A poison is distilled from your words which eats into the very marrow of my soul.
The Painter.
Only the truth! I swear it, I promise it! And since against my wish I am still very much alive, because of your favour, be of use to me, sir, in an experiment.
The Marshal.
Explain yourself!
The Painter.
In order to know exactly how you are thought of in the highest place, you must perish in the duel.
The Marshal.
In the duel?
The Painter.