The Princess of Montpensier Page #5

women hand down the recipes.

That way.

A woman taught you?

I didn't say that.

Not a woman?

Yes, but...

I wasn't prying, you know.

But now I am curious.

Aren't we good enough friends?

This woman you hide...

Was she your wife?

I can't cross.

Here it is.

I found it.

It's lovage.

L-o-v-a-g-e.

Also called wild celery.

I boil it...

I wouldn't be ashamed to speak of

a person I once felt for.

- What makes you...

- I went through the ordeal.

Now I'm cured.

Never have I...

I am cured.

You mustn't have suffered much.

I suffered enough.

Before the Prince?

The Prince was the cure.

We were still almost children.

He was the handsomest boy around me.

He frightened me at first,

because he always fought for honour,

and perhaps for amusement.

These fights scarred his face.

He looked like Henri de Guise...

But it wasn't him.

It wasn't him.

I learned in the convent

never to confide in anyone.

I'm moved by your trust.

Where do we stand

in this endless war?

Battles, truce,

hostilities resumed...

Do you think it will last long?

I hope not.

Between ending and enduring,

I no longer know what I hope.

Your horse!

We took Cond's banner.

The rest fled.

Good news, cousin.

Have you any other?

Of home?

News of my cousin, your wife,

Marie?

Is the thought of sin

already a sin?

Not without desire, no.

Or it's highly venial.

And the thought with desire?

I'm not a confessor.

I'll ask him.

My confessor.

I'll ask him.

You don't only charm

my kitchen staff.

The chilblains, Madame.

Come, come.

There's no harm in a smile

here and there.

Are you still cross with me?

Cross? Why?

In fact, I'm pleased

by your sudden show of interest.

So I've ruffled you.

Please forgive me, Count.

I meant no harm.

They're only words.

Not only your words,

but your silence, too,

showed legitimate indifference.

The space required

between pupil and master.

What is your reproach, then?

No reproach.

I only reproach myself.

All this daily happiness

has blinded me.

I should have fled.

I thought age had released me

from the grip of passion.

- Are you saying...

- Yes, Madame. I love you.

You quickly forget

your own teachings.

Isn't the world's equilibrium

assured by small stars

which keep their place

in the celestial hierarchy?

Your words are forgotten.

They must have been due

to the fatigue of reading and study.

We won't discuss it again.

Do you hear the lark?

Not a lark.

An oriole.

You say oriole to scold me

for not learning the poem.

I found it meaningless.

- You don't like poetry?

- I do,

but not the singsong of the lines:

"Fluttering,

chanting, regretting..."

Bing, bing, bing!

What you call "singsong"

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