(He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.)
ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified):
He swoons!
(She runs toward him crying):
Cyrano!
CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice):
What is this?
(He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair):
Nay, on my word
’Tis nothing! Let me be!
ROXANE:
But. . .
CYRANO:
That old wound
Of Arras, sometimes,—as you know. . .
ROXANE:
Dear friend!
CYRANO:
’Tis nothing, ’twill pass soon;
(He smiles with an effort):
See!—it has passed!
ROXANE:
Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,—
Never healed up—not healed yet, my old wound!
(She puts her hand on her breast):
’Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age,
All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood.
(Twilight begins to fall.)
CYRANO:
His letter! Ah! you promised me one day
That I should read it.