Impromptu Page #3

in little amateur productions.

And here, Madame Sand, is your workroom.

If you open the doors, perhaps

our southern moonlight will inspire you

to write those sublime novels

which I so admire.

George! Up, quick!

We have food for a picnic!

And a donkey!

Come,

before the dreaded duchess finds us.

Cheers.

Come on!

What is wrong with our Georgie?

She is incurably disgusted.

With what?

Love, no doubt.

She should only have

what Marie and I have.

Only God deserves love.

I adore this silence.

George has gone off, it seems.

- Shall we go and look for her?

- Can you walk?

Not presently.

I need this rest.

My tour next month is 20 cities.

- Where are you going?

- Vienna, Geneva...

You're going on a tour?

Darling, did I forget to tell you?

What of your writing, your work?

What of me? Am I going with you?

We'll talk about it later.

Sophie!

We're going back.

Thank you, young man.

What a magnificent horse.

Must have been a great hunter.

Yes.

Yes.

I'd invite you to my home for a drink,

but I've got a house full of fops.

Guests of my wife's.

I won't let her move to Paris

so she's trying to bring Paris here.

Still, it's her money.

And I love her for it.

Where are you staying, lad? At the inn?

That is either Monsieur Chopin

or Monsieur de Musset.

- You haven't invited Alfred?

- I'm afraid so.

Do you think it'll be a disaster?

Why do you laugh?

This will be judgement day for George.

She should pay for her sins

like any other fallen woman.

She can't avoid everything

by being a man.

That's not Alfred at all.

This gets better and better.

- Who is it?

- Felicien Mallefille.

- He's the children's tutor.

- He can discipline those two savages!

I wonder where I shall put him, though.

In George's room, of course.

That's what he's accustomed to.

No!

He is a handsome brute!

How does she merit all these men?

He looks angry.

I don't think he appreciated

being left behind at Nohant.

- George!

- George!

I'll give you a horse

to ride back to the inn.

- There's something I must confess.

- Drat! We've been seen!

Sh*t!

George!

Not that one, monsieur! He's a devil!

By God! What a fine seat

that fellow George has.

Madame George Sand, dear. The authoress.

- Are you ready now to face me?

- God, Mallefille! Not now!

Yes, now.

No kisses? Where's my greeting?

Didn't you get my letter?

Yes. Your message was clear indeed...

between the lines.

- I will defend my position.

- Oh, balls!

You're not in the army any more.

You had an affair, not a pitched battle.

Oh, Mallefille.

Poor boy. It won't hurt for long.

- I know it must seem unfair.

- George.

- You promised to love me.

- I didn't promise to succeed.

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