During this scene Isabelle and Zerbine come out upon the balcony.  The mischievous soubrette goes into convulsions of laughter, whilst her mistress nods encouragingly to Leander.  Meantime Pandolphe, accompanied by the notary, turns the corner of one of the streets and enters the square just in time to see Leander’s extraordinary exploit, whereat he is horrified and amazed.  The valiant captain bellows like a bull, shrieks out the most frightful threats and curses, vowing all sorts of vengeance, and making prodigious efforts to draw his big sword, so that he may forthwith set about cutting up his unmannerly assailant into mince-meat.  He tugs and strains until he is red in the face, but his “man-killer” cannot be induced to quit the scabbard and Leander, growing impatient, follows up his first attack with a vigorous, well directed kick, which sends the unlucky bully flying to the other side of the stage, where he falls all in a heap and rolls in the dust.  The handsome, young gallant then bows gracefully to Isabelle and retires from the scene.

Captain Matamore meanwhile lies sprawling on the ground, making ludicrous and ineffectual efforts to regain his feet.  Pandolphe and Scapin go to his assistance, and when they have hauled him up, and he has made sure that Leander is no longer present, he roars out in a voice of thunder:  “Scapin, quick, hoop me with iron bands or I shall burst!  I am in such a rage!  I shall explode like a bomb! and you, treacherous blade, do you play me false at such a moment?  Is it thus you reward me for having always tried to slake your insatiable thirst with the blood of the bravest and noblest?  I don’t know why I have not already broken you into a thousand pieces, as you so richly deserve—­false, ungrateful weapon that you are!  But stay—­was it to teach me that it is unworthy of the true warrior to desert his post?—­or forget his sterner duties in the soft delights of love?—­was it for that you refused to leap from your scabbard as of old?  It is true, alas! that thus far this week I have not defeated a single army—­I have killed neither ogre nor dragon—­I have not furnished his usual rations to Death—­and in consequence my trusty blade has rusted in the scabbard—­that I should live to say it! rusted!—­and I have been forced to submit to insults, and even blows, before the very eyes of my mistress.  What a lesson!  Henceforth I shall make it a rule to kill at least three men every morning before I break my fast, so as to be sure that my good sword plays freely—­keep me in mind, Scapin, do you hear?”

“Perhaps Leander will return before long,” says the valet; “suppose we all help you to draw your ‘trusty blade,’ so that you may be ready for him.”