Act II: The Poet’s Eating-HouseScene III
Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer.
Cyrano
What’s o’clock?
Ragueneau
Bowing low
Six o’clock.
Cyrano
With emotion
In one hour’s time!
He paces up and down the shop.
Ragueneau
Following him
Bravo! I saw…
Cyrano
Well, what saw you, then?
Ragueneau
Your combat!…
Cyrano
Which?
Ragueneau
That in the Burgundy Hotel, ‘faith!
Cyrano
Contemptuously
Ah!…the duel!
Ragueneau
Admiringly
Ay! the duel in verse!…
Lise
He can talk of naught else!
Cyrano
Well! Good! let be!
Ragueneau
Making passes with a spit that he catches up
’At the envoi’s end, I touch!…At the envoi’s end, I touch!’…’Tis fine, fine!
With increasing enthusiasm
‘At the envoi’s end—‘
Cyrano
What hour is it now, Ragueneau?
Ragueneau
Stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock
Five minutes after six!…’I touch!’
He straightens himself
…Oh! to write a ballade!
Lise
To Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her
What’s wrong with your hand?
Cyrano
Naught; a slight cut.
Ragueneau
Have you been in some danger?
Cyrano
None in the world.
Lise
Shaking her finger at him
Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that!
Cyrano
Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? ‘Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it!
Changing his tone
I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom!
Ragueneau
But ’tis impossible; my poets are coming…
Lise
Ironically
Oh, ay, for their first meal o’ the day!
Cyrano
Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so…What’s o’clock?
Ragueneau
Ten minutes after six.
Cyrano
Nervously seating himself at Ragueneau’s table, and drawing some paper toward him
A pen!…
Ragueneau
Giving him the one from behind his ear
Here—a swan’s quill.
A Musketeer
With fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice
Good-day!
Lise goes up to him quickly.
Cyrano
Turning round
Who’s that?
Ragueneau
’Tis a friend of my wife—a terrible warrior—at least so says he himself.
Cyrano
Taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away
Hush!
To himself
I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly!
Throws down the pen
Coward!…But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,…ay, even one single word!
To Ragueneau
What time is it?
Ragueneau
A quarter after six!…
Cyrano
Striking his breast
Ay—a single word of all those here! here! But writing, ’tis easier done…
He takes up the pen
Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, ’tis naught to do but to copy from it.
He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.