Why not?

LIGNIERE (in a husky voice, showing him a crumpled letter):
This letter warns me. . .that a hundred men. . .
Revenge that threatens me. . .that song, you know--
At the Porte de Nesle. To get to my own house
I must pass there. . .I dare not!. . .Give me leave
To sleep to-night beneath your roof! Allow. . .

CYRANO:
A hundred men? You'll sleep in your own bed!

LIGNIERE (frightened):
But--

CYRANO (in a terrible voice, showing him the lighted lantern held by the
porter, who is listening curiously):
Take the lantern.
(Ligniere seizes it):
Let us start! I swear
That I will make your bed to-night myself!
(To the officers):
Follow; some stay behind, as witnesses!

CUIGY:
A hundred!. . .

CYRANO:
Less, to-night--would be too few!

(The actors and actresses, in their costumes, have come down from the stage,
and are listening.)

LE BRET:
But why embroil yourself?

CYRANO:
Le Bret who scolds!

LE BRET:
That worthless drunkard!--

CYRANO (slapping Ligniere on the shoulder):
Wherefore? For this cause;--
This wine-barrel, this cask of Burgundy,
Did, on a day, an action full of grace;
As he was leaving church, he saw his love
Take holy water--he, who is affeared
At water's taste, ran quickly to the stoup,
And drank it all, to the last drop!. . .

AN ACTRESS:
Indeed, that was a graceful thing!

CYRANO:
Ay, was it not?

THE ACTRESS (to the others):
But why a hundred men 'gainst one poor rhymer?

CYRANO:
March!
(To the officers):
Gentlemen, when you shall see me charge,
Bear me no succor, none, whate'er the odds!

ANOTHER ACTRESS (jumping from the stage):
Oh! I shall come and see!

CYRANO:
Come, then!

ANOTHER (jumping down--to an old actor):
And you?. . .

CYRANO:
Come all--the Doctor, Isabel, Leander,
Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm,
The farce Italian to this Spanish drama!

ALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy):
Bravo!--a mantle, quick!--my hood!

JODELET:
Come on!

CYRANO:
Play us a march, gentlemen of the band!
(The violinists join the procession, which is forming. They take the
footlights, and divide them for torches):
Brave officers! next, women in costume,
And, twenty paces on--
(He takes his place):
I all alone,
Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself,
To deck my beaver--proud as Scipio!. . .
--You hear me?--I forbid you succor me!--
One, two three! Port