- 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)
This summer dust is ruinous to my lungs.
I hope the air will be better in Angers.

The Duchess d’Antan has invited you too?
- Well, yes.
- How delightful.

Please continue, dear fellow.
- Good day, Countess.
- "(gasps)" George!

- I’m sorry I frightened you.
- (baby cries)

I had the most fearful dream.
Blandine was a terrible creature
with fly’s wings

that was draining my life from me.
They are deadly little charmers.
Chromatic glissando.
The wings of a butterfly.
Or the wrath of God.