THIRD POET:
High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks!
(He sniffs):
Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie!
FOURTH POET:
’Tis at Phoebus’ own rays that thy roasts turn!
FIFTH POET:
Apollo among master-cooks—
RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace):
Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . .
FIRST POET:
We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . .
SECOND POET:
Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there—all slit open
with sword-gashes!
CYRANO (raising his head a minute):
Eight?. . .hold, methought seven.
(He goes on writing.)
RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano):
Know you who might be the hero of the fray?
CYRANO (carelessly):
Not I.