Impromptu Page #3

soon enough.

But Chopin is eternal.

The only permanent thing about him

is his cough.

Ah.

- All right.

- Thank you, my friend.

Madame Sand, will you delight us

with your company on a hunt?

I must decline, Your Excellency.

My maid is fitting me for a dress

this afternoon.

A dress?

Quick!

Perfect!

Marvellous.

Darling, George proposes

a game of croquet.

Excellent idea. Chopin will join us.

Oh, no. Please excuse me.

I do not really like the sun.

Hah!

Dear friend...

I do not wish you to be burned.

Excuse me. I'm sorry, my friend.

May I speak with you?

Something very terrible has happened.

- Oh!

- Ah!

Again.

- George seems more cheerful.

- Mm. She has a crush on Chopin.

The Polish corpse?

- They couldn't be more different.

- Then they will definitely fall in love.

I suppose as friends

we should help them along.

Absolutely not!

Franz, you and I must put ourselves

between them at every opportunity.

- Marie! Your turn.

- Yes.

He is so frail, darling.

You know George will finish him off.

- The countess made advances to you?

- She is my friend's mistress.

- She has borne his child.

- He wouldn't mind if she changed hands.

Really, I don't understand

the attitude of you people.

Are we at a livestock sale?

She's a woman, not a goat.

- Are you in love with her yourself?

- Of course not.

"I'm not full of virtues

and noble qualities."

"I love, that is all."

"But I love strongly,

exclusively, steadfastly."

No, it's like something out of a novel...

like that dreadful woman writes.

- If you can call her a woman.

- George?

She makes a great hash of her life,

but she's got a good heart.

That's why so many men

don't want to let go of her.

George knows how to love...

while she loves.

The countess has an extraordinary style.

I'd not have guessed

there was a volcano under that ice.

We can't find anything, citizen.

The viscount

has been completely obliterated.

- Good to see you.

- Good evening.

They're all in here. Follow me.

What the devil...

Good God, Claudette!

Go back upstairs and change!

- Pooh!

- Ow!

Hello! Welcome.

Well, he left the salon at that moment.

Claudette's decided to dress as a man

for some reason. Do you want a drink?

At that stage everyone started to laugh.

At last! Madame Sand!

Everybody's staring at me.

It's a revelation wearing trousers.

I feel quite the bully!

George in a dress?

Red and white,

the colours of the Polish flag.

That's a bit of overkill.

I tell you, we'll discuss it...

May I take your arm?

My husband's in a temper tonight

because I'm wearing his britches.

George, Chopin does not deserve

to be collected.

He's so fragile, you know he might...

What's this? A secret?

Is he the one you came here to meet?

Mallefille, if you can't behave,

go to your room.

I am quite marooned.

Will you... partner me?

Of course.

- Bon appetit.

- Bon appetit.

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.

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.

Our greatest hope

may be Monsieur Chopin,

in whose music

we find both emotion and science

in the most perfect rapport.

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.

Really?

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 b*tches

had bitten off its head.

- Feathers were flying everywhere...

- Charles!

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!

Apologise!

- 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.

- Good evening.

- Ohh!

What do you...

Shh.

No!

Ow!

Those lips.

Show me your tongue.

Darling.

What is that scent?

Oats. Oats de Cologne.

Mm. My darling.

Damn it.

Let's go and see.

- Goodbye, George. I'm going to my death.

- What are you ranting about?

- But before I die...

- Oh, my God!

- One kiss from you is all I ask.

- What are you doing?

Let go of me.

Get that horse out of here.

Shh.

I will be dead soon.

Mallefille is going to shoot me.

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