Cyrano de Bergerac Page #3

I think you're lying.

Can I be alone with someone here?

I'm afraid not. My poets are coming.

For their first meal!

You'll be all right here.

Here they are!

Brother poet!

Tell her, I can't...

Write to her then?

That's it. Write a letter and leave.

Eat your fill.

The lyre sustains the poet!

A recipe in verse. Listen my friends!

Yes, yes, we're listening.

Breakfast?

Dinner.

"A Recipe for Making Almond Tarts".

Poised on steady legs

your poet begs several eggs.

Froth them to a mousse

and introduce lemon juice.

Add milk of almonds sent down by Zeus.

Place your pastry, not too hasty

in your tart plate.

Lightly glide around the side.

Slowly pour your mousse

into the pastry base.

Bake in the oven till blond.

Melting mouths and hearts

you have...

Your almond tarts!

Do you like cakes?

Terribly so.

Good. Take a couple of sonnets

and fill them with clairs.

Do you like cream puffs?

Yes!

Fresh pastries?

I love them.

Now go and eat outside.

But...

Come back when you finish.

Roxane...

This is indeed a blessed moment.

Often you ignore

whether I still breathe or not.

But now you've come to say what?

First, thank you.

For what?

That viscount, that fop

from whom you made a pretty crop.

A lord in love with me...

De Guiche?

Wanted me to marry.

A feeble disguise.

I fought then, cousin

against such lies...

not for my nose but your bright eyes.

The other thing is...

But before I mention it...

I have to rediscover the almost brother

of our games way back.

When you spent the summer in Bergerac.

Little Roxane was called Magdeleine.

Was I pretty then?

You weren't plain.

You'd hurt your hand up a tree

I'd play mother and gruffly say:

"What's this scratch, pray?"

Oh, what's this?

No! Put your hand flat.

Still, at your age?

Where did you do that?

At play, near the Porte de Nesles.

A fight?

Hardly, it was just an argument.

Tell me, while I clean the wound

how many were they?

Almost a hundred.

Tell me!

No. You tell me your story

if you dare tell it now.

Now, I dare.

I breathe the perfume of the past.

Yes, now I dare.

I'm in love with someone.

He doesn't know.

Well, not yet.

But he will know very soon.

And he loves me too, but timidly

from afar, without a word.

Give me your hand. How hot it is.

Love is on those lips of his.

And just think, dear cousin

he's a soldier too

and in your regiment.

He's a cadet in your company!

He seems so intelligent and clever.

He's proud, young, brave and handsome.

Handsome?

What's wrong?

Nothing.

It's just...

just... my hand hurts.

Have you spoken?

Never.

He's a cadet?

In the Guards.

What's his name?

Christian de Neuvillette.

He's not in the Guards.

He is. From today on.

I've finished, sir.

Read the wrappers then!

My dear girl, you who love

elegance and fine language

what if he's a brute or savage?

His curls are those of a classical hero

His brains may be curly too, you know.

What if he's a fool?

I'll die on the spot.

I came here to be told this?

I don't see how it concerns me.

No... Listen.

Someone told me

about the Gascons in your company

And how we treat greenhorns such as he?

I'm scared for him.

So you should be.

When I saw you

calm those brutes last night

strong and proud with all your might

I knew you'd frighten anyone.

All right I'll protect

your little baron.

You'll take care of him then?

You're such a dear friend!

You'll be his friend?

Yes.

He'll never fight a duel?

I swear it.

Oh, how I love you!

I have to go now.

You didn't tell me your story.

It must be incredible.

Tell him to write to me.

Oh, how I love you!

A hundred men?

Farewell. We're friends, aren't we?

He must write. A hundred men!

You must tell me about it.

A hundred! What courage!

I've been braver since then.

He's here!

Incredible!

Wonderful!

Unbelievable!

Thirty wounded!

It was worthy of an epic poem!

Brilliant!

Unheard of!

Homeric!

Our hero.

He's wounded!

Capdedious!

No!

Just scuffed.

Hug me!

Tell us the tale!

The tale of the fight!

The tale!

Enough!

What's the matter?

Nothing.

She spoke to you?

Is that true?

Bravo for this new feat.

The word's spread wide.

There speaks an expert.

These gentlemen

confirm the truth of it.

We were there.

A hundred against one.

Are you one of these mad Gascons?

A cadet.

One of us!

These young men are the notorious

Captain?

Would you present

the company to the count?

He's in a foul temper. Well?

Not today.

I'll do it in his place.

Go on then.

The Gascon cadets of Castel-Jaloux.

Liars and gamblers

Gamblers and liars unashamed...

more noble than..

Their lines are long

Their tempers short.

The Gascon cadets of Castel-Jaloux.

Eagle-eyed, always game

Cat's whiskers, lion's might

nearer they came

in boots to make them lame

but with a heart so light

for they thirst for fame.

Sweet is their name in the great fight.

Ever ready to main

they put foes to flight.

The Gascon cadets

make cuckolds every night!

A gentleman's retinue needs a poet.

Will you be mine?

I don't join retinues.

My uncle, Richelieu, would approve.

I could help you.

Good God!

I suppose you've written a play?

Yes, a tragedy.

The title?

Agrippian.

Take it to him.

Really?

He'll only change a few lines of it.

Never, sir. My blood runs cold

to think one could be so bold.

You're proud.

You've noticed, have you?

Look, Cyrano.

We found this on our way

feathers of the fowl you sent away.

The victims' remains!

Their employer must be in a fury!

But who was he?

It was I.

They were to do the lowly task

of punishing a drunken rhymer.

A true epic poet!

You dared...

Would you like to return these

to your friends?

You thwarted the plans I made...

To murder?

Insolence!

Swords up! We're leaving!

Out of here! All of you!

Monsieur, have you read Don Quixote?

I've practically lived it.

Meditate on the windmill chapter.

Chapter thirteen.

If you fight with windmills...

Are my foes like the wind?

Their heavy spars

may spin you down to the mud.

Or lift me to the stars.

You must admit...

I shall never be sated!

I like to displease and be hated.

With more calm, fortune and fame

What should I do?

Seek out a powerful patron to pursue?

Cling to him like a vine?

Wind around him to fawn and whine?

And rise through ruse instead of merit?

No thank you!

Compose, as a rule poems for usurers?

Play the fool

hoping to see some minister

give a smile that's not sinister?

No thank you!

Breakfast off a toad?

Grovel on the dirty road?

Wear the knees of my breeches through?

And kiss feet too?

No thank you!

Find genius in imbeciles?

And let out shrtill squeals of regret

when my name is missing

from some gazette?

No thank you!

Be scared of being thought paltry?

Prefer social visits to poetry?

Write placets and be introduced?

No thank you! No thank you!

But sing, dream... laugh...

move on...

be alone...

have a choice...

have a watchful eye

and a powerful voice

wear my hat awry...

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes