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.)





Previous screen     Index screen     Next screen