“Really, Scapin,” says Matamore, with good-humoured condescension, “you have hit the nail upon the head—­you are not so stupid after all, for a valet.  Yes, I have fallen in love, but do not imagine for a moment that my courage will suffer diminution on that account.  It was all very well for Samson to allow his hair to be cut off, and for Alcides to handle the distaff at the bidding of his mistress; but Delilah would not have dared to touch one hair of my head, and Omphale should have pulled off my boots for me—­at the least sign of revolt I would have given her worse to do:  cleaning the skin of the Nemaean lion, for instance, when I brought it home all fresh and bleeding, just as I had torn it from the quivering carcass.  The thought that has lately occurred to me, that I have subjugated only half of the human race, is humiliating.  Women, by reason of their weakness, escape me; I cannot treat them as I do my masculine opponents—­cut their throats, run them through the body, or hew off their arms and legs; I must lay siege to their hearts, and conquer them in that way.  It is true that I have stormed and taken a greater number of such fair citadels than there are drops of water in the ocean, or stars in the sky—­why, I sleep on a mattress stuffed with thousands of beautiful curls and tresses of every shade, light and dark, golden and jet-black, which are among my most treasured trophies.  Juno herself has made overtures to me, but I turned a deaf ear to her blandishments, finding her charms rather too ripe for my taste; I prefer the first flush of youthful beauty; it is a pure and innocent maiden that I would honour with my notice now, but she repulses me—­that I should live to say it!—­she dares to repulse me.  I cannot permit such an impertinence on her part, and the fair Isabelle must humbly sue to me for pardon, and herself bringing the golden keys of the citadel of her heart, upon a salver of silver, offer them to me upon her bended knees, with streaming eyes and dishevelled tresses, begging for grace and favour in my sight.  Go now, and summon the fortress to surrender—­this house contains the rebellious fair.”

But doors and windows remain inexorably closed, and no notice is taken of the valet’s thundering knocks and mocking summons to surrender; secure in the strength of their bolts and bars, the garrison, which consists of Isabelle and her maid, vouchsafes no reply.  Matamore, becoming more enraged at each vain attempt to gain a response from his fair enemy, stamps about the stage, roaring out his defiance, threatening to sack and burn the place, pouring out volleys of remarkable oaths, and lashing himself into such a fury that he actually foams at the mouth.  When his valet at length, after many vain efforts, is able to gain a hearing, and tells him of his formidable rival, Leander, and how he has already won the lady’s heart, all his rage is turned against that fortunate suitor, of whom he vows that he will make mince-meat