Cyrano, Roxane, the duenna.
CYRANO: Ah! if I see but the faint glimmer of hope, then I draw out my letter! (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the glass pane of the door. He opens quickly): Enter!. . . (Walking up to the duenna): Two words with you, Duenna.
THE DUENNA: Four, Sir, an it like you.
CYRANO: Are you fond of sweet things?
THE DUENNA: Ay, I could eat myself sick on them!
CYRANO (catching up some of the paper bags from the counter): Good. See you these two sonnets of Monsieur Beuserade. . .
THE DUENNA: Hey?
CYRANO: . . .Which I fill for you with cream cakes!
THE DUENNA (changing her expression): Ha.
CYRANO: What say you to the cake they call a little puff?
THE DUENNA: If made with cream, Sir, I love them passing well.
CYRANO: Here I plunge six for your eating into the bosom of a poem by Saint Amant! And in these verses of Chapelain I glide a lighter morsel. Stay, love you hot cakes?
THE DUENNA: Ay, to the core of my heart!
CYRANO (filling her arms with the bags): Pleasure me then; go eat them all in the street.
THE DUENNA: But. . .
CYRANO (pushing her out): And come not back till the very last crumb be eaten!
(He shuts the door, comes down toward Roxane, and, uncovering, stands at a respectful distance from her.)
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