Anastasia Page #4

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Petrovin, a glass of water.

- It's all right.

- It's all right, Petrovin. Her Highness is better.

- Don't call me that!

- How well you hear.

And how well you know how to use

what you hear, and when.

It was you who told the nun that

you were the Grand Duchess Anastasia.

- Sick people get sick ideas.

- Then you were in that asylum in St. Cloud.

And before that, in Berlin.

- Let me out of here!

- You know you were.

You were and you weren't,

and why and why not?

Questions like that

can only be answered by lies.

- Let me go, let me go!

- Stop it! Stop it!

No. No. Please.

Please, don't. Don't!

- Look at her hand. Go on, look.

- What?

Well, he wants us to look.

All right. Come.

Now, come under the light.

Sit down.

Open your hands.

I told you there were

surprising features.

- On the palm of each hand, a scar.

- As from bullets.

Now, look at her head.

Above the left temple.

A narrow depression, extending

almost to the forehead.

- Just as we were told.

- Where did you get those scars?

A gift from an unknown admirer.

- Where?

- I don't remember.

Wounds like that

and you don't remember?

- Huh! Who are you?

- No one.

- Who are your parents?

- None.

- Where are you from?

- The river.

- Before that?

- A madhouse.

- And before that?

- Another river, and another madhouse.

Oh, come on now.

Who are you?

- You tell me.

- You must be someone!

- Why?

- Nobody, nothing, no one!

- Incredible.

- But most convenient for us.

All right, gentlemen.

Come over here. Add up the facts.

One:
She has a certain resemblance,

which we can heighten.

Two:
She's obviously smart enough

to learn what we teach.

Discrepancies in her memory can be

attributed to the head wound.

Three:
She has

no identity whatsoever.

Which means it will be exceedingly difficult

for anyone to prove she's someone else.

- Four... precisely.

- We have eight days.

All in favor of the candidate...

two to one, elected.

Two to one elected.

Do you realize there are

10 million at stake?

- Ten million?

- Yes, my dear. The inheritance of 10 million...

left by the tsar

in the Bank of England!

And you want to risk it all

on a madwoman.

I must still be in the asylum...

with the one who sat covered and crouched

on the floor because she wasn't born yet.

It's you who are mad!

I'll have no part of this.

Now, now, my dear. The carriage

of the head not quite so high.

Grand duchesses are proud,

but also modest.

- They are to be killed, not to be sold.

- There you are!

Mad as a hatter! Now she

really thinks she is Anastasia.

- I do not! I am not.

- But you can be.

- I can make you Anastasia.

- She is dead. You said so.

- That doesn't matter.

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