CHRISTIAN: It is true! (He stands looking at her. The group of pickpockets seeing him thus, head in air and open-mouthed, draw near to him.) LIGNIÈRE: 'Tis I who am going. I am athirst! And they expect me--in the taverns! (He goes out, reeling.) LE BRET (who has been all round the hall, coming back to Ragueneau reassured): No sign of Cyrano. RAGUENEAU (incredulously): All the same. . . LE BRET: A hope is left to me--that he has not seen the playbill! THE AUDIENCE: Begin, begin! Scene 1.III. The same, all but Lignière. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury. A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de Valvert): He pays a fine court, your De Guiche! ANOTHER: Faugh!. . .Another Gascon! THE FIRST: Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of! Believe me, we had best make our bow to him. (They go toward De Guiche.) SECOND MARQUIS: What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?' DE GUICHE: 'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.' FIRST MARQUIS: 'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon go ill for Spain in Flanders. DE GUICHE: I go on the stage! Will you come? (He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls): Come you Valvert! CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name): The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . . (He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round): Hey? THE PICKPOCKET: Oh! CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly): I was looking for a glove. THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously): And you find a hand. (Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper): Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret. CHRISTIAN (still holding him): What is it? THE PICKPOCKET: Lignière. . .he who has just left you. . . CHRISTIAN (same play): Well? THE PICKPOCKET: His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places-- and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . . CHRISTIAN: A hundred men! By whom posted? THE PICKPOCKET: I may not say--a secret. . . CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders): Oh! THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity): . . .Of the profession. CHRISTIAN: Where are they posted? THE PICKPOCKET: At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him. CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists): But where can I find him? THE PICKPOCKET: Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that shall put him on his guard.