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December 1897, Paris. Edmond Rostand isn’t yet thirty yet officially two kids and a great deal of nerves. He has not composed anything for a long time. In distress, he offers the incomparable Constant Coquelin another play, a courageous satire, in stanza, for these special seasons. Just concern: it isn’t composed at this point.
Overlooking the impulses of entertainers, the requests of his Corsican makers, the desire of his better half, the tales of his closest companion’s heart and the absence of eagerness of every one of people around him, Edmond starts composing this piece which no one accepts. For the present, he has just the title: “Cyrano de Bergerac”.