Cyrano de Bergerac Page #8

to tell you.

Where are you going?

I...will...return...in a moment.

Cyrano.

Your wife, sir,

she goes with me?

No, sir, she remains.

There is still time

for her to escape.

She stays!

Very well.

Someone give me a musket.

I stay here also.

Sir, you show courage.

What, shall I run away,

and leave a woman?

Colonel, my compliments, sir.

What of Roxane?

Wait.

Well, what is it?

You look so...

She does not love me.

- You think not?

- She loves you.

- No.

- She loves only my soul.

- No.

- Yes!

That means you.

And you love her.

- I?

- I see. I know.

You wrote her,

everyday, every day!

- Perfectly simple.

- Simple?

For a month,

we've been blockaded here.

How did you send

all those letters?

Before daylight

I managed...

To face death

everyday.

You love her.

Yes.

Tell her so.

- No.

- Why not?

Why?

Look at me.

She would love me

if I were ugly.

- She said that?

- Yes. Now, go to her.

Nonsense. Do not

believe any such madness.

Go back to her.

You never will be ugly.

Go!

It is you she loves.

That is what

we shall see.

No, no!

- Let her chose between us.

- No.

- Tell her everything.

- Why do you torture me?

Shall I ruin your happiness,

because I was born with a pretty face?

Am I to ruin yours,

because I happen to have power

to say what you perhaps feel?

- Tell her!

- Don't drive me too far!

- I'm tired of being my own rival.

- Hard to know.

My secret marriage, that

can be annulled, I expect.

I want her love

for the poor fool than I am,

or not at all.

Oh, I'm going through with this.

I'll know one way or the other.

Now, go!...Tell her.

Let her chose one of us.

It will be you.

I hope so.

Captain!

The Spanish fires are going out.

It begins.

I need a scout. Where's Cyrano.

Captain.

Let me go.

No, my boy, Cyrano knows

the terrain. He knows their lines.

So do I.

Please, allow me.

Very well.

We must know from which

direction the advance comes.

Their weight and numbers.

I understand.

Roxane.

Cyrano.

Christian thinks...

Christian thinks you

ought to know that...

But I do know.

He still doubts what I

just told him, just now.

I saw that.

Yes, but,...was it true,

what you told him just now?

It was true.

I said that I should love him,

even if he were...

The word comes

hard before me?

Say it, I shall

not be hurt.

Ugly?

Even, then

I should love him.

Disfigured.

Or disfigured.

Even...grotesque.

How could he

every be grotesque,

ever to me?

But, you could love him so,

as much as?

Yes, and more.

Roxane...

What is it?

Are they fighting?

What is happening?

The Spaniards advance,

but there is time.

- Where is Christian?

- At the parapet.

Oh, of course.

What is it

that you wish to tell me?

Roxane,...

believe me this is difficult,

and for once I lack words.

Christian asked me to...

He told me...

Christian!

To your places, gentlemen.

Is he dead?

No, but dying.

I will not let him!

Cyrano...did you?

Yes, my friend.

I have told her.

She loves you.

Roxane.

Yes, my darling.

Christian!

He is not dead?

Yes.

Time you must go, now.

Really, he is dead.

No one else

knew him but you.

Was he not a hero?

Yes, Roxane.

A heart deeper

than we knew.

Yes, Roxane.

A poet.

A soul magnificently tender.

Yes, Roxane.

But he is dead now.

Why, so am I.

For I am dead

and my love mourns for me

and does not know.

Will never know.

Take her away quickly.

Wait.

A letter over his heart.

I have two deaths

to avenge, now,

Christian's...and my own.

Fire!

Surrender or you die!

Ah!

We fought. We died.

We fought again.

Who are these men who are

so fond of death, one Spaniard cried.

On and on, they came.

Then, when all seemed lost,

we heard the trumpets

of our returning troops.

The battle was ours!

Ah, you have been fortunate,

Ms. de Bergerac, you have lived!

While we, we waste our youth.

There is no war and not hope for any.

No hope for any?

My fellow, I just realize,

we are both fools.

But mine is the greater folly,

for I am an older fool.

What is more...

Everything I told you was a lie.

Another satire

for the Gazette?

Yes.

Another glove flung

in the face of power?

Oh, why do you

do it, Cyrano?

- Why do you attack...

- Stupidity?

Deceit? Corruption?

I'm too old to change.

I'm an old dog

with nothing left but his teeth.

Ah, but teeth can be pulled.

That can be painful.

That insolent wretch.

That scoundrel de Bergerac.

This time he's gone too far.

I swear it.

He's signed his death warrant.

And who will deliver it?

His sword is still very

powerful, my friend.

There are may ways

a man can die.

Who knows?

He may meet

with an accident.

Soon.

But, uh, tell me, Madame.

How long will you continue

to remain here, forever in mourning?

Forever.

Was Christian all that?

If you knew him

you would not ask.

His last letter

is still in my heart.

And, uh, Cyrano?

Do you see him often?

Every week. My old friend

takes the place of my Gazette.

He brings me all the news.

Every Saturday under

that tree out there.

I wait for him embroidering.

The hour strikes.

I need not turn to look.

At the last stroke,

I hear his cane tapping the walk.

His satires have made

him many enemies.

But, they still fear

that sword of his.

No one dare touch him.

Hm, that may be so.

It is not violence

I fear for him,

but solitude, poverty.

Old gray Decembers

stealing on wolf's feet

into his darkened room.

It seems to me he's

worn the same old coat

for many months, now.

Eh, that is nothing

strange in this world.

You need not pity

him overmuch.

He lives his life,

his own life his own way,

thought, word and deed free.

My Lord Duke.

Oh, yes, I know.

I have all. He has nothing.

Nevertheless, today,

I should be proud to shake his hand.

Ah, well, adieu.

Will I ever see you again?

Come whenever you like.

Then, you have forgiven me.

I am here.

Do you know?

When a man wins

everything in this world,

when he succeeds too much,

he feels, somehow,

a thousand small displeasures

with himself, whose whole sum

is not quite remorse

but rather a sort of vague

disgust, dry illusions, pained regrets.

Yes, now and then,

I envy your Cyrano.

The sentiment

does you honor.

Madame, I must tell you,

it is true that no one has yet

dared to attack

your friend Cyrano.

Nevertheless, at the theater

last night, I heard some things.

Keep him at home all you can.

Tomorrow when you see him,

tell him to be careful.

I thank you.

Good night, Ragueneau.

Cyrano, you not leaving?

You will not have

dinner here with me?

My regrets. I have a magnificent

roast waiting for me, a rare wine,

a gift from my publisher.

Fine, to be sure.

Uh, have you seen

Moliere's new play?

No.

Heh, ah, well...

What is it?

Well, he...

Speak.

He stole a scene

from you, word for word.

You know, "What the devil

was he doing there?"

That one.

He stole it, bodily.

Well, he showed

good taste.

It, uh, played well?

Oh, beautifully. They

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