Swords and muskets! I, too, shall astonish you! See here, I will permit you.... (_Affects to be thinking and to have found a good jest._) Ah! this is something new.... to.... to pray for me, to-night, in the chapel. ROXANE. Oh! oh! this is serious. CYRANO (_laughing_). Sister Martha is dumfounded! SISTER MARTHA (_gently_). I did not wait for your permission. (_Exit Sister Martha._) CYRANO (_returning to Roxane, who is leaning over her work_). I verily believe there never will be an end to this task of yours. ROXANE. I am getting accustomed to this remark. (_Just then a few dead leaves fall on Roxane's work._) CYRANO. Oh! withered leaves! ROXANE (_looking at the landscape_). Poor blondes of Venice hue, How fast they fall! CYRANO. They fall, but see how well! Their race is short, and still they sweetly show How beauty e'er recoils from rottenness: For, as they drop, they do not in their grace Appear to fall, but rather to alight! ROXANE. Unusually sad thoughts for you! CYRANO (_recovering his presence of mind_). Sad? Not at all, Roxane! ROXANE. Come, let the dead leaves fall as they will....Better give me the news, be my weekly gazette. CYRANO. Agreed! ROXANE. I'm listening. CYRANO (_getting paler and paler, as he struggles against pain_). Saturday, the 19th, having over indulged in grape-jam from Cette, the King was taken with fever; his indisposition was sentenced, for high treason, to be twice lanced, and the royal pulse was relieved of febricity![25] At the Queen's ball, on Sunday, seven hundred and sixty-three candles of white wax were burned. Our troops have been victorious, it is said, over those of John the Austrian; four sorcerers have been hung! the little dog of Madam d'Athis was given.... ROXANE. Monsieur de Bergerac, you may omit the details! CYRANO. Monday.... nothing. Oh! yes, Lygdamire took a new lover. ROXANE. Oh! CYRANO (_whose suffering is evidently increasing_). Tuesday, all the Court was at Fontainebleu. Wednesday, the beauty Montglat said to Count de Fiesque: No! Thursday, Mancini, Queen of France,--or almost! the 25th, Montglat said to Fiesque: Yes; and Saturday, 26th.... (_His eyes close. His head falls upon his shoulder. Silence._) ROXANE (_surprised at hearing nothing more, turns around, looks at him, and rises very much frightened_). Has he fainted? (_Runs up to him._) Cyrano!