Emma|there was a terrifying capacity
for pursuing the impossible.
The dream did not end.
She had learned to be a woman for whom|experience would always be a prison,
and freedom would lie always|beyond the horizon.
Here, in these books, in these pictures,|we had taught her
that the strange was beautiful|and the familiar contemptible.
We had taught her to find glamour,|excitement, in the faraway
and only boredom in the here and now.
We had taught her what?
To believe in Cinderella,
and now, here, this morning,|Charles Bovary.
Emma Roualt, you cannot know.|He is not Prince Charming.
He is only a man.
It was very wise of you|to consult me, Doctor.
In all matters of wills, deeds, notes,|assignments, etcetera, etcetera,
I am at your service.|My mind is a storehouse of details.
You will need a house.
Monsieur Guillaumin,|I haven't decided yet.
You will. Leon!
Leon, please make a note.
A house for Dr. Bovary.
A proper house with a stable,
and a rear entrance through which the|doctor may come and go out on his calls.
You see, I think of every detail.
Monsieur, the detail|that I want to know is,
can I make a living here...
Oh, yes, and a garden for Madame Bovary.
Are you making notes, Leon,|or composing poetry in your head?
- My clerk, Leon Dupuis.|- How do you do?
Leon's value to Yonville is largely cultural,|shall we say, ornamental?
He has no mind for details.
- Now, now, where was I?|- You...
Oh, yes, oh, yes.|A garden for Madame Bovary.
Well, a garden may present|some difficulty, but...
Make a living in Yonville?
My boy, why,|of course you'll make a living.
Thank you, Mayor Tuvache.|Thank you very much.
Why, of course, of course. An ample living.
Why, Yonville is the garden spot|of Normandy.
In Yonville, the temperature seldom falls|in winter below the freezing point
or in summer rises above|86 degrees Fahrenheit.
And consider, monsieur,|we have a stagecoach, the Hirondelle.
It'll be a great convenience to your wife.
It leaves the inn at 9:00 every morning|for shopping at Rouen.
- Why do you laugh?|- My wife, she...
I don't even know that she'll marry me.
Oh, never fear. She will.|Tell her about Yonville.
- Yes, tell her about Yonville.|- I will.
Yonville. It sounds like heaven.|Tell me all about it again.
Well, there's the Place d'Armes.|That's the...
And the inn|just the other side of the canal.
This is a... The Mayor said|I should tell you about Yonville,
but I never thought|it would work this well.
Emma, your father's almost well now,
and I guess|I won't get to see you anymore.
Why, I mean,|you haven't known me very long, but...
Emma, please will you marry me?
Oh, I'm sorry.
Well, there's no reason in the world|why you should marry me.
I'm not a very good doctor.|I'll be lucky if I make a living.
I haven't had much schooling.
If I work hard,|it's because I know I have little talent.
- I have to work hard.|- Oh, don't say that.
Emma, listen to me|before you say anything.
I'm easy to get along with|and I'll be a good husband,
but I'm not very exciting.
Charles! Charles, you're the handsomest,|most distinguished man in all this world.
Emma, remind me to thank that Mayor.
- How can you laugh at them?|- Oh, they mean well.
Take me away, Charles, please.
I would like to propose a toast.
Sit down, sit down, sit down!
A country wedding scene.
Please help me.
The cruelty, the ugliness,
the drunkenness, lechery, vulgarity.
The sheer noise.
There they go!
- I want to kiss the bride.|- Charles!
- I wanna kiss you.|- Leave her alone.
There she goes.
There they go.
- Go and get them.|- Watch it!
He took her away from the squealing pigs,
from the dunghill beside the door,
from the boors and the backcountry|and the shame. He took her away.
It's like a picture in a storybook.
Hyppolite, the inn boy,|he'll take care of your horse.
I didn't think you'd want to be bothered|tonight by such a detail.
Light the lamps.
Also, some of our leading citizens planned|a formal reception for you tonight.
I took the liberty of discouraging them.
Oh, it seems we've found a friend.
It's a small village.|I hope you find another.
- Why, we'll find many friends.|- Of course you will.
Don't expect too much of the house,|though. This isn't Paris.
In my humble opinion,|it's a modified rattrap.
Why, Monsieur Dupuis,|I'm sure it's a beautiful house.
Well, I'm sure you can make it beautiful.
There is a linen-draper here|named Lheureux.
He is a scoundrel,|but he knows his business.
He can help you.
Don't let me intrude further|on your privacy.
I live alone with my mother.|I believe she's waiting up for me.
- Good night and congratulations.|- Good night.
Oh. The key.
- Oh, thank you.|- Good night.
Hyppolite, what are you going to do,|stand there all night?
Could it have been otherwise?
She had wept, no doubt,|in the early morning hours.
Was Emma the first bride to weep|while the bridegroom slept? Or the last?
Love in a Scotch cottage.
Love in a Swiss chalet.
- Charles, wake up! Charles!|- What is it? What is it?
Charles, I am going to make you|the most beautiful home in Yonville
this side of Rouen, this side of Paris.
What are you talking about?
This house, it's so ugly.|I'm going to do it over myself.
No, I mean it. I'll talk to that linen-draper
and that young man last night, the clerk.|He seemed to have good taste.
- Good morning, Madame Bovary.|- Oh, I will, I will.
I'll give you a home you can be proud of.|We'll be gay. We'll entertain.
New dreams for old.
Could this morning have been otherwise?
- Where?|- Higher, Leon.
- Could you get it to the top?|- I'll try.
Oh, I shall probably be impaled|on the arrow.
I abhor arrows.
But for you, Madame Bovary,|I'd die with an arrow through my heart.
Oh. Oh, Leon, I can't believe|you've never been to Paris.
Oh, this is lovely.
How much is it, Mr. Lheureux?
For you, Madame Bovary, 12 francs a yard.
For anybody else, 10. What a scoundrel!
It's quite expensive, isn't it?|Let me see, now.
The chair, that was 30,|and the sofa and the mirror.
I must have the mirror.|And my new carpet...
- My poor husband, when he sees the bill.|- He needn't, you know.
We can keep anything you choose|a private transaction between you and me.
I'd have to ask you to sign certain notes,|just as a matter of record.
Oh, monsieur, I couldn't.
Oh, this is nice, isn't it?
You have unfailing taste.
Madame Bovary,|you have only to command,
and I will undertake to provide|anything you wish.
I make regular trips to Rouen,
and I have connections|with the best houses in Paris.
Charming, isn't it?
I can't, of course, accuse the woman,|but I certainly have my suspicions.
After all, to allow this strange man|into her shop and to close the shutters.
Oh, it was all well and good|to claim he'd come to repair her stove.
She might just as well have said|that her bread needed a bit of yeast.
- That was wonderful.|- Bravo, bravo! Bravo!
Excellent. Yes, indeed.
Madame Bovary has requested me|to read you a selection
from one of the greatest works of poetry,|the lliad.
- By Homer.|- The lliad, my favorite epic.
One of the noblest achievements|of literature.
I, myself, had the good fortune|of hearing it read
by one of our greatest actors|at the Comdie in Paris.
- But I...|- Monsieur Homais.
"O Greeks! Respect your fame
"Respect yourselves|and learn an honest shame"
"Let mutual reverence|mutual warmth inspire
"And catch from breast to breast|the noble fire"
One never forgets its flavor.|The masked balls, the champagne,
and if you knew what went on|in the Latin Quarter. The dancing...
That's utter nonsense, and you know it.
- Charles, when are you coming?|- Oh, come in, dear. Come in.
Madame Bovary,|the Marquis D'Andervilliers.
I must apologize, madame, for taking|your husband away from your soiree,
but I was just passing through the village|and felt an attack of dizziness.
Oh, it's nothing, truly. I'm honored.
You see, I'm just a village doctor,|and it isn't often
that I have the opportunity of murdering|such a distinguished patient.
Such a handsome young couple.|You must come to the chteau sometime.
Well, good night.
Good night, sir.
Charles, Charles.|He invited us to Vaubyessard.
Oh, no, he didn't, not really.|He was just being polite.
Why didn't I offer him some refreshments?
"Now shakes his spear, now lifts"
You're not a farmer.|What do you know about agriculture?
May I... May I offer you something?
Some other time, perhaps. Good night.
Well, how's the party? I'm sorry|I had to stay away for such a long time.
Emma, what's the matter?
Is there anything wrong?
"Once sons of Mars|and thunderbolts of war! "
I have at the same time exposed myself...
Emma, what in the world|are you doing up here?
Well, everybody's gone home.
I thought it was a wonderful party,|didn't you?
Marquis seemed like a very decent|sort of a fellow, didn't you...
Don't ever mention his name to me again.|I don't ever want to hear it. Never.
What is the matter?
- Emma, look at me. What is...|- Let me alone.
Get control of yourself.
Charles. Charles, I want a child.
I want a boy, Charles.
A boy grows to be a man.|A man can be free.
If he doesn't like his life, he can change it.
If there's anything beautiful, if there's|anything grand anywhere in the world,
he can go out and find it.
I want a baby, Charles. I want a boy.
I want a boy.
New dreams for old.
The dark hours of a woman's life|when old dreams perish
and new dreams are born.
Emma. It's a girl, Emma.
It's a girl.
The dark hours when new dreams perish.
Monsieur Homais is opening his shutters.
It must be one minute to 9:00.
Monsieur Guillaumin, the notary,|will now come out of the Lion d'Or,
scratch himself and spit.
- Good morning, Monsieur Homais.|- Monsieur.
People do the same thing every day.|They have to.
The town clock will now strike 9:00.
The Hirondelle will leave for Rouen.
Hyppolite will sweep the steps.
Leon Dupuis will come running over|the bridge, late to work again.
Do you know, Charles,|why that clock strikes?
To announce the death of another hour.
Good morning, Leon.
I wish I were clever.|If I were clever, I could understand you.
If I could understand you,|then perhaps I could help you.
I love you so much, Emma.
I like a clock that strikes the hour.
I like knowing today|what'll happen tomorrow.
I like everything.|I suppose that's what's wrong with me.
- What is it you want, Emma?|- How do I know what I want?
Well, it's after 9:00.|I have to leave for my calls.
It's after 9:00.|My husband has to leave for his calls.
Oh, Berthe,|are you filled with madness, too?
Are all women?
Do you remember|the Marquis D'Andervilliers,
the man who came here?
You said never to mention his name|to you again?
Yes, of course I remember him.
Why mention him now?
I don't suppose a man can ever know|what a woman really wants
or what she really means.
A ball. At Vaubyessard.
It came yesterday.
He's sent us several of them|in the last couple of years,
but I never told you because...
Oh, Charles, you fool.
I don't know why he's asked us.|I suppose he felt sorry for us.
You never told me what happened|that night at the party.
- I only knew that you hated him.|- Oh, you idiot. You idiot.
He's asked us before|and you never told me. I love you.
- I should have stayed single.|- Vaubyessard, Vaubyessard.
The only marquis I ever met.
This could be a disaster, Emma.|This is aristocracy.
I know some of these people.|I've treated their servants.
You come from a farm.|I'm a village doctor.
We're peasants, Emma.|We could be laughingstocks.
Are you saying we can't go?
The one chance in my life, the only...
What are you doing to me?
Are you showing me this|and then saying that we can't go?
No, Emma. No, I'm not.
Oh, you fool. You wonderful fool. Felicite.
Well, where are you going?
I'm going to Monsieur Lheureux|for a new gown.
Madame. Enchanted to see you.
Forgive me, my dear.
Good evening, madame,|delighted to see you.
Doctor. What a charming couple. May I?
Doctor, as your host, I demand the|privilege of the first dance with your wife.
Perhaps you'd care to join the games|in the billiard room?
Gentlemen, 100 louis, if you make it.
That's my wife... Wife.
The most amazing hunting country|in the world.
- Match, please.|- Wild boar, deer, stag.
I wish you'd join us.
I'm afraid it would be impossible.|Perhaps the next time.
Oh, what a pity. What a pity.
- Who is she?|- Some doctor's wife.
Oh, yes. That peasant.
- I'm exhausted.|- May I have this dance, Madame Bovary?
Oh, I'm sorry.|This is a waltz, and I don't waltz.
- It's quite easy.|- I could show you.
Oh, no. No, I should be afraid to try.
Oh, I'm sorry, I don't waltz. No, really, I...
No. I would like to stop, please.
I can't breathe. I'm going to faint.
- The lady is going to faint.|- Break the windows.
Wait. Hey, I want to dance with my wife.
I don't like to disturb Dr. Bovary.|He's in his consulting room.
- It's Monsieur Leon.|- I'll be right down.
- Send him up.|- Up here?
Do you know, all the years,|and I've never been up here before.
How was Vaubyessard?
- Charles is downstairs.|- Hang Charles.
Leon, after all these years... Don't. Don't.
Leon, this is not Paris.|This is a small village.
Charles is downstairs.
- Madame Bovary.|- Yes.
Madame Dupuis is calling.
- Did you say Madame Dupuis?|- Yes.
- Good afternoon, Madame Dupuis.|- Mother.
- Forgive this intrusion.|- Oh, it's nothing.
Leon was helping me.
I was trying to clear out some trash|in the attic.
- Yes.|- Won't you sit down, please?
- Where is Dr. Bovary?|- Why, I believe he has a patient.
- Did you want to see him?|- No.
It's always such a pleasure to see you,|Madame Bovary. You're so beautiful.
Leon sees you so often,|and I get so little chance.
Leon is very sensitive to beauty.|He is a very susceptible boy.
- Mother.|- Yes?
Would you like some chocolate?|I'll ring for Felicite.
No, I can only stay a moment.
- How is your husband, Madame Bovary?|- Oh, he's well. Very well. Busy, of course.
Yes, of course. A nice man.
Not brilliant, but then if he were brilliant,|he would leave for Paris.
Then who would stay in Yonville|and look after simple people like me?
That's quite right, Madame Dupuis.
I'm happy you understand your husband|so well, Madame Bovary.
- Leon is leaving for Paris. Yes.|- Mother.
An old friend of the family|will find him a position,
perhaps in Paris, perhaps in Rouen.
- I didn't know.|- You didn't consult me.
What is this? I thought|you always wanted to go to Paris.
But this is absurd. I...
Don't tell me that you suddenly find|greater attraction in Yonville
rather than in Paris.
No. No, of course I...
Don't you agree, Madame Bovary|that my son has no future in Yonville?
Yes, I've overstayed my welcome.
Please give my best regards|to your husband.
Come, Leon, you may see me home.
Well, go on.|Don't keep your mother waiting.
There we are. That's fine.
Might be a little sore|for the next few days...
- Oh, I'm sorry.|- Oh, Emma, did you want to see me?
- No, I...|- Come in, dear, please. I'm just finished.
- Is Leon still here?|- Leon is going to Paris.
- He'll never be back.|- Oh, I'm sorry.
Still that's what he always wanted,|isn't it?
- Stupid little village. Stupid...|- Emma, please.
Monsieur Rodolphe Boulanger|of La Huchette.
I believe we met at Vaubyessard.
Well, I'll go along now.
And I'll bring you this dull fellow|twice a week until he's well.
- That'll be fine.|- Come along.
Our village of Yonville is honored today|in having been chosen to present
the agricultural show|of the entire Seine district.
So you see, madame, it's in the air.|Everyone senses it.
This is the age of progress.
Mark my words, Madame Bovary, you will|live to see miracles of science unheard of.
The blind will see, the lame will walk.
Where is he? There. Look. Look, madame.|A perfect example.
Do you see that poor, wretched Hyppolite?
Do you know, madame,|that physicians in Paris
have practically perfected an operation|for the cure of strephopody
or, to be exact, endostrephopody or,|to be vulgar, a clubfoot?
May I be permitted, first of all,
to pay a tribute to the administrators|of our government?
Oh, were I but a physician|I could cure Hyppolite.
Yes, and bring renown upon our village|and celebrity upon myself.
I might even be awarded|the Legion of Honor.
Monsieur Homais, it's so hot.|Would you excuse me, please?
Certainly, my dear.
The Legion of Honor.
You farmers, agricultural laborers,|have understood that political...
- She's taken his arm.|- They do say he has plenty of money.
Plenty of money and no wife.|You know what that means.
It means he'll continue|to have plenty of money.
- Oh, Monsieur Lheureux.|- ... more patriotism than in the country.
I'm sure everybody's asking
why a man like you|would come to a village fair like this.
Why? Well,|because I've run out of excuses.
For weeks I brought my man|to your husband,
until not even I could pretend|he was still ailing.
- So now I'm reduced to agricultural shows.|- Madame Bovary.
So now you want to risk my reputation|in public places.
What alternative do I have?
Since you won't let me risk it in private?
The welfare of the seaman, the fisherman,
the rich man in his chteau.
Upon the broad hands|of the agriculturalist
guiding his plow,
sowing his seed, reaping his harvest,
planting his cabbages,
depends our great industrial centers
where commerce and fine arts|are flourishing.
But the farmer's crying for fertilizer|and there is no fertilizer.
Shall we listen to the speeches?
My husband's sitting|not 30 feet from that window.
My darling,|I know what you're going through.
Your duties, your loyalties, your chains.
But this face...
Now, before heaven, must this face|be wasted on the shopkeepers of Yonville?
- This face that haunts me, drugs me...|- Rodolphe...
These hands that were designed|for a thousand pleasures.
These lips. Were they meant to speak|of love or grocery lists?
Don't, Rodolphe, don't.
Now, we ask for manure.
We demand manure|for the further development...
I adore you.
Now, Dr. Charles Bovary.
Gentlemen, as Monsieur Canivet|has so happily remarked...
- That's my husband.|- ... about our fair, fair land,
everywhere, commerce and the arts|are flourishing.
Be careful, they'll see us.
...means of communication,|like so many new arteries...
Well, then for heaven's sake,|let's go where they can't.
...established with any new relations...
Why, I've got to be down there|while he's speaking.
- Why?|- I can't hurt him that way. I...
No, Rodolphe, don't touch me. Please. No.
...a brash imposter...
- When will I see you?|- For you are the...
- Rodolphe, I...|- Have you a horse? Do you ever ride?
- Now just tell me, do you ever ride?|- No, please.
...you farmers, you artists,|expecting neither glory nor praise.
The same can be said of the village doctor.
Idiot! Murderer!|You might have poisoned us all!
Do you want to see me|in a prisoner's dock with criminals?
Do you want to see me dragged off|to the scaffold? Speak! Answer me!
- Articulate! Say something!|- You told me to get you a spare pan.
Did I tell you to get it from my laboratory?|Look. You see this jar?
You see what it says? "Dangerous. "|Do you know what's in it? Arsenic.
You, you've taken a pan|that was next to it.
- Monsieur Homais.|- Oh, you imbecile...
- Monsieur Homais.|- Oh, Madame Bovary.
Oh, you've no idea|what I have to contend with.
Sometimes I'm horrified myself|when I think of my responsibilities.
Monsieur Homais, may I speak to you|for a moment alone, please?
Please. Justin, put down that jar.
Go back into the kitchen. Madame.
- Monsieur Homais...|- If you please.
Yesterday at the fair
when you said that if you were a physician|you could cure Hyppolite...
Madame Bovary, you mean to say|you were listening to me?
I'm dumbfounded, but I'm very flattered.
You said that a doctor could win|the Legion of Honor.
Well, I said,|but no one would listen to me that...
Could he really win the Legion of Honor?
Well, I'll only say|that if an obscure village doctor
could perform such a great feat, his name|would be blazoned across France...
So you're sure it can be done?
My dear lady,|I have all the information here.
All the literature...
- Why do you ask?|- Charles will do it.
- Charles?|- Oh, Monsieur Homais,
if he could only be important and famous|and people listen to him.
He'll do it. I'll talk to him.
- Have you said anything to him yet?|- No, but I will.
- You're afraid he can't do it?|- No, no, not at all.
Why, any physician... It's simple surgery.
It's merely a matter|of following directions.
It has been done, hasn't it?
Well, I won't say that it's been done,|but the method has been perfected.
Madame Bovary, it is typical
of the threshold|of the great advances of science.
First, the method. Second, the practice.|This is inspiration.
- You'll help him? You'll find all the books...|- Help him?
I shall devote every waking moment|to this great project.
Charles, you'd be famous.|You'd be known and respected.
And Homais will help you.
- He's finding more articles about it now.|- Where?
Where's he looking for them?|In some butcher's catalog?
- Charles Bovary, the butcher of Yonville.|- Why do you want to talk like that?
Because I don't want to talk about it at all.
Emma, I don't say that it can't be done.|Perhaps. How do I know?
But I do say that for me to attempt|an operation like this would be butchery.
How many times have I told you|that I am no surgeon?
I'm not even a good doctor.
I have a right to be a doctor|just as long as I know my limitations.
Why did you ever think up|something like this?
Do you want me to love you or don't you?
Don't you understand that I'm trying?
I know you love me.|I know you're good to me.
Oh, I'd rather you were worthless|and dashing and brutal
and that you'd strike any man|who looked at me.
Emma, this is storybook.
Oh, I don't want you like that.|I don't expect it of you.
But if only you could be famous.
If you could be the kind of man|who wears the Legion of Honor.
Charles, you could push me aside|and ignore me, but how I could love you.
This is still storybook.
I can't help it. It's how I am.
Save me, Charles.
- Save me, before I...|- Before what?
I don't know. I don't know.
Dr. Bovary is your benefactor.|This isn't costing you a sou.
Look, the whole village is cheering you.|Already you're a famous case.
You'll be a hero to Yonville, to all France.
- And if...|- Leave him alone.
I don't want to be a hero.
What are you afraid of? You'll feel no pain.
Well, practically no pain at all.
A mere snip, no worse than the extraction|of certain corns.
But how jolly and brisk|you'll feel afterwards.
And how much handsomer you'll be.
Come, come, man. Where is your vanity?
You want to be rid|of that hideous deformity, don't you, eh?
And be like other people? Yes, indeed.
And what a fine figure you'll cut|strolling around, huh?
And how you'll please the ladies.
Who knows but what you may be dancing|with the girls
at the next village festivities, huh?
Oh, you'll be a gay dog, a gay dog.
I can see now there'll be no stopping you.
I'm gonna dance with the girls.
Go on, Hyppolite, I'm not able to cure you.|Go on back to work.
- What are you doing?|- Let go of him.
There'll be no operation.|If I'm a blunderer, all right,
but I'll not make him or anyone else|the victim of my blunders.
- Fool.|- You disgrace our village.
Charles? The operation?
I didn't perform it.
How could she have gone riding?|I have the horse.
She... Monsieur Lheureux,|the linen-draper,
he brought her a horse this morning.
I believe she bought it.
- Oh, Charles.|- Where have you been?
- Riding. I tried to come in quietly, but...|- Why?
Oh, I don't know.|I have a headache, the riding.
Some other time.
- You bought a horse.|- I'll pay for it myself. I'll use my dowry.
- Your dowry's all gone.|- I don't want to talk...
Where did you go?
Do I have to come in and report to you?|Am I a child? Can't I leave the house?
I can't have this, I can't have that.
Emma, look at me.|Don't go away from me.
- I'm so tired.|- I don't care about the money.
I know you don't, Charles.
Please. I love you so much, Emma.|You know I love you.
I know you do, Charles.|I know you do. Good night.
It's almost noon.
Oh, why must it always be|time to go home?
You, I know. You're glad.
You want to call your dogs|and go back to your hunting.
- The pheasants are excellent this year.|- Oh, you beast.
I could take my revenge on you, Rodolphe.|You know I could.
I could straighten up this room.
The way you live,|with everything piled every which way.
Guns and boots and pipes|and magazines and books.
- I like it.|- What a woman could do to this house.
Oh, I know what a woman|could do to this house.
She could destroy it.
And you, you witch,|if the woman were you...
I'm in love.|Like a silly schoolboy, I'm falling in love.
That this should have happened to me.
- Oh, Rodolphe.|- I'm bewitched.
I'm losing my interest in pheasant.
I wake up in the morning.
Do I think of my best hunter|that went lame?
No, I think of you crossing the fields,|and hope you aren't seen.
I'm losing my senses. You possess me.|You possess my house.
You know every corner of it|as if it were yours.
I detest this intrusion.
I adore my bachelor privacy,
but I adore you more.
Oh, Rodolphe, Rodolphe.
Am I joking?
- And what are these?|- Other letters.
Saint Petersburg, Rome.
I kept souvenirs when I was young.|Now I no longer bother.
- I don't like it, Rodolphe.|- It's my life. I do.
- Don't torture me.|- Don't destroy me.
Isn't that wonderful?
A new spread and a new nightgown, yes.
- Hello, darling.|- Isn't she a sweetie pie?
I'll put her to bed.
- But I always...|- Is she my child or isn't she?
- But she's used to...|- Hello, darling. Oh, there, darling.
Darling, darling, it's just Mommy.|Oh, we take her shoes off, huh?
We take the shoes off. Oh, darling.
Here, Mommy will sing to you.
Oh, no, darling, darling.
Oh, baby, baby.
Let me put that on you.
Here it is.
Sunset. They go down for water.
- Would you take me away, Rodolphe?|- We've a few more minutes.
No, I meant, away.
You and I, Rodolphe,
someplace, somewhere|where it's only ourselves,
and we'd never have to go home.
I don't want to go home.
We could never come back, Emma.
I can't face him. I can't look at him.|I go home and I...
This is where dreams leave off, Emma.
You know how we'd live.|We couldn't take her with us.
How long can I pretend|that I have any right to her?
I lost her, Rodolphe. I lost her to Charles.
I've even lost her to my servant.
But, Madame Bovary,|two traveling trunks and traveling clothes,
an entire southern wardrobe...
These notes,|nothing yet paid on these notes.
But you renewed them for me,|at twice the interest.
But I am a business man,|and I must consider the risk.
There isn't any risk.
I'm going to Italy. I'm taking a holiday.
Why don't I just speak|to your husband about it?
- No.|- Isn't your husband going?
- His practice...|- I see.
Of course, if some reputable gentleman|were willing to countersign these notes,
your husband, for instance,|or the master of La Huchette.
What's his name? Monsieur Boulanger.
What are you saying?
His name just happened to come|to my mind.
This is impudent.|I hardly know Monsieur Boulanger.
I am a discreet man, Madame Bovary.|I am in the business of making money.
I leave matters of morals to the priests,|to the philosophers.
I ask only one question, what is the risk?
I'll make out a note.
I'm afraid it will have to be
for double the value|of the merchandise received.
Now, if I know from your lips
that you are going off|with the master of La Huchette,
then I shall not hesitate|to accept this note.
Even if you don't come back,|I'll have confidence
that someone will pay it.
Who do you mean? Charles?
- When are you leaving?|- Friday, a week.
- By what means of transportation?|- The mail coach in the evening.
The mail coach doesn't stop in Yonville.
- Rodolphe will arrange it.|- Excellent.
Your trunks will be waiting|in the front of my shop.
The coach can pick them up here,|and your husband be never the wiser.
I hope you like Italy.|I've never been there myself.
There's a basket of fruit on the table there,|from La Huchette.
No, I didn't open it.
- Emma.|- No!
What are you... Emma!
The letter, the letter.
- Doctor, what is it?|- Please.
Can you see this?
Can you see what I have here?|It's the letter.
I haven't read it.
Darling, please try to understand me.
Can you see what I'm doing?
Emma, can you see this? Can you see it?
Was it sickness?
If sickness, was it of the body|or of the soul?
The summer fled.
Autumn pursued it down|the empty spaces of half-forgetfulness.
And then, in the winter months,|Emma recovered.
She recovered, that is,|in the sense that she did not die.
But while Emma had given up all hope,|Charles had not.
Oh, you stupid dunce.
Look what you've done|to my beautiful frock.
Oh, my lovely gown|and now you've just ruined it.
- Charles Bovary.|- How could you be so stupid?
- Leon Dupuis. My apologies.|- Stupid idiot.
Same old Charles.|This is delightful, delightful.
The mustache, the clothes.|You see, it's an old friend of mine.
Well, what in the world|are you doing in Rouen?
I thought you were in Paris.
Oh, it's a long story.
But what are you doing in Rouen?|You never leave Yonville.
- Come, I writhe with curiosity.|- Emma... You can join us, can't you?
Drink it, and then faint.
Leon. Leon Dupuis.
Charles, you knew he was in Rouen|all the time.
- No.|- You arranged it.
No, it was luck. It was absolute luck.
He won't even tell me why he left Paris.
Look at him, the man of the boulevards.
- Why did you leave Paris?|- No mystery.
There was a law firm here in Rouen,|a partnership.
Oh, the sacrifices one makes|on the doubtful altar of success.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Our own Leon, a lawyer.
Then I said that I did like the opera,|everything except the music.
Oh, no, it's all over. Here come the people.
I wish we hadn't missed the third act.
Oh, you know you couldn't have stood|another minute of it.
- That dreadful Lagardy.|- Precisely.
Why, in Paris,|Lagardy is regarded as quite...
I was just beginning to like him.
Oh, darling, you're the most|wonderfully stubborn man alive.
I wouldn't know about that.
I only know I'm the happiest.
You should be happy.
Well, you didn't have to watch|Lagardy's third act performance.
In Paris, you know,|he's considered a has-been.
But here in the provinces,|I suppose we're still impressed
with his reputation with women.
His what? Oh, Leon, tell us.
Didn't you know?
Why, he's quite notorious.|Countesses, duchesses...
I should have stayed for the third act.|No, I mean it.
Darling, you should have forced me|to stay.
I should have... Oh, no, I must be drunk.
Waiter? Bring me the bill, please.
You know, my head goes|around and around.
- Oh, here, Charles, let me...|- No, no, no.
You know, we could come back|tomorrow night to see the third act.
Darling, why don't we stay over|an extra day?
Oh, no, I can't.
All my patients are waiting for me|to get back so that they can die.
What a pity.
Do you know, that third act|does have some fascinating moments in it.
The great aria.
Oh, I can't bear it.|I want to see the third act.
Oh, you know,|I'll never understand a woman.
Well, you stay. You stay over until Sunday.
No, no, we have to go back.
No, you stay over at the Croix Rouge.|I'll go home. I hate Lagardy.
- Darling, be serious. May I?|- Yes, of course.
Make him take you. He likes Lagardy.
Oh, Charles, you are a darling.
- Monsieur Dupuis?|- No, no. Go away, please.
- Boy, what is it?|- Are you Monsieur Dupuis?
- Yes, yes, what is it?|- A note.
What are you doing in my room?|I sent you a note.
I don't find it satisfactory.
People from Yonville stay here.|Somebody may have seen you.
You'll treasure the memory|of our friendship in Yonville.
Please get out.
My woman of the world,|flirt with me in public, lead me along,
then in private, "Oh, no, go away, get out. "
I meant it. I meant what I said in that note.
You spoiled, ridiculous child.
A horrid little rendezvous|in a horrid little hotel.
Is this what you think I am?
The way you deceived Charles.|The way you tricked him.
The way I tricked him?
Can't you be ashamed?|Charles is your friend. He trusts you.
Charles. You know it isn't Charles.
What happened? You're dressed.|You intended to meet me.
Is this where I end up?|A dirty little hotel bedroom,
broken mirrors|and no curtains on the window.
You know me, Leon.|This wasn't what I ever wanted.
Did I ever want anything cheap or ugly?
No, Emma. No.
Is it a crime to want things|to be beautiful?
I love you, Emma.
No, somebody saw you.|Somebody must have seen you.
Nobody saw me.
- Well?|- Where's Dr. Bovary? Isn't he home?
He was called away.|He won't be home until tomorrow.
- What happened?|- He's gone to Daudeville. His father died.
Poor Charles. What a pity. Hello, Berthe.
Myself, I felt sorrowful for the master.
What do you mean? That I don't?
I mean, with so much happening,|his wife away and his father and the bills.
The bills? What bills?
Something with this linen-draper fellow.|How should I know?
I signed those notes. You agreed,|my husband wasn't to know about it.
I'm pressed for money myself.
But you went to him.|You broke your word.
Don't be alarmed.|I only showed him a bill for 1,000 francs.
Poor man, if he knew the whole amount...
Monsieur Lheureux, this isn't the time.|He's upset.
His father and the funeral|and settling the estate.
- The estate? What's it worth?|- I don't know.
Find out. Sell it.
- How could I? It belongs to Charles.|- At least investigate it.
Do you know anyone|who could handle it for you?
I know a lawyer in Rouen.|He's quite successful.
Madame Bovary,|why do I have to instruct you?
You are a clever woman.|Your husband is not a clever man.
All right, he's upset.
When he comes back from Daudeville,|share his burdens.
Save him from the sad business|of settling his father's estate.
Get him to give you his power of attorney.|Take it to your lawyer in Rouen.
Have the estate investigated.|If it's worth anything, sell it
and report back to your husband|that it was worthless.
Madame Bovary, you don't seem|to understand that you are in trouble.
That'll be all, thank you.
- Could I get you some...|- No. No, nothing. Thank you.
Oh, you're here.|I meant to be here when you arrived.
Well, I got here earlier than I expected.|I brought all the papers about the estate.
Oh, my partners will take care of it.|We have a whole week for that.
I think they're all here, let's see.
- Oh, yes, here's the power of attorney.|- Emma, aren't you glad to see me?
Of course I am.
I must apologize for the room.
It's hardly in the best of taste,
but I did have to find a place|where you wouldn't be known.
- I'm afraid the decorations...|- Leon.
I love it.
Put those things down and get out of here.
We don't want anything.
Wait, there is something we want.|Bring us some champagne.
Well, you heard the lady.|Champagne, quickly.
Who is this Madame Emma Bovary?
Why, nobody, Monsieur Dubocage.|Nobody special.
Where have you been all this week?
Well, I was ill, sir.
lll? Have I a clerk in this office or haven't I?
- You have no right to be ill.|- I beg your pardon, sir.
- It won't happen again, sir.|- Get back to your desk.
The papers...|You said you wanted new business, sir.
New business? This?
I've had a report on it.|It's nothing but worthless trash.
I wondered, sir, an advance on my wages?
Physician's fees, you know.
Physician's fees. Let that be the last.
Thank you, sir.
Dupuis, tell the woman goodbye.
Oh, Leon, I waited and waited.
Our last day, I have to go back|to Yonville in the morning.
Aren't they worth anything at all?
We had endless conferences,|my partners and I.
They are very conservative men, of course,|but still, they agree.
The estate isn't worth anything.
The power of attorney's there|with the papers.
I'm afraid you won't need it.
Oh, Emma, let's forget it, what's money?
You can afford to say that,|you've got money.
Why is it that|I should suddenly be overwhelmed
with the vulgarity of this room?
Oh, Emma, some day, you and I,|we'll go to Paris.
You and I, Emma, I swear it.
Some day, Leon,|I'll probably stop hoping for anything.
Here, no more sadness. Go dress yourself.
We'll dine, the Caf de Paris.
We'll subdue our sorrows|with wine and music.
I'll go and dress.
- Morning, Monsieur Guillaumin.|- Morning.
- Morning, Monsieur Homais.|- Morning, Monsieur.
- Good morning, Madame Lefrancois.|- Good morning, Monsieur Lheureux.
A pleasant day. Good morning, Hyppolite.
Why did you come here?|You can't come in.
I only wanted a few words|with your husband.
In there, please.
- You can't stay.|- Really, Madame Bovary...
I've pledged our house, our furniture,|everything we own.
- What more do you want?|- To see your husband. Just a few words.
You said that if I signed|his name to those notes
and gave you the power of attorney,|you'd leave me alone.
- You wouldn't say anything.|- I have no intention of saying anything.
- I am no talebearer.|- Then what do you want?
You want something more.
I come here|with nothing whatsoever to gain.
I ask to see your husband|out of a sense of decency,
in the spirit of justice,|as his friend and neighbor.
It seems only friendly|that he should know.
Monsieur Guillaumin|is preparing to take legal action.
Well, what has he to do with it?
I needed money,|so I sold your papers to him.
So, you see,|it's really quite out of my hands now.
- You'd take our house?|- I?
Madame Bovary, I repeat,|I no longer have anything to do with it.
If Monsieur Guillaumin chooses|to take your house...
- You scoundrel!|- I beg your pardon.
- You monster!|- It's hardly becoming, Madame Bovary,
for a woman of your character|to start calling names.
I've tolerated your conduct for too long.|The things I have witnessed!
The cheating, the lying,|the insatiable greed.
What iniquities! What sordid passions!
Your child and your husband deceived.|All morals abandoned.
Every loyalty foresworn,
while you indulged yourself|with any man that came your way.
- Oh, don't, please...|- And now you call me names.
I am in the business of making money,|Madame Bovary,
a recognized, honorable profession,
a profession, which I am confident,|bears public comparison with yours.
Please, I beg of you, go.
I beg of you humbly. Please go.
- Good morning, Madame Tuvache.|- Good morning.
- Good morning, Monsieur Binet.|- Good morning.
- Is Monsieur Guillaumin in?|- Yes, he is.
- Monsieur Guillaumin.|- Why, Madame Bovary.
Please, do forgive me for coming so early,
- but...|- Quite all right. Will you join me?
Oh, no, thank you. Please go on.
You see, a dreadful matter|has just come to my attention.
Yes, yes.|Unfortunate, these matters of money.
I haven't wanted to bother|my husband about it.
Of course not. I can well understand.
Monsieur Lheureux, he said...
He said that you were going to take|some kind of legal action.
Now just what would that be?
Oh, the natural course of events,|a judgment against the property,
the bailiff, a seizure of said property,|a sale.
Oh, no, I can't believe you'd do that.
I would be happy if it could be avoided.
- I knew you weren't that kind of man.|- Of course not. Of course not.
- Nothing peremptory, shall we say?|- Of course, I... We can pay.
I have many rich friends who would be|willing to help us if it were necessary.
Yes, I understand a certain party|has recently returned from Italy.
He should have every reason to help you,|according to these details.
You see, I have asked our friend,|Lheureux, to put them in writing.
Amazing. My old friend, Leon Dupuis.
Oh, I'm quite discreet.|After all, it's business.
- This is monstrous.|- Quite the contrary. I find it fascinating.
Who would have guessed it?|Our own Madame Bovary.
Now come, come, come.|Let's not be shy about it.
Why, I found the details most appealing.
Now, my dear, I'm a reasonable man.|I'm not like that Lheureux.
After all, money's not everything to me.
Why, Madame Bovary, I'm sure you and I|can work some detail between us.
- Let go of me.|- Oh, what a sly little thing you are.
I didn't want to, Leon.|Who else do I have to come to?
- I didn't want to.|- Well, I am sure you didn't.
But, after all, 15,000 francs,|it's a fortune to me, yes.
But to you, with all your connections|and all your success...
Don't laugh at me, Leon.|Don't humiliate me.
- Humiliate you?|- Leon!
All my success.
I'm still a clerk. I'm still a clerk.|I've lied to you.
I'm still a stupid little clerk
sitting on a high, stupid stool|that I'll never get off till the day I die.
Now you can laugh.
All my success.
I failed in Yonville. I failed in Paris.
Now I can't even succeed at pretending|that I am what I'm not.
I thought you'd hate me.
Did you see the master in Rouen?
He went in last night.|He went looking for you.
- Has he come back yet?|- No.
Why, isn't it proper for me to forgive you?|Surely other women have forgiven you.
- Or isn't that fair?|- It's fair enough.
I just don't happen to remember you|in terms of other women.
- How was Italy?|- Can't you guess? Without you?
I'm sure you found other amusements.
Why should I deny it?
Emma, why did you come here to see me?
Why, I came to tell you that I forgive you.
Those lines around your eyes,|I don't remember them.
I'm sure there's a great deal|you don't remember.
Would you offer me some brandy?
Oh, Rodolphe, forgive me.
Being here again, seeing you again,|I suppose in a way I still love you.
To the happiest of memories|and the saddest.
- Why didn't you take me with you?|- Don't, Emma.
If you loved me,|why didn't you take me with you?
I'm a fairly courageous man, Emma,|but I was afraid of you.
Oh, I ask for too much, I know it.|I expected too much of you...
You asked for something|that consumes while it burns,
that destroys everything it touches.|I didn't want to be destroyed.
Rodolphe. Rodolphe, if I promised...
Oh, I was childish. I confess it.
We all have to grow up, you know.
Supposing I promised|never to expect too much of you again.
Oh, well, don't look so gloomy.
Really, I swear it,|I'd never ask too much of you.
Well, you can at least look at me,|can't you?
I'm not that unattractive, am I?|I'm not that pale.
My eyes, they aren't that ugly, are they?|Oh, here.
I need money.
- Money.|-15,000 francs.
Why didn't I know it was money?
- Oh, I love you. I do love you, I swear it.|- Oh, get up, Emma. I can't stand it.
Only 15,000 francs.|I'll do anything you ask.
- I'll never ask too much of you, believe me.|- I believe you. I pity you.
- And I don't have it.|- You don't...
Why should I share your humiliation?|Go home. You're destroyed.
I said, I'm afraid of you.|I said, I don't have it.
You don't have it?
You don't have it?
I'd have given my life for you.|I'd have begged on the highroads.
I'd have stolen for you.|I'd have worked on my hands and knees.
I said I don't have it.
The bell? At this hour of the night?|Who can that be?
Well, well, just don't stand there.|Go see who it is.
If you say one word,
if you make one sound, I shall say|that you gave it to me by mistake.
Say one word, Justin, make one sound...
Justin. Who was it? Justin.
You've seen this?
I said have you seen this?
Come to your senses.
I'm not going to ask you|where you've been.
I know where you've been.
I'm not going to ask you|where you were in Rouen.
I can guess where you were in Rouen.
Don't hate me, Charles.|Don't hate me now.
What's the matter with you?
What is it?
Don't let go.
Don't let go, Emma. There'll be|another doctor here by morning.
I hurt, Charles. I hurt inside.
- You're crying.|- No, Emma.
Always trying to save me.
Why are you always trying to save me?
I love you, Emma.
You came in out of the rain,|and you were so wet,
and you'd come so far.
Please. Please, please, please...
Where are we, Charles?
- Is this our house?|- Yes, this is our house.
I'm going to make you|the most beautiful home,
like... Like pictures in magazines
when I was a child.
There's not something wrong|with things being beautiful, is there?
No, Emma, there...
What did I do?
Hold me, Charles. Hold me.
Through this holy unction
and through his divine mercy,
may the Lord pardon|all the sins that you have committed
through the sense of hearing. Amen.
Through this holy unction|and through his divine mercy,
may the Lord pardon|all the sins that you have committed
through the sense of sight. Amen.
Through this holy unction and through|his divine mercy,
may the Lord pardon|all the sins that you have committed
by the sense of taste and of speech. Amen.
Through this holy unction|and through his divine mercy,
may the Lord pardon|all the sins that you have committed
through the sense of touch.
And so it was.
A woman had been born into this world|and had died young.
She had touched on numerous lives
some not so lightly.
Some despised her.
Some mourned her a little.
Some profited by her.
And then, of course,|there were those she had ruined,
who would never cease to love her.
Now there are those|who are offended by her
and who see in Emma Bovary's life|an attack upon public morality.
Gentlemen of the court,|I maintain that there is truth in her story,
and that a morality which has within it|no room for truth, is no morality at all.
Men may dislike truth.
Men may find truth offensive|and inconvenient.
Men may persecute the truth, subvert it,|try by law to suppress it,
but to maintain that men|have the final power over truth
is blasphemy and the last illusion.
Truth lives forever, men do not.