Monsieur Spade

Spade: Six dead nuns. No one's innocent.

Have you seen Teresa?

Did you do this?

How could I? We're not allowed up here.

She didn't want me to hate you for what you did to my father.

Get down.

Man: Who is this kid

that someone would kill six people to find him?

I worked for Gabrielle LaVarone.

Oh. As what? As a gardener?

More like her housekeeper.

Tell me your name again.

Samuel Spade.

Ah.

How ridiculous.

My mother liked it.

A whore, no doubt.

Maybe we'll leave my mother out of this

and focus on you and me.

Yes.

You and me and this kid, then,

the one that's supposedly mine.

This has nothing to do with her.

Okay. So, do tell me,

what keeps you on Le Trou?

-Le what? -Le Trou.

The hole, this place. You stay here long enough,

you'll see how inevitable the name is.

I can see that just by looking out of the window.

Mm.

But you don't see everything.

Meaning?

Sometimes, when the sun is just so...

you stand at the top and you look down

and the river and the houses are all gone, disappeared.

One day when I was a child, the darkness was so thick

that I rode with my boat right over to La Cascade.

I miss that boat.

I would row in the river every day.

You understand what I'm saying?

Not really, but then I was too busy wondering

what day you might finish talking to listen.

Mm. I speak in metaphor.

So all that yap about shadows and waterfalls

is really about your unhappy childhood.

Ah...

You Americans understand nothing.

Fuck a Frenchwoman in a French bed and...

you'll learn all you need to know.

I don't think you and I are having the same conversation.

Of course we are.

Then you're either really dumb

or you're trying to provoke me,

which also makes you really dumb.

Or you're just what everybody says you are.

Handsome? Devil-may-care?

Whatever you are and whatever you want me to think you are,

you're not drunk, you're not bored,

and you're not at all interesting.

So you can knock off the bug act

and listen to what I have to say.

I promise to be quick so you can get back to your sulking

and I can get back to the States,

where people don't butter their fucking fruit.

You're just an American private copper,

which in France, gives you about the same legal authority

as a rat catcher.

In my case, the two jobs are one and the same.

Relax, I'm not gonna shoot you.

That's 500,000 francs.

500,000?

-That's a lot of francs. -A whole lot.

What am I supposed to do with it?

Buy yourself a new boat

and row yourself the fuck out of here.

Where would I go?

I hear Norway needs more assholes.

I grew up here.

I still have great love for Bozouls.

Sadly, one that's unrequited.

What about the others?

The neighbors whom I care so much about?

What about 'em?

Will they also bring me envelopes?

No, they will not.

Consider this a gift from everyone on your little list.

This is the grand total of what you're gonna get.

And what if I choose to stay?

The bottom of that hole is a long way down.

Metaphorically speaking.

I'm not a man to be threatened.

If you think I'm threatening you,

then whosever that it was taught you English

didn't know a threat from a promise.

Please...

convey my "No, thank you" to Madame LaVarone

and all the carrots.

I've asked for what I deserve and will accept nothing less.

Philippe...

you're not the worst I've dealt with,

not by a country mile.

-I just want you to know that. -Mm.

Good luck with finding a home for the girl,

Mr. Spade.

- As-salamu alaykum. - Wa-Alaikum-Salaam.

No.

Spade: The point of the story is

he wasn't sorry for walking out on his life.

That seemed reasonable enough to him.

After all, a man's nearly killed by a falling beam,

makes him stop and think.

Usually the first thing that comes to mind is run.

But years later, when I saw him with his second wife,

he couldn't see how he'd settled back

into the exact same life he'd run away from.

And I bet that's the part of the story you like best.

The man adjusted himself to beams falling

and when no more of them fell,

he adjusted himself to them not falling.

You're very smart for someone so rich.

I guess I'm lucky there's so little construction

in Bozouls.

Because I think what you're really telling me

is that you might, without warning, leave me at any moment.

I'm telling you it's possible.

Well, we have something in common, then.

Only, I'm certain that I'd leave you.

I'm also certain that I won't be much of a wife

or be able to commit to anything beyond the end of the day.

The word forever being perhaps the most absurd of all words.

To me, at least.

You're ill.

You can see that?

Not at all. Philippe told me.

At the airport, right before I put him on the plane.

I thought he had to be lying,

because, of course, the last thing you look is ill.

That's because I'm not.

At least not at the moment, anyway.

I was, not that long ago.

But I beat it.

Or so they like to tell you.

So I might leave you one day.

-You might leave me one day. -Mm.

Sounds like every love story I've ever heard.

We got a meeting with the bishop at four o'clock.

Why?

Six dead monks, if I had to guess.

Want to come along?

As long as no one asks me to confess.

Lovely day for a swim, eh?

Ah!

What do you think?

-Nice frame. -Ah. Thank you.

Uh, I thought I'd surprise him and hang the painting.

There is a perfect spot in the library.

Right then. Thank you.

Oui.

Hey!

No?

Oui.

Patrice: My confirmation name is Sebastian.

Every other boy chose Jean or Marc.

But I chose Sebastian.

I said they were Cupid's arrows.

I was trying to be ironic.

Not easy to do at age 12.

Maurice...

Samuel Spade.

-New York City. -My condolences.

The monk. He's been found.

-Where? -Inside the Rhodes Cathedral.

Doing what, lighting a candle?

Bleeding, mostly. From a knife wound.

Clement: Thank you.

The boy.

They want the boy.

To which boy do you refer, Mr. Spade?

The Church wants him. They want him so bad

they'll overlook a few dead nuns to get him.

Oh, Mr. Spade, now even you can understand

that there's matters of Church and there's matters of State.

A distinction the Church makes only when it suits them.

I'll do my best and I'll take that as an insult.

For some, the truth is an insult.

You just seem unable to help yourself.

You can wait as long as you want

for your back-flogging friend to wake up,

but he's not gonna be of much use to you.

He already lost the kid

before he took a blade to his kidney.

Mr. Spade, do you have any specific information

you want to share? -I just did.

Let's go.

Spade: Well, you kept your cool, Patrice.

Please.

You may have not raised your voice,

but you still poked him as hard as I did.

I just like to shake the tree to see what falls out.

Except, my reckless American friend,