of Sganarelle, thus bringing me a festive fund of devilry, a cache to make me young again, while making jeopardies for that vile fiend who would wrong me.
MASCARILLE: But, sir: the pedicure, the hangnails trimmed, the fingers lopped, the hand chopped off, the neck in noose! I must insist, my salary, unless improved, does not sway me to deign such risks.
CLUTTERBUCK: Ah, honor in these lapsèd times! It’ s all so mercenary now! The jousts of rakes, the feats of crooks, the exploits of the infamous have since devolved to bargaining, investment and self-interest. Where has the hero scoundrel gone who, for his glory, and that alone, made villainies such an art form?
MASCARILLE: Perhaps pedicures made them effete.
CLUTTERBUCK: What of the sport, renown and pride that made deceit a masterpiece? The curs, the cads, the mountebanks of yonder years would be ashamed to see, today, no one will make enormity for common weal and public muse. It’ s all so base that criminals in these dour times will only ply their knaveries for salaries of recompense. Shall ignominy be oppressed? Shall scandal be commodified?
MASCARILLE: On second thought, you pricked my pride.