ROXANE:
What would you?—His letter?
CYRANO:
Yes, I would fain,—to-day. . .
ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck):
See! here it is!
CYRANO (taking it):
Have I your leave to open?
ROXANE:
Open—read!
(She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.)
CYRANO (reading):
‘Roxane, adieu! I soon must die!
This very night, beloved; and I
Feel my soul heavy with love untold.
I die! No more, as in days of old,
My loving, longing eyes will feast
On your least gesture—ay, the least!
I mind me the way you touch your cheek
With your finger, softly, as you speak!
Ah me! I know that gesture well!
My heart cries out!—I cry “Farewell”!’
ROXANE:
But how you read that letter! One would think. . .
CYRANO (continuing to read):
‘My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet,
My heart has been yours in every beat!’
(The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.)