[France barely registers England's primitive grunts until the idiot places a hand on his arm. He remains completely still, like a statue, but inwardly his emotions are simmering just underneath.

Gently, he plucks England's hand from his arm and drops it as though it's something vile and diseased.]

Enough. As far as I am concerned we are still at war. Lay another hand on me, Angleterre, and you may very well lose it.

... Tell me the year.