THE DUENNA (changing her expression):
Ha.
CYRANO:
What say you to the cake they call a little puff?
THE DUENNA:
If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well.
CYRANO:
Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant!
And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot
cakes?
THE DUENNA:
Ay, to the core of my heart!
CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags):
Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street.
THE DUENNA:
But. . .
CYRANO (pushing her out):
And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten!
(He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.)