CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no! ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name! CYRANO: No, it was not I! ROXANE: It was you! CYRANO: I swear! ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit-- The letters--you! CYRANO: No. ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night--you, you! CYRANO: I swear you err. ROXANE: The soul--it was your soul! CYRANO: I loved you not. ROXANE: You loved me not? CYRANO: 'Twas he! ROXANE: You loved me! CYRANO: No! ROXANE: See! how you falter now! CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you! ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! --Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears? CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his. ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,--kept so long-- Broken to-day for the first time--why? CYRANO: Why?. . . (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) Scene 5.VI. The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau. LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well! CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now? LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame. ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .? CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac. (He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.) ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!--His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?--Who?. . . CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! --Killed, I! of all men--in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death. RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . . CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade? RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage. CYRANO: Moliere! RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!--Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'--I saw he'd thieved a scene from you! LE BRET: What! a whole scene? RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?' LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that? CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told--I think it told? RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed!