Act V, Scene vi | LE BRET: |  What madness! Here? I knew it well! |
| CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): | | What now? |
| LE BRET: | | He has brought his death by coming, Madame. |
| ROXANE: | | God! | | Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? |
| CYRANO: | | Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' | | . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, | | Assassination of De Bergerac. |
| (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) |
| ROXANE: | | What says he? Cyrano!—His head all bound! | | Ah, what has chanced? How?—Who?. . . |
| CYRANO: | | 'To be struck down, | | Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' | | That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! | | —Killed, I! of all men—in an ambuscade! | | Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! | | 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, | | Even in my death. |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Ah, Monsieur!. . . |
| CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): | | Ragueneau, | | Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, | | Old comrade? |
| RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): | | Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. |
| CYRANO: | | Moliere! |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. | | I cannot bear it!—Yesterday, they played | | 'Scapin'—I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! |
| LE BRET: | | What! a whole scene? |
| RAGUENEAU: | | Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, | | The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' |
| LE BRET: | | Moliere has stolen that? |
| CYRANO: | | Tut! He did well!. . . | | (to Ragueneau): | | How went the scene? It told—I think it told? |
| RAGUENEAU (sobbing): | | Ah! how they laughed! |
| CYRANO: | | Look you, it was my life | | To be the prompter every one forgets! | | (To Roxane): | | That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke | | —Under your balcony, you remember? Well! | | There was the allegory of my whole life: | | I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, | | While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! | | Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear | | Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, | | To Moliere's genius,—Christian's fair face! | | (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the | | back, to say their office): | | Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings! |
| ROXANE (rising and calling): | | Sister! Sister! |
| CYRANO (holding her fast): | | Call no one. Leave me not; | | When you come back, I should be gone for aye. | | (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): | | I was somewhat fain for music—hark! 'tis come. |
| ROXANE: | | Live, for I love you! |
| CYRANO: | | No, In fairy tales | | When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says | | 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast— | | But I remain the same, up to the last! |
| ROXANE: | | I have marred your life—I, I! |
| CYRANO: | | You blessed my life! | | Never on me had rested woman's love. | | My mother even could not find me fair: | | I had no sister; and, when grown a man, | | I feared the mistress who would mock at me. | | But I have had your friendship—grace to you | | A woman's charm has passed across my path. |
| LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): | | Your other lady-love is come. |
| CYRANO (smiling): | | I see. |
| ROXANE: | | I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love! |
| CYRANO: | | Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. | | To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . . |
| LE BRET: | | What are you saying? |
| CYRANO: | | I tell you, it is there, | | There, that they send me for my Paradise, | | There I shall find at last the souls I love, | | In exile,—Galileo—Socrates! |
| LE BRET (rebelliously): | | No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! | | So great a heart! So great a poet! Die | | Like this? what, die. . .? |
| CYRANO: | | Hark to Le Bret, who scolds! |
| LE BRET (weeping): | | Dear friend. . . |
| CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): | | What ho! Cadets of Gascony! | | The elemental mass—ah yes! The hic. . . |
| LE BRET: | | His science still—he raves! |
| CYRANO: | | Copernicus | | Said. . . |
| ROXANE: | | Oh! |
| CYRANO: | | Mais que diable allait-il faire, | | Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . | | Philosopher, metaphysician, | | Rhymer, brawler, and musician, | | Famed for his lunar expedition, | | And the unnumbered duels he fought,— | | And lover also,—by interposition!— | | Here lies Hercule Savinien | | De Cyrano de Bergerac, | | Who was everything, yet was naught. | | I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; | | See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! | | (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he | | looks long at her, and, touching her veil): | | I would not bid you mourn less faithfully | | That good, brave Christian: I would only ask | | That when my body shall be cold in clay | | You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, | | And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him. |
| ROXANE: | | I swear it you!. . . |
| CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): | | Not there! what, seated?—no! | | (They spring toward him): | | Let no one hold me up— | | (He props himself against the tree): | | Only the tree! | | (Silence): | | It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, | | My hands are gloved with lead! | | (He stands erect): | | But since Death comes, | | I meet him still afoot, | | (He draws his sword): | | And sword in hand! |
| LE BRET: | | Cyrano! |
| ROXANE (half fainting): | | Cyrano! |
| (All shrink back in terror.) |
| CYRANO: | | Why, I well believe | | He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! | | (He raises his sword): | | What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know | | But who fights ever hoping for success? | | I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! | | You there, who are you!—You are thousands! | | Ah! | | I know you now, old enemies of mine! | | Falsehood! | | (He strikes in air with his sword): | | Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! | | Prejudice, Treachery!. . . | | (He strikes): | | Surrender, I? | | Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,—you? | | I know that you will lay me low at last; | | Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! | | (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): | | You strip from me the laurel and the rose! | | Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing | | I hold against you all, and when, to-night, | | I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, | | Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, | | One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, | | I bear away despite you. |
| (He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, | | falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) |
| ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): | | 'Tis?. . . |
| CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): | | MY PANACHE. |
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