Angélique de Peyrac de Morens d'Irristru, marquise du Plessis-Bellière

— You are all alone, Sire.
— I am the King.

— Why did you hide the fugitive?
— His crime was saving me.
— Your lover...
— I am free!
— You are not!
— Because you want me?

— I adore Versailles, Sire.
— And the King?
— But, Sire, without the King, there would be no Versailles.

— Were it possible, I would have told him before now.
— So you knew all about Voisin?
— Of course. The Court is France. Without evidence, the King cannot act.
— Must I remind you that they are killing infants?
— Perhaps, by letting a few die, thousands more are saved. I shall inform him about the poison when the time is right, and everyone shall know. In the meantime, I beg you, leave Court.
— Never! I am a woman, and the life of even a single child means everything to me.

— Perhaps he has changed. The Count of Peyrac you loved died at the stake.
— He could have lost his rank and fortune but remained himself.
— Perhaps. But in the meantime you married Plessis-Belliere.
— I thought he was dead. He had died, and I was but a woman.
— He loved no ordinary woman, but Angelique!

— Be so good as to leave the cabin so I may dress.
— You're not at Court now, Madame. This is a ship captained by a man whom the King condemned to death.
— Like a thief.
— Yes. And because of a woman like you. She made me steal from the treasury. She took the spoils before denouncing the thief. And I loved her.
— Why are you telling me?
— You're a woman.
— You're drunk.
— No, I'm mad! I'll make you pay for all those who suffered for your beauty, who wished for a glance from you, who prayed God that you would drop your kerchief, that they might pick it up from the dust in your wake.

— Tell me again about that ship, which has so often saved your life.
— Her loyalty is absolute. She never lets me down.
— Such passion!
— Justified! I owe her everything.
— You speak of her as a woman.
— As someone who's never betrayed me!

— Make the Bey laugh, tell him of our customs. In short, tempt him to Versailles. So far, Saint-Amon's blunders have kept him away.
— Sire, this is a mission for a courtesan, not a diplomat!
— Good God! So much wrath! I simply thought that where a mediocre man had failed, a woman such as yourself could easily succeed.
— What kind of woman is that, Sire? You do not entrust this mission to the Marquise of Plessis-Belliere, but to the widow of the sorcerer of Peyrac!

— I hate receiving blows which I am unable to return.
— As does everyone.
— Not women.
— You believe that?
— I hope so, for their sake.
— You are odious!
— No man could speak to me thus and live.
— I am a woman.

— That nauseous oily taste, like nothing else... No doubt about it. This is it!
— Thanks might be in order!
— Thank you.
— I risked my life for your nauseous oil.