out on the balcony):
Still there?
We spoke of a. . .

CYRANO:
A kiss! The word is sweet.
I see not why your lip should shrink from it;
If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do?
Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright;
Have you not, all this time, insensibly,
Left badinage aside, and unalarmed
Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping?
Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward--
From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat!

ROXANE:
Hush! hush!

CYRANO:
A kiss, when all is said,--what is it?
An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise,
A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,--
A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'--
A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,--
Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,--
Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,--
The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing,
When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming!

ROXANE:
Hush! hush!

CYRANO:
A kiss, Madame, is honorable:
The Queen of France, to a most favored lord
Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself!

ROXANE:
What then?

CYRANO (speaking more warmly):
Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,--
Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,--
Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . .

ROXANE:
And you
Are fair as Buckingham!

CYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled):
True,--I forgot!

ROXANE:
Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower?

CYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony):
Mount!

ROXANE:
This heart-breathing!. . .

CYRANO:
Mount!

ROXANE:
This brush of bee's wing!. . .

CYRANO:
Mount!

CHRISTIAN (hesitating):
But I feel now, as though 'twere ill done!

ROXANE:
This moment infinite!. . .

CYRANO (still pushing him):
Come, blockhead, mount!

(Christian springs forward, and by means of the bench, the branches, and the
pillars, climbs to the balcony and strides over it.)

CHRISTIAN:
Ah, Roxane!

(He takes her in his arms, and bends over her lips.)

CYRANO:
Aie! Strange pain that wrings my heart!
The kiss, love's feast, so near! I, Lazarus,
Lie at the gate in darkness. Yet to me
Falls still a crumb or two from the rich man's board--
Ay, 'tis my heart receives thee, Roxane--mine!
For on the lips you press you kiss as well
The words I spoke just now!--my words--my words!
(The lutes play):
A sad air,--a gay air: the monk!
(He begins to run as if he came from a