Page:Cyrano de Bergerac.djvu/112

100 No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes…

Ah! A well-curled pate, and witless tongue, perchance!

Ah no! I guess—I feel—his words are fair!

All words are fair, that lurk 'neath fair moustache! —Suppose he were a fool!…

Then bury me!

Was it to tell me this you brought me here? I fail to see what use this serves, Madame.

Nay, but I felt a terror, here, in the heart, On learning yesterday you were Gascons All of your company…

And we provoke All beardless sprigs that favour dares admit 'Midst us pure Gascons—(pure! Heaven save the mark!) They told you that as well?