Cyrano de Bergerac Page #5

Children...

Give me the poem

and you'll take six pies home.

"Phyllis!"

Butter has smeared her sweet name.

"Phyllis"

What time is it?

Oh, my God!

Seven o'clock.

What a fight that was last night.

Which one?

In verse!

Ah, the duel.

In verse!

He's obsessed.

"At the poem's end..."

Not again!

"I hit. At the poem's end..."

Lovely! "At the poem's end..."

The time?

Seven o'clock.

"I hit". What a ballade!

Have you hurt your hand?

It's just a graze.

Some trouble or other?

No trouble.

I think you're lying.

Can I be alone with someone here?

I'm afraid not. My poets are coming.

For their first meal!

You'll be all right here.

Here they are!

Brother poet!

Tell her, I can't...

Write to her then?

That's it. Write a letter and leave.

Eat your fill.

The lyre sustains the poet!

A recipe in verse. Listen my friends!

Yes, yes, we're listening.

Breakfast?

Dinner.

"A Recipe for Making Almond Tarts".

Poised on steady legs

your poet begs several eggs.

Froth them to a mousse

and introduce lemon juice.

Add milk of almonds sent down by Zeus.

Place your pastry, not too hasty

in your tart plate.

Lightly glide around the side.

Slowly pour your mousse

into the pastry base.

Bake in the oven till blond.

Melting mouths and hearts

you have...

Your almond tarts!

Do you like cakes?

Terribly so.

Good. Take a couple of sonnets

and fill them with clairs.

Do you like cream puffs?

Yes!

Fresh pastries?

I love them.

Now go and eat outside.

But...

Come back when you finish.

Roxane...

This is indeed a blessed moment.

Often you ignore

whether I still breathe or not.

But now you've come to say what?

First, thank you.

For what?

That viscount, that fop

from whom you made a pretty crop.

A lord in love with me...

De Guiche?

Wanted me to marry.

A feeble disguise.

I fought then, cousin

against such lies...

not for my nose but your bright eyes.

The other thing is...

But before I mention it...

I have to rediscover the almost brother

of our games way back.

When you spent the summer in Bergerac.

Little Roxane was called Magdeleine.

Was I pretty then?

You weren't plain.

You'd hurt your hand up a tree

I'd play mother and gruffly say:

"What's this scratch, pray?"

Oh, what's this?

No! Put your hand flat.

Still, at your age?

Where did you do that?

At play, near the Porte de Nesles.

A fight?

Hardly, it was just an argument.

Tell me, while I clean the wound

how many were they?

Almost a hundred.

Tell me!

No. You tell me your story

if you dare tell it now.

Now, I dare.

I breathe the perfume of the past.

Yes, now I dare.

I'm in love with someone.

He doesn't know.

Well, not yet.

But he will know very soon.

And he loves me too, but timidly

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes