Cyrano de Bergerac Page #7

your soul came forth.

Those letters this month, you see,

were you talking to me.

I read them and swooned.

I was yours. Your love burned.

Forgive my frivolity

of loving first your beauty.

Later, your spirit charmed me

and I loved both.

And now?

One side has beaten the other.

I love you for your soul.

Your beauty drew me

towards the true reality.

Can't you see this as a victory?

You just can't believe it.

I just want to be loved for...

For what you've always been loved.

This is better.

It used to be.

You don't understand.

I love you for what you are.

Less handsome...

I'd love you still. Even without beauty

Don't!

I mean it.

What? Ugly?

Ugly, I swear.

You're pale!

She loves me no more.

What?

It's you she loves.

All she loves is my soul.

That means you. And you love her.

Me?

You do.

It's true.

Madly.

More than madly.

Tell her!

No!

Why?

Look at me.

Tell her!

No!

Stop tempting me!

I'm tired of being my own rival.

I want her to choose one of us.

You.

I hope so.

What is it?

Nothing. Get inside!

What did he say? He's going!

Perhaps he thought I lied.

And did you?

No. I'd love him...

Are you afraid to say it?

I don't mind. If he were ugly?

Even if he were ugly.

Even deformed?

Even deformed.

Were he ridiculous and grotesque

would you love him?

More than ever.

My God.

So, perhaps, after all, happiness...

What?

Listen, Roxane... I want to...

He's not dead.

Roxane...

I told her everything.

It's you she loves.

No, Christian

Get her away!

Stay with me!

The fight is on!

His letter...

You alone knew him.

Wasn't he a marvellous spirit?

Yes, Roxane.

A supreme, lovable poet?

Yes, Roxane.

A sublime being?

Yes, Roxane.

A deep, saintly heart

a magnificent and pure soul?

Farewell Roxane.

He's a duke now.

And a marshal.

He hasn't been for months.

Still in mourning?

As ever.

Still faithful?

That too.

Have you forgiven me?

I'm here.

Sister Marthe stole a plum this morning

That's very wrong.

Calumny is a sin.

It was tiny.

I'll tell monsieur Cyrano.

I've made him an angel cake.

He's a bad Catholic.

We'll convert him.

I forbid you to meddle with that matter

Don't torment him. He may stop coming.

But God...

Don't worry. God knows all about him.

He says, every Saturday:

"Sister, I ate meat yesterday."

He says that?

Every time.

Last Saturday

he hadn't eaten for two whole days.

Even dead, you love him?

It seems only part of him is dead.

Our hearts are together.

His love is alive, around me.

Ah, here's Le Bret.

Does he come often?

Your grace...

He won't be here until seven.

Who won't?

Cyrano.

Oh... him.

How is he?

Not well.

Really?

He exaggerates.

I foresaw it all: loneliness, misery!

His pamphlets make new enemies.

He attacks snobs and hypocrites

cowards and fools.

Everyone in fact!

His sword inspires terror.

Don't pity him.

He knew no allegiance

a free man in thought and deed.

I know. I have everything, he nothing.

But I'd gladly shake his hand.

Farewell.

I'll show you out.

Sometimes, I envy him.

When your life has been a success

without having any real sins

you feel a slight disgust within

but no real remorse.

Just a faint discomfort.

The ducal robes of fur sweep up

the stairs of state

with a rustle of lost illusions

and regret.

You're philosophical.

Monsieur Le Bret. May I have a word?

No one dares attack him, but he's hated

Someone said to me yesterday:

"Cyrano could die by accident."

Warn him to be careful and stay indoors

A doctor, monsieur! Get a doctor!

Will you stay with him?

I'll be back.

The clock's struck. He should be here.

He'll come. He always does.

There he is!

I'm running out of wool.

These faded colours!

How can I match them?

Late for the first time

in fourteen years.

I know. It makes me mad.

I was delayed, in fact

by an importunate visitor.

An annoying one?

Yes, but not unexpected.

You sent him away?

Yes, I said:

"Sorry but today is Saturday.

"I have a regular appointment to keep.

"I dare not miss it.

Come back in an hour."

He'll have to wait. I won't let you go

until it's dark.

I may have to leave earlier.

No teasing Sister Marthe?

Sister Marthe, come here!

Those lovely downcast eyes!

What's wrong?

Nothing.

I ate meat yesterday.

I know.

Yet you're so pale.

Come to the refectory

later for a bowl of soup.

You will?

Is she converting you?

Oh, no. I promise I'm not.

Tell me the news of the week.

It's time for my gazette.

Saturday the nineteenth...

After eight helpings of ginger

the King, by the lancet

was put out of danger.

Sunday,

the Queen gave a ball and burned

seven hundred and sixty-three

white wax candles.

Our troops vanquished

John of Austria on Monday

Four witches were hung.

The same day,

Madame d'Athis's dog had an enema

That will do!

Tuesday... nothing.

Lygdamire has a new lover.

Thursday:

the court was in Fontainebleau.

Friday the twenty-fifth...

La Mancini, the dark one...

said "no" at dawn and "yes" at dusk.

And Saturday... the twenty-sixth...

Don't worry, it's nothing.

Come on.

It's my wound from Arras...

sometimes... you know...

My poor friend!

It's nothing.

It will go.

It's over.

We all have our wounds.

I have mine.

The old wound is still here, so keen.

The paper of

his last letter has yellowed

but still bears his tears and blood.

His letter!

Didn't you say that one day

you'd let me read it?

You really want to? His letter?

I want to... Today...

Here you are.

Can I open it?

Open it.

Read it.

Roxane, farewell, for I must die.

Out loud?

Later today, I think, my dove.

My heart is heavy with unexpressed love

And I'm dying!

Never more, never more

will my captivated eyes...

that gaze...

How you read it!

Which adored such moments

will no longer embrace

your every movement.

I can see one now you often make

when you hruch your hair away.

I cry out...

You read it in such a way

And now I cry out: "Goodbye".

You read it...

My dear, my darling...

with a voice...

my love...

with a voice...

which I've heard somewhere before.

My heart never left you.

I am and will be in the next world

the one who loved you

with all this soul.

The one...

How can you read now? It's dark.

It's dark...

It was you.

No, Roxanne, no...

The way you said my name...

No! It wasn't me!

It was you!

I swear...

I can see your generous imposture.

The letters were yours.

No!

The dear, mad words, yours.

The night voice.

I swear not!

That soul was yours!

I didn't love you!

You did!

It was him.

You loved me!

You're less sure now.

No, no, my dear love, I never loved you

So many things fade way to be reborn.

Why keep silent for fourteen years

since on that letter

the tears were yours?

The blood was his

Cyrano! You're here!

Good evening, my friends!

He killed himself to come.

That weakness earlier?

That's right,

I didn't finish my gazette.

On Saturday the twenty-sixth

one hour before dinner

Monsieur de Bergerac was foully

and ignobly murdered.

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