RAGUENEAU:
Poet!
CUIGY:
Soldier!
BRISSAILLE:
Philosopher!
LE BRET:
Musician!
LIGNIÈRE:
And of how fantastic a presence!
RAGENEAU:
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 been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff
he carries a nose!—ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it
one is fain to cry aloud, ‘Nay! ’tis too much! He plays a joke on us!’ Then
one laughs, says ‘He will anon take it off.’ But no!—Monsieur de Bergerac
always keeps it on.
LE BRET (throwing back his head):
He keeps it on—and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it!
RAGUENEAU (proudly):
His sword—’tis one half of the Fates’ shears!
FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders):
He will not come!
RAGUENEAU:
I say he will! and I wager a fowl—a la Ragueneau.