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: I take it, sir, that you do not approve of our new society. Sir Percy
: Approval, sir, in my opinion, demands the attainment of perfection. And in that sense, you rather overrate the charms of your society. I'faith, for one thing, it does seem monstrous ill-dressed for any society, even a new one.
: We shall execute our king instead, sir, and exalt our tailors. Sir Percy
: More's the pity. Then your tailors will rule the land, and no one will make the clothes. So much for French fashion, and French politics.
: You used me. Chauvelin
: Yes. And as long as you are here to serve the committee, I shall continue to use you.
: I am pleased to see that you have come to your senses. Count de Tournay
: You left me little choice. Chauvelin
: That was the general idea.
: I realized that your noblesse oblige would not permit you to abandon one of your men. Sir Percy
: Sink me, if you aren't right. For a change.
: Oh, the English, and their STUPID sense of fair play!
: An oath to a scoundrel is meaningless.
: [Inspired to verse by Sir Percy
] I set a trap/As bait, a belle/His pretty spouse, I grieve to tell/But I never dreamed/ That I shoud trap/The spouse, the mouse/And the gang as well!
: [Defining the 'Scarlet Pimpernel'
] A demmed intrusive weed
: Sir my most abject and humble apologies, I completely drowned your cravat. How can I possible make amends for such clumsiness? Chauvelin
: It's of no consequents it's only a cravat. Percy Blakeney
: Only a cravat? Oh, my dear sir. A cravat is the apotheosis of all neckwear. A cravat desigeshes a man of refinement from the merely ordinary it sneers at the severity of the stock. It is the only item of dress the expresses true individuality. And whether is be made of lace or silk or the finest loom it thrives on ingenuity, on originality, and above all on personality down to the last skilled of twist of bow or knot
: They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere. is he in heaven, is he in hell? no. He's sitting right in front of me. Percy Blakeney
: But it don't rhymn, Chuffnal, and it ain't a proper poem if it don't rhymn.
: [after reciting his poem to Chauvelin
] Delightful. Percy Blakeney
: What? Citizen Chauvelin
: Especially that line, "Those Frenchies seek him everywhere." Percy Blakeney
: Yes, I like that, too, because you see, I hear that they do and that gives the line a sort of something... sort of gives it... uh... uh... something. Uh... u-uh... if I make myself clear. Citizen Chauvelin
: Clear as crystal.