Scene 1.III.



The same, all but Ligniere.  De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury.



A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses

the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de

Valvert):

  He pays a fine court, your De Guiche!



ANOTHER:

  Faugh!. . .Another Gascon!



THE FIRST:

  Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! 

Believe me, we had best make our bow to him.



(They go toward De Guiche.)



SECOND MARQUIS:

  What fine ribbons!  How call you the color, Count de Guiche?  'Kiss me, my

darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?'



DE GUICHE:

  'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.'



FIRST MARQUIS:

  'Faith!  The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon

go ill for Spain in Flanders.



DE GUICHE:

  I go on the stage!  Will you come?

(He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen.  Turning,

he calls):

  Come you Valvert!



CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name):

  The Viscount!  Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . .

(He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who

is about to rob him.  He turns round):

  Hey?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  Oh!



CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly):

  I was looking for a glove.



THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously):

  And you find a hand.

(Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper):

  Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret.



CHRISTIAN (still holding him):

  What is it?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . .



CHRISTIAN (same play):

  Well?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  His life is in peril.  A song writ by him has given offense in high places--

and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . .



CHRISTIAN:

  A hundred men!  By whom posted?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  I may not say--a secret. . .



CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders):

  Oh!



THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity):

  . . .Of the profession.



CHRISTIAN:

  Where are they posted?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  At the Porte de Nesle.  On his way homeward.  Warn him.



CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists):

  But where can I find him?



THE PICKPOCKET:

  Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt

that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that

shall put him on his guard.



CHRISTIAN:

  Good--I fly!  Ah, the scoundrels!  A hundred men 'gainst one!

(Looking lovingly at Roxane):

  Ah, to leave her!. . .

(looking with rage at Valvert):

  and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must!



(He hurries out.  De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared

behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage. 

The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.)



THE AUDIENCE:

  Begin!



A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper

gallery):

  My wig!



CRIES OF DELIGHT:

  He is bald!  Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . .



THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist):

  Young villain!



LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away):

  Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!



(Total silence.)



LE BRET (astonished):

  What means this sudden silence?. . .

(A spectator says something to him in a low voice):

  Is't true?



THE SPECTATOR:

  I have just heard it on good authority.



MURMURS (spreading through the hall):

  Hush!  Is it he?  No!  Ay, I say!  In the box with the bars in front!  The

Cardinal!  The Cardinal!  The Cardinal!



A PAGE:

  The devil!  We shall have to behave ourselves. . .



(A knock is heard upon the stage.  Every one is motionless.  A pause.)



THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain):

  Snuff that candle!



ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain):

  A chair!



(A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators.  The

marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.)



A SPECTATOR:

  Silence!



(Three knocks are heard on the stage.  The curtain opens in the centre

Tableau.  The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the

stage.  The scene represents a pastoral landscape.  Four little lusters light

the stage; the violins play softly.)



LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau):

  Montfleury comes on the scene?



RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice):

  Ay, 'tis he who begins.



LE BRET:

  Cyrano is not here.



RAGUENEAU:

  I have lost my wager.



LE BRET:

  'Tis all the better!



(An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout,

in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one

ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.)



THE PIT (applauding):

  Bravo, Montfleury!  Montfleury!



MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon):

  'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire,

  Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire,

  Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .'



A VOICE (from the middle of the pit):

  Villain!  Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month?



(General stupor.  Every one turns round.  Murmurs.)



DIFFERENT VOICES:

  Hey?--What?--What is't?. . .



(The people stand up in the boxes to look.)



CUIGY:

  'Tis he!



LE BRET (terrified):

  Cyrano!



THE VOICE:

  King of clowns!  Leave the stage this instant!



ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly):

  Oh!



MONTFLEURY:

  But. . .



THE VOICE:

  Do you dare defy me?



DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes):

  Peace!  Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing!



MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice):

  'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--'



THE VOICE (more fiercely):

  Well!  Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my

cane?



(A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.)



MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more):

  'Heureux qui. . .'



(The cane is shaken.)



THE VOICE:

  Off the stage!



THE PIT:

  Oh!



MONTFLEURY (choking):

  'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .'



CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed,

his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see):

  Ah!  I shall be angry in a minute!. . .



(Sensation.)