:02:00
A gigantic mother brooding over her
millions of children, good and bad.
:02:05
It's magnificent, Cézanne.
You must paint it.
:02:09
As someday I shall write it.
:02:11
No, Zola. It's hopeless.
:02:14
You know that people don't want
to see the stark face of truth.
:02:20
They would much prefer
perfumed lights like these.
:02:25
They ought to be burned
like something unclean.
:02:29
Why, Paul, that's splendid.
:02:31
Why didn't you think of that before?
We shall have a fire!
:02:35
- We could sell them and...
- What?
:02:37
And expose others
to their stinking hypocrisies?
:02:40
No, my friend. We'll burn them...
:02:43
...and let their lying pages
warm the bones of men of truth!
:02:48
There we are.
:02:53
Well, look at that. Even the old stove
rebels at the vile trash.
:03:06
Close that window!
:03:07
- You want me to catch cold?
- But we'll suffocate.
:03:10
That'll be better than perishing
from a draft.
:03:12
Oh, you and your drafts.
:03:19
It's the concierge...
:03:21
...for the rent.
- He'll kick us into the street.
:03:25
Don't let him in. Tell him I'm in bed.
:03:27
Some horrible disease.
It's catching. Anything.
:03:36
- Who is it?
- It's Émile's mother.
:03:42
- Come in, Madame Zola.
- Thanks, Paul.
:03:46
Émile, why are you in bed?
Are you ill?
:03:50
It's tearing my heart out to see you
living like this, and now it must end.
:03:55
Nonsense, Maman. I'm an
independent gentleman of letters...
:03:58
...and soon the world will recognize me.