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.)