LITMIR.BIZ

      CUIGY:

       Madame de Bois-Dauphin.

      FIRST MARQUIS:

       Adored by us all!

      BRISSAILLE:

       Madame de Chavigny …

      SECOND MARQUIS:

       Who sports with our poor hearts! …

      LIGNIERE:

       Ha! so Monsieur de Corneille has come back from Rouen!

      THE YOUNG MAN (to his father):

       Is the Academy here?

      THE BURGHER:

       Oh, ay, I see several of them. There is Boudu, Boissat,

       and Cureau de la Chambre, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys,

       Bourdon, Arbaud … all names that will live! 'Tis fine!

      FIRST MARQUIS:

       Attention! Here come our precieuses; Barthenoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace,

       Felixerie …

      SECOND MARQUIS:

       Ah! How exquisite their fancy names are! Do you know them all, Marquis?

      FIRST MARQUIS:

       Ay, Marquis, I do, every one!

      LIGNIERE (drawing Christian aside):

       Friend, I but came here to give you pleasure. The lady comes not. I will

       betake me again to my pet vice.

      CHRISTIAN (persuasively):

       No, no! You, who are ballad-maker to Court and City alike, can tell me

       better than any who the lady is for whom I die of love. Stay yet awhile.

      THE FIRST VIOLIN (striking his bow on the desk):

       Gentlemen violinists!

      (He raises his bow.)

      THE BUFFET-GIRL:

       Macaroons, lemon-drink …

      (The violins begin to play.)

      CHRISTIAN:

       Ah! I fear me she is coquettish, and over nice and fastidious!

       I, who am so poor of wit, how dare I speak to her--how address her?

       This language that they speak to-day--ay, and write--confounds me;

       I am but an honest soldier, and timid withal. She has ever her place,

       there, on the right--the empty box, see you!

      LIGNIERE (making as if to go):

       I must go.

      CHRISTIAN (detaining him):

       Nay, stay.

      LIGNIERE:

       I cannot. D'Assoucy waits me at the tavern, and here one dies of thirst.

      THE BUFFET-GIRL (passing before him with a tray):

       Orange drink?

      LIGNIERE:

       Ugh!

      THE BUFFET-GIRL:

       Milk?

      LIGNIERE:

       Pah!

      THE BUFFET-GIRL:

       Rivesalte?

      LIGNIERE:

       Stay.

       (To Christian):

       I will remain awhile.--Let me taste this rivesalte.

      (He sits by the buffet; the girl pours some out for him.)

      CRIES (from all the audience, at the entrance of a plump little man, joyously excited):

       Ah! Ragueneau!

      LIGNIERE (to Christian):

       'Tis the famous tavern-keeper Ragueneau.

      RAGUENEAU (dressed in the Sunday clothes of a pastry-cook, going up quickly to Ligniere):

       Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?

      LIGNIERE (introducing him to Christian):

       The pastry-cook of the actors and the poets!

      RAGUENEAU (overcome):

       You do me too great honor …

      LIGNIERE:

       Nay, hold your peace, Maecenas that you are!

      RAGUENEAU:

       True, these gentlemen employ me …

      LIGNIERE:

       On credit!

       He is himself a poet of a pretty talent …

      RAGUENEAU:

       So they tell me.

      LIGNIERE:

       --Mad after poetry!

      RAGUENEAU:

       'Tis true that, for a little ode …

      LIGNIERE:

       You give a tart …

      RAGUENEAU:

       Oh!--a tartlet!

      LIGNIERE:

       Brave fellow! He would fain fain excuse himself!

       --And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange …

      RAGUENEAU:

       Some little rolls!

      LIGNIERE (severely):

       They were milk-rolls! And as for the theater, which you love?

      RAGUENEAU:

       Oh! to distraction!

      LIGNIERE:

       How pay you your tickets, ha?--with cakes.

       Your place, to-night, come tell me in my ear, what did it cost you?

      RAGUENEAU:

       Four custards, and fifteen cream-puffs.

       (He looks around on all sides):

       Monsieur de Cyrano is not here? 'Tis strange.

      LIGNIERE:

       Why so?

      RAGUENEAU:

       Montfleury plays!

      LIGNIERE:

       Ay, 'tis true that that old wine-barrel is to take Phedon's part to-night;

       but what matter is that to Cyrano?

      RAGUENEAU:

       How? Know you not? He has got a hot hate for Montfleury, and so!--has

       forbid him strictly to show his face

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