Chapter I: Part 1

CYRANO DE BERGERAC

An Heroic Comedy in Five Acts

_Translated from the French of_

EDMOND ROSTAND

BY

CHARLES RENAULD

_With an introduction by_
ADOLPHE COHN
_Professor of the Romance languages and literatures in Columbia
University._

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY CHARLES RENAULD

COPYRIGHT, 1899
BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

_All rights reserved._

_INTRODUCTION._

The phenomenal success of "Cyrano de Bergerac" is undoubtedly one of the most important literary events of the last quarter of a century. It at once placed Edmond Rostand, a young man of twenty-eight, at the head of the small band of French dramatic writers, all men of marked ability, Maurice Donnay, Georges de Porto-Riche, François de Curel, Paul Hervieu, Henri Lavedan, etc., who had been struggling for supremacy since the disappearance of the two great masters of modern French comedy, Émile Augier and Alexandre Dumas, fils. There was no hesitation on the part of the public. It was at once recognised that what had just been produced upon the stage was not simply better than what had been seen for a long time, but was also, to a certain extent, of a different nature. And the verdict rendered by the French public in December, 1897, has since then been approved by readers and theatre-goers in nearly every one of the countries belonging to Western civilisation.

Can it be said, however, that to an American, or an Englishman, "Cyrano" is all that it is to a Frenchman, that its production would have been possible outside of as well as in France, and its success as significant in London as in Paris? If "Cyrano" is really a great work these questions must be answered negatively, for it is in the nature of great literary works that they consist of a combination of what is purely human with what belongs to the time and place where they have had their birth. They must have enough of what is purely human to make it possible for them to be universally accepted, understood and admired. But they must be also strongly national, so that their universal acceptance may help in spreading all over the world part of the national ideal which prevails in their birthplace. And to these elements may be joined a third one, which is sure to add greatly to their success, and which "Cyrano" possesses in a very high degree, viz: timeliness.

As soon as "Cyrano" appeared it seemed to the French that this was just what they had been waiting for. Two things especially appealed to them, one of a purely literary nature, the other one a part of the basis of moral feelings and ideas upon which the play is built.

First of all, it was a clear play, full of light and sunshine. Edmond Rostand hails from the South of France, and the atmosphere of his play is as translucid as the atmosphere of his native Provence. It is as far removed from symbolism and mysticism as the shores of the Mediterranean are from the fogs of Scandinavia. Every incident in the play rests upon some trait of character or combination of circumstances which has been explained at some previous moment. Every one of the leading characters, and "Cyrano" most of all, stands out in bold relief, and there is no mistaking what they stand for.

But this clearness is mainly for the countrymen of the author. It depends partly upon the previous possession by the audience of a number of notions which are part of the intellectual inheritance of the race. The play, although quite modern in its style and construction, is in some respects for the French a resurrection of a portion of their glorious past. For them the _Hôtel de Bourgogne, les Précieuses_, Cardinal de Richelieu, etc., are more than mere names. The earlier part of the Seventeenth Century was for France a period of wonderful national energy. It is then, and not later, that France acquired that supremacy over the European Continent which is usually associated with the name of Louis XIV, but which was already established when that monarch assumed the reins of government.

The timeliness of Rostand's great play was shown exactly in this, that it called the attention of the French back to a time when the nation was full of youthful and vigourous ambition, when a Frenchman would hardly believe that there was anything that he could not do if he set his mind to it, when it became the fashion to say that "Impossible was not a French word."

Ever since the war of 1870 the pall of defeat had hung over the French. The stage showed this in a striking manner. The plays that were produced presented on the whole a stern or a pessimistic conception of life. The great periods of history, especially, in which French valour carried everything before it, remained neglected, for fear of the painful contrast which they would present with the humiliated condition of a vanquished country.

The men who wrote these plays belonged to a generation in which, using the words of a French academician, "the mainspring of joy had been broken."

But the young men who now come to the front, and who have no more brilliant representative than Edmond Rostand, belong to another generation. They have not known the pangs of defeat; the mutilation of the beloved Fatherland was an accomplished fact when they began to feel and to think. They viewed French history not as concentrated in its last and heart-rending episode, but as spreading through centuries of heroic deeds, oftener illuminated by the dazzling sunshine of victory than darkened by the gloom of defeat. They were growing tired of hearing it repeated on all tones that life was not worth living, and they longed for some one who would shout in a voice loud enough to be heard by the whole world, "Let the dead past bury its dead."

In the acclaim that greeted "Cyrano de Bergerac" on December 28th, 1897, therefore, there was something more than applause for a great dramatic work: there was gratitude for the poet who had dispelled at last the atmosphere of sadness which had come to be stifling for the young Frenchmen of our time. The period of deep mourning was proclaimed to be over. Glances towards the past were again declared to be indulged in only as inspirations for the future. The glory, the joyfulness of action again appeared as living realities, not as the deceptive dreams of unsuspecting ignorance. Thus "Cyrano" presented to the French a play such as they had not seen for a long time. There had been plenty of problem plays, or _pieces à thése_, as the French say; "Cyrano" was a _piece à panache_.

Seldom has, indeed, the purpose of a dramatist been more clearly pointed out than in "Cyrano." When the hero of the play breathes his last, after an imaginary fight with all the unworthy traits of human nature and society which he had antagonized during his checkered life, the one thing which he informs his friends cannot be taken from him, which he will proudly carry to the very presence of God, is his _panache_, and this is the last word, and, as it were, the affabulation of the drama.

Now, what is this _panache_ upon which "Cyrano" sets such a high value? To understand it is to appreciate, to miss it is to miss the meaning of the play. An explanation of it is, therefore, not out of place in this introduction.

The _panache_ is an external quality which adds colour and brilliancy to internal things already worth having for their own intrinsic value. Its main justification is personal bravery. To take an example, the generals of the French Revolution, the marshals of Napoleon's army, all possessed personal bravery to a high degree. They were not all distinguished by the _panache_. Some of them, indeed, Marshal Davout, for instance, were strikingly devoid of it. The representative of the _panache_ among them was essentially Murat. The _panache_ is literally a high plume, or bunch of plumes, that waves high above a commander's head-gear. Murat was bravery itself. But he had to be as conspicuous as possible. He dressed as gorgeously as he could. He rode a superb charger, and rode it superbly. His fur cap was always surmounted by a high and richly coloured plume, which was always discerned just where the battle most fiercely raged. Not his the deeply laid and skilfully carried out plans, but the brilliant and heroic cavalry charge. His eyes, his very voice, irrespective of what he said, were an inspiration to his men, and dispelled all fear of death. There is magnetism in the _panache_, and readers may remember that a few years ago an American statesman whom his friends proclaimed to be magnetic if nothing else, was known throughout the land as the Plumed Knight. "Rally round my white panache," Henry the Fourth said to his soldiers; "you will find it always on the path of honour and duty." The _panache_, too, is essentially joyful. "Cyrano" is joyful, in spite of a life that would breed discouragement and bitterness in almost any heart but his. If reality denies him his share of happiness, then he will find it in the domain the ideal. He will not have to go without it.

And here we strike another cause of "Cyrano's" success. It is not simply a play, it is a poem, and poetry always leads us towards the ideal. This is undoubtedly one of the reasons underlying the love of the French for a verse play. The very swing of its verbal development lifts us above the trivialities of daily life.

One might almost say that the verse play is as characteristic of the French as the Wagnerian lyric drama is of the Germans.

Corneille, Racine, Hugo, Molière himself in such a play as _le Misanthrope_, are idealists, and their message to the world at large, to which must now be added that of the brilliant author of "Cyrano," tells of things better than those we see around us, of things of beauty which it lies in every one of us to bring somewhat nearer to our touch, if we will only have the courage to live up to them.

A few words now about the new rendering of the play which is here presented to the English-reading public. A number of translations of "Cyrano" have appeared before this one. If the facts were known, however, it would perhaps appear that Mr. Charles Renauld's is the earliest of all. It was undertaken by its author under the spell cast upon the French mind by the sudden revelation of Rostand's genius, the nature and causes of which it has been the purpose of this production to elucidate.

The Shakespearian character of the play, displayed in the freedom with which the author brings in everything that seems to him likely to complete the portrait of his hero, has been recognised by the translator, as is shown by his use of a combination of prose and verse passages.

A real translator must be equally at home in the language of the work translated and in the language into which he translates it. He must be in thorough sympathy with the mental attitudes of the two nations whose speeches he is transmuting one into the other. He must be able to be a component atom of that collective being, the public, on one side as well as on the other of the national frontiers that divide them. Thus only will he be able to discover the means that will produce upon the reader of the translation the impression first received by contact with the original.

The readers of Mr. Renauld's translation will, it is thought, acknowledge that he possesses in a high degree the above-described qualifications, and that he has been peculiarly felicitous, when the text did not lend itself to translation proper, in devising what may be termed adequate equivalents.

Of the faithfulness of his rendering those acquainted with the French language will easily judge, as they can have under the same cover the English of the translator and the French of the dramatist, and they will thus, it is hoped, acquire a clear and adequate conception of the beautiful picture, which, thanks to Edmond Rostand, has restored life and brilliancy to the somewhat faded features of that eccentric philosopher, poet, hero and gentleman, Savinien Hercule de Cyrano Bergerac.

ADOLPHE COHN.

_PREFACE._

The author of this translation trusts that he is not presuming too much if, despite his aversion for anything akin to offensive thought and mention of self, he claims the privilege of prefacing the result here presented of his labours with a few remarks, not as a plea _pro domo sua_, but as an explanation relating to the motives and to the methods by which he was guided in his work.

First of all, he desires to state that this, his version of Edmond Rostand's "Cyrano de Bergerac" was written in the early part of 1898, and copyrighted in Washington long before any other rendering in English of the beautiful and now celebrated play was either published or performed. Why did he withhold it until now? Simply because Mr. Edmond Rostand, with whom he was not in touch, had innocently, or under insufficient advice, neglected to copyright in the United States, and had meanwhile made arrangements for the performance of the play in America. Was the writer, who has long been, and is still, battling for a better protection of literary property, to interfere with, or even seem in any way to invade these arrangements? He thought not, despite solicitations to the contrary. True that, armed with the valid copyright of his own work, and with many technicalities at his disposal, he could have brought about considerable litigation in his own behalf, that would possibly have resulted in an indirect defence of Mr. Rostand's moral rights still subsisting. But in the face of a very doubtful issue in the courts, with a possible charge of officiousness out of them, he thought it wiser to abstain, allowing time meanwhile to accomplish its work of adjustment.

Others, however, apparently satisfied with safety for a justification, have not treated with the same respect Mr. Rostand's moral rights and the arrangements made by him for the American production of his "Cyrano de Bergerac." The play has been mutilated, adapted, or "improved" to suit. There are just now, it is said, some twenty so-called stock companies presenting it in different cities throughout the United States. The original in French has been openly reprinted here, likewise its British translation, and other translations (so-called) have been offered to the public. Mr. Rostand did not copyright. Hence the result of his labours, of his genius, belongs, it would seem, to whoever chooses to pick it up!

In these circumstances and now, there certainly can be no impropriety in the publication of this work, the more so as Mr. Rostand is to receive in this instance the royalties to which he is morally entitled.

Further even. Who knows but that this royalty-paying version in book form, or produced on the stage (the right to perform it having been expressly reserved by the writer), may not assist in setting aside the different versions that now interfere with Mr. Rostand's moral rights, as well as with the arrangements he chose to make for stage production in America? Diffidence would prevent the translator, were it not for the valuable encouragement he has received, from adding that the present version of "Cyrano de Bergerac" may, perchance, better than any of the renderings in English now extant, lead to an adequate conception of the beauties of the work in French.

At all events, those who were consulted, including the eminent publishers, and the distinguished writer of the Introduction to this book, freely agreed with the author in his opinion that publication under the foregoing conditions could do no harm, while it might effect considerable good, were it only as an example in many respects, proving, among other things, that there are those, even in America, for whom impunity does not constitute right.

But enough "talk of shop," perhaps too much, for the _genus irritabile vatum_.

At this point, the author feels that, if he expatiated on his methods of translation, he might with some justice be accused of tiresome insistence, or, to put it more gently, of obduracy in esoterism. He will, therefore, confine himself to a few statements, and make them as short as possible.

This version of "Cyrano de Bergerac" was written originally for the stage, where, according to opinion behind as well as before the curtain, in America at least, verse may be acceptable for the expression of occasional flights of thought, but not through the whole of a play, and especially not for such portions of a play as are necessarily colloquial. To explain this alleged distaste for verse on the stage would lead us far beyond the limits of a preface. Suffice it, then, to say, reserving developments for some future occasion, that, for poetic emotion, English verse is more than the French dependent on form, on expression. In other words, English verse is less than the French free to consider only thought, or substance, irrespective of words, or construction. As a rule, then, it would seem in English that dress comes first and figure next; while in French the order appears to be reversed. In consequence (and setting aside the fact that there exists a "magic of words," that has been an all-time and frequent deceiver of men), the average reader or listener instinctively expects from English verse a somewhat conventional language, diversified with unusual words and exceptional contractions, inversions, etc. It follows that, when this special phraseology and peculiar construction are applied to everyday thoughts, facts, occurrences and sentiments, the effect produced is not an agreeable one, by reason of a sort of clash, the appearance of a thing of prose, straight-laced and overdressed in verse, in a word, unnaturalness. Further, the majority of English-speaking actors, unavoidably imbued with the same spirit, so soon as they deal with verse, unconsciously resort to a stilted diction that is distressingly far-removed from the art that consists, through tedious and patient work, in being natural.

Natural, unconstrained verse can, with proper care, it is thought, be written in English, and can certainly, with appropriate training, be delivered with naturalness. This done, our audiences would no doubt take kindly to the rhythm of plays in verse. But, as this does not yet seem to have been fully accomplished, the undersigned translator of "Cyrano de Bergerac" reluctantly decided to use both verse and prose. For this liberty, though justified as above, he feels that he owes the French poet an apology, adding, however, that the deed brought its own punishment, since, strange as it may appear to some, it would have been much easier to render the play all in verse.

As to verse and metrics, on which, in this instance, a book could (and later, may) be written, the author of this translation must now rest satisfied with the following brief remarks.

Enlightened by considerable experience, the result of many experiments and after much thought, he adopted blank pentameter as the true equivalent in English of French riming Alexandrine verse. First, because in English, frequent elisions making many syllables heavy, and "run on" lines practically adding to the number of syllables, the ten-syllable line of English verse is in reality the counterpart of the twelve-syllable verse in French. And second, because the object of rime being, not to repeat a given sound, but to _beat time_, the strongly accentuated syllables of English, as compared with the very much more even enunciation of French, are quite sufficient, without rime or assonance, to _mark rhythm_. Thus he avoided at least one criticism, to wit: rime is monotonous!

Touching metrics, the writer will here go only one step in the ways of heresy, by stating that, in his opinion, such words as "our," "hour," "fire," etc., should be, as in French, "duel," "hier," etc., counted for one syllable, or for two syllables, according to rhythm as influenced by the stronger or weaker emphasis called for by the _sense_ of the word. This could be elucidated by examples, the place of which, however, is not here.

More generally as to methods, the writer makes free to state that, exerting himself to avoid _literal_ translation (too often productive of laughable nonsense), and _free_ translation (frequently a substitution of the translator's for the author's thoughts), he endeavoured, as in previous works of the same nature, to give what he has termed an _equivalent_ translation. In other words, he strove to remain really true to the original by creating in detail, as well as in a general way, in English words on English minds the _impression_ caused by French words on French minds. Some examples of the _equivalence_ at least sought for will be found in the foot-notes on several pages of this book.

As to "le panache" that surmounts this masterpiece, "Cyrano de Bergerac," of which it is the main feature, sending through it a breath of joyful daring "quand même," the writer sought, as will be seen, to describe it in triolets. These, too, might need to be explained, were it not for the able commentary to be found in the Introduction so kindly written for this book by one of the most learned and esteemed professors of our Columbia University.

The writer trusts that he may be pardoned for going at such length into some of the minutiæ of his task, and he certainly should be acquitted if he thereby succeeded in showing how much labour must be expended to produce even a tolerable translation, and consequently, how little justice is very often done to translators in general. He commends these details to his friends as an inducement to think a while before they leap, or rather jump at conclusions. Were he less charitably disposed, or more eager for a practical demonstration, he could say to them simply: "Try the task!"

CHARLES RENAULD.

NEW YORK, February, 1899.

"_LE PANACHE._"

TRIOLETS.

(_After the fashion of Rostand's in ACT II: "Ce sont les Cadets de
Gascogne."_)

O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!
In knightly grace and flower's bloom,
O'er truth and daring floats a plume!
In festive hall, by silent tomb,
It waves aloft without a stain.
O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!

We'll call it, if you will, a broom;
But how it sweeps with proud disdain!
It sweeps the skies, and not a room!
We'll call it, if you will, a broom.
It is a symbol, not of gloom,
But of a dash that scorns to gain.
We'll call it, if you will, a broom;
But how it sweeps with proud disdain!

O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!
It marks for ay the hero's doom!
O'er truth and daring floats a plume.
It nods o'er chisel, brush and loom,
And consecrates the poet's strain.
O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!

CHARLES RENAULD.

NEW YORK, 12th July, 1898.

_CAST OF CHARACTERS._

THÉÂTRE DE LA PORTE ST. MARTIN, PARIS,
28th Dec., 1897 (_First night_).

CYRANO DE BERGERAC MR. COQUELIN.
CHRISTIAN DE NEUVILLETTE MR. VOLNY.
COUNT DE GUICHE MR. DESJARDINS.
RAGUENEAU MR. JEAN COQUELIN.
LE BRET MR. CASTILLAN.
CAPTAIN CARBON OF HAUGHTY-HALL[1] MR. GRAVIER.
{ MR. PERICAUD.
{ MR. DEMEY.
{ MR. NOIZEUX.
CADETS OF GASCONY { MR. TERVAL.
{ MR. KIRTAL.
{ MR. ARMAND.
{ MR. HOSSARD.
LIGNIÈRE MR. REBEL.
DE VALVERT MR. NICOLINI.
A MARQUIS MR. WALTER.
SECOND MARQUIS MR. LAUMONIER.
THIRD MARQUIS MR. HEMERY.
MONTFLEURY MR. PERICAUD.
BELLEROSE MR. DAVRIL.
JODELET MR. CARTEREAU.
CUIGY MR. GODEAU.
BRISSAILLE MR. BORGES.
AN INTRUDER MR. PERSON.
A MUSKETEER MR. CARLIT.
SECOND MUSKETEER MR. DURAND.
A SPANISH OFFICER MR. ALBERT.
A CAVALRYMAN MR. DOUBLEAU.
THE JANITOR MR. JOURDAN.
A TRADESMAN MR. LOISEAU.
TRADESMAN'S SON MR. BOURGEOIS.
A SPECTATOR MR. SAMSON.
A GUARD MR. DANNEQUIN.
BERTRANDOU, THE FIFE-PLAYER MR. G. MONPEURT.
A CAPUCHIN MONK MR. RAVART.
TWO MUSICIANS { MR. GASTON HENRY.
{ MR. DAMON.
{ MR. WILLIAMS.
THE POETS { MR. LEROY.
{ ETC.
{ MR. MALLET.
THE PASTRY-COOKS { MR. BERCHA.
{ ETC.

ROXANE MME. MARIE LEGAULT.
SISTER MARTHA MME. ESQUILAR.
LISE MME. BLANCHE MIROIR.
WAITING-GIRL MME. KERWICH.
MOTHER MARGARET OF JESUS MME. BOUCHETAL.
THE DUENNA MME. BOURGEOIS.
SISTER CLAIRE MME. PANNETIER.
A COMEDIENNE MME. LUCINNE.
A LADY'S MAID MME. VARENNES.
{ MME. MARTHE MARTY.
THE PAGES { MME. LOISIER.
{ MME. BERTHA.
{ ETC.
THE FLOWER-GIRL

The people, tradesmen, musketeers, thieves and pickpockets, pastry-cooks, poets, Gascon cadets, comedians, violin-players, pages, children, Spanish soldiers, spectators of both sexes, euphuistic ladies ("précieuses,") comediennes, tradeswomen, nuns, etc.

(_The first four acts in 1640; the fifth in 1655._)

[1] Note. As to translation of the name Carbon de Castel-Jaloux
(such _was_ the name of Cyrano's captain) see note page 77.

CYRANO DE BERGERAC.

_ACT I._

A PERFORMANCE AT THE HOTEL DE BOURGOGNE THEATRE.

_The interior of the Hotel de Bourgogne Theatre, in 1640. A sort of Racket-Court arranged and decorated in view of performances. The auditorium is a long square. It runs diagonally, and forms the background, one of its sides beginning at first entrance, right, and ending at last entrance, left, where it forms a right angle with the stage, that is thus seen canted. On each side of this stage, benches along the wings. The curtain is in two pieces of tapestry, that can be drawn apart. Above the proscenium, the royal arms. Wide steps lead from the stage to the auditorium. On either side of these steps, seats for the violin-players. Foot-lights composed of candles._

_Two galleries, one above the other, running along the side of the auditorium (that forms the diagonal background). The upper gallery is divided into boxes. No seats in the pit. In the rear of this pit, really front first entrance right, a few benches in tiers. Under a staircase leading to the galleries, and only the lower part of which can be seen, a refreshment side-board bearing lights, flowers, glasses, plates of cakes, decanters, etc._

_In the rear, centre, under the galleries, the entrance to the house. A wide door, half opened now and then to admit the audience. Near this door, as well as near the side-board and in other places, red posters giving the name of the play about to be performed: "La Clorise."_

_As the curtain rises, the house is empty and rather dark._

_The chandeliers have been lowered into the pit, but are not yet lighted._

_SCENE I._

_The audience enters gradually. Gentlemen, tradesmen, lackeys, pages, pickpockets, the janitor, etc._ THE MARQUISES, CUIGY, BRISSAILLE, _the waiting girl, the violins, etc._

_Noise outside the door, then a gentleman bursts in._

THE JANITOR (_pursuing him_).

Here! Your fifteen sols!

THE GENTLEMAN.

I pay nothing for admission.

THE JANITOR.

Why so?

THE GENTLEMAN.

King's guard!

THE JANITOR (_to another gentleman just come in_).

You, Sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Free admission.

THE JANITOR.

But ....

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Musketeer!

FIRST GENTLEMAN (_to second gentleman_).

It's not two o'clock yet, and the pit is empty. Suppose we fence a bit?

(_They begin fencing with foils they have brought along._)

A LACKEY (_entering_).

Pst----Flanquin!

ANOTHER LACKEY (_just in_).

Hallo, Champagne!

FIRST LACKEY (_taking cards and dice from out his doublet_).

Cards? Dice? Let's play.

(_Seats himself on the floor._)

SECOND LACKEY.

Certainly, you rascal.

(_Takes a candle out of his pocket, lights it, and after seating
himself near first lackey, plants it on the floor._)

GUARD (_taking flower-girl by the waist_).

How sweet in you to come before the lights do!

ONE OF THE FENCERS.

Touched!

ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS.

Clubs!

GUARD (_to flower-girl trying to escape_).

A kiss!

A MAN (_sitting on the floor, with a basket of provisions_).

I come early, so as to eat in peace. A knowing fellow, when he is at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, should drink his Burgundy. (_Drinks._)

TRADESMAN (_to his son_).

It's as bad as a low tavern.--(_Showing the man drinking_):
Drunkards!--(_One of the fencers backs up against him_):
Cut throats!--(_He is pushed on to the card-players_):
Gamblers!

GUARD (_still pursuing the flower-girl_).

A kiss!

TRADESMAN (_hearing him_).

And worse!--For shame! To think that walls like these, my son, have seen the plays of Rotrou!

THE SON.

And Corneille's!

A TROOP OF PAGES (_coming in, dancing and singing,
holding each other by the hand, so as to
form a string_).

Tra la la la la la la la la la la lère!....

JANITOR (_to Pages severely_).

No practical jokes, mind!

FIRST PAGE (_with great dignity_).

Sir, your suspicion is an offense!....

SECOND PAGE (_to first Page_).

I have some string. Haven't you a fish-hook?

FIRST PAGE.

Of course I have! We can do some fine angling from up stairs.

(_To the other Pages who are already in the gallery_).

We're coming!

THIRD PAGE (_in gallery_).

We're ready! (_Blows dried peas at him through hollow stick._)

A PICKPOCKET (_drawing around him some
suspicious-looking characters_).

Now, youngsters, try to learn something. You see, the first time you steal....

(_Driven away by dried peas blown in showers by the Pages above._)

TRADESMAN (_to his son_).

The play we are going to see: "La Clorise" ....

SON.

The author, please?

TRADESMAN.

Balthazar Baro.

PICKPOCKET (_continuing his instructions_).

Mind the lace around the knees![2] How you cut it!

TRADESMAN (_to his son_).

I was at the first performance of "Le Cid,"--(_pointing up_)--There!

PICKPOCKET.

As to watches.... and kerchiefs....

TRADESMAN.

You are going, my son, to see illustrious actors. (_Enumerating_) Montfleury!

THE PAGES.

Light the chandeliers!

WAITING-GIRL (_offering her refreshments_).

Oranges! Milk! Raspberry water! Cedar water!

A MARQUIS (_entering_).

Make way there, fellows!

A LACKEY.

What! a Marquis in the pit!

MARQUIS (_to other Marquises who have followed him in_).

The house is empty! Why, we enter like tradesmen, disturbing nobody, treading on nobody's toes! Disgraceful!

(_Meeting other noblemen just come in_).

Cuigy! Brissaille!

(_They salute and embrace each other with great affectation._)

CUIGY.

Patrons of art so faithful, yes, that we get here even before the candles are lighted!

MARQUIS.

Do not mention it! I'm terribly out of humour!

CUIGY (_seeing lamplighter enter_).

Be consoled! Here is the lamplighter.

ALL THE HOUSE (_satisfied_).

Ah....

(_Groups around the chandeliers while they are being lighted.
Lignière enters the pit, leaning on the arm of Christian de
Neuvillette. Lignière, somewhat untidy, has the appearance of a
gentlemanly drunkard. Christian, dressed with care, but somewhat
out of fashion, seems thoughtful, and examines the boxes._)

[2] NOTE. "La dentelle des canons."--"Canons" were ornamental
lace, embroidery or ribbons around the lower edge of
knee-breeches.--Not, as one translation has it: "the canonical
gentlemen's lace."

_SCENE II._

_The same_, CHRISTIAN, LIGNIÈRE, _then_ RAGUENEAU _and_ LE BRET.

CUIGY.

Why, here's Lignière!

BRISSAILLE (_laughing_).

And not yet drunk?....

LIGNIÈRE (_aside to Christian_).

Shall I present you?

(_Christian nods assent. Lignière presents._)

Baron de Neuvillette.

(_General salutations._)

THE AUDIENCE (_as the first chandelier goes up_).

Ah!....

CUIGY (_to Brissaille, looking at Christian_).

A beautiful head!

FIRST MARQUIS (_who has overheard_).

Oh! so, so!....

LIGNIÈRE (_presenting to Christian_).

Mr. de Cuigy, Mr. de Brissaille.

CHRISTIAN (_bowing_).

Delighted!

FIRST MARQUIS (_to second_).

He is good looking, but not dressed according to the latest fashion.

LIGNIÈRE (_to Cuigy_).

Baron de Neuvillette has just arrived from Touraine.

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, I've been in Paris only a few days. To-morrow I join the guards, the Cadets.

FIRST MARQUIS (_looking up to the boxes_).

There is the wife of President Aubry.

THE WAITING-GIRL.

Oranges, milk ....

THE VIOLINS (_tuning_).

La, la, la, la, la.

CUIGY (_to Christian, looking around_).

Quite an assemblage!

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, indeed!

FIRST MARQUIS.

The cream of fashion.

(_He seems to give the names of the different ladies who occupy the
boxes, in full dress. Bows, nods, answers, smiles._)

SECOND MARQUIS.

Mesdames de Guéménée....

CUIGY.

De Bois-Dauphin....

FIRST MARQUIS.

Whom we loved ....

BRISSAILLE.

De Chavigny ....

SECOND MARQUIS.

For whom our hearts are toys!

LIGNIÈRE.

There is Monsieur de Corneille, just from Rouen.

TRADESMAN'S SON (_to his father_).

The Academy is here?....

TRADESMAN.

I see several of its members. Here are Boudu, Boissat, Cureau de la Chambre, Porchères, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud .... So many names that can never die! How grand!

FIRST MARQUIS.

Attention! here are our lovely "précieuses,"[3] they of wondrous names: Barthénoïde, Urimédonte, Cassandace, Félixérie ....

SECOND MARQUIS.

Delightful names! Marquis, you know them all?

FIRST MARQUIS.

I know them all, Marquis.

LIGNIÈRE (_aside to Christian_).

I came in to do you service. The lady comes not. So I return to my tavern.

CHRISTIAN (_imploringly_).

Do not. You, who in your songs depict both town and court, can tell me the name of one for whom I am dying of love. Remain!

(_The violins begin to play._)

I fear she may be something of a coquette and too subtle in her refinement. I dare not speak to her, for my wit is dull and the language of to-day confuses me. I am but a good soldier. She generally occupies that box to the right--that empty one.

LIGNIÈRE (_as if to leave_).

I must go.

CHRISTIAN (_holding him_).

Remain, please.

LIGNIÈRE.

I cannot. D'Assoucy expects me at the tavern. One might die of thirst here.

WAITING-GIRL (_passing_).

Lemonade!

LIGNIÈRE.

Fie!

WAITING-GIRL.

Milk!

LIGNIÈRE.

Ugh!

WAITING-GIRL.

Wine!

LIGNIÈRE.

(_to Christian_). (_to waiting-girl_).

I'll stay a while. Let me taste your wine.

(_Takes a seat near the buffet. Waiting-girl serves wine to him._)

SHOUTS IN THE AUDIENCE (_on the entrance of a
short, plump and jovial looking man_).

Here's Ragueneau!

LIGNIÈRE (_to Christian_).

The celebrated poulterer and pastry-cook!

RAGUENEAU (_in his best pastry-cook clothes, going
up to Lignière_).

Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?

LIGNIÈRE (_presenting Ragueneau to Christian_).

The caterer of comedians and poets!

RAGUENEAU (_bowing low_).

Flattered, indeed!....

LIGNIÈRE.

Come, come, you Mæcenas!

RAGUENEAU.

They honour me with their custom ....

LIGNIÈRE.

But seldom pay. A good poet himself ....

RAGUENEAU.

They say so.

LIGNIÈRE.

Enthusiastic for verse!

RAGUENEAU.

The fact is that for a short poem ....

LIGNIÈRE.

You willingly give a pie.

RAGUENEAU.

A small tart only!

LIGNIÈRE.

Good fellow, he excuses himself!.... And for a triolet did you not give ....

RAGUENEAU.

Only a few rolls!

LIGNIÈRE (_sternly_).

Milk-rolls!.... And the stage? You like it?

RAGUENEAU.

I love it.

LIGNIÈRE.

And you buy your way in with your cakes.

RAGUENEAU.

Oh, so few! (_Looking around._) But I am surprised not to see Monsieur de Cyrano!

LIGNIÈRE.

Why so?

RAGUENEAU.

Because Montfleury plays!

LIGNIÈRE.

That talking hogshead? True. To-night he plays Phédon. But what cares Cyrano?

RAGUENEAU.

Don't you know? Monsieur de Cyrano has taken an aversion for him, and, gentlemen, has forbidden him to appear on the stage for a whole month.

LIGNIÈRE (_emptying his fourth glass_).

Well, then?

RAGUENEAU.

Oh! I only came to see what is going to happen.

FIRST MARQUIS (_who has come up meanwhile with Cuigy_).

Who is this Cyrano?

CUIGY.

A capital swordsman.

SECOND MARQUIS.

Of noble birth?

CUIGY.

Sufficiently so. He is a cadet in the guards.

(_Indicating a gentleman who appears to be seeking somebody._)

But here's his friend Le Bret....

(_Calling_) Le Bret! (_Le Bret comes down._)

You are looking for Bergerac?

LE BRET.

Yes, and with some anxiety....

CUIGY.

Am I not right in stating that he is no ordinary man?

LE BRET (_moved_).

He is the most exquisite of creatures sublunary.

RAGUENEAU.

A rimester!

CUIGY.

A swordsman!

BRISSAILLE.

A scientist!

LE BRET.

A musician!

LIGNIÈRE.

But how strange is his appearance!

RAGUENEAU.

No solemn painter, like Philip de Champaigne, probably, will ever give us a portrait of him. But he is so odd, extravagant, wild and strange, that he could well have served Jacques Callot as a model for the most erratic of his fighting heroes. Three-plumed hat, astounding doublet, cloak whose folds a sword draws up behind, in stateliness, like the saucy tail of a cock.[4] Prouder than the proudest of Gascony's numberless haughty sons, he wears, above his Pulcinella ruff, a nose!.... Ah! mylords, what a nose is that nose! It is impossible, in presence of such a nose-bearer[5] not to think: "This, really, is exaggeration!" Then you will smile, and think: "Of course, he'll take it off." But Monsieur de Bergerac never takes it off.

LE BRET.

Never--but whoever notices that nose he wears is sure to get a swordthrust for the attention.

RAGUENEAU.

His sword is one of the two blades of the fatal sisters' scissors!

FIRST MARQUIS (_shrugging his shoulders_).

He will not come.

RAGUENEAU.

Oh! yes, he will. I'll bet.... a chicken....à la Ragueneau.

(_Murmurs of admiration as Roxane appears in her box, where she
takes a seat in front, while her duenna sits behind her. Christian,
busy paying the waiter-girl, does not notice her entrance._)

SECOND MARQUIS (_affectedly_).

Oh! gentlemen, she is frightfully lovely!

FIRST MARQUIS.

A peach divine, smiling in a nest of strawberries.[6]

SECOND MARQUIS.

So refreshing that she might give one a cold in the heart!

CHRISTIAN (_perceiving Roxane, and clutching
Lignière's arm_).

It's she!

LIGNIÈRE (_looking up_).

So this is your deity!

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, speak quickly. I tremble.

LIGNIÈRE (_slowly sipping his wine_).

Magdeleine Robin, otherwise Roxane. Refined and quick. A "précieuse."

CHRISTIAN.

Alas!

LIGNIÈRE.

Independent. An orphan. Cousin of Cyrano, whom you heard mentioned just now.

(_A gentleman, very finely dressed, wearing a blue ribbon crosswise
from shoulder to waist, enters the box, and remains engaged in
conversation with Roxane._)

CHRISTIAN (_starting_).

That man?....

LIGNIÈRE (_slightly intoxicated, winking_).

Ha, ha! The Count de Guiche. Very much in love with her. But he is the husband of Richelieu's niece. And he is urging Roxane to marry rather a sorry fellow, Monsieur de Valvert, who is both of noble birth and.... accommodating. She resists, but Guiche has influence. I wrote a song on the subject. No doubt he bears me a grudge for it. The end is cutting. Just listen:

(_He rises, holding up his glass, ready to sing._)

CHRISTIAN.

No, stop.--I must leave.

LIGNIÈRE.

And you are going?....

CHRISTIAN.

To seek this Valvert.

LIGNIÈRE.

Take care. Perhaps it's he that might kill you. (_Indicating Roxane._) See! she is looking at you.

CHRISTIAN.

True. (_He remains, looking up as if transfixed. The pickpockets get close around him._)

LIGNIÈRE.

'Tis I who leave. I'm thirsty and I must be expected--in some tavern!

(_Exit unsteadily._)

LE BRET (_who has been walking, to Ragueneau_).

I feel relieved. Cyrano has not come.

RAGUENEAU (_incredulous_).

I'd be astonished....

THE AUDIENCE.

The play! The play! The play!

[3] Query.--Might it not be argued that the "précieuses" were perhaps
spiritual daughters of the _euphuists_, disciples of John Lyly,
who flourished in England under Queen Elizabeth, about half a
century before the time of action here?

[4] Note.--Not "an insolent cocktail," as one translation has it.

[5] Note.--Literal translation of "nasigère," a word invented by
Ragueneau, would be euphuist.

[6] Note.--The play on the word "fraise" (both "strawberry" and
"ruff") could not be reproduced.

_SCENE III._

_The same, except_ LIGNIÈRE; GUICHE, VALVERT, _then_ MONTFLEURY.

SECOND MARQUIS (_seeing Guiche, as he comes
from Roxane's box, crossing the pit,
surrounded with fawning friends, among
whom Valvert_).

Guiche! Ff! Another Gascon!

FIRST MARQUIS.

Yes, of the cool and supple breed, the one that thrives. We had better greet him, believe me.

(_Both go up to meet Guiche. General salutations._)

SECOND MARQUIS.

Beautiful ribbons! What colour, Count? "Kiss-me-darling," or "roe's-breast?"

GUICHE.

Colour? "Sickly-Spaniard."

FIRST MARQUIS.

The colour is fast and true; for soon, thanks to your valor, the Spaniard will be worse than uneasy in Flanders!

GUICHE.

I am going to my seat on the stage. Are you coming?

(_He and his followers walk up on to the stage. Guiche turns and
calls._)

Come along, Valvert!

CHRISTIAN (_who has heard, starting_).

That viscount! Now I'll fling at him!....

(_Puts his hand to his pocket and finds there the hand of a
thief._)

(_holding on to the pickpocket_).

I was looking for a glove!

PICKPOCKET (_smiling_).

And you find a hand. (_Aside and rapidly._) Let me go and I'll tell you a secret.

CHRISTIAN (_still holding him_).

What secret?

PICKPOCKET.

Lignière, who has just left you, is going to his death. A song of his gave offence to.... some great man, and one hundred men, I know it, will lie in wait for him to-night....

CHRISTIAN (_still holding on_).

One hundred! Paid by whom?

PICKPOCKET.

Discretion....

CHRISTIAN (_shrugging his shoulders_).

Oh!

PICKPOCKET (_with great dignity_).

Professional discretion....

CHRISTIAN.

Where?

PICKPOCKET.

At the Porte de Nesle, his way home. Warn him in time.

CHRISTIAN (_freeing the pickpocket_).

Where can I find Lignière?

PICKPOCKET.

In one of the taverns near here: "The Golden Wine-Press," "The Fir-Cone," "The Bursting-Belt," "The Two Torches," "The Three Funnels." Go the rounds and leave a note in each.

CHRISTIAN.

I'll do it! The wretches! A hundred men against one! (_Looking up toward Roxane._) But to leave her! (_With a look of fury toward Valvert._) And him! But I must save Lignière!

(_He rushes out. Guiche and his followers have gone on to the stage
behind the curtain, to take their seats. The pit is full; so are
the galleries and boxes._)

THE AUDIENCE.

The play! The play! Curtain!

TRADESMAN (_whose wig flies up hooked by one
of the pages above_).

My wig! (_Shaking his fist at the pages._) Scoundrels!

(_All the audience laughs. Sudden silence._)

LE BRET (_astonished_).

What is it?

TRADESMAN (_near Le Bret_).

The Cardinal.... there.... in a screened box.

A PAGE.

Good-bye, fun! (_Raps on the stage. Order in the audience. Wait._)

A MARQUIS (_behind the curtain, during silence_).

Snuff that candle!

OTHER MARQUIS (_passing through the split in the
curtain_).

A chair, please!

(_A chair is passed, from hand to hand, over the heads of the
audience. The marquis takes it and disappears behind the curtain,
after sending a few kisses up into the boxes._)

(_Three raps on the stage. Curtain is drawn aside. Tableau.
Marquises seated on either side of the stage, in impertinent
attitudes. Drop represents a bluish pastoral scene. Low music by
the violins._)

LE BRET (_aside to Ragueneau_).

Montfleury comes in at once, does he not?

RAGUENEAU (_aside to Le Bret_).

Yes. Monsieur de Cyrano is not here, and I have lost my bet.

LE BRET.

I am glad of it.

(_A bag-pipe air, and Montfleury appears, a very powerful man in a
poetic shepherd's dress: his hat ornamented with roses and his
bag-pipe with ribbons._)

THE PIT (_applauding_).

Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury!

MONTFLEURY (_after bowing, begins his part of Phédon_).

"Oh! happy he who far from courts, in solitude,[7]
Self-banished, has cast off the chains of servitude,
And who, when zephyr sighs and rustles through the leaves...."

A VOICE IN THE PIT.

You rascal, did I not suspend you for a month?

(_Astonishment. Everybody eager to see who spoke. Murmurs._)

SEVERAL OF THE AUDIENCE.

What? What is it? Who? Why?

(_People in the boxes rise, to see better._)

CUIGY.

It's he!

LE BRET (_frightened_).

Cyrano!

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

King of clowns, get off the stage!

THE HOUSE.

Oh!

MONTFLEURY.

But....

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

You recalcitrate?[8]

VOICES IN THE PIT (_and in the boxes_).

Silence! Enough! Go on, Montfleury! Montfleury, have no fear!....

MONTFLEURY (_in shaking tone_).

"Oh! happy he who far from courts, in sol...."

THE VOICE IN THE PIT (_more threatening_).

Well, you king of knaves, shall I be forced to plant a grove of these upon your shoulders?

(_A stick is seen to rise in the pit._)

MONTFLEURY (_in still weaker tones_).

"Oh! happy he...."

(_The stick is shaken threateningly._)

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

Get off, I say!

THE PIT.

Oh!

MONTFLEURY (_almost breathless_).

"Oh! happy he who far ...."

CYRANO (_in the pit, standing on his chair, arms
folded, hat cocked on the side of his head,
his mustache bristling and his nose terrible_).

I am going to let my temper loose!

(_Excitement in the audience._)

[7] Note.--Alexandrine verse adopted here and further on (beginning
of Act II) as being more pompous.

[8] Note.--The words "you kick," in the place of "tu récalcitres,"
were suggested by a friend, as a better translation. But the good
critic failed to realise that Cyrano does not use slang, and is
almost always, on the contrary, somewhat hyperbolic, addicted to
willful oddity of speech.--"Récalcitrant," adj.-part. (doggedly
resisting), is frequently used in French. But the infinitive
"récalcitrer," though it exists, and the other forms of the verb
are seldom, if ever, heard.--Cyrano, therefore, calls up a smile,
if not a laugh, by resorting to the verb in the second person,
singular, present, indicative.--_To recalcitrate_ is a good
English word (see Longfellow), but it is so seldom used that it
creates on the English ear the same impression of amused surprise
that is induced by the original.

_SCENE IV._

_The same_, CYRANO, _then_ BELLEROSE, JODELET.

MONTFLEURY (_to the Marquises_).

Protect me, gentlemen!

A MARQUIS (_languidly_).

Play on! Play on!

CYRANO.

Now mind me, corpulence! If you play, I'll have to spank your cheeks.

THE MARQUIS.

Enough! Enough!

CYRANO.

Let the gentlemen remain silent on their benches. Otherwise their ribbons will have a taste of my stick.

ALL THE MARQUISES (_rising_).

This is too much, indeed! Montfleury!

CYRANO.

Montfleury must go, or I shall crop his ears and disembowel him!

A VOICE.

But ....

CYRANO.

He must go!

ANOTHER VOICE.

We cannot ....

CYRANO.

What! Not gone yet!

(_As if he were going to turn up his sleeves_). Then must I go upon
the stage to cut up this overgrown sausage into slices?

MONTFLEURY (_with an attempt at dignity_).

By insulting me, Sir, you insult the Muse Thalia!

CYRANO (_with great courtesy_).

If the Muse Thalia, with whom you are not related, Sir, had the honour of your acquaintance and saw you so fat and so silly, she would certainly give you a lift with her buskin.

THE PIT.

Montfleury! Montfleury! The play.

CYRANO (_to the noisy ones around him_).

Have pity on my scabbard! If you continue thus, it will lose control of its blade.

(_The circle around him widens._)

(_to Montfleury_).

Get off the stage!

(_The crowd closes in on him, muttering._)

(_Turning suddenly_).

Any objection made?

(_Crowd falls back again._)

A VOICE (_in the rear_).

Monsieur de Cyrano is a tyrant. "La Clorise" shall be played.

THE AUDIENCE.

"La Clorise!" "La Clorise!"

CYRANO.

If I hear that again, I'll slaughter you all.

TRADESMAN.

You are not Samson!

CYRANO.

I will be, my dear Sir, if you'll lend me your jaw.

A LADY (_in one of the boxes_).

Disgraceful disturbance!

A GENTLEMAN.

Scandalous!

A PAGE.

Oh! What fun!

THE PIT.

Kss! Kss! Montfleury! Cyrano!

CYRANO.

Silence! Such is my order. I challenge the whole pit! Now for the names! Come up here, young heroes. Take the line, please; I'll distribute numbers. Well, who'll be number one? You, Sir? No! You, then? No! I'll favour number one by prompt attendance. Let any one who desires to die hold up a hand.

(_Silence around him._)

Oh! I see. You are prudish and would not like to see a blade naked. Not a name? Not a hand?--Very well, then, I continue.

(_Turning again to the stage, on which Montfleury is waiting in
agony_).

I desire to see the stage cured of a monstrous tumor. And, if necessary, I'll use ... (_putting his hand to his sword_) a lancet!

MONTFLEURY.

But I ....

CYRANO (_gets off his chair and sits down on it,
comfortably, with a wide circle around him_).

Attention, full moon! I'll clap my hands thrice. The third time, there must be an eclipse.

THE PIT (_amused_).

Ah! Good!

CYRANO (_striking his hands together_).

One!

MONTFLEURY.

But I ....

A VOICE (_from the boxes_).

Stay, Montfleury!

THE PIT.

Will stay, will not! Will stay, will not!

MONTFLEURY.

I believe, gentlemen ....

CYRANO.

Two!

MONTFLEURY.

It would be far better ....

CYRANO.

Three!

(_Montfleury disappears as if by magic. General laughter,
whistling, etc._)

CYRANO (_leaning back in his chair, and crossing
his legs_).

Let him return if he dares!

THE AUDIENCE.

The company's orator!

(_Bellerose advances and bows._)

THE BOXES.

Ah! here is Bellerose!

BELLEROSE (_with great elegance_).

Noble lords ....

THE PIT.

No! No! Jodelet!

JODELET (_with a nasal twang_).

Disturbers of the peace! The heavy tragedian whose bulk suits your fancy, felt....

THE PIT.

He is a coward!

JODELET.

Suddenly unwell ... and was compelled to retire.

THE PIT.

Let him return!--No!--Yes!--

A YOUNG MAN (_to Cyrano_).

But, after all, Sir, what reason is there for your hating Montfleury?

CYRANO (_very courteous, still seated_).

Young gosling, there are two, either one of which is sufficient in itself. First: he is a bad actor; he rants, and seems to lift with a derrick lines that have wings of their own. Second: but that is _my_ secret.

TRADESMAN (_behind Cyrano_).

But, Sir, you deprive us of the pleasure of hearing "La Clorise." I insist....

CYRANO (_turning in his chair toward the
tradesman respectfully_).

Venerable mule, Baro's verse is worthless. I interrupt without the slightest remorse.

THE "PRÉCIEUSES" (_in the boxes_).

Baro! Our Baro! Heavens! Is it possible?

CYRANO (_turning his chair to the boxes, with
great courtesy_).

Fair beings ....
Irradiate and bloom, be Hebes, all,
Dispensing dream; with smile make death a feast
To us----inspire verse.... but judge it not!

BELLEROSE.

How about the money we'll have to return?

CYRANO (_turning his chair toward the stage_).

Bellerose, you have said the only intelligent thing yet heard to-day. I would not for the world make holes in the cloak of Thespis.

(_He rises and throws a small bag upon the stage_).

Catch this purse and hold your tongue!

THE AUDIENCE (_bewildered_).

Ah!.... Oh!....

JODELET (_picking up the purse and weighing it_).

For the same price, Sir, you may daily prevent the performance of "La Clorise"!....

THE AUDIENCE.

Hu!.... Hu!....

JODELET.

Even if we are to be hooted .... Clear the house!

(_The audience begins to leave. Cyrano looks on with great
satisfaction. The crowd, however, soon stops as the following
discussion begins. The ladies in the boxes, who had already risen
to go, and put on their wraps, resume their seats_).

LE BRET (_to Cyrano_).

You are insane!

AN INTRUDER (_who has come up to Cyrano_).

A comedian like Montfleury! Scandalous! Why! He is a favourite of the Duke de Candale's! What powerful patron have you?

CYRANO.

None!

THE INTRUDER.

No patron?

CYRANO.

No!

THE INTRUDER.

What! no high-born gentleman whose name can shield you?

CYRANO (_impatient_).

I've said No twice already. A third time: No! I've no protector.... (_his hand on his sword_) but this!

THE INTRUDER.

You are going to leave town, then?

CYRANO.

Hardly probable.

THE INTRUDER.

But the Duke has a long reach!

CYRANO.

Not so long as mine .... (_showing his sword_) with this extension! Now, go about your business.

THE INTRUDER.

But allow me....

CYRANO.

Go! Or, rather, tell me why you look so sharply at my nose.

THE INTRUDER (_abashed_).

What! I....

CYRANO.

Is there anything extraordinary about it?

THE INTRUDER.

Your lordship mistakes....

CYRANO.

Is it soft and swinging like an elephant's trunk?

THE INTRUDER.

I did not say....

CYRANO.

Or crooked like the beak of an owl?

THE INTRUDER.

No; I....

CYRANO.

Is there a wart on the end of it? Or a fly? What's amiss with it? Or is it a phenomenon?

THE INTRUDER.

Why, I didn't even look at it!

CYRANO.

Why shouldn't you look at it? Is it repulsive?

THE INTRUDER.

My dear Sir....

CYRANO.

In colour unhealthy? In shape indecent?

THE INTRUDER.

Not at all!

CYRANO.

Why, then, seem to revile it? Perhaps the gentleman finds it rather large?

THE INTRUDER (_stammering_).

I find it small, very, very small.

CYRANO.

How small? Ridiculously then? My nose small! Why, my nose is enormous! Remember, vile flat-nose and flat-head, that I am proud of such an appendix! For a large nose properly indicates a man that is affable, kind, courteous, witty, liberal and brave, such as I am, and such as you, miserable knave! can never be; for the inglorious face that my hand is about to seek above your collar is as destitute ..... (_he slaps intruder's face_).

THE INTRUDER.

Oh!

CYRANO.

Of pride, of flight, of poesy, of picturesqueness, of fire, of magnificence, of Nose, in fact, as the one.... (_Cyrano seizes the Intruder by the shoulders and kicks him in the seat_) that my boot now reaches at the base of your back.

THE INTRUDER (_escaping_).

Help! Guards!

CYRANO.

Fair warning, then, to idle lookers on
Who criticise the centre of my face!
The critic, if a gentleman, will get,--
Before he flies,--in front and higher too,
My custom's such, some steel instead of leather!

GUICHE (_who with the marquises, has come down
from the stage_).

The gentleman is getting very tiresome!

VICOMTE DE VALVERT (_shrugging his shoulders_).

He is a braggart!

GUICHE.

And no one answers him?....

THE VICOMTE.

No one? Just wait. Such a retort as I'm going to send him!

(_He advances toward Cyrano, who has been looking at him, and draws
himself up with an air of foppish vanity._)

You.... you have a nose.... hum! a nose, Sir, that is.... very large.

CYRANO (_very quietly and seriously_).

Very large, indeed!

VICOMTE (_laughing_).

Ha! Ha!

CYRANO (_with great self-possession_).

Is that all?

VICOMTE.

Well, I....

CYRANO.