Cyrano de Bergerac Page #4

with a lady so.

I get carried away.

I pray.

I forget all

then see my shadow on the wall.

My friend...

My friend...

why should Fate allot

such ugliness, such loneliness?

You cry?

Oh no, that would be intolerable.

A tear on this nose, horrible!

I saw Roxane's face tonight.

For your duel it was ghostly white.

Your skill and courage ravished her.

Now dare to speak.

So she can laugh at me?

There's nothing I fear more.

Do they want you?

Her maid!

Sir, your cousin wishes to know

if you can meet in private tomorrow.

She has things to say.

To me? Oh, my God.

After mass, where could you talk?

Where? I... er... Oh, my God.

Quickly please.

Patience!

Where?

At Ragueneau's... the pastry cook.

Where?

In... oh, my God...

in the rue Saint-Honore.

She'll be there. You be there. At seven

I'll be there.

She wants to see me!

So goodbye to sorrow?

It means I exist for her.

Are you calm?

Calm? I'm gripped

by lightning and thunder!

I need an army to tear asunder!

So much power, so much defiance

take off the dwarfs

and bring on the giants!

What?

We're trying to sleep! Less noise!

Grumblers, eh?

Why do they complain?

Ligniere!

Cyrano!

What's wrong?

He's afraid to go home.

Fancy that! Why

A warning... a hundred men...

Because of a song I wrote...

Going to get me when

I go through the Porte de Nesles.

It's no my way.

I'm hiding here. They've let me stay.

A hundred? You'll sleep at home.

Come on. Follow and witness my deeds.

A hundred men?

That's what my force needs.

Why do they mount this attack?

He's a friend of de Bergerac!

Silence the God within you, Ragueneau.

The oven beckons.

Well, it must be so.

Your rolls are like an ill-tuned fiddle

Place the caesura right in the middle.

Your crusty house needs a roof on it.

Arrange your poultry

on the endless spit...

in neat alternatives:

the chickens there...

the lordly turkeys here.

Make a pair

of rhymes in opposition sweetly set.

Poultry can be poetry. Don't forget.

Crust is the body, sugar the wire.

I thought of you.

A heavenly lyre!

Drink to my health.

Here comes my wife! Hide the money!

Do you like it?

It's ridiculous.

Paper bags? Well...

Thank you.

Heavens!

You've torn my books apart!

My friends' poetry, rent from my heart!

I put the rubbish to use.

Sacrilege, woman!

You insult our poetic Muse.

You defile verse.

It's all it's good for!

What would you do with prose?

Ah, my boy.

What do you want?

Three pies.

Here we are, good and hot.

Please... wrap them up.

In a bag?

Well of course.

"Like Ulysees,

the day he left Penelope..."

Not that one.

"Blond Phoebus..." No!

Make your mind up.

All right, all right!

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