Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!' And then, if glory come by chance your way, To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none, But keep the merit all your own! In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! LE BRET: Alone, an if you will! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn? CYRANO: By dint of seeing you at every turn Make friends,--and fawn upon your frequent friends With mouth wide smiling, slit from ear to ear! I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! another enemy? LE BRET: Lunacy! CYRANO: Well, what if it be my vice, My pleasure to displease--to love men hate me! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! --The enervating friendship which enfolds you Is like an open-laced Italian collar, Floating around your neck in woman's fashion; One is at ease thus,--but less proud the carriage! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere. But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! LE BRET (after a silence, taking his arm): Speak proud aloud, and bitter!--In my ear Whisper me simply this,--She loves thee not! CYRANO (vehemently): Hush! (Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.) Scene 2.IX. Cyrano, Le Bret, the cadets, Christian de Neuvillette. A CADET (seated at a table, glass in hand): Cyrano! (Cyrano turns round): The story! CYRANO: In its time! (He goes up on Le Bret's arm. They talk in low voices.) THE CADET (rising and coming down): The story of the fray! 'Twill lesson well (He stops before the table where Christian is seated): This timid young apprentice! CHRISTIAN (raising his head): 'Prentice! Who? ANOTHER CADET: This sickly Northern greenhorn! CHRISTIAN: Sickly! FIRST CADET (mockingly): Hark! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! CHRISTIAN: What may that be? ANOTHER CADET (in a terrible voice): See here! (He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose): Do you understand? CHRISTIAN: Oh! 'tis the. . . ANOTHER: Hush! oh, never breathe that word, Unless you'd reckon with him yonder!