I want to go home.
Mummy said
we can’t go till the roads dry up.

But it’s been raining for three days now.
It’s no use. We’re prisoners.
Prisoners of the Bastille.
Guards are everywhere.
- We’ll blast our way out.
- Yes!

(plays listless, melancholic piece)
Monsieur Chopin, it sounds
so like the raindrops, it’s quite magical,

but I must ask you to produce
a little sunshine for us instead.

I’m about to go mad with the sound
of horrid rain, day in, day out.

Ordinarily I would just take a bromide
and go to bed,

but one has guests to entertain.
Stupid, stupid rain!
No need to entertain us, Your Excellency.
Rather, it is our turn to entertain you.
- I’ve just written a play for your theatre.
- Oh, how gay!

Eugene will paint the scenery.
The maids can do the costumes.

- Chopin will provide an accompaniment.
- Delighted.

We’ll play the parts and you will enjoy
this tribute from your grateful geniuses.

The style’s a bit precious.
Do you mind if I rewrite it?