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 on the stage for one whole month.

LIGNIERE (drinking his fourth glass): Well?

RAGUENEAU: Montfleury will play!

CUIGY: He can not hinder that.

RAGUENEAU: Oh! oh! that I have come to see!

FIRST MARQUIS: Who is this Cyrano?

CUIGY: A fellow well skilled in all tricks of fence.

SECOND MARQUIS: Is he of noble birth?

CUIGY: Ay, noble enough. He is a cadet in the Guards. (Pointing to a gentleman who is going up and down the hall as if searching for some one): But 'tis his friend Le Bret, yonder, who can best tell you. (He calls him): Le Bret! (Le Bret comes towards them): Seek you for De 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!