De Guiche
[trying to draw away the dismayed Viscount].
Come away, Viscount!
The Viscount
[choking with rage].
Come away, Viscount! Hear his arrogance!
A country lout who… who… has got no gloves!
Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace!
Cyrano.
True; all my elegances are within.
I do not prank myself out, puppy-like;
My toilet is more thorough, if less gay;
I would not sally forth,—a half-washed-out
Affront upon my cheek,—a conscience
Yellow-eyed, bilious, from its sodden sleep,
A ruffled honour,… scruples grimed and dull!
I show no bravery of shining gems.
Truth, Independence, are my fluttering plumes.
'Tis not my form I lace to make me slim,
But brace my soul with efforts as with stays,
Covered with exploits, not with ribbon-knots,
My spirit bristling high like your moustaches,
I, traversing the crowds and chattering groups
Make Truth ring bravely out like clash of spurs!
The Viscount.
But, Sir…
Cyrano.
But, Sir… I wear no gloves? and what of that?
I had one,… remnant of an old worn pair,
And, knowing not what else to do with it,
I threw it in the face of… some young fool.
