le! Come presently
To the refectory, I'll make you drink
A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come?

CYRANO:
Ay, ay!

SISTER MARTHA:
There, see! You are more reasonable to-day!

ROXANE (who hears them whispering):
The Sister would convert you?

SISTER MARTHA:
Nay, not I!

CYRANO:
Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more,
You, once so glib with holy words! I am
Astonished!. . .
(With burlesque fury):
Stay, I will surprise you too!
Hark! I permit you. . .
(He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found
it):
. . .It is something new!--
To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time!

ROXANE:
Oh! oh!

CYRANO (laughing):
Good Sister Martha is struck dumb!

SISTER MARTHA (gently):
I did not wait your leave to pray for you.

(She goes out.)

CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work):
That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes
Will ever see it finished!

ROXANE:
I was sure
To hear that well-known jest!

(A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.)

CYRANO:
The autumn leaves!

ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley):
Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair.
--See how they fall!

CYRANO:
Ay, see how brave they fall,
In their last journey downward from the bough,
To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still,
Hiding the horror of the last decay,
With all the wayward grace of careless flight!

ROXANE:
What, melancholy--you?

CYRANO (collecting himself):
Nay, nay, Roxane!

ROXANE:
Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . .
And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell,
My Court Gazette?

CYRANO:
Listen.

ROXANE:
Ah!

CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter):
Saturday
The nineteenth: having eaten to excess
Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish;
The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt,
And the august pulse beats at normal pace.
At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score
Of best white waxen tapers were consumed.
Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians.
Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog
Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . .

ROXANE:
I bid
You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac!

CYRANO:
Monday--not much--Claire changed protector.

ROXANE:
Oh!

CYRANO (whose face changes more and more):
Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau.
Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesq