CYRANO:
Out he goes!
ANOTHER VOICE:
Yet. . .
CYRANO:
Is he not gone yet?
(He makes the gesture of turning up his cuffs):
Good! I shall mount the stage now, buffet-wise,
To carve this fine Italian sausage—thus!
MONTFLEURY (trying to be dignified):
You outrage Thalia in insulting me!
CYRANO (very politely):
If that Muse, Sir, who knows you not at all,
Could claim acquaintance with you—oh, believe
(Seeing how urn-like, fat, and slow you are)
That she would make you taste her buskin’s sole!
THE PIT:
Montfleury! Montfleury! Come—Baro’s play!
CYRANO (to those who are calling out):
I pray you have a care! If you go on
My scabbard soon will render up its blade!
(The circle round him widens.)
THE CROWD (drawing back):
Take care!
CYRANO (to Montfleury):
Leave the stage!