ROXANE:
You read in such a voice—so strange—and yet—
It is not the first time I hear that voice!
(She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.)
CYRANO:
‘Here, dying, and there, in the land on high,
I am he who loved, who loves you,—I. . .’
ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder):
How can you read? It is too dark to see!
(He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands):
And, fourteen years long, he has played this part
Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat.
CYRANO:
Roxane!
ROXANE:
’Twas you!
CYRANO:
No, never; Roxane, no!
ROXANE:
I should have guessed, each time he said my name!
CYRANO:
No, it was not I!
ROXANE:
It was you!