Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna.
CYRANO:
Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter!
(Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the
door. He opens quickly):
Enter!. . .
(Walking up to the duenna):
Two words with you, Duenna.
THE DUENNA:
Four, Sir, an it like you.
CYRANO:
Are you fond of sweet things?
THE DUENNA:
Ay, I could eat myself sick on them!
CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter):
Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . .
THE DUENNA:
Hey?
CYRANO:
. . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes!
THE DUENNA (changing her expression):
Ha.
CYRANO:
What say you to the cake they call a little puff?
THE DUENNA:
If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well.
CYRANO:
Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant!
And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot
cakes?
THE DUENNA:
Ay, to the core of my heart!
CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags):
Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street.
THE DUENNA:
But. . .
CYRANO (pushing her out):
And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten!
(He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a
respectful distance from her.)