Cyrano de Bergerac (English translation) | Page 7

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