Cyrano
[rising].
To Montfleury—come, tell me! This Silenus,
Big-bellied, coarse, still deems himself a peril—
A danger to the love of lovely ladies,
And, while he sputters out his actor's part,
Makes sheep's eyes at their boxes—goggling frog!
I hate him since the evening he presumed
To raise his eyes to here… Meseemed I saw
A slug crawl slavering o'er a flower's petals!
Le Bret
[stupefied].
How now? What? Can it be…?
Cyrano
[laughing bitterly].
How now? What? Can it be…? That I should love?…
[Changing his tone,—gravely.]
I love.
Le Bret.
I love. And may I know?… You never said…
Cyrano.
Come now, bethink you!… The fond hope to be
Belovèd, e'en by some poor graceless lady,
Is, by this nose of mine for aye bereft me;
—This lengthy nose which, go where'er I will,
Pokes yet a quarter-mile ahead of me;
But I may love,—and whom? 'Tis Fate's decree
I love the fairest—how were 't otherwise?
Le Bret.
The fairest?…
