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.

Since you must know birds,
Madame Sand,

what do you think of our local partridge?
We flushed four of them
in a field this afternoon.

Your friend Mallefille here
shot three of them.

I only wounded the last one.
It flew away.

I don’t know how it could fly -
one wing was nearly torn off.

When we were wandering back,
we saw it thrashing about in the garden.

The dogs had got it!
One of the bitches had bitten off its head.

- Feathers were flying everywhere...
- Charles!

(violent coughing)
Now see what you’ve done!
What the devil’s the matter with him?
He has trouble with his lungs.
Makes a misery of his life.

He should be bled.
We have an excellent physician. He’s
developed a special variety of leeches.

Painless, and they leave very little mark.
Better yet,
send in George to Monsieur Chopin.

She leaves no mark at all.