Bergerac?

LE BRET:
Ay, I am uneasy. . .

CUIGY:
Is it not true that he is the strangest of men?

LE BRET (tenderly):
True, that he is the choicest of earthly beings!

RAGUENEAU:
Poet!

CUIGY:
Soldier!

BRISSAILLE:
Philosopher!

LE BRET:
Musician!

LIGNIERE:
And of how fantastic a presence!

RAGENEAU:
Marry, 'twould puzzle even our grim painter Philippe de Champaigne to
portray him! Methinks, whimsical, wild, comical as he is, only Jacques
Callot, now dead and gone, had succeeded better, and had made of him the
maddest fighter of all his visored crew--with his triple-plumed beaver and
six-pointed doublet--the sword-point sticking up 'neath his mantle like an
insolent cocktail! He's prouder than all the fierce Artabans of whom Gascony
has ever been and will ever be the prolific Alma Mater! Above his Toby ruff
he carries a nose!--ah, good my lords, what a nose is his! When one sees it
one is fain to cry aloud, 'Nay! 'tis too much! He plays a joke on us!' Then
one laughs, says 'He will anon take it off.' But no!--Monsieur de Bergerac
always keeps it on.

LE BRET (throwing back his head):
He keeps it on--and cleaves in two any man who dares remark on it!

RAGUENEAU (proudly):
His sword--'tis one half of the Fates' shears!

FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders):
He will not come!

RAGUENEAU:
I say he will! and I wager a fowl--a la Ragueneau.

THE MARQUIS (laughing):
Good!

(Murmurs of admiration in hall. Roxane has just appeared in her box. She
seats herself in front, the duenna at the back. Christian, who is paying the
buffet-girl, does not see her entrance.)

SECOND MARQUIS (with little cries of joy):
Ah, gentlemen! she is fearfully--terribly--ravishing!

FIRST MARQUIS:
When one looks at her one thinks of a peach smiling at a strawberry!

SECOND MARQUIS:
And what freshness! A man approaching her too near might chance to get a
bad chill at the heart!

CHRISTIAN (raising his head, sees Roxane, and catches Ligniere by the arm):
'Tis she!

LIGNIERE:
Ah! is it she?

CHRISTIAN:
Ay, tell me quick--I am afraid.

LIGNIERE (tasting his rivesalte in sips):
Magdaleine Robin--Roxane, so called! A subtle wit--a precieuse.

CHRISTIAN:
Woe is me!

LIGNIERE:
Free. An orphan. The cousin of Cyrano, of whom we were now speaking.

(At this moment an elegant nobleman, with blue ribbon across his breast,
enters the box, and talks with