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.

It’s time for her nightly regurgitation.
20 pages.

The only reason
she needs you or me or anybody

is to provide characters
for her ghastly novels!

- I trust you have no objection to pistols.
- What?

- For tomorrow.
- My boy, I really don’t care.

Thank you for the loan, my dear.
It was most instructive.

You’ll be up before dawn for the duel,
so I shall sleep in my own bed.

Ooh! I do wish I could be there tomorrow.
You will make sure nobody’s killed?
I abhor killing,
but a good fight’s something to see.

- Good night.
- Good night, Claudette.