THE DUKE:
Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!—
Yet is not to be pitied!
LE BRET (with a bitter smile):
My Lord Marshal!. . .
THE DUKE:
Pity him not! He has lived out his vows,
Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!
LE BRET (in the same tone):
My Lord!. . .
THE DUKE (haughtily):
True! I have all, and he has naught;. . .
Yet I were proud to take his hand!
(Bowing to Roxane):
Adieu!
ROXANE:
I go with you.
(The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.)
THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up):
Ay, true,—I envy him.
Look you, when life is brimful of success
—Though the past hold no action foul—one feels
A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum
Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest;
And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame,
The Duke’s furred mantles trail within their folds
A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets,
A rustle—scarce a whisper—like as when,
Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe
Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.
ROXANE (ironically):
You are pensive?
THE DUKE:
True! I am!
(As he is going out, suddenly):
Monsieur Le Bret!
(To Roxane):
A word, with your permission?
(He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice):
True, that none
Dare to attack your friend;—but many hate him;
Yesterday, at the Queen’s card-play, ’twas said
‘That Cyrano may die—by accident!’
Let him stay in—be prudent!