YRANO:
I'll make one while we fight;
And touch you at the final line.

THE VISCOUNT:
No!

CYRANO:
No?
(declaiming):
The duel in Hotel of Burgundy--fought
By De Bergerac and a good-for-naught!

THE VISCOUNT:
What may that be, an if you please?

CYRANO:
The title.

THE HOUSE (in great excitement):
Give room!--Good sport!--Make place!--Fair play!--No noise!

(Tableau. A circle of curious spectators in the pit; the marquises and
officers mingled with the common people; the pages climbing on each other's
shoulders to see better. All the women standing up in the boxes. To the
right, De Guiche and his retinue. Left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cyrano, etc.)

CYRANO (shutting his eyes for a second):
Wait while I choose my rhymes. . .I have them now!
(He suits the action to each word):
I gayly doff my beaver low,
And, freeing hand and heel,
My heavy mantle off I throw,
And I draw my polished steel;
Graceful as Phoebus, round I wheel,
Alert as Scaramouch,
A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal--
At the envoi's end, I touch!
(They engage):
Better for you had you lain low;
Where skewer my cock? In the heel?--
In the heart, your ribbon blue below?--
In the hip, and make you kneel?
Ho for the music of clashing steel!
--What now?--A hit? Not much!
'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal,
When, at the envoi, I touch.

Oh, for a rhyme, a rhyme in o?--
You wriggle, starch-white, my eel?
A rhyme! a rhyme! The white feather you SHOW!
Tac! I parry the point of your steel;
--The point you hoped to make me feel;
I open the line, now clutch
Your spit, Sir Scullion--slow your zeal!
At the envoi's end, I touch.
(He declaims solemnly):
Envoi.
Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal!
I move a pace--lo, such! and such!
Cut over--feint!
(Thrusting):
What ho! You reel?
(The viscount staggers. Cyrano salutes):
At the envoi's end, I touch!

(Acclamations. Applause in the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown
down. The officers surround Cyrano, congratulating him. Ragueneau dances for
joy. Le Bret is happy, but anxious. The viscount's friends hold him up and
bear him away.)

THE CROWD (with one long shout):
Ah!

A TROOPER:
'Tis superb!

A WOMAN:
A pretty stroke!

RAGUENEAU:
A marvel!

A MARQUIS:
A novelty!

LE BRET:
O madman!

THE CROWD (presses round Cyrano. Chorus of):
Compliments!
Bra