Cyrano de Bergerac Page #2

Impressed:

"What a sign for a perfumery."

Lyric:

"Ah, Triton rising from the waters."

"How much to view the monument?"

Warlike:
"Train it on the cavalry!"

Practical:
"Put that in a lottery

for noses and it'll be first prize."

And finally, with sighs and cries...

in language deeply felt:

"O that this too too..."

"solid nose would melt."

That is what you could have said

or had an ounce of wit in your head.

But you've no letters

save the three

required to describe you: S.O.T.

Had you the wit required...

to serve me before the crowd

a dish of words...

so proud...

not a phrase

would have passed your lips.

For although the words may fit

I'd never let you get away with it.

Valvert, leave him!

Arrogant, base nonentity

without even a pair of gloves

let alone the ribbons and lace

a noble loves!

My elegance is interior.

I do not go out feeling inferior

from an insult...

which on the exterior

leaves its mark of warning

in libel and scruples in mourning.

I step out...

smelling of scrubbed liberty

and polished independence. Come see!

Let him be!

About gloves, you have me there.

I had one left over from a pair,

which a was very attached to.

I left it planted on someone's cheek.

Cad, villain, clod... flat-footed fool!

And I'm Cyrano Savinien Hercule

de Bergerac.

Buffoon!

What is it now?

I must... relieve these cramps.

It's lack of exercise.

Are you all right?

My sword has gone to sleep.

So be it!

With what joy...

she wakens to that sound.

Poet, eh?

Yes, a poet.

Even when rattling ironmongery

I'll compose a ballade extempore.

A ballade?

I'll hit you on the final line.

No!

No?

"Ballade of a Fencing Bout...

"Between de Bergerac

and a Foppish Lout."

What is that doggerel?

It's the title.

Silence!

Quiet!

Wait. Let me choose my rhymes.

Good. Ready.

and slowly...

abandon my cape

Then finally I strip my steel.

A thoroughbred... from head to heel.

Disdainful of the rein or bit.

I pull a lyric wheel

but at the poem's end...

I hit!

Come, be burst... you purple grape.

Come and lose your peel.

Show, you ribboned ape

the fat your folderols conceal.

A pretty peal.

Is that a fly?

Your blood will congeal.

For, when the poem ends, I hit.

I need a rhyme to hole the shape.

I'm going to wind the reel.

My rod is ready to rape.

The sharp tooth awaits its meal.

Not yet.

I stop a bit...

awaiting the deal.

The poem ends and I hit.

Envoy!

Prince, pray to God and kneel.

Will you quit?

I cut, parry...

off you reel!

The poem ended...

and I hit!

Where will your life lead you?

You've so many enemies.

Wonderful.

You gave your gold away.

A year's pay.

All spent on one glorious day.

How will you live now?

I don't know.

A stupid action.

But a glorious gesture.

What rules the life you lead?

I forced myself to play many parts.

That was my way.

And now?

I'll take the simplest

excel in everything, be the best.

So be it. Now tell me

why you hate Montfleury so much.

That paunch!

One night I saw him touch a lady

with his eyes.

Like a slug slithering over a rose.

What? How can that be?

The one I loved.

The one I love.

You never said anything before.

Whom I love?

Just think a moment.

I can never be loved

even by the ugliest.

My nose precedes me

by fifteen minutes. Whom do I love?

It should be clear.

I love the prettiest far and near.

The prettiest?

The finest, the wittiest,

the seetest, the wiset.

It's clear now.

Diaphanously.

Your cousin?

Yes.

Roxane.

Wonderful! Tell her you love her!

Tonight you're with glory covered.

Look and tell me what exuberance

I have with this protuberance.

I'm under no illusion.

True sometimes, bemused by the night

I see far off in the silver light

a lady on the arm of her knight.

I dream of walking out

in the silver glow

with a lady so.

I get carried away.

I pray.

I forget all

then see my shadow on the wall.

My friend...

My friend...

why should Fate allot

such ugliness, such loneliness?

You cry?

Oh no, that would be intolerable.

A tear on this nose, horrible!

I saw Roxane's face tonight.

For your duel it was ghostly white.

Your skill and courage ravished her.

Now dare to speak.

So she can laugh at me?

There's nothing I fear more.

Do they want you?

Her maid!

Sir, your cousin wishes to know

if you can meet in private tomorrow.

She has things to say.

To me? Oh, my God.

After mass, where could you talk?

Where? I... er... Oh, my God.

Quickly please.

Patience!

Where?

At Ragueneau's... the pastry cook.

Where?

In... oh, my God...

in the rue Saint-Honore.

She'll be there. You be there. At seven

I'll be there.

She wants to see me!

So goodbye to sorrow?

It means I exist for her.

Are you calm?

Calm? I'm gripped

by lightning and thunder!

I need an army to tear asunder!

So much power, so much defiance

take off the dwarfs

and bring on the giants!

What?

We're trying to sleep! Less noise!

Grumblers, eh?

Why do they complain?

Ligniere!

Cyrano!

What's wrong?

He's afraid to go home.

Fancy that! Why

A warning... a hundred men...

Because of a song I wrote...

Going to get me when

I go through the Porte de Nesles.

It's no my way.

I'm hiding here. They've let me stay.

A hundred? You'll sleep at home.

Come on. Follow and witness my deeds.

A hundred men?

That's what my force needs.

Why do they mount this attack?

He's a friend of de Bergerac!

Silence the God within you, Ragueneau.

The oven beckons.

Well, it must be so.

Your rolls are like an ill-tuned fiddle

Place the caesura right in the middle.

Your crusty house needs a roof on it.

Arrange your poultry

on the endless spit...

in neat alternatives:

the chickens there...

the lordly turkeys here.

Make a pair

of rhymes in opposition sweetly set.

Poultry can be poetry. Don't forget.

Crust is the body, sugar the wire.

I thought of you.

A heavenly lyre!

Drink to my health.

Here comes my wife! Hide the money!

Do you like it?

It's ridiculous.

Paper bags? Well...

Thank you.

Heavens!

You've torn my books apart!

My friends' poetry, rent from my heart!

I put the rubbish to use.

Sacrilege, woman!

You insult our poetic Muse.

You defile verse.

It's all it's good for!

What would you do with prose?

Ah, my boy.

What do you want?

Three pies.

Here we are, good and hot.

Please... wrap them up.

In a bag?

Well of course.

"Like Ulysees,

the day he left Penelope..."

Not that one.

"Blond Phoebus..." No!

Make your mind up.

All right, all right!

Children...

Give me the poem

and you'll take six pies home.

"Phyllis!"

Butter has smeared her sweet name.

"Phyllis"

What time is it?

Oh, my God!

Seven o'clock.

What a fight that was last night.

Which one?

In verse!

Ah, the duel.

In verse!

He's obsessed.

"At the poem's end..."

Not again!

"I hit. At the poem's end..."

Lovely! "At the poem's end..."

The time?

Seven o'clock.

"I hit". What a ballade!

Have you hurt your hand?

It's just a graze.

Some trouble or other?

No trouble.

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