A harder jolt than usual having
made the unfortunate gallant groan aloud, Scapin immediately opened his
attack, feigning to feel the liveliest commiseration for him.
"My poor Leander, what is the matter with you this morning? You moan and
sigh as if you were in great agony! Are you really suffering so
acutely? You seem to be all battered and bruised, like the Knight of
the Sorrowful Countenance, after he had capered stark naked, for a love
penance, among the rocks in the Sierra Morena, in humble imitation of
his favourite hero, Amadis de Gaul. You look as if you had not slept
at all last night, and had been lying upon hard sticks, rods, or clubs,
instead of in a soft, downy bed, such as were given to the rest of us
in the fine chateau yonder. Tell us, I pray you, did not Morpheus once
visit you all the night through?"
"Morpheus may have remained shut up in his cavern, but Cupid is a
wanderer by night, who does not need a lantern to find the way to those
fortunate individuals he favours with a visit," Leander replied, hoping
to divert attention from the tell-tale bruises, that he had fancied were
successfully concealed.
"I am only a humble valet, and have had no experience in affairs of
gallantry. I never paid court to a fine lady in my life; but still, I do
know this much, that the mischievous little god, Cupid, according to all
the poets, aims his arrows at the hearts of those he wishes to wound,
instead of using his bow upon their backs.
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