Military: 'Point against cavalry!'
Practical: 'Put it in a lottery!
Assuredly 'twould be the biggest prize!'
Or. . .parodying Pyramus' sighs. . .
'Behold the nose that mars the harmony
Of its master's phiz! blushing its treachery!'
--Such, my dear sir, is what you might have said,
Had you of wit or letters the least jot:
But, O most lamentable man!--of wit
You never had an atom, and of letters
You have three letters only!--they spell Ass!
And--had you had the necessary wit,
To serve me all the pleasantries I quote
Before this noble audience. . .e'en so,
You would not have been let to utter one--
Nay, not the half or quarter of such jest!
I take them from myself all in good part,
But not from any other man that breathes!

DE GUICHE (trying to draw away the dismayed viscount):
Come away, Viscount!

THE VISCOUNT (choking with rage):
Hear his arrogance!
A country lout who. . .who. . .has got no gloves!
Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace!

CYRANO:
True; all my elegances are within.
I do not prank myself out, puppy-like;
My toilet is more thorough, if less gay;
I would not sally forth--a half-washed-out
Affront upon my cheek--a conscience
Yellow-eyed, bilious, from its sodden sleep,
A ruffled honor,. . .scruples grimed and dull!
I show no bravery of shining gems.
Truth, Independence, are my fluttering plumes.
'Tis not my form I lace to make me slim,
But brace my soul with efforts as with stays,
Covered with exploits, not with ribbon-knots,
My spirit bristling high like your mustaches,
I, traversing the crowds and chattering groups
Make Truth ring bravely out like clash of spurs!

THE VISCOUNT:
But, Sir. . .

CYRANO:
I wear no gloves? And what of that?
I had one,. . .remnant of an old worn pair,
And, knowing not what else to do with it,
I threw it in the face of. . .some young fool.

THE VISCOUNT:
Base scoundrel! Rascally flat-footed lout!

CYRANO (taking off his hat, and bowing as if the viscount had introduced himself):
Ah?. . .and I, Cyrano Savinien
Hercule de Bergerac

(Laughter.)

THE VISCOUNT (angrily):
Buffoon!

CYRANO (calling out as if he had been seized with the cramp):
Aie! Aie!

THE VISCOUNT (who was going away, turns back):
What on earth is the fellow saying now?

CYRANO (with grimaces of pain):
It must be moved--it's getting stiff, I vow,
--This comes of leaving it in idleness!
Aie!. . .

THE VISCOUNT:
What ails you?

CYRANO:
The cramp! cramp in my sword!

THE VISCOUNT (drawing his sword):
Good!

CYRANO:
You shall feel a charming little stroke!

THE VISCOUNT (contemptuously):
Poet!. . .

CYRANO:
Ay, poet, Sir! In proof of which,
While we fence, presto! all extempore
I will compose a ballade.

THE VISCOUNT:
A ballade?

CYRANO:
Belike you know not what a ballade is.

THE VISCOUNT:
But. . .

CYRANO (reciting, as if repeating a lesson):
Know then that the ballade should contain
Three eight-versed couplets. . .

THE VISCOUNT (stamping):
Oh!

CYRANO (still reciting):
And an envoi
Of four lines. . .

THE VISCOUNT:
You. . .

CYRANO:
I'll make one while we fight;
And touch you at the final line.

THE VISCOUNT:
No!

CYRANO:
No?
(declaiming):
The duel in Hotel of Burgundy--fought
By De Bergerac and a good-for-naught!

THE VISCOUNT:
What may that be, an if you please?

CYRANO:
The title.

THE HOUSE (in great excitement):
Give room!--Good sport!--Make place!--Fair play!--No noise!

(Tableau. A circle of curious spectators in the pit; the marquises and officers mingled with the common people; the pages climbing on each other's shoulders to see better. All the women standing up in the boxes. To the right, De Guiche and his retinue. Left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cyrano, etc.)

CYRANO (shutting his eyes for a second):
Wait while I choose my rhymes. . .I have them now!
(He suits the action to each word):
I gayly doff my beaver low,
And, freeing hand and heel,
My heavy mantle off I throw,
And I draw my polished steel;
Graceful as Phoebus, round I wheel,
Alert as Scaramouch,
A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal--
At the envoi's end, I touch!
(They engage):
Better for you had you lain low;
Where skewer my cock? In the heel?--
In the heart, your ribbon blue below?--
In the hip, and make you kneel?
Ho for the music of clashing steel!
--What now?--A hit? Not much!
'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal,
When, at the envoi, I touch.

Oh, for a rhyme, a rhyme in o?--
You wriggle, starch-white, my eel?
A rhyme! a rhyme! The white feather you SHOW!
Tac! I parry the point of your steel;
--The point you hoped to make me feel;
I open the line, now clutch
Your spit, Sir Scullion--slow your zeal!
At the envoi's end, I touch.
(He declaims solemnly):
Envoi.
Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal!
I move a pace--lo, such! and such!
Cut over--feint!
(Thrusting):
What ho! You reel?
(The viscount staggers. Cyrano salutes):
At the envoi's end, I touch!

(Acclamations. Applause in the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown down. The officers surround Cyrano, congratulating him. Ragueneau dances for joy. Le Bret is happy, but anxious. The viscount's friends hold him up and bear him away.)

THE CROWD (with one long shout):
Ah!

A TROOPER:
'Tis superb!

A WOMAN:
A pretty stroke!

RAGUENEAU:
A marvel!

A MARQUIS:
A novelty!

LE BRET:
O madman!

THE CROWD (presses round Cyrano. Chorus of):
Compliments!
Bravo! Let me congratulate!. . .Quite unsurpassed!. . .

A WOMAN'S VOICE:
There is a hero for you!. . .

A MUSKETEER (advancing to Cyrano with outstretched hand):
Sir, permit;
Naught could be finer--I'm a judge I think;
I stamped, i' faith!--to show my admiration!

(He goes away.)

CYRANO (to Cuigy):
Who is that gentleman?

CUIGY:
Why--D'Artagnan!

LE BRET (to Cyrano, taking his arm):
A word with you!. . .

CYRANO:
Wait; let the rabble go!. . .
(To Bellerose):
May I stay?

BELLEROSE (respectfully):
Without doubt!

(Cries are heard outside.)

JODELET (who has looked out):
They hoot Montfleury!

BELLEROSE (solemnly):
Sic transit!. . .
(To the porters):
Sweep--close all, but leave the lights.
We sup, but later on we must return,
For a rehearsal of to-morrow's farce.

(Jodelet and Bellerose go out, bowing low to Cyrano.)

THE PORTER (to Cyrano):
You do not dine, Sir?

CYRANO:
No.

(The porter goes out.)

LE BRET:
Because?

CYRANO (proudly):
Because. . .
(Changing his tone as the porter goes away):
I have no money!. . .

LE BRET (with the action of throwing a bag):
How! The bag of crowns?. . .

CYRANO:
Paternal bounty, in a day, thou'rt sped!

LE BRET:
How live the next month?. . .

CYRANO:
I have nothing left.

LE BRET:
Folly!

CYRANO:
But what a graceful action! Think!

THE BUFFET-GIRL (coughing, behind her counter):
Hum!
(Cyrano and Le Bret turn. She comes timidly forward):
Sir, my heart mislikes to know you fast.
(Showing the buffet):
See, all you need. Serve yourself!

CYRANO (taking off his hat):
Gentle child,
Although my Gascon pride would else forbid
To take the least bestowal from your hands,
My fear of wounding you outweighs that pride,
And bids accept.