CYRANO.
Perhaps. My vice is such.
I'm pleased if I displease. Indeed, I love
To gather hatred. Friend, you've never felt
The thrill that's caused by walking on erect,
While fifty pairs of eyes are sending shot,
As if they were so many guns! And then....
How comical the spots on doublets made
By envy's gall and cowardice's slaver!
—Loose friendships like to those you cultivate
Resemble the Italian collars, soft
And open-worked, that feminize your necks.
They're easy and of tranquil-going mien;
Your head with them can bend to any will.
Not so with me! For Hatred, every morn,
Makes stiff the ruff that forces up my head!
An enemy I gain's another fold
That straightens me the more, perhaps, but adds
A beam to my renown. The Spanish ruff,
Though sitting on the neck as would a yoke,
With some can be a halo 'round the head!
LE BRET (after a pause, passing his arm through Cyrano's).
Speak out aloud your pride and bitterness,
But whisper to me then: she loves me not!
SCENE IX.
CYRANO, LE BRET, THE CADETS, CHRISTIAN DE NEUVILLETTE.
A CADET (seated at a table in the rear, drinking).
Cyrano!
(Cyrano turns.)