George Sand: I am not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love. That is all. But I love strongly, exclusively and steadfastly.
George Sand: Chopin, do you love me?
Frederic Chopin: God help me, I do. You are superb.
[They kiss passionately, but Chopin stops]
Frederic Chopin: No!
George Sand: [desperately] What is wrong now?
Frederic Chopin: I'm frightened.
George Sand: Of me?
Frederic Chopin: Certain acts are... uh, unseemly. They are unsuitable.
George Sand: Chopin... it's an act of love! It's the divine mystery itself!
Frederic Chopin: You must think I'm inexperienced, but I assure you, I was baptized... in the brothels of Paris, when I first arrived. But, um... I'm so ill... and I have been for such a long time, and my body is such a great disappointment to me, that I've already said goodbye to it, I'm... not really *in it* any more, I'm just... happier floating about in music. And if I should come back... inside this miserable collection of bones, then I... am afraid that it would probably collapse altogether. Forgive me. I'm ashamed.
George Sand: No, no. Forgive me. I'm a fraud, you know. "Divine mystery"? I never experienced that with anyone! Always had disastrous relationships. And I never manage to stay in love.
Frederic Chopin: What?
George Sand: I don't know. I want too much... I think. Except when I hear you play... and when I'm around you. Look... I simply want to be with you. The rest doesn't matter. Really. Do you think we could just be together, like this?
Frederic Chopin: Yes. Yes.
George Sand: I used to think I'd die of suffocation when I was married. Now it's my freedom that's killing me.
[after Chopin's coughing fit]
Eugene Delacroix: He has trouble with his lungs. It's the misery of his life.
Duchess D'Antan: Well, he should be bled. We have an excellent physician. He's developed a very special variety of leeches - quite painless, and they leave very little mark.
Franz Liszt: Better yet, send in George to Monsieur Chopin: she leaves no mark at all.
[Alfred's satirical play begins]
Franz Liszt: Good evening. I am God. In the time that I am relating, I have grown disappointed in my master creation, the human race. I endowed them with everything: the riches of the land, and of the sea, and of the air... and enough intelligence to worship me.
George Sand: We shall all be in our graves soon enough, but Chopin is eternal.
Baroness Laginsky: I knew your father when he was young.
George Sand: Really?
Baroness Laginsky: Oh, yes. We girls were enraged when we heard he'd married that dancer, or whatever she was.
George Sand: You mean my mother?
Felicien Mallefille: God exists but he's no longer loved so he hides away to conceal his broken heart.
Malfie: You promised to love me.
George: I didn't promise to succeed.
Alfred De Musset: [taking a section of manuscript] Her memoirs? Am I in it?
Editor: No! It's, it's about her childhood. I expect you come in later, after she chews up her husband, and about a hundred other fellows.
Alfred De Musset: It's true, she's a cannibal. She would drink the blood of her children from the skull of her lover, and not feel so much as a stomach-ache.
Editor: Alfred, go home - put it into verse - I'll publish it - and then and only then will you get paid.
Marie D'Agoult: George! You'll want to sit over here, my dear - all the respectable people are on the other side.
[Their first meeting, after she sneaks in while he's playing the piano]
George Sand: Oh, don't stop! Monsieur Chopin, you are in the middle of a miracle! - I'm not quite yet cured.
Frederic Chopin: How did you get in here? Who are you?
George Sand: I am your slave, and you have summoned me with your music.
Frederic Chopin: Oh, yes. I think I know who you are: I have heard you described. Madame Sand, rumor has it you are a woman, and so I must ask you to leave my private chambers.
George Sand: Have I offended your modesty? I apologize. Only play me one more piece and I'll go.
Frederic Chopin: No! This is ridiculously improper. And frightening, as well.
Franz Liszt: [as God] This is my servant Noah, and his wife Noëtte, and their children. Into their hands do I place the future of mankind.
George Sand: [as Noëtte] Oh, this heat! Will it never rain? Here sits my stupid husband; I don't know what God sees in him. Oh, who can express the despair of youth married to age? My husband is 600 years old, while I am but 150!
Franz Liszt: [as God] Hurry, Noah, to the Ark, and fill it with two each of the creatures of land, sea, and air.
George Sand: [as Noëtte] Lord, we have no need for animals - art alone will save the world. Let's see, we'll need two of everything: two poets, two painters, two musicians...
Franz Liszt: [as God] Impossible, they will not come. Your conversation is not witty and you have no ideals.
George Sand: [as Noëtte] Ha ha, true, but we shall also give them free food and lodging for forty days and forty nights. Now, we shall also need two playwrights, two composers, two makers of velvet flowers...
Marie D'Agoult: You won't get him with a dress; on the contrary, my dear. I know the man. He is not a man; he is a woman. He is all emotion and refinement. He has very few defenses. You must win him as a man wins a woman; if anyone can do it, you can, George.
Alfred De Musset: Did you read her latest novel? It's not even literature - it's drainage. The only good books she ever wrote were when she was with me: every morning, while she was sleeping, I'd cross out half her adjectives.
George Sand: [picking up a picture] This your family?
Frederic Chopin: No, that's my fiancée. Well, we're no longer engaged. Um, her family didn't feel that I was a very good risk for a husband. You know, no one really expects me to live very long.
George Sand: Balls!
Frederic Chopin: I beg your pardon?
George Sand: I don't believe you're, you're ill at all. You just need more strength. Take mine. Really - I have too much of it.
Marie D'Agoult: He hasn't fallen in love with her, he has succumbed to her. Poor man was simply standing there - nobody warned him - and he was crushed under her wheels!
George Sand: [George is looking over the script of Alfred's new play] The style's a bit precious. Mind if I rewrite it?
Alfred: Not at all. We'll have a horse sent in.
Felicien Mallefille: He'd better work on his epitaph because I'm going to kill him!