Scene 2 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.)