Sir Percy: [to thug] It would seem your friend is in distress. To the rescue. [pushes thug into the river] Sir Percy: [throws a knife into the river] Yours, I believe. Chauvelin: 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. Sir Percy: This little revolution of yours is monstrous intolerable. Chauvelin: 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. Sir Percy: Sink me, your tailors have betrayed you. Marguerite: They seek him here,/ They seek him there,/ Those Frenchies seek him everywhere./ Is he in heaven,/ Or is in hell?/ My own elusive Pimpernel. Sir Percy: Sink me, the lady is a poet. [they kiss] Prince Regent: Percy. Fashionably late, as usual. Sir Percy: Sink me, your highness, it was this damned cravat. Simply refused to tie. I ask you. Sticking out like a pincushion. Prince Regent: I might have known it would be something serious. Sir Percy: What is it you Frenchies say? Tou-che? You see I'm a poet, and you didn't know it, what? Sir Percy: The only power that I can see at present, mademoiselle, is the power of your beauty. Marguerite: Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Sir Percy. Sir Percy: This beholder is enchanted. Marguerite: I don't know whether you're mad, or... Sir Percy: Desperately in love? 'Tis all the same. Tell me, if you can, that you do not feel it, too. Sir Percy: If I were to tell you that I adore you, would you have me do so stintingly? Marguerite: *Adore* me? Sir Percy: Or would you have me declare it as I feel it, with all my heart? Count de Tournay:
Robespierre? I'd sooner trust a snake.
Sir Percy: You must tell me all about yourself, in every detail, but oh, so slowly, so very slowly, so that it takes a very, very long time. Armand: You used me. Chauvelin: Yes. And as long as you are here to serve the committee, I shall continue to use you. Chauvelin: 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. Marguerite: I see now what begins as a dream can end as a nightmare. Some causes can become warped and twisted, like some men. Marguerite: Will you not even defend your wife's honor? Sir Percy: Od's fish, m'dear. Would you have me challenge the poor countess to a duel? Sir Percy: If we are to succeed, we must maintain our anonymity, mask our identities. Even if it means suffering the mockery of others. Being taken for fools, fops, nitwits, even cowards. Lord Timothy Hastings: That's the easy part. The hard part's not being able to boast about our exploits to the ladies. Sir Percy: What has poor Armand done to be condemned to matrimony? Fouquet: Her heart's as soft as her head. Sir Percy: [on his poem] Well, the pretty thing rhymes in four places, don't you see? And if a rhyme rhymes, it makes a poem, if you follow me. Sir Percy: He was looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel. I pray he found a fool. Chauvelin: 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. Sir Percy: My dear chap, I never would have dreamt of depriving you of your moment of triumph. Alas, a moment was all I could spare. Sir Percy: Let that be a lesson to you, sir. Never take anyone for granted. Sir Percy: I knew that your tears would be the worst possible torture. Sir Percy: They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in Heaven? Or is he in Hell? That damned, illusive, pimpernel. Chauvelin: Oh, the English, and their STUPID sense of fair play! Chauvelin: An oath to a scoundrel is meaningless. Sir Percy: Ceased? I will love her to the day I die. That is the tragedy. Countess de Tournay:
[accusing Marguerite of denouncing the Marquis de St Cyr]