CYRANO DE BERGERAC

 

                                               A Play in Five Acts

 

                                             by Edmond Rostand

Translated by A. S. Kline ã2003 All Rights Reserved

This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Permission to perform this version of the play, on stage or film, by amateur or professional companies, and for commercial purposes, should be requested from the translator,

by e-mail to: tonykline@yahoo.com. Permission for amateur performance, if granted, will be free of charge, in order to enable amateur companies with limited means to stage the play.

 

 

 

 

 The Characters:

 

CYRANO DE BERGERAC

CHRISTIAN DE NEUVILLETTE

COMTE DE GUICHE

RAGUENEAU

LE BRET

CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX

THE CADETS

LIGNIÈRE

DE VALVERT

A MARQUIS

SECOND MARQUIS

THIRD MARQUIS

MONTFLEURY

BELLEROSE

JODELET

CUIGY

BRISSAILLE

THE DOORKEEPER

A SERVANT

A SECOND SERVANT

A BORE

A MUSKETEER

ANOTHER

A SPANISH OFFICER

A PORTER

A CITIZEN

HIS SON

A PICKPOCKET

A SPECTATOR

A GUARDSMAN

BERTRAND THE PIPER

A MONK

TWO MUSICIANS

THE POETS

THE PASTRY COOKS

ROXANE

SISTER MARTHA

LISE

THE ORANGE-SELLER

MOTHER MARGUÉRITE

THE DUENNA

SISTER CLAIRE

AN ACTRESS

THE PAGES

THE SHOP-GIRL

 

The crowd, troopers, citizens (male and female), marquises, musketeers, pickpockets, pastry-cooks, poets, Gascon cadets, actors (male and female), violinists, pages, children, soldiers, Spaniards, spectators (male and female), précieuses (intellectuals), nuns, etc.

 

 

 

        ACT ONE

 

A Theatrical Production at the Burgundy Hotel.

 

The hall of the Hotel Burgundy, in 1640. A sort of tennis-court arranged and decorated for a theatrical production.

 

The hall is oblong and we see it obliquely, so that one of its sides forms the back scene and runs from the right foreground, to meet the left background where it makes a right angle with the stage prepared for the production, which is partially visible.

 

On both sides of the stage along the wings are benches. The curtain is composed of two tapestries that can be drawn apart. Above a harlequin’s cloak are the royal arms. Broad steps lead from the stage to the hall; on either side of these steps are places for the violinists. Footlights.

 

There are two tiers of side galleries: the highest divided into boxes. There are no seats in the pit, which is the real stage of our theatre: at the back of the pit, on the right foreground, some benches form steps, and underneath a stairway which leads to the upper galleries an improvised buffet is ornamented with little tapers, flower vases, crystal glasses, plates of cakes, bottles, etc.

 

The entrance to the theatre is centre-back, under the gallery of boxes. A large double door is half open to let in the audience. On the panels of this door, and in several corners, and over the buffet, red placards bear the name of the play being performed, ‘La Clorise.’

 

As the curtain rises the hall is in semi-darkness, and still empty. The chandeliers have been lowered into the middle of the pit ready for lighting.

 

 

Scene One

 

The public, arrive gradually. Troopers, citizens, servants, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the Marquises Cuigy, Brissaille, the orange-seller, the violinists, etc.

 

(A tumult of loud voices is heard outside the door and a trooper enters hastily.)

 

THE DOORKEEPER (following him):

Hey! It costs fifteen!

 

THE TROOPER:

I go in free.

 

THE DOORKEEPER:

                And why?

 

THE TROOPER:

I’m the King’s Household Cavalry passing by!

 

THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper, entering):

And you?

 

SECOND TROOPER:

I don’t pay.

 

THE DOORKEEPER:

But…

 

SECOND TROOPER:

       I’m a musketeer.

 

FIRST TROOPER (to the second):

The play doesn’t start till two. The floor’s clear.

Let’s try a round with the foils, then.

 

(They fence with the foils they have brought.)

 

A SERVANT (entering):

               Pst... Flanquin...

 

ANOTHER (already arrived):

Champagne? ...

 

THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet):

 Cards. Dice.

(He sits on the floor.)

 Let’s play.

 

THE SECOND (doing the same):

        Fine. I’m your man!

 

FIRST SERVANT (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sets on the floor):

I’ve a little light here stolen from my master!

 

A GUARDSMAN (to a flower-girl who appears):

It’s sweet to come before the lights are lit, not after!

 

(He seizes her round the waist.)

 

ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust):

A hit!

 

ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS:

            A club!

 

THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl):

                          A kiss!

 

THE SHOP-GIRL (freeing herself):

                   They’ll see!

THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner):

                   No fear!

 

A MAN (sitting on the floor with others who’ve brought provisions):

When you come early there’s no problem eating here.

 

A CITIZEN (leading his son):

Let’s sit here, my boy.

 

A CARD-PLAYER:

  Three aces!

 

A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also sitting down.):

         A drinker may as well

(He drinks.)

sip his Burgundy in the Burgundy Hotel!

 

THE CITIZEN (to his son):

Wouldn’t you think we were in some den of vice!

(He points with his cane to the drunkard.)

Drunkards!

(One of the fencers, stepping back, jostles him.)

Brawlers!

(He stumbles into the card-players.)

               Gamblers!

 

THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl):

            A kiss!

 

THE CITIZEN (hurriedly pulling his son away):

    My Christ!

 - To think that’s it in this theatre that they play

Rotrou, my son!

 

THE YOUNG MAN:

    Yes, and Corneille!

 

A TROOP OF PAGES (enter hand-in-hand, dancing the farandole, and singing):

Tra la, la, la, la, la, la, lalere ...

 

THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages):

You pages, there, no nonsense! ...

 

FIRST PAGE (his dignity wounded):

 Oh, sir! - Such suspicion! ...

(Quickly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper’s back is turned)

Have you a bit of string?

 

THE SECOND:

Here, with a fish-hook on.

 

FIRST PAGE:

We can fish for wigs, from up in the gallery.

 

A PICKPOCKET (gathering some evil-looking youths round him):

Now then, young rascals, take a lesson from me

before you start on your first real thieveries.

 

SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries):

Hey! Have you brought peashooters?

 

THIRD PAGE (from above):

                                            And some peas.

 

(He blows, and showers them with peas.)

 

THE YOUNG MAN (to his father):

What play are they doing?

 

THE CITIZEN:

 ‘Clorise.’

 

THE YOUNG MAN:

                        Who wrote that?

 

THE CITIZEN:

It’s by Balthazar Baro. It’s a play and a half!...

 

(He goes upstage arm-in-arm with his son.)

 

THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils):

Lace on their knee-ruffles - cut them off shear!

 

A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner of the gallery):

Look, the first night of  ‘Le Cid’, I was sitting there.

 

THE PICKPOCKET (making stealthy movements with his fingers):

Watches -

 

THE CITIZEN (coming downstage again with his son):

You’ll see some famous actors tonight...

 

THE PICKPOCKET (as if pulling at something furtively, with little tugs.):

Handkerchiefs -

 

THE CITIZEN:

      Montfleury ...

 

SOMEONE (shouting from the upper gallery)!

                                        Come on: let’s have some light!

 

THE CITIZEN:

... Bellerose, l’Épy, la Beaupré, Jodelet!

 

A PAGE (in the pit):

Here comes the girl, selling oranges!

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER (taking her place behind the buffet):

                                              Lemonade

milk, oranges, raspberry-water….

 

(An outcry at the door)

 

A FALSETTO VOICE:

       Make way, you brute!

 

A SERVANT (astonished):

Marquises! - in the pit? ...

 

ANOTHER SERVANT:

Oh! For a moment or two!

 

(A group of young marquises enter.)

 

A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall’s half empty):

What now! Are we arriving like a pack of tradesmen,

Not crowding people? Not even stamping on them!

- Oh, fie! Fie! Fie!

(Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him)

       Cuigy! Brissaille!

 

(Hearty embraces.)

 

CUIGY:

           The faithful!

Why yes, we’re here even before the candles.

 

THE MARQUIS:

Ah! Don’t speak of it! I’m in an awful temper.

 

ANOTHER:

Console yourself, Marquis! Here’s the lamplighter.

ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the arrival of the lamplighter):

Ah! ...

 

(They form in groups round the chandeliers as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Lignière enters: a distinguished-looking roué, with disordered shirtfront, arm-in-arm with Christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, appears preoccupied, and keeps looking up at the boxes.)

                                        Scene Two

 

The same. Christian, Lignière, then Ragueneau and Le Bret.

 

CUIGY:

Lignière!

 

BRISSAILLE (laughing):

Not drunk as yet?

 

LIGNIÈRE (aside to Christian):

May I introduce you?

(Christian nods his assent.)

Baron de Neuvillette.

 

(They bow.)

 

THE AUDIENCE (applauding as the first lighted chandelier is raised.):

              Ah!

 

CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian):

           A fine fellow!

 

FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard):

Pah!

 

LIGNIÈRE (introducing them to Christian):

         My lords De Cuigy, De Brissaille ...

 

CHRISTIAN (bowing):

     Delighted! ...

 

FIRST MARQUIS (to second):

He looks well enough, but it seems he’s not quite yet

au fait with the latest fashion.

 

LIGNIÈRE (to Cuigy):

 You’re from Touraine.

 

CHRISTIAN:

Yes, I’ve scarcely been here in Paris twenty days.

I join the Guards, tomorrow: the Cadets.

 

FIRST MARQUIS (watching the people entering the boxes):

      Aha,

here’s Justice Aubry’s wife.

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER:

 Oranges, milk ...

 

THE VIOLINISTS (tuning up):

   La .. la…

 

CUIGY (to Christian, drawing his attention to the hall, which is filling fast):

The people!

 

CHRISTIAN:

Ah, yes: a crowd.

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

        All the world’s here!

 

(They name the different elegantly dressed ladies who enter the boxes, and bow to them, receiving smiles in reply.)

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

Madame de Guéméné.

 

CUIGY:

Madame de Bois-Dauphin.

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

       Of whom we despair!

 

BRISSAILLE:

Madame de Chavigny ...

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

                Who leaves our hearts a ruin!...

 

LIGNIÈRE:

Why, Monsieur de Corneille’s returned from Rouen!

 

THE YOUNG MAN (to his father):

Are the Academy here?

 

THE CITIZEN:

 Yes I see quite a number:

there’s Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau de la Chambre,

Porchères, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud.

Ah, how fine... all the deathless names we know!

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

Look! Our précieuses are taking their seats:

Urimédonte, Cassandace, Barthénoïde,

Félixérie ...

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

                    Ah! My God, their names, so sweet!

Marquis, you know every one?

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

            I know every one, Marquis!

 

LIGNIÈRE (drawing Christian aside):

Dear friend, I came here to do you some service:

but the lady’s not coming. I’ll slip back to my vice.

 

CHRISTIAN (persuasively):

No, no! You, who sing of Court and City, stay:

who is that lady I die of love for? You can say.

 

THE FIRST VIOLIN (tapping on his desk with his bow):

Violinists! Gentlemen!

 

(He raises his bow.)

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER:

Almond-biscuits, lemonade ...

 

(The violins begin to play.)

 

 

CHRISTIAN:

I fear she’s too fashionable, too fastidious in her ways!

I’ve no wit, I don’t dare: I won’t know how to reply.

This language that they speak, today, that they write,

confuses me; I’m just a soldier, honest, shy.

- She’s always there: the empty box on the right!

 

LIGNIÈRE (making as if to go):

I’m going.

 

CHRISTIAN (detaining him):

Oh no! Stay.

 

LIGNIÈRE:

       I can’t. D’Assoucy

waits for me at the inn, and my thirst’s killing me.

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER (passing before him with a tray):

Orange juice?

 

LIGNIÈRE:

Ugh!

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER:

           Milk?

 

LIGNIÈRE:

                   Pah!

 

THE ORANGE-SELLER:

          Muscadet!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

              Wait!

(To Christian)

I’ll stay a little while. Let’s try this Muscadet.

 

(He sits near the buffet; the girl pours some Muscadet for him.)

 

(SHOUTS from the whole audience, at the entry of a plump little man, excited and joyful.):

Ah! Ragueneau!…

 

LIGNIÈRE (to Christian):

         It’s the pastry-cook Ragueneau.

 

RAGUENEAU (dressed like a pastry-cook in his Sunday best, approaching Lignière, hastily.):

Sir, have you chanced to see Monsieur de Cyrano?

 

LIGNIÈRE (introducing him to Christian.):

The pastry-cook of actors and of poets!

 

RAGUENEAU (overcome):

You do me too much honour...

 

LIGNIÈRE:

       Peace, a Maecenas yet!

 

RAGUENEAU:

Yes, those gentlemen help themselves ...

 

LIGNIÈRE:

On credit!

 

A poet of talent himself...

 

RAGUENEAU:

            So they have it.

 

LIGNIÈRE:

- Mad for verse!

 

RAGUENEAU:

           It’s true, for the tiniest couplet...

 

LIGNIÈRE:

You give them a tart...

 

RAGUENEAU:

  Oh! - Just a little tartlet!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

Ah! Such modesty!

- And for a sonnet instead,

didn’t you give in return ...

 

RAGUENEAU:

  Rolls!

 

LIGNIÈRE (severely):

                                                            Milk-bread.

-  The theatre! You love that?

 

RAGUENEAU:

          I idolise the stage!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

You pay for your theatre tickets - with your cakes!

Your place, to-night, come tell me, entre nous,

what did it cost?

 

RAGUENEAU:

      Four flans, and fifteen choux.

(He looks to both sides.)

Monsieur de Cyrano’s not here? I’m surprised.

 

LIGNIÈRE:

Why so?

 

RAGUENEAU:

Montfleury acts!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

       Yes, you’re right,

that barrel of wine takes Phédon’s part to-night:

what’s that to Cyrano?

 

RAGUENEAU:

                                    You’re not current, quite?

He’s put Montfleury on guard: he’s filled with rage,

the actor can’t show his face for a month on stage.

 

LIGNIÈRE (drinking his fourth glass.):

Well?

 

RAGUENEAU:

Montfleury acts!

 

CUIGY:

                      He can’t stop him.

 

RAGUENEAU:

     Oh no?

That’s what I’ve come to see!

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

      Who’s this Cyrano?

 

CUIGY:

A fellow well-versed in fencing etiquette.

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

Noble?

 

CUIGY:

        Noble enough. He’s a Guards’ cadet.

(Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one.)

But his friend Le Bret, can tell you.

(He calls him.)

Le Bret!

(Le Bret comes towards them.)

You’re seeking Bergerac?

 

LE BRET:

    I’m troubled. Yes!...

 

CUIGY:

Isn’t it true he sings to a different tune?

 

LE BRET (tenderly):

Ah! He’s the choicest being under the moon!

 

RAGUENEAU:

Poet!

 

CUIGY:

Soldier!

 

BRISSAILLE:

Philosopher!

 

LE BRET:

 Musician!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

And such a varied physiognomy he’s been given!

 

RAGUENEAU:

True, I don’t think even Philippe de Champaigne’s

grave hand could paint that likeness for us again:

bizarre, extravagant, wild, a one-man show,

he’d have eclipsed that madman Jacques Callot,

the maddest fighter of all performing faces -

his three-plumed hat, his doublet with six laces,

his sword sticking up behind, under his cloak

proudly, like the cheeky tail of a cock,

fiercer than all the fierce D’Artagnans ever

Gascony produced, or shall, that kindly mother!

He wears, above his Punchinello ruff,

a nose!…Ah! My lords, indeed he’s nose enough!….

You can’t see a nose like that go by, in state

without crying out: ‘Ah no, they exaggerate!’

Then you smile: ‘He’ll soon take it off.’ But never,

Monsieur de Bergerac doesn’t remove it, ever.

 

LE BRET (throwing back his head.):

He dangles it - God help whoever takes the bait!

 

RAGUENEAU (proudly.):

His sword’s one half of the blind shears of Fate!

 

FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders.):

He won’t come!

 

RAGUENEAU:

      Yes, he will!…I’ll bet you a dish

- à la Ragueneau.

 

THE MARQUIS (laughing.):

        Done!

 

(Murmurs of admiration in the hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the orange-seller, doesn’t see her entrance.)

 

SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy.):

                       Ah, gentlemen! She is

frightfully ravishing!

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

     One thinks of a peach

with smiling strawberry blushes!

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

               And so fresh! If you reached

for her you’d easily catch a fever in your heart!

 

CHRISTIAN (raises his head, sees Roxane, and catches Lignière by the arm.):

That’s her!

 

LIGNIÈRE (looking at her.):

Ah! That’s her?….

CHRISTIAN:

         Yes. Say who. I fear her art. 

 

LIGNIÈRE (tasting his wine, in little sips.):

Magdaleine Robin, called Roxane. - A subtle woman.

An intellect.

 

CHRISTIAN:

Alas!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

  Free. Orphan. Cousin

to Cyrano - of whom we spoke.

 

(At this moment an elegant nobleman, blue ribbon on his chest, enters the box, and stands there talking to Roxane.)

 

CHRISTIAN (starting.):

That man?

 

LIGNIÈRE (who is becoming tipsy, winking at him.):

                   Oh ho!

- Comte de Guiche. Taken with her. He’s married, though,

to the niece of Armand de Richelieu. Desires

to marry Roxane to a certain sad man, aspires

to use Monsieur de Valvert, viscomte…agreeable.

She won’t agree, but then De Guiche is powerful:

He can persecute the plain bourgeoisie.

But I’ve exposed his sly machinery,

in a song, that ... Ha! I need to sing it, right!

- The ending’s wicked...Listen, here!

(He staggers up, and lifts his glass, ready to sing.)

 

CHRISTIAN:

            No. Good-night.

 

LIGNIÈRE:

You’re going?

 

CHRISTIAN:

    To Monsieur de Valvert!

 

LIGNIÈRE:

       Have a care!

It’s he who’ll kill you.

(Showing him Roxane, by a sideways glance)

                Stay. She’s watching you, there.

 

CHRISTIAN:

It’s true!

 

(He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him, head in air and open-mouthed, draw close to him.)

 

LIGNIÈRE:

It’s me that’s going. I’m thirsty! My name

is awaited - in the inns!

 

(He goes out, reeling.)

 

LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured.):

No Cyrano.

 

RAGUENEAU (incredulously):

      All the same ...

 

LE BRET:

Ah!  I do hope he hasn’t seen the notice!

 

THE AUDIENCE:

Begin, begin!

 

                                        Scene Three

 

The same, all but Lignière. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury.

 

A MARQUIS (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane’s box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscomte de Valvert.):

What spirit, this De Guiche!

 

ANOTHER:

Bah! ... Another Gascon!

 

THE FIRST:

 A Gascon, subtle, cold, now

- that’s the kind of man succeeds!…Trust me, let’s bow.

 

(They go toward De Guiche.)

 

SECOND MARQUIS:

Beautiful ribbons! What colour’s that, Comte de Guiche?

‘Doe’s-belly’ or is it ‘Sweetheart-give-me-a-kiss?’

 

DE GUICHE:

It’s the colour called ‘Queasy Spaniard.’

 

FIRST MARQUIS:

                  That colour

doesn’t lie, since soon now, thanks to your valour,

Spain will suffer badly in Flanders.

 

DE GUICHE:

                I’ll climb up!

Will you come?

(He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. He turns and calls.)

    Come on, Valvert!

 

CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing the name.):                                                    Ah, the Viscomte!

I’ll throw it in his face, where is it, my ...

 

(He puts his hand in his pocket, and discovers the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round.):

Damn!

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

Oh!

 

CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly.):

       I was looking for a glove.

 

THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously.):

  You found a hand.

(Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper.)

Let go. I’ll tell you a secret.

 

CHRISTIAN (still holding him.):

What?

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

Lignière…

 who’s just left you ...

 

CHRISTIAN (as before):

Well?

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

               It’s his last hour, beware.

A song he’s made has injured a man of might -

a hundred men - I’m one - are gathered, for tonight...

 

CHRISTIAN:

By whom?

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

Discretion ...

 

CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders):

Ha!

 

THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity):

            Professionals!

 

CHRISTIAN:

Where are they posted, then?

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

At the Porte de Nesle.

On his way home. Warn him!

 

CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists.):

But where will he be?

 

THE PICKPOCKET:

Run round to all the inns: The Golden Rookery,

The Fir Cone, The Tightened Belt, The Double Flame,

The Three Funnels, at each one leave his name,

and a little line of writing to tell him their plan.

 

CHRISTIAN:

Yes – I’ll run! The scum! A hundred against one man!

(Looking lovingly at Roxane.)

Ah, to leave her...her!

(looking with rage at Valvert.)

And him! ... I must save him,

Lignière!

 

(He hurries out. De Guiche, the Viscomte, the Marquises, have all disappeared behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on stage. The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.)

 

THE AUDIENCE:

         Begin!

 

A CITIZEN (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper gallery):

My wig!

 

CRIES OF DELIGHT:

              Bravo, you pages!

He’s bald! - Ha! Ha! Ha! ...

 

THE CITIZEN (furious, shaking his fist):

Oh you, young villain!

 

LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying away):

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

 

(Total silence.)

 

LE BRET (astonished):

This silence is sudden ...

(A spectator says something to him in a low voice.)

Ah?…..

 

THE SPECTATOR:

I heard it just now on good authority.

 

MURMURS (spreading through the hall):

No! Yes, I say! In the box with the grill! Hush! Is it he?

The Cardinal! - The Cardinal? - The Cardinal!

 

A PAGE:

Ah! The devil! We’ll have to behave ourselves...

 

(Someone raps on the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.)

 

THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain):

Snuff out that candle!

 

ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain):

          A chair!

(A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.)

 

A SPECTATOR:

Silence!

 

(Someone gives three raps again. The curtain opens. Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little chandeliers light the stage; the violins play softly.)

 

LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau):

Montfleury enters now?

 

RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice):

Yes, he’s the first one on.

 

LE BRET:

Cyrano isn’t here.

 

RAGUENEAU:

I’ve lost my bet, you’ll see.

 

LE BRET:

Better that way!

 

(An air on the pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously fat, in an Arcadian shepherd’s dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one ear, blowing into a beribboned flute.)

 

THE PIT (applauding):

Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury!

 

MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phédon):

‘Happy he who, far from courts, in haunts alone,

creates, for himself, an exile of his own,

and who, while Zephyr whispers in the trees..’

 

A VOICE (from the middle of the pit):

Fool! Didn’t I say a month without these mummeries?

 

(General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.)

 

DIFFERENT VOICES:

What? - Who’s that? ...

 

(The people stand up in the boxes to get a view.)

 

CUIGY:

           It’s him!

 

LE BRET (terrified):

                        Cyrano!

 

THE VOICE:

King of clowns!

Leave the stage!

 

ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly):

         Oh!

 

MONTFLEURY:

But ...

 

THE VOICE:

              You defy me! Down!

 

DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes):

Peace! Enough! - Play on, Montfleury - don’t be afraid!

 

MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice):

‘Happy he who, far from courts, in haunts…’

 

THE VOICE (more fiercely):

    Down, I said!

O Monarch of jesters, must I attack

and plant this clump of fir-trees on your back?

 

(A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.)

 

MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more):

‘Happy he who…’

 

(The cane is shaken.)      

 

THE VOICE:

   Off!

 

THE PIT:

           Oh!

 

MONTFLEURY (choking):

                  ‘Happy he who, far from courts…’

 

CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed, his hat cocked fiercely, his moustache bristling, his nose terrible to see):

Ah! I’m going to get angry! ...

 

(Sensation.)

 

                                        Scene Four

 

The same. Cyrano, then Bellerose, Jodelet.

 

MONTFLEURY (to the marquises):

Help me, my lords!

 

A MARQUIS (carelessly):

Go on! Go on, then!

 

CYRANO:

Fat man! Beware, if you do,

I’ll be obliged to fan your cheeks for you!

 

THE MARQUIS:

Enough!

 

CYRANO:

        These lords better sit quietly on their seats,

or truly my cane and their fine ribbons’ll meet!

 

ALL THE MARQUISES (rising):

Too much! ... Montfleury ...

 

CYRANO:

                  Montfleury had best take wing,

or I’ll slit his gizzard and disembowel him!

 

A VOICE:

Yet ...

 

CYRANO:

           Out he goes!

 

ANOTHER VOICE:

             But...

 

CYRANO:

               What, he’s here still?

(He makes the gesture of turning up his cuffs.)

Fine! I’ll mount the stage now, like a table,

to dissect this fat sausage from Italy!

 

MONTFLEURY (trying to be dignified):

You insult the Muse by insulting me!

 

CYRANO (very politely):

If the Muse, to whom you’re nothing, Sir, if she,

had the honour to know you  - Sir, then, believe me,

seeing you, so gross a Grecian urn, appear,

her tragic foot would take you in the rear!

 

THE PIT:

Let’s have Baro’s play! Montfleury! Montfleury!

 

CYRANO (to those who are calling out):

For my scabbard, I beg you, show some pity

if you go on, it’ll have to shed its blade!

 

(The circle round him widens.)

 

THE CROWD (drawing back):

Ah!

 

CYRANO (to Montfleury):

       Leave the stage!

 

THE CROWD (coming near and grumbling):

           No! No!

 

CYRANO:

     What do you say?

 

(They draw back again.)

 

A VOICE (singing at the back):

Monsieur de Cyrano,

these are pure tyrannies:

despite the tyrant though

we will have ‘La Clorise!’

 

ALL THE PIT (singing):

‘La Clorise!’ ‘La Clorise!’...

 

CYRANO:

If I hear that song again from anyone,

I’ll pole-axe the lot of you.

 

A CITIZEN:

What, you’re no Samson!

 

CYRANO:

Your jawbone, Sir, if you’d kindly lend me that thing?

 

A LADY (in the boxes):

An outrage!

 

A LORD:

It’s scandalous!

 

A CITIZEN:

It’s so annoying!

 

A PAGE:

What fun!

 

THE PIT:

Hiss! - Montfleury! - Cyrano!

 

CYRANO:

Silence!

 

THE PIT (wildly excited):

Hee-haw! Baaa! Quack, quack! Cock-a-doodle-doo!

 

CYRANO:

I command -                   

 

A PAGE:

Meow!

 

CYRANO:

        I order you to cease!

And I challenge the whole pit: you lot, if you please!

I’ll write the names! - Young heroes, round about!

Each of you in turn! I’ll call the numbers out! -

So, which of you now will come and start the list?

You, Sir? No! You? No! The first duellist

will be despatched by me with all due honour!

Let all who wish for death just lift a finger!

(A silence.)

You’ll see my naked blade? Modesty prevents you?

Not one name? - Not one hand? - Well, I’ll continue!

(Turning toward the stage, where Montfleury waits anxiously)

Now, I wish to see the theatre intact,

free of this boil. If not ...

(Puts his hand on his sword.)

     The blade must act!

 

MONTFLEURY:

I ...

 

CYRANO (leaves his chair, sits down in the middle of the circle which has formed, and makes himself at home.):

       I’ll clap my hands three times at you, full moon!

At the third clap, eclipse yourself!

 

THE PIT (amused):

            Ah!

 

CYRANO (clapping his hands):

             One!

MONTFLEURY:

I ...

 

A VOICE (in the boxes):

      Stay!

 

THE PIT:

He goes ... he stays ...

 

MONTFLEURY:

Gentlemen, ...I believe