Lines of Wellington Page #2

Flee if you can. Hide!

I won't get far with no legs...

Captain, sir...

I can't leave you here.

Don't be an ass. You can and must.

Flee! Flee while you can!

As for me, French or no French

I haven't got long.

I can't say I even want the time

I have left...

- Go. Hurry. Get away!

- No, no, Captain, sir!

Go! Don't waste time. Get going!

The window!

The window.

Sh*t!

He can't have got far...

From behind, it looked like a woman.

Don't tell me

this old fool's still here!

F*** off, messieurs.

For the Marechal and his retinue

we were fortunate to find intact the

magnificent palace of a Swiss merchant.

Being a friend of the French,

he gave up his last Guinea fowl

for the Marechal's dinner...

I knew your Voltaire well, you know...

Knew him!

You exaggerate, my poor Lopold.

Say rather, you imagined him...

- You remember my dear, at Ferney!

- Yes, at Ferney! Don't you remember?

And from far away.

- Only a few metres...

- Yes, more or less...

With his back to you.

More wine, Monsieur le Marchal?

I'm afraid it's not Bourgogne...

They say it's a little rough...

Myself, I hardly drink.

No!

Are you sure, Cosima?

Really!?

- A hussar?

- Absolutely, Severina.

Like Papa...

But, sister dear...

there's only one bed in the room!

The French, you know...

What? Know what?

What are you talking about?

Nothing.

I'm afraid we have

nothing for dessert.

The servants took everything.

We do, however,

have a little French cognac...

You're probably wondering,

Monsieur le Marchal, why we stayed.

My petal, I don't expect

Monsieur is interested...

Shut up. And don't call me petal.

It's ridiculous.

Our daughter is buried here.

In the garden.

Killed by a stray bullet

on the Buaco road...

She wasn't yet twenty.

- Severina!

- Come, sister!

It was a French bullet.

That was never confirmed,

Monsieur le Marchal...

- It could well have been English...

- Or Portuguese...

It was French.

Grief has upset her, Monsieur.

Don't take it amiss.

They're an interesting race,

the Portuguese, you know...

A melancholy people...

They call it "saudade":

It's being sad for what didn't happen,

but might have happened.

They fall into long silences,

in the middle of a conversation even,

then take up again

as if nothing were amiss.

For them, coldness is merely

a sort of inverted warmth.

It's a pity they've all gone.

Oh well,

I dare say they'll be back...

Don't be scared.

I'm not French.

I won't hurt you.

Who are you?

What are you doing here?!

I think that is for me to ask,

my young friend.

I'm the mistress of this house.

At least I was

last time I checked.

I beg your pardon, madam.

I'm terribly sorry. Believe me.

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