Jean-Francois de Morangias: So tell me sir, do they speak of the beast in Paris?
Gregoire De Fronsac: Speak of it? They're already singing songs about it.
Genevi?ve de Morangias: Instead of singing songs, they should be saying prayers.
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Sylvia: Do you know how Florentine women ensure their husbands come home? Every morning they slip him a slow poison, and every evening the antidote. That way, when the husband spends the night away, he has a very bad night.
Gregoire De Fronsac: You needn't resort to that.
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Jean-Francois de Morangias: Ghost or not, I'll split you in two.
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Jean-Francois de Morangias: You are too late. The beast is immortal.
Gregoire de Fronsac: IT may be immortal, but YOU aren't!
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Gregoire De Fronsac: [showing the dinner audience the trout with black hair] Salmo truta dermopilla from Canada.
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Jean-Francois de Morangias: Congratulations. If I had both my hands, I'd applaud you.
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[about Jean-Francois's missing arm]
Gregoire De Fronsac: How did it happen?
Jean-Francois de Morangias: I learned that sometimes one bullet doesn't suffice.
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[Examining Jean-Francois's custom-made gun]
Gregoire De Fronsac: A silver bullet? Are you afraid of werewolves?
Jean-Francois de Morangias: I like to sign my shots.
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Mani: All women have the same color when the candle is out.
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[Sylvia stabs Jean-Francois's dead body]
Capitaine Duhamel: He was dead.
Sylvia: Now it's certain.
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