THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,--I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success --Though the past hold no action foul--one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves. ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive? THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die--by accident!' Let him stay in--be prudent! LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . . ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it? THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame. ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now By turns he's singer. . . LE BRET: Bathing-man. . . ROXANE: Then actor. . . LE BRET: Beadle. . . ROXANE: Wig-maker. . . LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . . ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance? RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir! ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon. RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . . (Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.) Scene 5.III. Le Bret, Ragueneau. RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now--was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood. LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano! RAGUENEAU: I ran--I saw. . . LE BRET: 'Tis hideous! RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir--our friend-- Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head! LE BRET: He's dead? RAGUENEAU: No--but--I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret! LE BRET: He suffers? RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown. LE BRET: Saw you a doctor? RAGUENEAU: One was kind--he came. LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?-- RAGUENEAU: Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!-- Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!-- But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!-- And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!