How beautiful these last September days!
My sadness fain would smile. Spring's ardour oft
Offends our grief, but Autumn chastens it.
(She sits down before her work. Two sisters sally from the house carrying a large armchair that they place under the tree.)
Ah! here's the chair in which Cyrano sits.
(Exeunt Sisters.)
The hour strikes.... he's coming.—Where are my skeins!—He's not here yet? The first time he is late.... My thimble.... Here it is. Some sister preaching to him, no doubt.
(A pause.)
How thickly fall the leaves!....
(She removes some dead leaves from her work.)
Moreover, what could prevent his coming?
A SISTER (from the porch).