Mallefille is there.
The children do need a tutor, but...
I just can’t
stand the sight of him any more.

I tell him outright I want him to leave
and he plainly refuses.

I’m a coward, of course. I can never
simply boot my lovers down the stairs.

- Ha!
- What?

Why don’t you
stay here in Paris and write?

Because Alfred’s here.
I’ve got to go somewhere.
Anywhere, I don’t know.

Maybe I should just curl up and die, yes?
Listen, Buloz. I need 3,000 francs now.
Let me read this... and we’ll talk tonight
at the Baroness Laginsky’s party.

I hadn’t planned to attend.
Alfred might be there.

I know for a fact that he won’t.
All right.
- What’s that?
- Marvellous.

- Her memoirs? Am I in it?
- No!

This bit’s about her childhood.
You’ll come in later, after she chews up
her husband and a hundred others.

It’s true. She’s a cannibal.
She’d drink her children’s blood from her
lover’s skull and not feel a stomachache.

Alfred, go home.
Put it into verse, I’ll publish it.

Then you’ll get paid.
Thanks to you
I can’t go to the baroness’s party.

- In fact, I’ll have to leave Paris.
- No more advances.

I don’t need your money, old sow.
I’ve had an invitation to the country.
From a duchess, no less.

Good day.
(strains of piano music)