Thrice happy he who hides from pomp and power
in sylvan shade or solitary bower
where balmy zephyrs fan his burning cheeks...
- Clown! The king of clowns! Leave the stage at once!
Who is it?
It's Cyrano. I was afraid he'd do this.
Thrice happy he who hides from pomp and power...
- Wretch! Did I not forbid you to appear this month?
- Let's be quiet. - Quiet!
Go on Montfleury.
Thrice happy he who...
He who, indeed.
Donkeys say rather Hee-Haw!
Begone! Or must I come and help you off the stage myself?
What! Still there?
Where balmy zephyrs fan his burning cheeks...
Fat swine, if you dare breathe on balmy zephyr more
I'll fan your cheeks for you!
Monsieur, won't you all protect me?
- Proceed, proceed. - Go on.
Sir, I will not allow you to insult me in this manner.
Really? What manner would you prefer?
Quiet, down there!
- We'll tolerate no more of this.
Go on with the play, Montfleury.
Unless these gentlemen retain your seats
my sword may bite their ribbons.
Who is this braggart?
My cousin, sir.
Well, Montfleury, still no exit?
- Very well then, I enter
with knife, to carve this fat, stuffed goose.
I pray, do not crowd my scabbard here.
She may put her tongue out at you.
Silence.
I say be silent!
And I offer one universal challenge to you all:
Will all who wish to die, please raise their hands.
Approach, young heroes. I will take your names.
To the first man who falls I'll build a monument.
Who will head the list?
You, sir?
No.
You?
No, no.
Anyone?
Anyone at all?
Not one...name?
Not one finger?
Very well then, I go on.
Attend to me, Full Moon.
I clap my hands three times, thus.
At the third, you will... eclipse yourself.
Ready!
One.
How dare you.
I demand!
I insist.
- I call upon all the nobles... - Two!
This is an outrage.
You hear, an outrage.
Nothing on earth will move me from this stage.
Three!
Fair ladies and noble gentlemen... - Boo!
But, Monsieur de Bergerac,
why have you done this to our Montfleury, an admirable actor?
I have two reasons, either one conclusive.
First, he is an abominable actor,
who mouths his verse and moans his tragedy.
Second,...
Well, that's my secret.
But... But you've closed the play!
It is not a very good play.
Huh! And of their money?
Possibly you would like that returned to these good people.
Yes?
Yes.
Here,...catch!
Well, Monsieur, you are hereby authorized to close our play every night.
On these terms.
Ladies and gentlemen, your money will be returned.
Kindly pass out, quietly.
Goodnight, goodnight.
Your cousin is an extraordinary man, Madame.
Oh, I agree.
Soldier, poet, philosopher, musician, playwright.
All those?
Yes, and the best swordsman in Paris.
Really?
Now, I should have thought the Vicomte here had that honor.
Tell me, Madame, that comic mask, that nose,
presently he will take it off?
No, Monsieur, he keeps it.
And heaven help the man who smiles.
Good night.
Oh, Monsieur!
Monsieur!
Uh, when do you leave Paris?
Sir?
Why, after what you've just done to Montfleury,
did you not know that the Compte de Guiche was his patron?
Who's yours?
No one.
No one?
No patron?
I said not.
But the Compte de Guiche has a long arm.
Mine is longer by three feet of steel.
Yes, but.
but, what a scare...
You may go now.
- but... - You may go.
Well, tell me, why are you staring at my nose?
Oh, I was not staring.
Does it astonish you?
Why n...Why no, I've been careful not to look.
Oh, and why not, if you please?
It disgusts you, then?
But, no, I just...
Does its color appear to you unwholesome?
By no means.
Then, possibly you find it just a trifle large?
No, small, very small, tiny!
Infinitesimal!
What? You accuse me of absurdity?
Small, my nose? Why magnificent, my nose!
You pug, you knob, you button head,
know that I glory in this nose of mine!
For a great nose indicates a great man,
congenial, courteous, intellectual, virile, courageous.
Whilst that face of yours,
that blank, inglorious concavity which my right hand finds on top of you,
is as devoid of pride, of poetry, of soul, of picturesqueness,
of contour, of character, of nose, in short,
As that which is at the bottom of that limp, spine of yours my left foot.- Oh, help!
Presently, this fellow will grow tiresome.
Oh, he blows his horn.
- Well, will no one put him in his place?
If you would all me. Observe.
Monsieur, your nose, your nose is rather large.
Rather?
Oh, well.
Is that all?
Well, of course, you...
Ah, no young sir, you're too simple.
Why, you might have said a great many things.
Why waste your opportunity?
For example, thus...
Aggressive-
I, sir, if that great nose were mine, I would have it amputated on the spot.
Practical-
How do you drink with such a nose. You must have had a cup made especially.
Descriptive-
'Tis a rock, a crag, a cape.
A cape, say rather, a peninsula.
Inquisitive-
Uh, what is that receptacle, a razor case or a portfolio?
Kindly-
Ah, do you love the little birds so much that when they come and sing to you,
you give them this to perch on?
Cautious-
Take care. A weight like that might make you top-heavy.
Eloquent-
When it blows the typhoon howls and the clouds darken.
Dramatic-
When it bleeds...the Red Sea.
Simple-
Eh, when do they unveil the monument?
Military-
Beware, a secret weapon!
Enterprising-
What a sigh for some perfumer!
Respectful-
Uh sir, I recognize in you a man of parts,
a man of...prominence.
Or, Literary-
Was this the nose that launched a thousand ships?
These, my dear sir, are things you might have said had you
some tinge of letters or of wit to color your discourse.
Bit wit not so. You never had an atom.
And of letters, you need but three to write you down, a..s..s.
Ass.
You, sir!
Dolt! Bumpkin! Fool!
How do you do, and I, Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac.
Vicomte, come.
Such arrogance. This scarecrow who...
Look at him!
No ribbons. No lace. Not even gloves!
True. I carry my adornments only on my soul.
Decked with deeds instead of ribbons.
Mantled in my good name,
and crowned with a white plume of freedom.
But..
But, I have no gloves.
A pity, too.
I had one, the last one of an old pair, and lost that.
Very careless of me.
Some gentleman offered me an impertinence.
I left it in his face.
So be it!
You shall die exquisitely
Oh, a poet.
Oh, yes, a poet if you will.
So, uh, while we fight, I'll improvise a ballad for you,
and as I end the refrain, ...skhrch!...thrust home.
Will you?
I will.
Ballad au Duel at the Theatre de Burgoyne
between de Bergerac, and uh...a barbarian.
What do you mean by that?
Oh, that?
The title.
Stop. Let me choose my rhyme.
So. Here we go.
Lightly I toss my hat away.
Languidly o'er my arm let fall the cloak that covers my bright array.
Then, out swords, and to work withal.
A Lancelot in his lady's hall,
A Spartacus at the Hippodrome,
I dally a while with you..
you jackall.
Just as I end the refrain,
thrust home!
Where shall I skewer my peacock again?
Nay, better for you to have shunned this brawl.
Here in the heart or your ribbons, gay,
in the belly 'neath you silken shawl?
Now, come my points floats, light as the foam
ready to drive you back to the wall,
and then as I end the refrain,
thrust home.
Oh, for a rhyme.
Why, your fight is fading.
You break.
You cower.
You cringe.
You crawl.
How can I tell you're allowed to say
something to turn on my head
forestall...
Life with a tunny
death with a scall.
Something to turn on my fancy roam,
free for a time till the rhyme's recall,
then as I end the refrain,
thrust home!
Refrain.
Prince, pray God that is Lord of all,
pardon you soul,
for your time has come.
Pass! I fling you aslant, asprawl.
Then as I end the refrain,
thrust home!
Ladies and gentlemen, please, please,
not until the performance is over.
Close the house.
A strike,
but leave the lights.
We rehearse the new farce tonight.
Wait.
You have only to watch a fight,
or have you ruined if you listen to them.
Think of the enemies you've made,
Montfleury, the Vicomte, if he lives,
all those foppish marquis, the Comte de Guiche.
That politician.
He's the Cardinal's nephew. There's power there!
And power here.
Young fool!
Take an example from me.
20 years a captain, while others who know only
how to deploy their forces at court
now dangle a marshal's baton.
Well, uh, someday I will avenge you, too.
Impossible. Come on, let's go to dinner.
Dinner? No, not I.
Why not?
Because I have no money.
But, the purse of gold.
Farewell paternal pension.
And you have until the first of next month?
Nothing.
What a fool.
Yes, but, what a moment.
Pardon, Monsieur.
A man ought never to go hungry.
I have everything here.
Please.
My dear child, I cannot bend this Gascon pride of mine to accept such a kindness.
But, I...
Yet, for fear that I may give you pain if I refuse,
I will take something.
A grape.
One only.
And a glass of water.
No, clear.
And, uh,...half a macaroon.
Nothing more?
Why, yes.
Your hand to kiss.
Thank you, sir.
Good night.
Idiot.
Dinner.
Drink.
Desert.
Mon Dieux, I was hungry, abominably.
Tell me.
Anything.
Why to you hate this Montfleury?
A very bad actor.
Ah, come now, the real reason, the truth.
That fat goat who cannot hold his belly in his arms,
still dreams of being sweetly dangerous among the women.
Sighs and languishes, making sheep's eyes out of his great frog's face.
I hate him ever since one day he dared smile upon...
Oh, my friend, I seemed to see over some flower a great snail crawling.
Eh, what?
Is it possible?
For me to love?
I love.
Whom? May I know?
Whom I love?
Think a moment.
Think of me.
Me, whom the plainest woman would despise.
Me, with this nose of mine that marches on before me by a quarter of an hour.
Whom shall I love.
Why, of course, it must be the woman in the world most beautiful.
Most beautiful?
In these eyes of mine... beyond compare.
Wait.
Your cousin, Roxane.
Yes.
Roxane.
Well?
Why not? If you love her, tell her so.
My old friend.
Look at me and tell me how much hope remains for me
with this protuberance.
Ahhh, I have no more illusions.
Now and then I may grow tender walking alone in the blue of evening
through some garden fresh with flowers after the benediction of the rain.
My poor big devil of a nose inhales April.
And I follow with my eyes where some boy with a girl upon his arm,
passes a patch of silver... and I feel somehow...
I wish I had a woman, too,
walking with me under the moon, and holding my arm and smiling.
Then I dream.
I forget.
And then I see the shadow of my profile on the wall.
My friend.
I have my bitter days, knowing myself so ugly, so alone.
Ah, but your wit, your courage,
why that poor child who just now offered you your dinner,
your saw it, her eyes did not avoid you.
That is true.
Well, then, Roxane herself, watching your duel, pale.
Pale?
Yes, her lips parted. Her hand at her breast, thus.
I saw it.
Speak to her. Speak, man.
She might laugh at me.
It is the one thing in this world I fear.
Pardon, Monsieur, a lady outside asking for you.
Monsieur.
A Duenna.
I have a message for you from a...a certain lady.
She desires to know when and where she may see you privately.
She has certain things to tell you.
Certain...
Things!
She wishes to see me?
We go tomorrow at dawn to hear mass at St. Rupe
And afterwards, where would you suggest?
Well, then, I...
- Where? - Well?
Ah...I am thinking.
And you think?
Where?
The shop at Ragueneau's.
Yes, yes, Ragueneau, the pastry cook.
Who dwells?
Rue Saint Honore.
Eh...Rue Saint Honore.
We are agreed. At 7 o'clock. Until then. Adieu.
I'll be there.
Me! To see me!
Ah, not quite so gloomy.
After all, she knows that I exist.
Imagine, she has asked to see me!
So, now you're going to be happy?
Happy. I'm going to be a storm. A flame!
I need to fight whole armies all alone!
I have ten hearts!
I have a hundred arms!.
I feel too strong to war with mortals!
BRING ME GIANTS!
Quiet, please, shhh. We are rehearsing back here.
So sorry. Ha, ha, ha.
Cyrano.
Ragueneau.
Oh, thank goodness you're still here.
Well, what's the matter.
I'm afraid to go home.
Why?
You know those comic verses I wrote?
About the congregation.
Cyrano, he's hired ruffians. Bullies.
A hundred, waiting for me on the way home.
They're gonna beat me. Cane me!
Please, would you permit me to spend the night with you?
A hundred men, is that all?
Ragueneau, you're going home tonight.
But they're armed. They're cutthroats!
Take this lantern. Forward march.
I say that I'll be the man to see you to your shop.
Not you, I want no help from you.
For even for a hundred, you're mad.
Those are the odds I want.
Why for this pastry cook?
First, because this pastry cook is a friend of mine.
Second, because this pastry cook is also a poet.
And, most important,
if anything should happen to this pastry cook,
tomorrow morning at seven his shop will be closed.
Goodnight.
Cyrano. Help!
Look out behind you!
I have been robbed.
There are no hundred here.
It's, it's, it's...
Be quick. Inside.
Bolt the door!
Ah!
Yah!
Ah!
Awk.
Cyrano!
Hold!
Ah.
How do you feel?
Oh, pleasantly exhilarated.
- Come, I know a little tavern not far... - Where's Ragueneau?
Ragueneau? Ragueneau!
Little boy, come out. All's well!
- Is it over? - All over.
Really?
So soon?
Ha, ha, ha.
Oh, if only I'd had my sword. How many did we kill?
Oh, about eight.
Eight.
Eight!
Ohhhh.
This...gentleman begins to annoy me.
No. The sauce and meat must rhyme. Add a pinch of marigold and thyme.
Your house, of course needs a stronger roof. Eh? There's proof.
Cyrano.
Come in and eat.
- What time is it? - Not quite seven.
Oh, now, please, Cyrano. A man without breakfast is like...
No. Could she have changed her mind?
Aw, she wouldn't dare.
We were magnificent last night.
And at the theater, too.
'Then, as I end the refrain'...
When she arrives. Where can we converse undisturbed?
Wherever you like. My shop is yours.
The little dining room is quite romantic.
'Thrust home!' Yea gods, what a line.
- 'Then as I end the re...' - Vanish.
- Uh, huh, she's come? - Shhhh.
I swear.
Welcome.
- A pardon, one word. - Oh, yes?
Have you a good digestion?
Oh, wonderful.
Eh, here are some éclairs. Uh, creampuffs.
Some, uh, jellyrolls. And do you like nature?
I adore it.
Go out and eat these in the sunshine. Do not return.
But why?
Until you have finished them.
What do I do then?
Blessed above all others be the hour when you remember to remember me,
and came to tell me...what?
To tell you that...
Before I dare tell you I...
Are you, I wonder, still the same big brother almost
that you used to be when we were children,
playing by the pond in the old garden down there?
At Bergerac. Those lovely summers.
You use to make swords out of bulrushes.
And you, dandelions also golden hair.
In those days I could tell you everything.
And you did everything I wished.
Little Roxane, a sweet tyrone with short skirts and long hair.
Was I pretty?
Not too plain.
Sometimes when you had fallen or hurt your hand,
you used to come running to me, and I would be your mother and say,
oh, with a very grownup voice, 'Now, what have you been doing to yourself?'
'Let me see.'
- Oh! - No one that.
Wait, let me see.
Still. At your age?
Now, how did you do that?
Playing with the big boys at the Place de Neanne.
Come here.
Such a wise little mother.
And tell me, while I wash this blood away, how many you played with?
- Oh, about a hundred. - A hundred?
- More or less. - It can't be.
No.
Tell me what you were going to tell me...
if you dared.
I think I do dare, now.
It seems so like those happy days long ago.
Yes, I dare.
Listen...I love someone.
Yes?
Someone who does not know.
Yes?
Someone who loves me, too, but is afraid of me and keeps away
and never says one word.
Yes.
Give my that hand.
Why, how hot it is.
Yes, he loves me. I am sure of it.
Yes.
And he is a soldier, too, in your own regiment,
your own company.
Yes.
Such a man.
He is proud, noble, young, brave,
beautiful!
Beautiful.
What's the matter?
Oh, nothing.
It's this, my hand.
I love him. That is all.
And I have never seen him anywhere except in the theater.
You have never spoken?
Only with our hearts.
Well, then, how do you know?
Well, people talk about people, and I hear things, and...
and I know.
You say he is in the guards?
His name?
Baron Christian de Neuvillette.
You know him?
He is not in the guards.
Yes, since last week.
He is only lately come to Paris...
from Normandy.
So soon. So soon we lose our hearts.
What...
Monsieur de Bergerac
I have eaten all the cakes.
Good. Now, go out and enjoy nature.
But my dear child, you love only words, wit, poetry.
Why, for all you know, the man may be a savage or a fool.
Not with such eyes. I read his soul in them.
Yes, all our souls are written in our eyes.
And you have brought me here to tell me this?
I do not yet quite understand, madam, the reason for your confidence.
They say, that in your company, it frightens me, you are all Gascon.
We pick a quarrel with any outsider who intrudes himself.
Is that what you have heard?
- I'm so afraid for him. - Not without reason.
And I thought you... it's you whom they all respect and fear.
You want me to defend your little Baron?
Will you?
Just for me.
Because I have always been your friend.
And this is what you want of me?
Will you be his friend?
I will be his friend.
And never let him fight a duel.
No, never.
Promise?
I promise.
Oh, thank you. Thank you. I knew I could rely on you.
Well, now I must go.
Oh, you never told me about last night.
Why, you must have been a hero.
Have write and tell me all about it, and...about himself.
Oh, you are a darling. We are great friends, are we not?
He must write to me.
A hundred men against one. You shall tell me the whole story
someday when we have time.
A hundred men. What courage!
I have done better.
Well?
Let us leave this place.
But the whole company is on its way here.
Oh, no.
On my heels. Naturally I told them all about last night.
They're wild.
Here they are.
- Yes, but, why did you? - Perhaps I can stop them.
Never mind.
Cyrano!
Eight dead men in the street. Scandalous.
You know my edict against dueling, nephew.
I expect to have it enforced.
Furthermore, I wish to know who was responsible for last night's
outrage at the Place de Neanne.
I understand, Your Eminence.
Very well. And now I have news
that should be more to you liking.
I fear, in confidence, our uneasy armistice with Spain is doomed.
My colonelcy?
You commission has been prepared.
Oh, thank you, uncle, thank you.
Oh, one thing more.
Last night at the theater, the duel in rhyme,
that guardsman with a nose.
- Bergerac, that impossible Gascon. - Yes, impossible.
- His treatment of Montfleury. - Abominable.
- The arrogance with which he closed the play. - Incredible.
- It will be a miracle if the Vicomte survives. - A sorrow.
What will you do with him, Your Eminence?
I? Nothing.
I thought I might leave that to you.
To me?
Yes. Place him somewhere in your service,
with a comfortable allowance.
He looked a little threadbare.
I...You...But, Your Eminence. You detest dueling.
Of course I do.
Why didn't you prevent it?
I should much prefer that monsieur de Beregrac
live by the pen, rather than die by the sword.
Do you not agree, Antoine?
By all means, Your Eminence. By all means.
'And then, as I end the refrain... thrust home.'
Monsieur de Bergerac.
Your Excellency.
I have come to express my...
admiration for both your exploits last night.
Indeed. Thank you.
My dear fellow, we may have had our differences,
but I am disposed to forget them.
That is very generous of you, sir.
No, truly.
You are, it seems, a man of many skills.
A rare combination soldier and poet.
- Would you care to join my following? - No, sir.
I do not follow.
I am told you have written a play.
As you know, my uncle, the Cardinal, is also a dramatist.
I might help you there.
Cyrano, now at last you can have it performed.
Why not?
I could take it to him.
Really?
Of course. Let him rewrite a few lines
here and there, and he'll find a theater for you.
Rewrite...my lines?
Impossible.
Uh, when he likes a thing, he pays well.
Yes, but not so well as I.
When I have made a line that sings itself
I pay myself a hundred times.
You are proud, my friend.
You have observed that?
- Cyrano. See what we found in the street.
Plumes dropped in their flight by those fine birds
who showed their tail feathers!
The man who hired those scoundrels,
he must be an angry man today.
Who was it? Do you know?
It was I.
I hired them to do the sort of work we do not soil our hands with.
Punishing an insolent poet.
They ought to be mounted before they spoil.
What shall we do with them?
Sir, will you not return these to your friends?
Have you read Don Quixote?
I have and found myself the hero.
Be so good as to read once more the capture of the windmills.
Chapter 13.
Windmills, remember, if you fight with them...
may swing round their huge arms and cast you down into the mire.
Or up among the stars.
Gentlemen.
You've done it, now.
You've made your fortune.
He was willing to forget.
There you go again, growling.
Yesss, this latest pose of yours,
ruining every opportunity that comes you way,
becomes exaggerated.
Very well, then, I exaggerate.
There are certain things in this world
a man does well to carry to extremes.
Your precious independence. Your white plume.
How do you expect to succeed in life?
What would you have me do?
Seek for the patronage of some great man
and like a creeping vine on a tall tree crawl upward
where I cannot stand alone?
No, thank you.
Be a buffoon in the vile hope of teasing out a smile on some cold face.
No, thank you.
Eat a toad for breakfast every morning.
Make my knees calloused. Cultivate a supple spine.
Wear out my belly groveling in the dust.
No, thank you.
With my left hand scratch the back of any swine that roots up gold for me
while my right, too proud to know his partner's business, takes in the fee.
No, thank you.
Shall I use the fire God gave me to burn incense all day long?
No, thank you.
Struggle to insinuate my name into the columns of the Gazette?
Calculate, scheme, be afraid? Love more to make a visit than a poem?
Seek introductions, favors, influences?
No, thank you.
No, I thank you, and again I thank you.
But, to sing, to laugh, to dream, to walk in my own way,
free with and eye to see things as they are.
A voice that means manhood.
To cut my have the right shoes.
And a word, a yes, a no, to fight, or write,
but never to make a line I have not heard
in my own heart.
To travel any road under the sun,
under the stars,
nor care if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne.
Yet, with all modesty to say,
my soul be satisfied with flowers,
with weeds,
with thorns, even,
but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.
In a word, I'm too proud to be a parasite.
And if mine intellect the germ that grows towering to heaven
like the mountain pine
I stand not high, it may be,
but alone.
Alone, yes, but why go about making enemies?
Watching other people making friends...everywhere,
as a dog makes friends.
I mark the manner of these canine courtesies,
and think, here comes, thank heaven, another enemy.
Yes, tell this to all the world, and then to me say very softly
that she loves you not.
Let me be alone for a moment.
Cyrano, wait.
Give us your story of the fight.
Presently.
No, the story, now!
Oh, let him alone. There's time enough.
I want it now!
As an example for that young tadpole sneaking out the doorway.
You, there.
Are you addressing me?
Yes, you flat-footed Norman farmer.
You wish something of me?
Listen, Monsieur de...de...de whatever your name is.
de Neuvillette!
Baron Christan de Neuvillette.
Very well, de Neuvillette.
As you are a newcomer here, you should know there is a
certain subject or object, if you prefer, that is never mentioned among us.
And that is...?
Look at me!
You understand?
You mean...?
Thus we never speak that word.
To even breathe it is to have to do with him.
He has exterminated several whose mere tone of voice suggested...
Would you die before your time? Just mention anything convex.
Or cartilaginous.
One word. One syllable. One gesture. Nay, one sneeze.
And your handkerchief becomes your winding sheet.
Captain.
Sir?
What is the proper thing to do when Gascons grow too boastful?
Prove to them that one may be a Norman and still have courage.
I thank you.
Come on, Cyrano, your story.
Now, let me see. Where shall we begin?
I followed with our host to meet those scoundrels
not knowing where they might attack.
No lamps in those narrow back streets.
No moon in the sky.
Dark. Everything dark.
It was so dark, Mon Dieux, you could not see beyond...
Your nose!
Who...is that...man...there?
A new recruit.
Arrived last week.
A recruit, eh?
Ha, ha-.
His name is Christian de Neuvillette.
I see.
Very well.
As I was saying.
It grew dark.
You could not see your hand before your eyes.
I marched on thinking our all for the sake of one amateur poet
- Who wrote a verse whenever he took a.. - A nose full.
...whenever he took a notion.,
and might antagonize some dangerous man.
One powerful enough to make me pay...
Through the nose!
...pay the piper!
After all, I thought, why am I putting in my..
Nose!
...putting in my oar in a quarrel that was none of mine,
however now that I am here, I may as well go through with it.
Come Gascon, do your duty.
Suddenly a sword flashed in the dark!
I caught it fair...
On the nose!
...on my blade!
Before I knew it, there I was...
Rubbing noses!
...crossing swords with harvard's joy once.
I had the bottom then...
A nosegay!
...a monstrous crab tree.
He went down for as a wave.
I charged...
Who was in the air hard.
...at the two of them.
Another lunged, and I parried...
Through your nose!
Right out of here! All of you go!
Leave me with him.
To my arms, sir. You have courage.
- That pleases me. - Why?
Come, do you not know I am her brother?
Whose?
Hers. Roxane.
Brother?
You?
Well, a distant cousin. Much the same.
- Then she has told you? - Everything.
- She loves me? - Perhaps.
My dear sir, more than I can say. I am honored.
- Rather sudden. - Oh, please, forgive me.
If you knew how much I have admired you.
- Yes, yes, and all those noses. - Please. I apologize.
Roxane expects a letter.
- From me? - Yes, why not?
Oh,, No.
- Once I write, that ruins everything. - Why?
Because, any schoolboy can write to her more gracefully than I.
A fool!
- You did not attack me like a fool. - Anyone can pick a quarrel.
No, I'm never at loss for words among men,
but with any women... paralyzed...speechless, dumb.
I'm one of those stammering idiots
who can not court a woman.
Really?
As for myself, it seems to me that
given the opportunity, and if I put my mind to it,
I could do that.. rather well.
Oh, is I had words to say what I have here!
If I were handsome like you.
Together, we could make one mighty hero of romance.
If only I had your wit.
Borrow it, then.
What?
Tell me,
would you dare repeat to her the words I gave you day by day?
Send to her the letters that I write?
I mean, that Roxane should have no disillusionment.
Come, shall we win her both together?
For you?
- Why, Cyrano... - Christian, why not?
I...I'm afraid.
Afraid that when you have her all alone, you will lose her.
Have not fear, it is your self she loves.
Give her yourself.
Put into words, my words...upon your lips.
Will you?
Does it mean so much to you?
It means...
It means a comedy, a situation for a poet.
Come, shall we collaborate?
I'll be your cloak of darkness, your enchanted sword,
your ring to charm the fairy princess.
Think! Is the prize not worth the danger?
My friend!
My friend.
Take my heart. I shall have it all the more.
Plucking the flowers, we will keep the plant in bloom.
Thus do I love thee, my darling.
Idiot.
There are a dozen ways to read that line.
Can't you give it some meaning? Any meaning!
THUS do I love thee!
Thus do "I" love thee.
Thus do I LOVE thee.
Thus do I love THEE, THEE, THEE.
Who knows your smile has known a perfect thing.
You are a white rose, wherein love lies in ambush
for its natural prey.
In the garden of my heart, you are the most...
eh, the most...
fragrant blossom.
As the tender sapling thirsts for rain,
as the eagle seeks the sky,
as the wave hurtles toward the shore,
my heart yearns for you.
Good, good.
You know, you're beginning to have a feel for words.
- Words. I'm sick of words. - Those are your weapons.
How else do you conquer?
Yes, but when, when?
They're fighting in the north, now. You know that.
The Regiment will be called up any day,
and I've never even kissed her.
Patience, my boy, patience.
I've been patient.
Why, she sees the Compte de Guiche as often as she does me.
Do you suppose she's playing with me?
Making a fool of me?
Impossible.
How can you say? How do you know?
Cyrano, you have her confidence. You could find out.
Nonsense, I say.
Oh, very well.
I'll scout the terrain.
Listen, Cyrano, intelligently, discreetly.
Yes.
With finesse.
And, uh, what do you think of Christian after all these weeks?
He is beautiful, but he's brilliant.
- And I love him. - Good!
Uh, do you find him intellectual?
- More so than you, even. - Huh?
- Oh, I didn't mean. - No, no, no, I am glad.
No man ever so beautifully said those things.
Those pretty nothings to everything.
Sometimes, he,. he, he falls into a reverie.
His inspiration..fails.
But, then all at once, he will say something absolutely...
Ah!
Really?
How like a man!
You think because a man has a handsome face he must be a fool.
Not necessarily.
Uh, he talks well about, uh, matters of the heart?
He does not talk. He rhapsodizes. He dreams.
Only the other night he said to me, extemporaneously, mind you.
Oh, of course.
'Take my heart. I shall have it all the more.
'Plucking the flowers we will keep the plants in bloom.'
Well?
Umm, passable.
He writes well?
Wonderfully, listen:
'Knowing you have in store more heart to give
- 'than I to find heart room...' - The first he has too much heart,
then too little. Just how much heart does he need?
You are teasing.
You are jealous!
Jealous?
Yes.
Poets are all alike.
Would you dare criticize these lines?
'Only believe that unto you my whole heart gives one cry.
'And writing, writes down more than you receive.
'Sending you kisses through my fingertips.
'Lady, oh, read my letter with your lips.'
Yes, those last lines, but he overwrites.
Listen to this.
Do you know them all by heart?
Every one.
Well, I may call that flattering.
He is a master.
- Oh, come.. - Yes, a master.
Huh, a master,... if you will.
And, uh, when do you bestow the laurel wreath?
How many prodigies of poetry must this new Hercules perform?
I do not know.
My friend, you men own the world and all that's in it.
Woman is at best a prize, a property valued much the same as a horse or a dog,
unlike the pear and sheen of skin and soundness of teeth and limb.
Well, if I must be chattel, then the terms shall be mine,
and the price according to my own values.
There.
I see.
Christian tells me that you meet tonight.
What would you have him speak about?
Oh, nothing,
and everything.
I shall say, speak to me of love in your own words.
Improvise, rhapsodize.
Be eloquent.
But you will not tell him, will you?
Ah, perish the thought.
Madame, Compte de Guiche.
Madame.
Monsieur.
Madame.
Monsieur.
- Christian, quick. - No.
There's still time to learn your lines. No.
I have some brilliant phrases for you, brilliant, sensitive...
No.
I'll have not more of it.
Taking all my words, my sentences all from you,
- making our love a little comedy. - Don't you real...
It was a game at first, but now she cares.
Huh?
Thanks to you. Uh.
I'm not afraid any longer. I'll speak for myself, now.
Oh, undoubtedly.
I will. You shall see!
Besides, I know enough to take a woman in my arms,
and tonight, I will.
Christian!
Thank you, my friend, and goodbye.
- Christian, I beg of you. - Leave me!
- You're making a grave error. - Go away!
So be it.
Christian.
Roxane.
I'm so glad you are early.
Let us stay out here in the moonlight.
It's so pleasant.
Sit down.
There, so.
Now, speak to me.
I love you.
Yes, speak to me of love.
I...love you.
Now, be eloquent. Be brilliant for me.
Tonight of all nights.
I love you...so.
You have your scene. Now, improvise, rhapsodize.
I love you... very much!
I ask for cream, and you give me milk and water.
Tell me firstly, how you love me.
Very much!
Is that all you feel?
Your throat, if only I might kiss it.
Christian!
But, Roxane, I love you.
Again.
No, not again. I do not love you.
That is better.
I...I adore you!
Oh!
I know I grow absurd.
And that distresses me as much as if you had grown ugly!
Please. Gather your dreams together into words.
I...um, I...
I know. You love me! Good night!
Oh, but wait, please!
I was going to say...
That you adore me. Yes, I know that, too.
-No, go away. - I...
A great success.
Help me.
Not I. Speak for yourself, my friend.
Why I...I can't.
Well, at least you know enough to take a woman in your arms.
Oh, Cyrano, please!
What, and make your love a little comedy.
Cyrano, I cannot live unless I win her back, now.
This moment!
This moment. How the devil am I to teach you now, this mo...
Her window.
- Help me, Cyrano, help me. - Shhhh.
It does seem fairly dark.
Well? Well?
It is more than you deserve.
must try out what can be done.
Stand over there.
Idiot, here, before the balcony. I'll whisper you what to say.
- She'll hear.. - Shhhh. Call her.
Roxane.
Who's calling?
Christian.
You again.
I...had to tell you.
No. Go away. You tell me nothing.
Please.
You do not love me anymore.
No, not anymore.
I love you evermore,
and everymore and more.
Oh, a little better.
Love grows and struggles like an angry child.
Breaking my heart.
His cradle...
Better still.
But such a babe is dangerous.
Why not have smothered it newborn?
And so I do.
And yet he lives.
I found as you sha... you shall find
this newborn babe... and infant Hercules!
Good.
Strong enough at birth
to strangle those two serpents
doubt and
What?
pride!
Why, very good.
Only, tell me why you speak so haltingly.
Has your imagination gone...lame?
This grows too difficult.
Your words tonight hesitate, why?
Through the warm summer gloom, they grope in darkness
toward the light of you.
My words are heavy with honey,
like returning bees.
Yet they must fly so high.
Come nearer then. Stand you on the bench.
No.
Then I'll come down.
NO!
And why so great a no?
Let me enjoy the one moment I ever...
My one chance to speak to you...unseen.
Unseen?
Yes. Yes.
Night making all things dimly beautiful
one veil over us both.
You need no eyes to hear my heart.
Oh, tonight, let it seem as if I speak for the first time.
For the first time?
Yes.
Your voice, even, is not the same.
How should it be.
I have another voice tonight.
My own, myself,... daring!
Why daring?
Because, what am I, what is any man would he dare ask for you?
Therefore my heart has hidden behind poetic words and tinsel phrases.
But are they not sweet, those pretty phrases?
Not enough sweet for you and me tonight.
You never spoke to me like this.
I tell you, there comes one moment, once,
and heaven help those who pass that moment by,
when beauty stands looking into the soul
with grave, sweet eyes, that sicken at pretty words.
Yes...that is love.
Love.
A love beyond breath, beyond reason,
beyond love's own power of loving.
Your name is like a golden bell hung in my heart,
and when I think of you I tremble, and the bell swings and rings,
Roxane! Roxane! Along my veins...Roxane.
Yes...that is love.
Yes that is love.
That wind of terrible and jealous beauty,
that dark fire, that soaring, blinding music.
Yet, you may take my happiness to make you happier
even though you never know I gave it to you.
Only let me hear, sometimes, all alone, the distant laughter of your joy.
Do you begin to understand a little?
Can you feel my soul there in the darkness breathe on you?
Oh, only tonight, now I dare say these things.
I to you, and you hear them.
It is my voice, mine, my own that makes you tremble
there in the green gloom, above me, for you do tremble
as a blossom among the leaves, you tremble, and I can feel
all the way down along this jasmine branch
whether you will unhold the passion of you trembling.
Yes, I do tremble.
And I weep, and I love you, and I am yours,
and you have made me thus.
I have done this to you.
I myself.
Only let me ask one thing more.
I want a kiss!
You ask me for...
I...yes.
That is to say...
I mean...
You've gone too far.
If she's willing, why not make the most of it?
I, I ask. I know I ask too much.
Only one?
Is that all?
All? How much more than all?
I know I startle you, I...I ask, I ask you to refuse.
Why? Why? Why?
Christian, be quiet.
What is that your say?
I am angry with myself, because I know I go too far
and so I say to myself, CHRISTIAN, BE QUIET!
Watch it, someone comes.
Well, sir, I am looking for the house of madame Roxane Robin.
This is not the house. That way. To the right. Keep to the right.
I thank you sir.
I shall say my beads for you to the very last bead.
Win me that kiss?
No!
Sooner or later.
So that is true.
Sooner or later must be so, because, she is young, and you are handsome.
Since it must be, I'd rather be myself the cause, if it must be.
Are you still there?
Yes.
We were speaking of...
A kiss. - A kiss.
And what is a kiss when all is done?
A vow taken before the shrine of memory.
A rosy dot over the "i" of loving.
- A secret whisper to listen if the past.
Shhh.
A moment free to mortal with a rush of wing from Ceden.
A sacrament of blossoms.
A new song sung by two hearts to an old, simple tune.
Hush.
Why? What shame?
No. No shame.
Then come.
Gather your sacred blossoms.
Your moment made immortal.
Climb!
- But, climb? - Many more!
Roxane.
Ah, Roxane. I have won what I have wanted.
A feast of love, and I am faint with hunger.
Yet, I have something here that is mine now,...
and was not mine before.
I spoke the words that won her.
She kisses my words. My words...upon his lips.
What, dear Father, lost your way again?
But, she lives here, Madame Robin.
Oh, I thought you said, Rolen?
No, r..o..b..i..n, Robin.
Oh, Robin, I see.
I'm too old to chase wild geese
- my feet... - Oh, what a shame,
however, I'm sure there's someone at home.
What is it?
Yeah, I'm looking for the young lady, Madam Rolen
Rolen?
Robin!
Madame! A letter for you.
Yes, yes, I heard.
Cyrano.
Uh, passing by cousin, I saw this light.
Uh, some matter profitable to the soul.
A very noble lord gave it to me.
What is it?
My regiment has been ordered to the front.
I cannot allow you to delay any longer.
This simple old monk, who knows nothing,
will marry us tonight. My love, Antoine de Guiche.
Father, this letter concerns you.
"Madame, the Cardinal will have his way,
"although against your will.
"That is why I am sending this to you,
"by a most holy man.
"Intelligent, discreet.
"You will communicate to him our order to perform
"here and at once the rite of holy matrimony.
"You and Christian will be married privately in your house.
"Be resigned to the Cardinal's command,
"who sends herewith his blessings.
"Your very humble, and etcetera..."
Oh, this is terrible.
Oh, you're to be the, uh...
I am to be the bridegroom.
Uh, look here. A postscript.
"Give to the monastery, in my name 120 pieces of gold."
One hundred and twenty...
Oh, a worthy lord. A very worthy lord.
Daughter, resign yourself.
I am resigned.
The Guiche is coming, too. Don't let him enter.
Not let him enter?
Until we're married, please.
Me?
- Why, where did you come from? - The moon.
- You... - From the moon.
I have just returned from the moon.
- The fellow's mad! -Like a bomb, I tell you,
- I fell from the moon! - Your feet must...
I say THE MOON!
- Very well, if you say so. - Thank you.
Raving mad.
- Where am I? - My dear sir!
- What place is this? What country?
- Please, let me pass. - This face, good heavens!
Maul, a robber. Where am I?
- A lady is waiting for me. - Oh, this is Paris, huh?
You fool!
Dear old Paris.
Excuse my appearance. I arrived by the last thunderbolt.
A trifled singed as I passed through the ether.
Monsieur!
Sir?
That will do, now. I wish...
I know, you wish to look for my own list of nature for moons
and happiness and character of it's surface, if any.
I desire no such thing, I...
Of course not.
You wish to know by what mysterious
means I reached the moon.
Well, a very secret affair of state,
but confidentially a new invention of my own.
Drunk, two ways. Well a man..
Oh, no. In truth I have my choice of several inventions.
Uh?
Yes, several ways to violate the virgin sky.
Several?
Several.
As, for instance, smoke having a natural tendency to rise,
blow in a globe enough to raise me.
Yes, that makes one.
Again, I might construct a rocket in the shape of a HUGE locust
driven by impulses up within a saltpeter from the rear
and thus speed upwards, like, thus!
Yes, another?
Finally, seated on an iron plate, hurl a magnet into the air.
The iron follows. I catch the magnet.
Throw it again, and so proceed indefinitely.
Excellent, and which did you adopt?
Why none of them.
Yet another.
Which was...?
Guess.
Ahhh, I can't!
Try.
Interesting idiot, this.
Have you guessed it yet?
Why, no, what is it?
Alas, you will never know, but no matter.
You are free and they are bound in wedlock.
I drunk that voice, and that nose, Cyrano!
Cyrano. This very moment they have exchanged vows.
Who?
My sincere compliments.
You, also, my traveler in space.
My Lord, the heads of Capathieu and Joyce have joined together.
Quite so!
Madame, kindly bid your... husband farewell.
Your regiment leaves tonight, sir. Report at once!
But, the Cadets are not called.
They are, indeed, and under my command.
Out there we may have an accounting.
Somehow, that news fails to disquiet me.
Here are the orders. Baron, deliver this.
Christian!
The bridal night is not so near.
Somehow that news fails to disquiet me.
Baron, you have your orders.
Farewell, Roxane.
Take care of him, for me. Promise me never to let him
do anything dangerous.
I will do my best. I cannot promise.
I thought you brave always. Make him be careful.
Yes, yes, I'll try.
Be sure to keep him warm and dry!
Yes, if possible.
Have him write to me every single day!
That, I promise you.
Halt!
Uh!
The situation is simple, gentlemen.
We have besieged Arras. The Prince of Spain has besieged us.
Consequently, we are surrounded.
- A fine war. Where the besiegers are beseiged
and starve to death.
Yes, but the Marshal has devised a brilliant plan
for bringing in food this very night.
Now, see here.
Spare us the details, Colonel.
Merely inform us when the food arrives.
True, we are hungry. But why blame me?
I'm only your Colonel.
Oh, yes, I know you disprove of me.
Call me courtier, politician.
Well, I can afford you little hates.
My conduct under fire is well known.
It was only yesterday I repelled a Spanish attack.
Pouring my men down like an avalanche.
I, myself lead the charge.
And your white scarf?
Cyrano!
And your white scarf?
Eh, you heard that episode?
Yes, I was so far in advance I was in danger of being captured.
But I thought quickly, took off and flung away
the scarf that marked my military rank.
And so being inconspicuous escaped among my own force,
rallied them, returned, and won the day.
What do you say to that?
Still, an officer does not like to resign the privilege of being a target.
How pleasant for you that you are denied that privilege.
Pleasant? Lend me your scarf.
With your permission I shall lead the first charge tonight
wearing it over my shoulder.
What bluster.
You're safe making that offer, and you know it.
My scarf lies on the river bank between the lines.
A spot swept by artillery. Impossible to reach alive.
Yes.
Here.
Thank you.
This bit of white is what I need to make a signal.
I was hesitating.
You have decided me.
- Stand or I'll fire! - Hold you fire.
There's a man down there running away.
Yes, a Spaniard.
But very useful as a spy to both sides.
As I was about to tell you.
The Marshal has withdrawn more than half our forces here.
Fortunately, the Spaniards do not know that.
Oh, yes, they do now, and they will attack tonight.
At this point.
Your revenge, eh?
I make not great pretense in loving you.
But since you gentlemen esteem yourselves invincible,
the bravest of the brave, and all that.
Why need we be personal.
The Marshal needs a diversion, and I serve him
in choosing as I chose.
As you can see, Captain, the great thing is to gain time.
To hold until the Marshal returns.
And to gain time?
You will all be so kind as to lay down your lives.
Christian?
Yes.
Roxane?
I should like to say farewell to her
with my whole heart for her to keep.
I have taken the liberty of...
But, wait.
This little spot.
Spot?
Yes.
A tear.
Is nothing.
A poet while he writes is like a lover in his lady's arms,
believing his imagination, everything seems real.
There's half the charm of writing.
Now, I made this letter so pathetic, that,
while I was writing it, I wept.
You wept?
Why, yes, because it is a little thing to die,
but not to see her,... that is terrible.
I shall never..., you will never...
Give me that.
- Halt. Who goes there. - On the service of the King.
- The King! - Fall in...
Good evening.
On the King's service, you?
- Gentlemen,... - What are you doing here?
- We heard rumors at home you were hungry,
so we came prepared.
The Spaniards adored the fare, but they missed the fowl!
But why did you come here into this, this danger?
They said in Paris there was no fighting.
Besides, it was your own fault.
Think of the letters you have written me.
How many times! Every day!
Every day?
Of course.
And each one more wonderful than the last.
All this, for a few absurd love letters.
Hush. Absurd? Your letters...no, never.
Every one was like hearing your voice that night in the dark. Remember?
Like your arms around me. I read them over and over.
Every page was like a petal fallen from you soul.
Like the light and the fire of a great love.
- Sweet and strong and true. - Sweet.
Strong.
True?
Oh, my Christian.
I came here to ask forgiveness.
It is time to be forgiven.
Now, when we may die so soon.
Forgive me for being light and vain
and loving you only because you were handsome.
- For now... - Now?
I love you for yourself.
For what you are.
Roxane.
How you must have suffered. For you saw how frivolous I was.
And to be loved for the mere costume,
for the poor, casual body you went about in.
To a soul like yours, that must have been torture.
No.
I understand.
You cannot perfectly believe in me,
a...a love like this...
I want no love like this.
I want love only for...
Only for what every woman sees in you.
I can to better than that.
No, it...it was best before.
You do not altogether know me.
I was a child.
I'm a woman now.
- If...if you were less handsome, - No.
unattractive, ugly even, I should love you, still.
Do you mean that?
I do mean that.
Ugly?
Even then.
Now, are you happy?
Yes.
What is it?
Nothing, only, Cyrano...
Cyrano.
he has something to tell you.
Where are you going?
I...will...return...in a moment.
Cyrano.
Your wife, sir, she goes with me?
No, sir, she remains.
There is still time for her to escape.
She stays!
Very well.
Someone give me a musket. I stay here also.
Sir, you show courage.
What, shall I run away, and leave a woman?
Colonel, my compliments, sir.
What of Roxane?
Wait.
Well, what is it? You look so...
She does not love me.
- You think not? - She loves you.
- No. - She loves only my soul.
- No. - Yes!
That means you. And you love her.
- I? - I see. I know.
You wrote her, everyday, every day!
- Perfectly simple. - Simple?
For a month, we've been blockaded here.
How did you send all those letters?
Before daylight I managed...
To face death everyday.
You love her.
Yes.
Tell her so.
- No. - Why not?
Why? Look at me.
She would love me if I were ugly.
- She said that? - Yes. Now, go to her.
Nonsense. Do not believe any such madness.
Go back to her. You never will be ugly.
Go! It is you she loves.
That is what we shall see.
No, no!
- Let her chose between us. - No.
- Tell her everything. - Why do you torture me?
Shall I ruin your happiness, because I was born with a pretty face?
Am I to ruin yours, because I happen to have power
to say what you perhaps feel?
- Tell her! - Don't drive me too far!
- I'm tired of being my own rival. - Hard to know.
My secret marriage, that can be annulled, I expect.
I want her love for the poor fool than I am,
or not at all.
Oh, I'm going through with this. I'll know one way or the other.
Now, go!...Tell her.
Let her chose one of us.
It will be you.
I hope so.
Captain!
The Spanish fires are going out.
It begins.
I need a scout. Where's Cyrano.
Captain.
Let me go.
No, my boy, Cyrano knows the terrain. He knows their lines.
So do I. Please, allow me.
Very well. We must know from which
direction the advance comes. Their weight and numbers.
I understand.
Roxane.
Cyrano.
Christian thinks...
Christian thinks you ought to know that...
But I do know.
He still doubts what I just told him, just now.
I saw that.
Yes, but,...was it true, what you told him just now?
It was true.
I said that I should love him, even if he were...
The word comes hard before me?
Say it, I shall not be hurt.
Ugly?
Even, then I should love him.
Disfigured.
Or disfigured.
Even...grotesque.
How could he every be grotesque,
ever to me?
But, you could love him so, as much as?
Yes, and more.
Roxane...
What is it?
Are they fighting?
What is happening?
The Spaniards advance,
but there is time.
- Where is Christian? - At the parapet.
Oh, of course.
What is it that you wish to tell me?
Roxane,...
believe me this is difficult, and for once I lack words.
Christian asked me to...
He told me...
Christian!
To your places, gentlemen.
Is he dead?
No, but dying.
I will not let him!
Cyrano...did you?
Yes, my friend. I have told her.
She loves you.
Roxane.
Yes, my darling.
Christian!
He is not dead?
Yes.
Time you must go, now.
Really, he is dead.
No one else knew him but you.
Was he not a hero?
Yes, Roxane.
A heart deeper than we knew.
Yes, Roxane.
A poet. A soul magnificently tender.
Yes, Roxane.
But he is dead now.
Why, so am I.
For I am dead and my love mourns for me
and does not know.
Will never know.
Take her away quickly.
Wait.
A letter over his heart.
I have two deaths to avenge, now,
Christian's...and my own.
Fire!
Surrender or you die!
Ah!
We fought. We died. We fought again.
Who are these men who are so fond of death, one Spaniard cried.
On and on, they came.
Then, when all seemed lost, we heard the trumpets
of our returning troops. The battle was ours!
Ah, you have been fortunate, Ms. de Bergerac, you have lived!
While we, we waste our youth. There is no war and not hope for any.
No hope for any?
My fellow, I just realize, we are both fools.
But mine is the greater folly, for I am an older fool.
What is more... Everything I told you was a lie.
Another satire for the Gazette?
Yes.
Another glove flung in the face of power?
Oh, why do you do it, Cyrano?
- Why do you attack... - Stupidity?
Deceit? Corruption? I'm too old to change.
I'm an old dog with nothing left but his teeth.
Ah, but teeth can be pulled. That can be painful.
That insolent wretch. That scoundrel de Bergerac.
This time he's gone too far. I swear it.
He's signed his death warrant.
And who will deliver it?
His sword is still very powerful, my friend.
There are may ways a man can die.
Who knows?
He may meet with an accident.
Soon.
But, uh, tell me, Madame.
How long will you continue to remain here, forever in mourning?
Forever.
Was Christian all that?
If you knew him you would not ask.
His last letter is still in my heart.
And, uh, Cyrano? Do you see him often?
Every week. My old friend takes the place of my Gazette.
He brings me all the news.
Every Saturday under that tree out there.
I wait for him embroidering.
The hour strikes. I need not turn to look.
At the last stroke, I hear his cane tapping the walk.
His satires have made him many enemies.
But, they still fear that sword of his.
No one dare touch him.
Hm, that may be so.
It is not violence I fear for him,
but solitude, poverty. Old gray Decembers
stealing on wolf's feet into his darkened room.
It seems to me he's worn the same old coat
for many months, now.
Eh, that is nothing strange in this world.
You need not pity him overmuch.
He lives his life, his own life his own way,
thought, word and deed free.
My Lord Duke.
Oh, yes, I know. I have all. He has nothing.
Nevertheless, today, I should be proud to shake his hand.
Ah, well, adieu.
Will I ever see you again?
Come whenever you like.
Then, you have forgiven me.
I am here.
Do you know? When a man wins
everything in this world, when he succeeds too much,
he feels, somehow, a thousand small displeasures
with himself, whose whole sum is not quite remorse
but rather a sort of vague disgust, dry illusions, pained regrets.
Yes, now and then, I envy your Cyrano.
The sentiment does you honor.
Madame, I must tell you, it is true that no one has yet
dared to attack your friend Cyrano.
Nevertheless, at the theater last night, I heard some things.
Keep him at home all you can.
Tomorrow when you see him, tell him to be careful.
I thank you.
Good night, Ragueneau.
Cyrano, you not leaving?
You will not have dinner here with me?
My regrets. I have a magnificent
roast waiting for me, a rare wine, a gift from my publisher.
Fine, to be sure.
Uh, have you seen Moliere's new play?
No.
Heh, ah, well...
What is it?
Well, he...
Speak.
He stole a scene from you, word for word.
You know, "What the devil was he doing there?"
That one.
He stole it, bodily.
Well, he showed good taste.
It, uh, played well?
Oh, beautifully. They laughed and laughed.
Oh, how they laughed.
Moliere has genius.
Christian had good looks.
With me, it was always thus.
Good night, my friend.
Hold, there.
You!
Are you addressing me?
Yes, you, Monsieur of the long nose.
Insolence.
- Foulmouthed scribbler. - What?
- Lair, plagiarist! - Liar.
Doctor.
Why pretend?
It is very grave.
Keep him quiet at all costs.
If he attempts to rise, he will die.
Shhhh.
Thank you.
Monsieur.
Ah, Sister.
What is the matter with you?
Shall I tell you something, Sister?
Yesterday, Friday, mind you, I ate meat again.
Yes, I know.
That is why you are so pale.
Please come to me to the refectory before you go.
I'll make you a great bowl of hot soup.
Of course, of course.
You're quite reasonable today.
Perhaps you'll convert me.
Oh, no! Not for the world.
Why, now I think of it, that is so.
You, bursting with holiness, and yet you never preach.
Astonishing.
And now I shall astonish you.
I'm going to let you pray for me tonight, at Vespers.
Absolutely struck dumb, eh?
I did not wait for you to say I might.
Now may the devil admire me if never hope to see
the end of that embroidery.
After 14 years, late for the first time.
Yes. Yes, maddening.
I was detained by a visitor. Most unexpected.
An old friend of mine.
At least a very old acquaintance.
Did you tell him to go away?
For the time being, yes.
I said excuse me, I see that it's Saturday,
I have a previous engagement.
One I cannot miss.
Even for you.
Come back an hour from now.
Your friend will have to wait. I shall not let you go till dark.
Perhaps a little before dark, I must go.
Oh, then tell me now the court news. My Gazette.
Ah, yes, well, let me see.
Saturday, 19th, the King fell ill after eight helpings of
grape marmalade.
Grape marmalade will no longer be served at court.
Sunday, the royal pulse is now normal.
Monday, everyone was talking about the success
of Moliere's new play.
Tuesday, the King fell ill after six helpings of marone glacee.
Marone glacee will no longer be served at court.
Wednesday, the Compte de Firske spoke to Madame de Monte Glas.
She said...no.
Thursday... Nothing.
Friday, Madame de Monte Glas said yes.
Saturday, 25th...
Cyrano!
What is it? Cyrano!
- Oh, no, no, it is nothing. - What?
The old wound at Arras sometimes...
- My poor friend. - No, no, no, it is nothing.
It will soon be gone.
There. 'Tis gone.
We all have our old wounds.
I have mine here, under this faded scrap of writing.
It's hard to read now.
All for the blots and tears.
His letter?
Did you not promise me, that someday you would let me read it?
- This letter? You wish...? - I do wish it...today.
Open it and read.
"Farewell, Roxane, because today I die."
Aloud?
"I know that it will be today, my own dearly beloved.
"Yet, my heart still so heavy with love I have not told.
"And I shall die without telling you.
"No more shall my eyes drink the sight of you like wine,
"never more with a look that is a kiss,
"follow the sweet grace of you."
How you read it. His letter.
"I remember now the way you have
"of pushing back a lock of hair with one hand from your forehead,
- "and my heart cries out..." - His letter!
"cries out and keeps crying."
- You read it so... - "Farewell, my dear, my dearest,"
- In a voice... - "my own heart's own,"
- "my own treasure," - In such a voice! - "my...love."
Yes, I remember hearing long ago.
"I am never away from you. Even now I shall not leave you.
"In another world, I shall still be that one who loves you,
"loves you beyond measure, beyond..."
But, how can you read it now?
And all those 14 years he has been the old friend
who came to me to be amusing.
- Roxane. - It was you.
No, no, Roxane, no.
And I might have know it every time that I heard you speak my name.
- No, it was not I. - It was you! - I swear.
- The letters. That was you. - No.
- And the dear foolish words. That was you. - No.
- And the voice in the dark. That was you. - On my honor!
And the soul. It was all you.
I never loved you.
Yes, you loved me.
Even now you love me.
No!
And twice you're great to know.
Oh, no, no, my own dear love, I love you not.
Why were you silent for so many years?
All the while.
Every night, and every day, he gave me nothing.
You knew that.
You knew in that letter lying on my breast.
Your tears.
You knew they were your tears.
The blood was his.
Cyrano!
Here! He's here.
Oh, what recklessness.
No.
I knew it!
- Madame he has killed himself coming here. - No. Shh.
That drink is, what is it?
Nothing. I did not finish my Gazette.
Saturday, 26th, an hour or so before dinner
Ms. de Bergerac died, foully murdered.
Cyrano, what have they done to you?
How fate loves a jest.
Behold me ambushed, taken unawares.
My noble foe, a lackey. My battlefield, a gutter.
It seems too logical.
They have missed everything,
even my death.
Sisters! Sisters!
No, do not go away. I may not be here when you return.
You shall not die.
I love you.
No, my lady, it's not in the story.
When beauty said I love you to the beast
all his ugliness changed and dissolved, like magic.
But, you see, I am still the same.
And I have done this to you.
You? Why no.
All my fault, mine!
On the contrary.
I have never know womanhood in its sweetness, but for you.
My mother did not like to look at me.
I never had a sister.
Later, I feared those sweethearts with mockery behind her smile.
But, because of you, I have had across my life
one whispering, silken gown.
I never loved but one man in my life.
I have lost him, twice.
I would not have you mourning any less that good, noble Christian.
But, perhaps, I ask only this,
when the great cold gathers around my bones,
you may give a double meaning to your widow's weeds.
The tears you let fall for him, may for a little, be my tears.
Oh, my love!
No, not here. Not lying down.
Let no one help me. No one need help me.
It is coming.
I feel already shod with marble.
Gloved with lead.
Very well, let the old fellow come now.
He shall find me on my feet.
Sword in hand.
Cyrano!
He'd delirious.
I see him now.
He grins.
He is looking at my nose!
That skeleton.
You there.
Who are you?
A hundred against one, eh?
I know them now, my ancient enemies.
Falsehood, there!
There, Predujice!
Compromise, Cowardice.
What's that? Surrender? No, never!
Never!
Ah, you too, Vanity.
I knew you would overthrow me in the end.
No, I fight, I fight on, I fight...ow!
All my laurels you have riven away.
And my roses.
Yet, in spite of you, there is one crown
I made away with me.
And tonight when I enter before God,
my salute shall sweep away the stars from the blue threshold.
One thing without stain, unspotted from the world,
in spite of doom, mine own, ...and that is...
my...white...plume...