All language subtitles for Blackadder.S03E03.DVDX265Panda.en

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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 all the time

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.

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...

...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, no doubt,

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?

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 Scàrlette!

Le Pimpernel Scàrlette!

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, if I remember rightly,

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.

I'm sure it will 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.

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.

However, Your Highness, 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.

As far as I can see, 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?

As always, Baldrick. By the 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.

One Week Later

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.

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.

Certainly, not, Mrs M. 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, Mrs M.,
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.

- 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 I've 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.
- What?

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!
- 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.

The Pimpernel is 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!
- 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!

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.

I can't sleep, Mr 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, Baldrick.

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.

- I thought of a plan!
- Hurray!

Also, I thought
of a way to get you to sleep.

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!

- 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?

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...

On the contrary!
I'm just sorry I'm so late.

Yes, 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 that 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.

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...
- 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.

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