Ligniere!
Not drunk as yet?
I may introduce you?
[(Christian nods in assent)]Baron de Neuvillette.
[(Bows.)]Ah!
'Tis a pretty fellow!
Pooh!
My lords De Cuigy. De Brissaille. . .
Delighted!. . .
He is not ill to look at, but certes, he is not costumed in the latest mode.
This gentleman comes from Touraine.
Yes, I have scarce been twenty days in Paris; tomorrow I join the Guards, in the Cadets.
There is the wife of the Chief-Justice.
Oranges, milk. . .
La -- la --
'Tis crowded.
Yes, indeed.
All the great world!
[(They recognize and name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, bowing low to them. The ladies send smiles in answer.)]Madame de Guemenee.
Madame de Bois-Dauphin.
Adored by us all!
Madame de Chavigny. . .
Who sports with our poor hearts!. . .
Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen!
Is the Academy here?
Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud. . .all names that will live! 'Tis fine!
Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felixerie. . .
Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis?
Ay, Marquis, I do, every one!
Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will betake me again to my pet vice.
No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile.
Gentlemen violinists!
[(He raises his bow.)]Macaroons, lemon-drink. . .
[(The violins begin to play.)]Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious! I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her -- how address her? This language that they speak to-day -- ay, and write -- confounds me; I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place, there, on the right -- the empty box, see you!
I must go.
Nay, stay.
I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst.
Orange drink?
Ugh!
Milk?
Pah!
Rivesalte?
Stay.
[(To Christian)]I will remain awhile. -- Let me taste this rivesalte.
[(He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.)]Ah! Ragueneau!
'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau.
Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?
The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets!
You do me too great honor. . .
Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are!
True, these gentlemen employ me. . .
On credit! He is himself a poet of a pretty talent. . .
So they tell me.
-- Mad after poetry!
'Tis true that, for a little ode. . .
You give a tart. . .
Oh! -- a tartlet!
Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself! -- And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange. . .
Some little rolls!
They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love?
Oh! to distraction!
How pay you your tickets, ha? -- with cakes. Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you?
Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs.
[(He looks around on all sides)]Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange.
Why so?
Montfleury plays!
Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night; but what matter is that to Cyrano?
How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate
Well?
Montfleury will play!
He can not hinder that.
Oh! oh! that I have come to see!
Who is this Cyrano?
A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence.
Is he of noble birth?
Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards.
[(Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one)]But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you.
[(He calls him)]Le Bret!
[(Le Bret comes towards them)]Seek you for De Bergerac?
Ay, I am uneasy. . .
Is it not true that he is the strangest of men?
True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings!
Poet!
Soldier!
Philosopher!
Musician!
And of how fantastic a presence!
Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the maddest fighter of all his visored crew -- with his triple-plumed beaver and six-pointed doublet -- the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony has ever
He keeps it on -- and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it!
His sword -- 'tis one half of the Fates' shears!
He will not come!
I say he will! and I wager a fowl -- a la Ragueneau.
Good!
[(Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.)]Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully -- terribly -- ravishing!
When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry!
And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a bad chill at the heart!
'Tis she!
Ah! is it she?
Ay, tell me quick -- I am afraid.
Magdaleine Robin -- Roxane, so called! A subtle wit -- a precieuse.
Woe is me!
Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking.
[(At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast, enters the box, and talks with Roxane, standing.)]Who is yonder man?
Ha! ha! Count de Guiche. Enamored of her. But wedded to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Would fain marry Roxane to a certain sorry fellow, one Monsieur de Valvert, a viscount -- and -- accommodating! She will none of that bargain; but De Guiche is powerful, and can persecute the daughter of a plain untitled gentleman. More by token, I myself have exposed this cunning plan of his to the world, in a song which. . .Ho! he must rage at me! The end hit home. . .Listen!
[(He gets up staggering, and raises his glass, ready to sing.)]No. Good-night.
Where go you?
To Monsieur de Valvert!
Have a care! It is he who will kill you
[(showing him Roxane by a look)]Stay where you are -- she is looking at you.
It is true!
[(He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.)]'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me -- in the taverns!
[(He goes out, reeling.)]No sign of Cyrano.
All the same. . .
A hope is left to me -- that he has not seen the playbill!
Begin, begin!