Closely followed by his valet, Scapin, who is in
imminent danger of having an eye put out by the end of his master's big
sword, he marches several times around the stage, taking preternaturally
long strides, rolling his eyes about fiercely, twisting the long ends
of his huge mustache, and indulging in a variety of ridiculous gestures
indicative of exaggerated rage and fury, which are irresistibly
funny--all the more so because there is nothing whatever to provoke
this display of ferocity. Finally he stops in front of the footlights,
strikes an attitude, and delivers himself thus: "For to-day, Scapin, I
am willing to let my man-killer here have a little rest, so that there
may be an opportunity to get all its recent victims decently buried, in
the cemeteries I contribute so largely towards filling. When a man
has performed such feats of courage and carnage as I have--killing my
hundreds single-handed, while my dastardly comrades trembled with fear,
or turned and fled from the foe--to say nothing of my daily affairs of
honour, now that the wars are over--he may assuredly indulge himself
occasionally in milder amusements. Besides, the whole civilized world,
having now been subjugated by my good sword, no longer offers any
resistance to my indomitable arm, and Atropos, the eldest of the dread
Parcae sisters, has sent word to me that the fatal scissors, with which
she cuts the threads of human lives, have become so dulled by the great
amount of work my trusty blade has given her to do with them, that she
has been obliged to send them to Vulcan to be sharpened, and she begs
for a short respite.
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