I understand
many of you artists are atheists.

Atheists? Oh, no.
No, we feel that God exists.
He’s just not considered
worth all the trouble of denying him.

Oh, really!
The baron is baiting you.
He maintains
there is no scientific evidence of God.

And I reply “Because civilisation
has poured dust on his traces.”

God has been buried by science.
But alive!
God exists.
But he is no longer loved,
so he hides away
to conceal his broken heart.

(sympathetic murmurs)
Certainly it is difficult
to find God in our age.

And artists are the only hope.
But we shall locate him again.
We are a search party,
if you like, of orphans,

with our emotions as a lantern in the dark.
(amused murmuring)
Our greatest hope
may be Monsieur Chopin,

in whose music
we find both emotion and science

in the most perfect rapport.
"(guests)" Hear! Hear!
Thank you.
May I, in turn,
propose a toast to our host and hostess?

For without the noble patronage of
the aristocracy, we are orphans indeed.

They understand and nurture us.
They are our model and inspiration.
Thank you.
George, you’re not drinking.
You must pardon Madame Sand.
She is allergic to the aristocracy.

Surely that can’t be!
Madame Sand, my hobby is genealogy,
and if I am correct,
you are a baroness by marriage

and your father’s mother was a countess.
Yes, but my mother’s father
was a bird-seller.

There you are, philosopher.
Scientific proof of God.

The lion may lie down with the lamb,
and the baroness with the bird-seller.