CYRANO: I chid myself for my too bold advances; Said, 'Silence, Christian!' (The lutes begin to play): Hark! Wait awhile,. . . Steps come! (Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a merry, the other a melancholy, tune): Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad! What? Neither man nor woman?--oh! a monk! (Enter a capuchin friar, with a lantern. He goes from house to house, looking at every door.) Scene 3.VII. Cyrano, Christian, a capuchin friar. CYRANO (to the friar): What do you, playing at Diogenes? THE FRIAR: I seek the house of Madame. . . CHRISTIAN: Oh! plague take him! THE FRIAR: Madeleine Robin. . . CHRISTIAN: What would he?. . . CYRANO (pointing to a street at the back): This way! Straight on. . . THE FRIAR I thank you, and, in your intention Will tell my rosary to its last bead. (He goes out.) CYRANO: Good luck! My blessings rest upon your cowl! (He goes back to Christian.) Scene 3.VIII. Cyrano, Christian. CHRISTIAN: Oh! win for me that kiss. . . CYRANO: No! CHRISTIAN: Soon or late!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis true! The moment of intoxication-- Of madness,--when your mouths are sure to meet Thanks to your fair mustache--and her rose lips! (To himself): I'd fainer it should come thanks to. . . (A sound of shutters reopening. Christian goes in again under the balcony.) Scene 3.IX. Cyrano, Christian, Roxane. ROXANE (coming out on the balcony): Still there? We spoke of a. . . CYRANO: A kiss! The word is sweet. I see not why your lip should shrink from it; If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do? Oh! let it not your bashfulness affright; Have you not, all this time, insensibly, Left badinage aside, and unalarmed Glided from smile to sigh,--from sigh to weeping? Glide gently, imperceptibly, still onward-- From tear to kiss,--a moment's thrill!--a heartbeat! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, when all is said,--what is it? An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise, A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,-- A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'-- A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,-- Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,-- Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,-- The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing, When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming! ROXANE: Hush! hush! CYRANO: A kiss, Madame, is honorable: The Queen of France, to a most favored lord Did grant a kiss--the Queen herself! ROXANE: What then? CYRANO (speaking more warmly): Buckingham suffered dumbly,--so have I,-- Adored his Queen, as loyally as I,-- Was sad, but faithful,--so am I. . . ROXANE: And you Are fair as Buckingham! CYRANO (aside--suddenly cooled): True,--I forgot! ROXANE: Must I then bid thee mount to cull this flower? CYRANO (pushing Christian toward the balcony): Mount! ROXANE: This heart-breathing!. . . CYRANO: Mount!