[England's arm shoots out to stop the Frenchman. Outwardly he's calm; inside, seething.]

Rubbish, all of that. Absolute tripe. [Yes, it is lovely, except when I have to clean up after every one of your bloody mistakes.]

Who was it that approached you to say hello? Who was it trying at civility, at anything resembling rationality? It was me. I approached you, and you can't stand that. You can't stand knowing I gave a damn enough to bother with anything of worth, so don't pretend you've any high ground against me on this.

Go ahead and leave--or stay--I'll not stop you whatever you do, you useless, over-dramatic twat.