Cyrano de Bergerac Page #9

laughed and laughed.

Oh, how they laughed.

Moliere has genius.

Christian had good looks.

With me, it was

always thus.

Good night, my friend.

Hold, there.

You!

Are you addressing me?

Yes, you, Monsieur

of the long nose.

Insolence.

- Foulmouthed scribbler.

- What?

- Lair, plagiarist!

- Liar.

Doctor.

Why pretend?

It is very grave.

Keep him quiet

at all costs.

If he attempts

to rise, he will die.

Shhhh.

Thank you.

Monsieur.

Ah, Sister.

What is the matter

with you?

Shall I tell you

something, Sister?

Yesterday, Friday, mind you,

I ate meat again.

Yes, I know.

That is why you

are so pale.

Please come to me

to the refectory before you go.

I'll make you a great

bowl of hot soup.

Of course, of course.

You're quite reasonable today.

Perhaps you'll convert me.

Oh, no! Not for the world.

Why, now I think of it,

that is so.

You, bursting with holiness,

and yet you never preach.

Astonishing.

And now I shall astonish you.

I'm going to let you

pray for me tonight, at Vespers.

Absolutely struck dumb, eh?

I did not wait for you

to say I might.

Now may the devil admire

me if never hope to see

the end of that embroidery.

After 14 years,

late for the first time.

Yes.

Yes, maddening.

I was detained by

a visitor. Most unexpected.

An old friend of mine.

At least a very

old acquaintance.

Did you tell him

to go away?

For the time being, yes.

I said excuse me,

I see that it's Saturday,

I have a previous

engagement.

One I cannot miss.

Even for you.

Come back an hour from now.

Your friend will have to wait.

I shall not let you go till dark.

Perhaps a little before dark,

I must go.

Oh, then tell me now

the court news. My Gazette.

Ah, yes, well, let me see.

Saturday, 19th, the King

fell ill after eight helpings of

grape marmalade.

Grape marmalade will

no longer be served at court.

Sunday, the royal pulse

is now normal.

Monday, everyone was

talking about the success

of Moliere's new play.

Tuesday, the King fell ill

after six helpings of marone glacee.

Marone glacee will no

longer be served at court.

Wednesday, the Compte de Firske

spoke to Madame de Monte Glas.

She said...no.

Thursday... Nothing.

Friday, Madame de Monte Glas

said yes.

Saturday, 25th...

Cyrano!

What is it?

Cyrano!

- Oh, no, no, it is nothing.

- What?

The old wound at Arras

sometimes...

- My poor friend.

- No, no, no, it is nothing.

It will soon be gone.

There. 'Tis gone.

We all have

our old wounds.

I have mine here,

under this faded scrap of writing.

It's hard to read now.

All for the blots

and tears.

His letter?

Did you not promise me,

that someday you would let me read it?

- This letter? You wish...?

- I do wish it...today.

Open it and read.

"Farewell, Roxane,

because today I die."

Aloud?

"I know that it will be today,

my own dearly beloved.

"Yet, my heart still so heavy

with love I have not told.

"And I shall die without telling you.

"No more shall my eyes

drink the sight of you like wine,

"never more with a look

that is a kiss,

"follow the sweet

grace of you."

How you read it.

His letter.

"I remember now the way you have

"of pushing back a lock of hair

with one hand from your forehead,

- "and my heart cries out..."

- His letter!

"cries out and keeps crying."

- You read it so...

- "Farewell, my dear, my dearest,"

- In a voice...

- "my own heart's own,"

- "my own treasure," - In

such a voice! - "my...love."

Yes, I remember hearing long ago.

"I am never away from you.

Even now I shall not leave you.

"In another world, I shall

still be that one who loves you,

"loves you beyond measure,

beyond..."

But, how can you read it now?

And all those 14 years

he has been the old friend

who came to me to be amusing.

- Roxane.

- It was you.

No, no, Roxane, no.

And I might have know it every time

that I heard you speak my name.

- No, it was not I. -

It was you! - I swear.

- The letters. That was you.

- No.

- And the dear foolish words. That was you.

- No.

- And the voice in the dark. That was you.

- On my honor!

And the soul.

It was all you.

I never loved you.

Yes, you loved me.

Even now you love me.

No!

And twice you're great to know.

Oh, no, no, my own dear love,

I love you not.

Why were you silent

for so many years?

All the while.

Every night, and every day,

he gave me nothing.

You knew that.

You knew in that letter

lying on my breast.

Your tears.

You knew they

were your tears.

The blood was his.

Cyrano!

Here! He's here.

Oh, what recklessness.

No.

I knew it!

- Madame he has killed himself coming here.

- No. Shh.

That drink is, what is it?

Nothing. I did not

finish my Gazette.

Saturday, 26th, an hour

or so before dinner

Ms. de Bergerac died,

foully murdered.

Cyrano, what have

they done to you?

How fate loves a jest.

Behold me ambushed,

taken unawares.

My noble foe, a lackey.

My battlefield, a gutter.

It seems too logical.

They have missed everything,

even my death.

Sisters! Sisters!

No, do not go away.

I may not be here when you return.

You shall not die.

I love you.

No, my lady,

it's not in the story.

When beauty said

I love you to the beast

all his ugliness changed

and dissolved, like magic.

But, you see,

I am still the same.

And I have

done this to you.

You? Why no.

All my fault, mine!

On the contrary.

I have never know womanhood

in its sweetness, but for you.

My mother did not

like to look at me.

I never had a sister.

Later, I feared those sweethearts

with mockery behind her smile.

But, because of you,

I have had across my life

one whispering, silken gown.

I never loved but

one man in my life.

I have lost him, twice.

I would not have you mourning

any less that good, noble Christian.

But, perhaps, I ask only this,

when the great cold

gathers around my bones,

you may give a double

meaning to your widow's weeds.

The tears you let fall for him,

may for a little, be my tears.

Oh, my love!

No, not here.

Not lying down.

Let no one help me.

No one need help me.

It is coming.

I feel already shod with marble.

Gloved with lead.

Very well,

let the old fellow come now.

He shall find me

on my feet.

Sword in hand.

Cyrano!

He'd delirious.

I see him now.

He grins.

He is looking at my nose!

That skeleton.

You there.

Who are you?

A hundred against one, eh?

I know them now,

my ancient enemies.

Falsehood, there!

There, Predujice!

Compromise, Cowardice.

What's that?

Surrender? No, never!

Never!

Ah, you too, Vanity.

I knew you would

overthrow me in the end.

No, I fight, I fight on,

I fight...ow!

All my laurels

you have riven away.

And my roses.

Yet, in spite of you,

there is one crown

I made away with me.

And tonight when I

enter before God,

my salute shall sweep away

the stars from the blue threshold.

One thing without stain,

unspotted from the world,

in spite of doom, mine own,

...and that is...

my...white...plume...

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