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Act III, Scene i | RAGUENEAU: | | —And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I | | would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:— | | then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to | | take me for her steward. |
| THE DUENNA: | Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? |
| RAGUENEAU: | Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were | | that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was | | not long a-coming. |
| THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): | Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! |
| ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): | I will but put me on a cloak! |
| THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): | They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all | | there to-day—the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender | | Passion. |
| RAGUENEAU: | The Tender Passion? |
| THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): | Ay, indeed! | | (Calling up to the window): | Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the | | Tender Passion! |
| ROXANE'S VOICE: | I come! I come! |
| (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) |
| CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): | La, la, la, la! |
| THE DUENNA (surprised): | They serenade us? |
| CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): | I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! |
| FIRST PAGE (ironically): | You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- | | quavers? |
| CYRANO: | Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? |
| THE PAGE (playing and singing): | La, la! |
| CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): | In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! |
| ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): | What? 'Tis you? |
| CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): | 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- | | oses! |
| ROXANE: | I am coming down! |
| (She leaves the balcony.) |
| THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): | How come these two virtuosi here? |
| CYRANO: | 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in | | grammar; contradictions raged hotly—''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly | | he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, | | and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I | | will wager you a day's music,' says he!—And lost it! Thus, see you, till | | Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, | | seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas | | pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! | | (To the musicians): | Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! | | (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): | I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . | | (To the pages, who are going out): | Play a long time,—and play out of tune! | | (To the duenna): | . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! |
| ROXANE (coming out of the house): | Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And—how well I love him! |
| CYRANO (smiling): | Christian has so brilliant a wit? |
| ROXANE: | Brighter than even your own, cousin! |
| CYRANO: | Be it so, with all my heart! |
| ROXANE: | Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth | | skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much— | | that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught—and | | then, presto! he speaks—bewitchingly! enchantingly! |
| CYRANO (incredulously): | No, no! |
| ROXANE: | Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to | | see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. |
| CYRANO: | He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? |
| ROXANE: | In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis | | analysis! |
| CYRANO: | How is he with the pen? |
| ROXANE: | Still better! Listen,—here:— | | (Reciting): | 'The more of my poor heart you take | The larger grows my heart!' | | (Triumphantly to Cyrano): | How like you those lines? |
| CYRANO: | Pooh! |
| ROXANE: | And thus it goes on. . . | 'And, since some target I must show | For Cupid's cruel dart, | Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, | Then give me your sweet heart!' |
| CYRANO: | Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the | | fellow want? |
| ROXANE: | You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. |
| CYRANO (starting): | What mean you? |
| ROXANE: | Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?— | 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: | If kisses fast could flee | By letter, then with your sweet lips | My letters read should be! | If kisses could be writ with ink, | If kisses fast could flee!' |
| CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): | Ha! those last lines are,—hm!. . .hm!. . . | | (Correcting himself—contemptuously): | | —They are paltry enough! |
| ROXANE: | And this. . . |
| CYRANO (enchanted): | Then you have his letters by heart? |
| ROXANE: | Every one of them! |
| CYRANO: | By all oaths that can be sworn,—'tis flattering! |
| ROXANE: | They are the lines of a master! |
| CYRANO (modestly): | Come, nay. . .a master?. . . |
| ROXANE: | Ay, I say it—a master! |
| CYRANO: | Good—be it so. |
| THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): | Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! | | (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): | In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the | | scent. . . |
| ROXANE (to Cyrano): | Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, | | then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! |
| CYRANO (entering the house): | Good! good! |
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A concise guide to grammar, usage, and style.
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Read the complete texts of Shakespeare's plays along with an easy to understand translation.
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