buffet, and placing before him first the macaroon):
Dinner!. . .
(then the grapes):
Dessert!. . .
(then the glass of water):
Wine!. . .
(he seats himself):
So! And now to table!
Ah! I was hungry, friend, nay, ravenous!
(eating):
You said--?

LE BRET:
These fops, would-be belligerent,
Will, if you heed them only, turn your head!. . .
Ask people of good sense if you would know
The effect of your fine insolence--

CYRANO (finishing his macaroon):
Enormous!

LE BRET:
The Cardinal. . .

CYRANO (radiant):
The Cardinal--was there?

LE BRET:
Must have thought it. . .

CYRANO:
Original, i' faith!

LE BRET:
But. . .

CYRANO:
He's an author. 'Twill not fail to please him
That I should mar a brother-author's play.

LE BRET:
You make too many enemies by far!

CYRANO (eating his grapes):
How many think you I have made to-night?

LE BRET:
Forty, no less, not counting ladies.

CYRANO:
Count!

LE BRET:
Montfleury first, the bourgeois, then De Guiche,
The Viscount, Baro, the Academy. . .

CYRANO:
Enough! I am o'erjoyed!

LE BRET:
But these strange ways,
Where will they lead you, at the end? Explain
Your system--come!

CYRANO:
I in a labyrinth
Was lost--too many different paths to choose;
I took. . .

LE BRET:
Which?

CYRANO:
Oh! by far the simplest path. . .
Decided to be admirable in all!

LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders):
So be it! But the motive of your hate
To Montfleury--come, tell me!

CYRANO (rising):
This Silenus,
Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril--
A danger to the love of lovely ladies,
And, while he sputters out his actor's part,
Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes--goggling frog!
I hate him since the evening he presumed
To raise his eyes to hers. . .Meseemed I saw
A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals!

LE BRET (stupefied):
How now? What? Can it be. . .?

CYRANO (laughing bitterly):
That I should love?. . .
(Changing his tone, gravely):
I love.

LE BRET:
And may I know?. . .You never said. . .

CYRANO:
Come now, bethink you!. . .The fond hope to be
Beloved, e'en by some poor graceless lady,
Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me;
--This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will,
Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me;
But I may love--and who? 'Tis Fate's decree
I love the fairest--how were't otherwise?

LE BRET:
Th