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Ooh la la!
- Good morning, Mrs Miggins.|- Bonjour, monsieur.
- What?|- Bonjour, monsieur - it's French.
So is eating frogs, cruelty to geese and urinating|in the street, but don't inflict it on the rest of us.
But French is all the fashion!|My coffee shop is full of Frenchies,
and it's all because of that|wonderful Scarlet Pimpernel.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is not wonderful.
No reason to admire someone for filling London|with a load of garlic-chewing French toffs
crying "Ooh la la!" and looking for sympathy just|because their fathers had their heads cut off.
A cup of coffee|and some shepherd's pie, please.
We don't serve pies any more!|My French clientele consider pies uncouth.
I hardly think that a nation that eats snails,
and would go to bed with the kitchen sink if it put|on a tutu, is in any position to preach couthness.
- So what's on the menu?|- Today's hot choice is;
Chicken Pimpernel in a Scarlet Sauce,|Scarlet Chicken in a Pimpernel Sauce,
or Huge Suspicious-Looking Sausages|in a Scarlet Pimpernel Sauce.
- What exactly is Scarlet Pimpernel sauce?|- You take a large ripe frog, squeeze it...
Yes, all right. I'm off to the pub.
- Ah, bonjour, monsieur!|- Sod off.
(CAT MIAOWS)
Oh, sir! Poor little Mildred the cat!|What's he ever done to you?
It is the way of the world, Baldrick,|the abused always kick downwards.
I am annoyed, and so I kick the cat, the cat...
(A MOUSE SQUEAKS)|..pounces on the mouse, and, finally, the mouse...
- Agh!|- ..bites you on the behind.
- Well, what do I do?|- Nothing. You are last in God's great chain.
Unless, of course, there's an earwig around here|that you'd like to victimise.
- Baldrick, what's happened to your nose?|- Nice, innit?
No, it isn't. It's revolting.
I'll take it off, then.
Baldrick, why are you wearing a false boil?
What are we to expect next?|A beauty wart? A cosmetic verruca?
It's a Scarlet Pimple, sir.
- Really?|- Yeah, they're all the rage down our way.
Everyone wants to express their admiration|for the great Pimple and his brilliant disguises.
What has this fellow done, apart from|pop over to France to grab a few French nobs
from the ineffectual clutches of some|malnourished whingeing lefties,
taking the opportunity while there to pick up|some really good cheap wine
and some of their marvellous open fruit flans?
We hate the French! We fight wars against them!
Did all those men die in vain|on the field at Agincourt?
Was the man who burned Joan of Arc|simply wasting good matches?
(BELL RINGS)
Ah, His Royal Highness the Pinhead of Wales|summons me.
I feel almost well disposed towards him|this morning - at least he's not French.
Un tosst! Encore un tosst, I say!|Le Pimpernel Scsrlette!
Le Pimpernel Scsrlette!
Le Adder Noir! Come à nous in!
This is the fellow to ask, you chaps, my butler,|terribly clever, brighter than a brain pie.
We're trying to guess|who the Scarlet Pimpernel is,
so we can send him an enormous postal order|to express our admiration. Any ideas?
I'm sure if you addressed the envelope to "The|Biggest Show-Off in London", it will reach him.
Tish and pish! Gadzooks! Milarky!|How dare you say such a thing?
Damn me, sir,|if you're not the worst kind of swine!
Damn that swine.
I was merely pointing out|that sneaking aristocrats out
from under the noses of French revolutionaries,|is about as difficult as putting on a hat.
Sink me, sir! This is treason!
The Scarlet Pimpernel is a hero
and the revolution is orchestrated by a ruthless|band of highly organised killers, damn them!
Damn those organised killers.
George, we were just discussing the French|Embassy ball in honour of the exiled aristocracy.
We certainly were. Where I intend to wear|the most magnificent pair of trousers
ever to issue forth from the delicate hands|of messrs. Snibcock & Turkey,
Couturiers to the Very Wealthy|and the Extremely Fat.
If the Pimpernel does reveal himself, I don't want|to get caught out wearing boring trousers.
Damn those boring trousers.
What say we bet your cocksure domestic|a thousand guineas
he can't go to France, rescue an aristocrat,|and present him at the ball?
That's turned you white, hasn't it?
That's frightened you, you lily-livered,|caramel-kidneyed, custard-coloured cad.
- Not so buoyant now, are you, eh? Eh?|- Eh?
On the contrary, sir. I'll just go and pack.
Perhaps Lord Smedley and Lord Topper|will accompany me.
It'll be a fairly easy trip - the odd death defying|leap, and a modest amount of dental torture.
- Want to come?|- Oh, no! Damn!
Damn!
Any day now,|I've got an appointment with my doctor.
I've got a bit of a sniffle coming on,|I can feel it in my bones.
Damn bones, damn...
What about next week? Come on, you chaps,|get your diaries out, come on.
All right. Damn! I left it behind.
And, besides, I've just remembered,|my father's just died.
I've got to be at his funeral in ten minutes.|Damn sorry. Goodbye, Your Highness.
Oh, damn, I'm the best man.|Damn that dead father, damn.
- Bye-bye...|- See you at the ball.
What a shame they were so busy. It would|have been lovely to have had them with us.
- Us? You're coming, sir?|- Well, certainly.
And nothing I can say about the mind-bending|horrors of the revolution could put you off?
Absolutely not!|Now, come on, Blackadder, let's get packing.
I want to look my best|for those fabulous French birds.
The type of women currently favoured in France|are toothless crones who just cackle insanely.
Oh, ignore that, they're just playing hard to get.
By removing all their teeth,|going mad and aging forty years?
That's right, the little teasers.|Well, come on, I think a blend of silks and satins.
I fear not, sir. If we are to stand|any chance of survival in France,
we shall have to dress|as the smelliest lowlife imaginable.
- What sort of thing?|- Well, sir, let me show you our Paris Collection.
(BLACKADDER):|Baldrick is wearing a sheep's bladder jacket,
with matching dung ball accessories,|hair by crazy Meg of Bedlam Hair.
Notice how the overpowering aroma|of rotting pilchards
has been woven cunningly into the ensemble.
When did you last change your trousers?
- I have never changed my trousers.|- Thank you.
The ancient Greeks wrote of a terrible container|in which all the evils of the world were trapped.
How prophetic they were.|All they got wrong was the name.
They called it "Pandora's Box", when, of course,|they meant "Baldrick's Trousers".
It certainly can get a bit whiffy,|there's no doubt about that.
When the box was opened, the whole world turned|to darkness because of Pandora's fatal curiosity.
I charge you now, Baldrick,|for the good of all mankind,
never allow curiosity|to lead you to open your trousers.
Nothing of interest lies therein.
It is trousers exactly like these that you will have|to wear if we are to pass safely into France.
Well, on second thoughts,|I think I might give this whole thing a miss.
My tummy's playing up a bit. Wish I could come,|but just not poss with this tum.
I understand perfectly, sir.
Also, the chances of me scoring|if I look and smell like him are zero.
That's true, sir.|We shall return presently to bid you farewell.
Mr B, I've been having second thoughts|about this trip to France.
Looking and smelling like this|there's not much chance of me scoring, either.
- Well, Blackadder, this is it.|- Yes, sir.
If I don't make it back, please write to my mother|and tell her that I've been alive all the time,
it's just that I couldn't be bothered|to get in touch with the old bat.
Well, of course, it's the very least I could do.
We must leave at once. The shadows lengthen and|we have a long and arduous journey ahead of us.
Farewell, dear master and, dare I say, friend.
Farewell, brave liberator, and dare I say it, butler.
- Right, stick the kettle on, Balders.|- What, aren't we going to France?
Of course not, it's incredibly dangerous there.
- Well, how are you going to win your bet?|- By use of the large thing between my ears.
Oh, your nose.
No, Baldrick, my brain.
All we do is lie low here for a week, then go to|Mrs Miggins', pick up any old French aristocrat,
drag him through a puddle, take him to the ball,|and claim our thousand guineas.
- What if the Prince finds us here?|- He couldn't find his own fly buttons.
What a pair of trousers!
I shall be the belle of the Embassy Ball.
Now, how to put them on? Blackadder!|Oh, no, damn, he's gone to France.
Well, I'll do it myself, shouldn't be too difficult.
Well, Baldrick, what a very pleasant week.|We must do this more often.
Yes, I shall certainly choose revolutionary France|for my holiday again next year.
Still, time to go to work. Off to Mrs Miggins'|to pick up any old French toff.
(CRASHING NOISES FROM UPSTAIRS)
What do you think that is?
If I was feeling malicious, I'd say it's the Prince|still trying to put his trousers on after a week.
Damn!
Ah, Mrs Miggins, I'd like a massive plate of pig's|trotters, frog's legs and snail's ears, please,
all drenched in your lovely|Scarlet Pimpernel Sauce.
- Not so hostile to the Frenchies now , Mr B.|- I'd sooner be hostile to my own servant.
In fact,|I came here specifically to meet lovely Frenchies.
Well, vive to that and an eclair for both of us!
Vive, indeed. Now, what I'm looking for|is a particular kind of Frenchie,
namely one who is transparently of noble blood|but also short on cash.
I've got just the fellow for you, over there|by the window, the Comte de Frou-Frou.
He's pretty down on his luck,|and he's made that horse's willy last all morning.
We have struck garlic!
- Now you can have some lunch, Baldrick.|- Thank you.
Le Comte de Frou-Frou, I believe.
Eh?
- Do you speak English?|- A little...
What exactly do you mean? Can we talk|or are we going to spend the rest of the afternoon
asking each other the way to the beach|in very loud voices?
Ah, no. I can order coffee, deal with waiters,
make sexy chit-chat with girls,|that type of thing.
Just don't ask me to take a physiology class|or direct a light opera.
No, I won't. Now, listen, Frou-Frou,|would you like to earn some money?
No, I wouldn't.
I would like other people to earn it and then give|it to me, just like in France in the good old days.
This is a chance to return to the good old days.
Oh, how I would love that!|I hate this life! The food is filthy!
This huge sausage is very suspicious.|If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a horse's...
Yes, yes, all right.|Now, listen. The plan is this.
I have a bet on with someone|that I can get a Frenchman out of Paris.
I want you to be that Frenchman.
All you have to do is come to the embassy|with me, say that I rescued you,
and then walk away with fifty guineas and all|the vol-au-vents you can stuff in your pockets.
- What do you say?|- It will be a pleasure.
If there's one thing we aristocrats enjoy,|it's a fabulous party.
Oh, the music! Oh, the laughter!
If only I'd brought my mongoose costume.
Yes, well, obviously it hasn't really got going yet.
I think that is a bit of an understatement, I've|been at autopsies with more party atmosphere.
Don't worry! In a moment we will hear|the sound of music and happy laughter.
(EVIL MANIACAL LAUGHTER)
- Bonsoir, monsieur.|- Good evening, my man.
- Do you speak English?|- A little.
- Just take me to the Ambassador, then, will you?|- Pardon?
I have rescued an aristocrat|from the clutches of the evil revolutionaries.
Please take me to the Ambassador.
No, I won't.
I am an evil revolutionary
and I have murdered the Ambassador|and turned him into pâté.
Ah...
And you, aristo-pig, are trapped.
Pig? Hah!|You will regret your insolence, revolutionary dog.
Dog? Hah!|You will regret your arrogance, royalist snake.
- Snake? Hah!|- Sorry to interrupt this interesting discussion.
But this is really none of my business,|so I think I'll be on my way. Come on, Baldrick.
Not so fast, English!
In rescuing this "boîte de stinkyweed"
you have attempted to pervert|revolutionary justice.
Do you know what they do to people who do that?
They're given a little present|and allowed to go free?
They're smacked and told not to be naughty,|but basically let off.
I think I know. They're put in prison for the night|and brutally guillotined in the morning.
Well done, Baldrick.
Your little gnome is correct, monsieur.
Gentlemen!|Welcome to the last day of your life!
How dare you, you filthy weasel.
Weasel? Hah!|You're one to talk, aristo-warthog.
- Warthog? Hah!|- Hah!
Excuse me, Frou-Frou.|Look, mate, me old mate...
We're both working class,|we both hate these rich bastards.
Come on, me old mucker,|just let me go, you've got nothing against me.
On the contrary.
I hate you English with your boring trousers|and your shiny toilet paper
and your ridiculous preconception|that Frenchmen are great lovers.
I'm French and I'm hung like a baby carrot|and a couple of petits pois.
Farewell, old mucker,|and death to the aristos!
- Death to the aristos!|- (BLACKADDER): Shut up, mousebrain!
Monsieur, why do you waste your words|on this scum? Have no fear!
- The Scarlet Pimpernel will save us.|- Hah! Some hope.
He's the most overrated human being since Judas|Iscariot won the A.D. 31 Best Disciple Competition.
Well, if he should fail us, here,|I have these suicide pills.
One for me, one for you,
and one for the dwarf.
- Say "thank you," Baldrick.|- Thank you, Mr Frou.
- Ah, the Pimpernel!|- (BALDRICK): Hurray!
Ah, the Ambassador, hurray...
Hmm, I've got nothing to do.
So I think I will torture...
..you, aristo-mongrel!
Mongrel? Hah!|I look forward to it, proletarian skunk!
Skunk? Hah!|We'll see about that, aristocratic happypotamus!
(FROU-FROU): Happypotamus? Hah!|We'll soon see who's the happypotamus.
I'm glad to say,|I don't think you'll be needing those pills, Mr B.
Am I jumping the gun, Baldrick,|or are the words "I have a cunning plan"
marching with ill-deserved confidence|in the direction of this conversation?
They certainly are!
Forgive me if I don't jump up and down with glee,|your record is not exactly a hundred percent.
- So, what's the plan?|- We do nothing.
Yep, that's another world-beater.
Wait, I haven't finished. We do nothing|until our heads have actually been cut off.
- And then we spring into action?|- Exactly!
You know how when you cut a chicken's head off,|it runs round and round the farmyard?
Yeah...
Well, we wait until our heads have been cut off,
then we run round and round the farmyard,|out the farm gate and escape.
- What do you think?|- My opinions are difficult to express in words.
Perhaps I can put it this way...
It doesn't really matter, 'cause|the Scarlet Pimpernel will save us, anyway.
No, he won't, Baldrick.|Either I think up an idea, or tomorrow we die,
which, Baldrick, I have no intention of doing,
because I want to be young and wild,|and then I want to be middle-aged and rich,
and then I want to be old|and annoy people by pretending that I'm deaf.
Just be quiet and let me think.
- (BALDRICK): I can't sleep, Mr Blackadder.|- (BLACKADDER): I said "Shut up"!
I'm so excited to think that the Scarlet Pimpernel|will be here at any moment.
I wish you'd forget this ridiculous fantasy.|Even if he did turn up, the guards would be woken
by the scraping noise as he tried to squeeze|his massive swollen head through the door.
- I couldn't sleep when I was little.|- You still are little, Baldrick.
Yeah, well, when I was even littler, see,|we used to live in this haunted hovel.
Every night, my family were troubled|by a visitation from this disgusting ghoul.
It was terrible.|First there was this unholy smell,
then this tiny, clammy, hairy creature|would materialise in the bed between them.
Fortunately, I could never see it myself.
Tell me, Baldrick, when you left home,|did this repulsive entity mysteriously disappear?
- That very day.|- I think then, that the mystery is solved.
Now shut up.
Either I think up an idea,|or tomorrow we meet our maker.
In my case, God. In your case, God knows,
but I'd be surprised|if he's won any design awards.
- (BLACKADDER): I thought of a plan!|- (BALDRICK): Hurray!
(BLACKADDER):|Also, I thought of a way to get you to sleep.
(LOUD THUMP)|(BALDRICK): Ow!
Morning, scum. Did we sleep well?
Like a tot, thank you. But, by jiminy, you must|be feeling thirsty after your long night's brutality.
- Drink?|- Non, merci, not while I'm on duty.
Perhaps later.
For you, monsieur, there is no later.
Because gentlemen, I am proud to introduce|France's most vicious woman,
unexpectedly arrived from Paris this morning.|Please welcome Madame Guillotine herself!
(MADAME GUILLOTINE LAUGHS GLEEFULLY)
- Are these the English pigs?|- Yes, that's us.
Leave them with me, Monsieur Ambssssdeur.
I intend to torture them|in a manner so unbearably gruesome,
even you will not be able to stand it!
- I don't think I will have a problem, madame.|- You will be sick.
- I'll leave if I'm feeling queasy.|- You will be sick immediately.
What if I am sick quietly, in a bag?|I mean, what is in your mind?
(INAUDIBLE WHISPERING)
So! Scum!
Prepare to be in pain!
Yes, certainly.|But first, perhaps, a toast to your beauty.
Oh, thank you. OK.
Cheers.
I expect you were expecting to be rescued, huh?!
Some bloody hope...
(GUILLOTINE, NOW WITH A MALE VOICE):|On the contrary! I'm just sorry I'm so late.
- Gentlemen, I have come to take you to freedom!|- Hurray!
My God! Smedley!|But I thought you were an absolute fathead.
No, just a damn fine actor!
Thank God I got here before you took|any of those awful suicide pills!
I suppose, if someone had taken one and wished|he hadn't, he'd be able to do something about it.
No, no, they're very odd things, you see.
The symptoms are most peculiar. First of all,|the victims become very, very depressed.
Oh, God!
This whole revolution is so depressing,|I mean, sometimes I wonder why I bother.
- I'm so lonely, and nobody loves me...|- And after the depression comes death?
No, after the depression|comes the loss of temper, you stuck-up bastard!
What are you staring at?!
And after the temper comes death?
No! After the temper comes the, er...
- ..comes the, er...|- Forgetfulness?
- Er, yes, that's it. Er, comes the, er...|- Forgetfulness.
Yes, yes. Right in the middle of a thingy...
..you completely forget what it was you...|Oh, nice pair of shoes!
- And after the forgetfulness, you die?|- Oh, no! I forgot one!
After the forgetfulness|comes a moment of exquisite happiness!
Jumping up and down,|and waving your arms in the air,
and knowing that in a minute|we're all going to be free! Free! Free!
- And then death?|- No, you jump into a corner first.
- Hurray! It's the Scarlet Pimpernel!|- Yes, Baldrick.
- And you killed him!|- Yes, Baldrick.
What's the bloody point|of being the Scarlet Pimpernel
if you're going to fall|for the old poisoned cup routine?
Scarlet Pimpernel, my foot.|Scarlet Git, more like it.
- Wait! Here's our chance to escape!|- But what about Mr Frou?
Forget Frou-Frou.|I wouldn't pick my nose to save his life.
Ah, Frou-Frou, my old friend and comrade,|what are you doing here?
- I escaped! What happened here?|- Oh, er, nothing, nothing.
I thought for a moment|the Scarlet Pimpernel had saved you.
(THEY LAUGH UNEASILY)
Ah, chaps, good to see you.|Just trying on the new trousers.
I return, sir, as promised, plus one toff French|aristocrat fresh from the Bastille.
Pleased to meet you, monsieur. Do sit down.
Damn sorry about the revolution,|most awfully bad luck.
Blackadder, how the devil did you get him out?
It's an extraordinary tale of courage and heroism
which I blush from telling myself,|but seeing as there's no one else...
I could try.
We left England in good weather,|but that was as far as our luck held.
In the middle of Dover harbour,|we were struck by a tidal wave.
I was forced to swim to Boulogne with|the unconscious Baldrick tucked into my trousers.
Then, we were taken to Paris, where I was|summarily tried and condemned to death,
and then hung by the larger of my testicles|from the walls of the Bastille.
It was then that I decided I had had enough.
Bravo!
I rescued the Count, killed the guards,|jumped the moat, ran to Versailles
where I climbed into Mr Robespierre's bedroom,|leaving him a small tray of milk chocolates
and an insulting note. The rest was easy.
That is an incredible story,|worthy of the Scarlet Pimpernel himself.
I wouldn't know.
I, on the other hand, would.
Because, you see, sir...
..I am the Scarlet Pimpernel.
- Uh oh...|- (BALDRICK): Hurray!
- Good Lord! Topper!|- Yes, Your Highness.
By egads and by jingo with dumplings, steak and|kidneys, and a good solid helping of sprouts,
I can't believe it! You're the fellow|who single-handedly saved all those Frenchies?
Not quite single-handedly, sir.|I operated with the help of my friend, Smedley,
but he seems to have disappeared|for the moment, slightly mysteriously.
- Shut up, Baldrick.|- Yes, Mr Blackadder.
So Blackadder rescued the Scarlet Pimpernel.
No, sir, he did not.
Prepare yourself for a story of dishonour|and deceit that will make your stomach turn.
This is interesting, isn't it, Blackadder?
Not only that, but I trust|it will lead to the imprisonment of a man
who is a liar, a bounder, and a cad.
Well, bravo, because we hate liars,|bounders and cads, don't we, Blackadder?
Generally speaking, yes, sir.
But perhaps before Lord Topper starts to talk,|he might like a glass of wine.
- He's looking a little shaken.|- Shaken, but not stirred.
It all began last week.|I was sitting in Mrs Miggins' coffee shop when...
Oh, God!
All this treachery is so depressing.
I mean, the whole thing|just makes you incredibly angry!
And it just makes you want to...
Oh, that's a nice waistcoat, Your Majesty.
I'm sorry,|I've completely forgotten what I was talking about.
A story of dishonour and deceit...
That's a great story! That's great!
Oh, that's a wonderful story!|Let me just jump into the corner first.
Roast my raisins! He's popped it!
Do you think he really was the Scarlet Pimpernel?
Well, judging from the ridiculous ostentatiousness|of his death, I would say that he was.
Well, that's a damn shame, because I wanted|to give him this enormous postal order.
Please, sir, let me finish.|I would say that he was...n't .
You see, the Scarlet Pimpernel would never ever|reveal his identity. That's his great secret.
So what you're actually looking for|is someone who has, say, just been to France
and rescued an aristocrat, but when asked,|"Are you the Scarlet Pimpernel?",
he replies, "Absolutely not".
But, wait a minute!|Blackadder, you've just been to France,
and you've rescued a French aristocrat.
Blackadder, are you the Scarlet Pimpernel?
Absolutely not, sir.
Hurray!
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