RAGUENEAU:
’Tis a friend of my wife—a terrible warrior—at least so says he himself.
CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away):
Hush!
(To himself):
I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly!
(Throws down the pen):
Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one
single word!
(To Ragueneau):
What time is it?
RAGUENEAU:
A quarter after six!. . .
CYRANO (striking his breast):
Ay—a single word of all those here! here! But writing, ’tis easier done. .
.
(He takes up the pen):
Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it
in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay
but my soul by my letter-sheet, ’tis naught to do but to copy from it.
(He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.)
[Scene 2.IV.]
Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud.
LISE (entering, to Ragueneau):
Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends!
FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau):
Brother in art!. . .
SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands):
Dear brother!