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the dwarf both a torture and a delight.
Nor would anything have caused Barkilphedro to let go his hold. He
awaited his time. Was it to come? What mattered that? He watched for it.
Self-love is mixed up in the malice of the very wicked man. To make
holes and gaps in a court fortune higher than your own, to undermine it
at all risks and perils, while encased and concealed yourself, is, we
repeat, exceedingly interesting. The player at such a game becomes
eager, even to passion. He throws himself into the work as if he were
composing an epic. To be very mean, and to attack that which is great,
is in itself a brilliant action. It is a fine thing to be a flea on a
lion.
The noble beast feels the bite, and expends his mighty anger against
the atom. An encounter with a tiger would weary him less; see how the
actors exchange their parts. The lion, humiliated, feels the sting of
the insect; and the flea can say, "I have in my veins the blood of a
lion."
However, these reflections but half appeased the cravings of
Barkilphedro's pride. Consolations, palliations at most. To vex is one
thing; to torment would be infinitely better. Barkilphedro had a thought
which returned to him without ceasing: his success might not go beyond
just irritating the epidermis of Josiana. What could he hope for
more--he so obscure against her so radiant? A scratch is worth but
little to him who longs to see the crimson blood of his flayed victim,
and to hear her cries as she lies before him more than naked, without
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