CYRANO:
Come all—the Doctor, Isabel, Leander,
Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm,
The farce Italian to this Spanish drama!
ALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy):
Bravo!—a mantle, quick!—my hood!
JODELET:
Come on!
CYRANO:
Play us a march, gentlemen of the band!
(The violinists join the procession, which is forming. They take the
footlights, and divide them for torches):
Brave officers! next, women in costume,
And, twenty paces on—
(He takes his place):
I all alone,
Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself,
To deck my beaver—proud as Scipio!. . .
—You hear me?—I forbid you succor me!—
One, two three! Porter, open wide the doors!
(The porter opens the doors; a view of old Paris in the moonlight is seen):
Ah!. . .Paris wrapped in night! half nebulous:
The moonlight streams o’er the blue-shadowed roofs;
A lovely frame for this wild battle-scene;
Beneath the vapor’s floating scarves, the Seine
Trembles, mysterious, like a magic mirror,
And, shortly, you shall see what you shall see!
ALL:
To the Porte de Nesle!
CYRANO (standing on the threshold):
Ay, to the Porte de Nesle!
(Turning to the actress):
Did you not ask, young lady, for what cause
Against this rhymer fivescore men were sent?
(He draws his sword; then, calmly):
’Twas that they knew him for a friend of mine!
(He goes out. Lignière staggers first after him, then the actresses on the officers’ arms—the actors. The procession starts to the sound of the violins and in the faint light of the candles.)
Curtain.
[Act II.]
The Poet’s Eating-House.