Céleste

After he wakes and has his inhalation, Monsieur never speaks.

For six months Monsieur has been living on no more,

than two cups of coffee a day.

He sleeps very little.

When I have written the word "end",

I will travel south.

He writes at night and in the early morning.

I am at his disposal.

I sleep from 8 a.m. till three in the afternoon.

From four in the afternoon on, I wait for him to ring.

I take coffee and first milk to him.

I wait for him to ring again and take the second milk to him;

it has to be freshly boiled

That is all Mr. takes.

Having to wait...

this is how it first began.

Come, Celeste.

Do you know what this is?

The call-bell. It's electric.

When it rings, a number appears here.

I wanted to show it to you.

It's what they had in former times.

Afraid?

Nicholas has already brought him

coffee and milk and two croissants.

Afterwards, when Mr. rings twice,

you take out the croissant and you put it on this saucer.

Come!

You take the croissant down there.

you go through the dining room, and the empty parlor.

It's the next door.

You draw back the curtains, you open the door and go in.

He knows you're helping out.

But don't talk to him!

I've an errand to run. Do I get a kiss?

And don't walk around the flat!

He's had his room lined with cork panels

as he's so sensitive, you'll see.

And you mustn't talk to him, understand?

If he rings again, he wants more hot milk.

But Nicholas will soon be back.

Good luck!

I was sitting here with the third croissant.

But Mr. did not ring.

- Was there anything? - Nothing, Odilon.

Nicholas won't be long.

Take care!

He didn't ring.

They called for me once more,

and once again, he didn't ring.

But it's strange...

I didn't get bored at all waiting all those hours.

It was eerie,

being in this large strange flat, yet I felt at home

Somewhere, another person was breathing.

And one day, it rang.

I couldn't see his face, but his eyes looked at me.

I shall always remember that.

I started eight years ago, in 1914.

Then suddenly war broke out.

Nicholas, the valet, and my husband were recruited.

That's how I stayed with Mr.

At the beginning of the war, in September,

he went to Cabourg, by the sea.

He took me with him.

It was his last trip.

Then our hermit life began.

He's having a fit!

When I'm dead, you'll think of Marcel,

because you'll never find another like him.

I present Marcel Proust, in his nightshirt and uncombed.

- Would you help again? - Yes.

I've called you because I'm at a loss what to do.

What's the matter, Mr.?

The additions!

And the margins are full.

I could keep writing on loose pages, but...

I always get them muddled up.

And when it goes to the typesetter...

There, we'll try this.

Hold here, Mr.

Now you can fill as many pages as you wish.

All I need is space to paste the pages. The rest is no problem.

Looks as if moths had been at it. Is it important?

Very.

Yes, I know, they always go for the best bits.

Could you bring the hot-water bottles, I'm feeling a bit chilly.

That's because you don't sleep.

You can't work continuously.

But I must, time is pressing.

Tell me, Celeste...

to live here at night, all the time, with a sick man,

isn't this a sad life?

Why, Mr.?

I know I'm an eccentric.

Like a jay,

just like a feather duster.

You want to keep them all!

Please forgive me.

Please, call me Marcel - just once!

But why not?

Because I can't.

I'm so grateful to you for agreeing to tend a sick man.

This is temporary, till I've found another man-servant.

It isn't correct for a sick man like me, bedridden,

to have a woman at his side.

Especially a young woman.

I know you can't do a thing.

You'll just make my coffee.

You don't even know how to speak in the third person.

No, Mr.,

and I don't want to be able to, either.

All the better.

May I ask something?

Go ahead!

Why don't you call me Celeste?

I'm embarrassed when you say Madame.

Because I can't.

You want me to call you by your Christian name,

though I don't know how to speak in the third person.

All the better.

On his last journey to the sea, to Cabourg, in 1914,

at the beginning of the war, he still took a valet along,

a tall Swede.

Mr. and I, we laughed about him secretly.

Mr. lead me by the hand, like a little girl,

and showed me the sea and sun,

through the oval window he loved so much.

He then began calling me Celeste,

and so it remained.

I must meet the Countess Chevigne'.

All right, Mr.

Do you think I might possibly be too weak, dear Celeste?

It'll be fine because you want it to.

Phone her to find out if she's free tonight.

All right, Mr.

I'd like to meet the Countess at the Ritz.

Could you, in case she agrees, call Mr. Dabescat,

and have the small lilac room reserved?

May I ask you to hurry up?

Sorry, I forgot what's most important, it's been 20 years...

ask if she still has that great hat decorated with Parma violets.

I can't quite remember, it torments me.

With pleasure.

Could you call in at Lemaitre's? Tell him to send her orchids!

They must be very beautiful!

Yes, Mr., very nice.

The Countess could bring Mr. Cocteau with her,

he lives in the same house now.

Yes, Mr., bring Mr. Cocteau.

And call Mr. Francois, please.

Have him come right away. Don't forget my foot-bath!

Are there enough towels?

Will you manage to do all that?

At once! I shall fly like a witch on a broomstick.

Mr. Dabescat is to make up the menu as usual.

Tell Odilon to be ready at 9 o'clock.

Yes, Mr... Odilon at 9 o'clock.

I said it all began with my waiting,

but this isn't true.

It started with these errands, letters, messages, flowers,

and with his first book "Swan's Way" which had just come out.

Mr. had asked Odilon: What does she do, your young wife?

She's from the country, isn't she?

Does she like it in town? Not at all - Odilon replied.

All she does is wait for me, she hardly sleeps,

she eats little and never wants to go out.

She's longing for her mother.

She might like to deliver,

the presentation copies of my book for me;

that would distract her.

That's what Odilon told me, and I answered, "Ok, I'll go"

My God, how many letters have I delivered since?

1000? That isn't enough.

The letters are always part of a plan whose aim is

to hunt for models for characters in his books.

Often making complicated detours to meet someone.

It must look like a matter of chance.

Mr. doesn't seek just any feeling,

Mr. seeks the truth.

I act as his hound.

I rouse his game, and he - bang!

The number of models he needs for just one character!

Suddenly an address disappears.

I know: the pages have ended, he no longer needs this model.

Mr. is waiting for you Mr. Francois.

Your instruments are ready.

- Good-bye, Mr. Francois. - Good-bye, Mme. Celeste.

Now he's spattered himself.

Always when he's almost done dressing.

He already has his tie on, too.

He wants to break a record, he's finished a whole flask,

of tooth-powder, it's really wonderful.

Like in the good old days

This linen is almost clean!

What a waste!

You know my skin chaps if I use a damp towel twice.

What would you have done if you'd had poor parents?

You're spattered again!

But I put a towel...