RAGUENEAU:
Saw our poet, Sir—our friend—
Struck to the ground—a large wound in his head!
LE BRET:
He’s dead?
RAGUENEAU:
No—but—I bore him to his room. . .
Ah! his room! What a thing to see!—that garret!
LE BRET:
He suffers?
RAGUENEAU:
No, his consciousness has flown.
LE BRET:
Saw you a doctor?
RAGUENEAU:
One was kind—he came.
LE BRET:
My poor Cyrano!—We must not tell this
To Roxane suddenly.—What said this leech?—
RAGUENEAU:
Said,—what, I know not—fever, meningitis!—
Ah! could you see him—all his head bound up!—
But let us haste!—There’s no one by his bed!—
And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!
LE BRET (dragging him toward the right):
Come! Through the chapel! ’Tis the quickest way!