ROXANE:
On his brow he bears the genius-stamp;
He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . .
CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale):
Fair!
ROXANE:
Why, what ails you?
CYRANO:
Nothing; ’tis. . .
(He shows his hand, smiling):
This scratch!
ROXANE:
I love him; all is said. But you must know
I have only seen him at the Comedy. . .
CYRANO:
How? You have never spoken?
ROXANE:
Eyes can speak.
CYRANO:
How know you then that he. . .?
ROXANE:
Oh! people talk
’Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . .
Gossip’s chat
Has let me know. . .
CYRANO:
He is cadet?