ROXANE:
Those were the days of games!. . .
CYRANO:
And blackberries!. . .
ROXANE:
In those days you did everything I bid!. . .
CYRANO:
Roxane, in her short frock, was Madeleine. . .
ROXANE:
Was I fair then?
CYRANO:
You were not ill to see!
ROXANE:
Ofttimes, with hands all bloody from a fall,
You’d run to me! Then—aping mother-ways—
I, in a voice would-be severe, would chide,—
(She takes his hand):
‘What is this scratch, again, that I see here?’
(She starts, surprised):
Oh! ’Tis too much! What’s this?
(Cyrano tries to draw away his hand):
No, let me see!
At your age, fie! Where did you get that scratch?
CYRANO:
I got it—playing at the Porte de Nesle.
ROXANE (seating herself by the table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass of water):
Give here!
CYRANO (sitting by her):
So soft! so gay maternal-sweet!