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.
Hungarian humour, George.
- You are too familiar. Apologise.
- Sit down, you ass!

- You think I don’t know what’s going on?
- She has made love with Monsieur Liszt?

Apologise or I’ll rip your throat out!
- Agh! Alfred!
- St George!

- What are "you" doing here?
- I’m the dragoon. I was invited.

Duchess, I’ve only just arrived.
Thank God I was in time
to defend Madame Sand’s honour.

- You followed me.
- He’s the one?

- You’re starting up with him again?
- I’d sooner chew glass.

Choose your seconds
and meet me at dawn, sir.

- No more duels!
- This is men’s business.

- I accept.
- Men? You’re not fit to be men!

Morons! Idiots!
Choose your weapons, Mallefille.
Red or white?

Leave her alone!
She’s going off to write about us.