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In ten years, the Theatre de Bourgoyne had barely changed a stroke of paint on its doors. At the moment, they were flung open to let in the steady trickle of playgoers here to see one of Moliere’s classics—one that Cyrano had already seen twice, but it was always interesting to see how different companies of actors interpreted the same lines. He kept one hand on the head of his cane and the other curled around his ticket as he watched the stream pass by him. Toward the front of the uneasily staggered line were the poorer of Paris, their hair unwashed and their clothes muddied and torn from the daily grind, but there was a brightness in their faces and a hunger in their eyes. They came for the love of the art and an escape from their humdrum lives, and Cyrano felt a rush of affection for them all as one man caught his eye and grinned in anticipation.
Behind him, a nobleman in purple ribbons—some duke or baron of somewhere or other—sniffed in distaste and gave him a shove to tell him to hurry up. It wasn’t too great a shove, though; it was barely a poke with one finger, as if he were afraid he would catch some disease from his poor neighbor if he let his hand linger too much. Flanking him, like a fleet of fanciful toy ships every color of the rainbow, were yet more men in flowing ribbons and silver buckles and women with more lace and fake flowers in their hair than any doll had ever worn. Every so often one of them would wave an enormous fan to someone they recognized and start discussing, in simpering voices like cats mewling for their masters’ attention, what box they would be sitting in, who was expected to be joining them, what each other thought of the latest court scandal… not a word about the play. They couldn’t have cared less about the play—they were simply there to be seen. And to look magnanimous, Cyrano supposed, since a handful of their gold could feed any of these actors’ families for a week. At least he’d had the grace to pay back the entire theater after the Montfleury incident.
As soon as he reached the doorway, a harried looking usher—dressed in burlesque servants’ clothing, distinguishing him as one of the play’s ensemble—rushed to the entrance with a small barrel slung around his neck, making him look like a lost St. Bernard puppy. “Tickets, please! Let me have your tickets! Box tickets, right here!” The poorer audience members ignored him and filed past, as they had no boxes to pay for, but the beribboned and caped members drew their tickets out of cuffs and purses and handed them over before hurrying to their private balconies. Cyrano himself had been saving for a seat among the lower balconies on the right of the stage; they gave him a wonderful view of the action, and the actors had a tendency to enter from the right side and mutter their lines to themselves, just to make sure they were memorized, before going on. If it was a play he’d already seen, it amused him to catch their gaze from far away and mouth their next lines to them if they looked particularly lost.
But before he had a chance to surrender his ticket, something ran headlong into his side, and he looked over to see a young woman clutching his arm like a lifeline at sea. A man’s dark brocade cloak nearly swallowed her slight frame, and there was a shoddy black domino mask, obviously cut from some larger garment, perched over her eyes. “Please sir,” she whispered, her voice ragged as if she’d been running for her life before reaching him, “if you would be so kind… let me sit with you in your box.”
“Why, does it not please you to stand?” Cyrano asked, not unkindly. Ridiculous as the rules were, there were still rules: if this girl was found in a box she couldn’t pay for, she would be thrown out of the theater completely. And no doubt he’d be thrown out after her for letting it happen.
She shook her head frantically. “My brother’s friends are here—my brother is part of the company… I can’t let them see me. If even one of them were to find me…” Wrapping her cloak tighter around her, she shuddered violently, and Cyrano could see the thin red line of a recently healed scar right at her hairline. So…
“Are you afraid of these men?”
Not looking up until she had thoroughly swaddled herself in the cloak, she nodded, and he was struck by how young she was. The poor girl had to be at least twenty, and perhaps even that was generous. “They’re still very young,” she ventured, a half-hearted attempt to defend them. “Young men… can be much crueler than older men. I’m sure you know—they think they have no one to answer to. Oh, no offense meant!” she quickly added, her eyes wide under the mask.
“None taken.” The frazzled young usher flexed his hand hurriedly toward them, and Cyrano tore his ticket in two and gave the halves to him. He took no notice and slipped them into the barrel all the same. “Let me ask but one thing in return for this, my child.”
The girl’s face twitched with momentary fear, but she still nodded. “N-name it, anything…”
“Your name, please.”
“My name?” For a second she looked confused, but it quickly faded into a look of relief. “It’s Clemence. Clemence Voizin.”
“Then let me formally extend an invitation,” Cyrano replied with exaggerated courtesy, sweeping a hand out behind him toward the boxes just out of sight, “for the esteemed Baroness Clemence Voizin to accompany me to the theater.” Another wash of relief came over the girl, and she finally smiled and fell into step beside him as they wound their way through the crowd. Occasionally she would start, thinking she recognized some man brushing her shoulder, and Cyrano would put a hand very gently at her back to guide her. When they finally reached his box, Clemence looked a bit bewildered, looking down at the ground floor like she’d never been this high up before… like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here. She lowered the hood of her cloak, and a spray of dark brown curls fell over her shoulder; Cyrano noticed she’d made an effort to dress for the occasion by threading the stem of a tiger lily through her hair.
“De Bergerac?” called a nasally voice behind them. Clemence startled, and Cyrano turned around to face the Marquis de Bassompierre, his long yellow plume and the ends of his outrageous black mustache bobbing with every inch he moved his head. It wasn’t often he made the voyage from Normandy to Paris, but when he did, it was always to drink in the city gossip and loom like a loud, preening bird of paradise over his peers, sneering at anyone else who fell beneath. “I am surprised to see you without your regiment. Even after their impressive victories, do the Gascony Cadets shun peacetime and prefer battle to poetry?”
“Some do,” Cyrano replied, unruffled. Original as the Marquis thought he was, it was a variation on the same tune he’d been hearing every time he came to see a play. “Some prefer to recount their own glories rather than see pale reenactments of them upon the stage. And some still prefer a poetry that no man’s pen can justly capture, the serene beauty and sublime quiet of their homes in the old country. You must understand, being a country squire yourself.”
De Bassompierre bristled, his mustache curling at being called a mere “country squire”, but he merely gave a thin smile and averted his eyes to Clemence. “And who is this… rustic rose?” he inquired, giving her an appraising look.
“You mean you don’t recognize her?” Gesturing for Clemence to turn around, Cyrano proceeded to gallantly untie her cloak and throw it over his arm with a flourish. “You stand in the presence of Clemence Voizin, daughter of the Baron de Constant de Rébecque. I offered to be her chaperone for the performance tonight, the rest of her family being preoccupied with court affairs.” Catching on, Clemence took a corner of her simple pink skirt between two fingers and dropped an elegant curtsey.
“I cannot say that I recognize her,” de Bassompierre said slowly, looking her over between narrowed eyes. “She isn’t exactly dressed for the theater, is she?”
“Her purpose is to admire the actors’ craft tonight, not to distract with being admired herself. Besides, bangles and lace serve only as foils to a greater diamond—does not her beauty speak for itself?” Clemence blushed at his last comment, and Cyrano took her hand very daintily in his own and guided to her to her seat, never breaking eye contact with the Marquis. De Bassompierre still didn’t look completely convinced, but a fanfare from the stage stole his attention as the play was about to begin.
“That was quite a close save,” Clemence gasped, leaning close to Cyrano across the arm of her chair. “Thank you… I don’t know what I would have done if I were stuck alone with any of them.”
He simply flicked a hand to dismiss it. What sort of soldier would he be if he turned aside a distress call, particularly from a defenseless young woman? “One learns with time that opinions and entitlements of boors matter less than they think they do, noble or common. Never waste your time paying them any mind.” Pressing a finger to his lips for quiet, he leaned forward to watch the play, and Clemence mirrored his posture.
"Tartuffe" was a success that night. Granted, Orgon was a little wooden and stale—the actor seemed to take for granted that he wasn’t the one the audience was there to see—but the title character was a divine charismatic force, drawing laughter and gasps from the audience by turns. Elmire and Mariane were both lovely, the former a stately and almost imperious beauty and the latter fluttering and rosy-cheeked as a new blossom, and Valère was charming and pathetic by turns. There was a moment where Damis forgot a line to his sister in a moment of panic, and Cyrano had to mouth it to him three times once he made eye contact, prompting sniggers from the box inhabitants across the way and a genuine giggle from Clemence. And if the various servants were a bit too broad in their comic relief and the sudden entrance of the unseen king at the end a bit too ridiculous, nobody minded too much. Even Cyrano had to admit it was a damn good show, and he rose to his feet to applaud with the rest of them as the company came out one final time for their bows. Beside him, Clemence was clapping feverishly, smiling like an excited child down at the young man who’d played Valère.
“Couldn’t I go down and say hello to him?” she insisted once the applause had died and the audience was beginning to file out, her fingers picking at the edges of her mask. “I came all this way—"
“Not yet,” Cyrano hissed, staying her hand. “Your brother’s friends may not be gone yet, and you mustn’t risk recognition if you fear them so much.” As Clemence wilted a bit and nodded, letting her hand fall into her lap, his eyes darted back up to the thin, angry scar on her forehead. “How did they inflict that mark, might I ask?”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure she would answer at all. Her hands twisted at her skirts, her fingers forming claws amid the fabric. With a quick glance to make sure de Bassompierre’s box was empty, she leaned closer to Cyrano again. “Robert—my brother—had come to visit me with his friends between rehearsals here. He said it—it would be a relief from my duties.”
“You worked here in the theater?”
She nodded. “I used to man the buffet. It was all the work I could find for so long, and for ten years I’d gone completely without incident… until that night.” Assailed with the painful memory, her face tightened for a second, and she took a deep breath before the moment passed. “One of the boys… made a pass at me. I might be an old maid, but I know that no kiss is meant to be so violent as the one he gave me.”
“Even if you were a maiden of sixteen, that would still be true,” Cyrano interjected, his voice gentle. “And beside that, if you are as old as you call yourself, you carry your age well,” he added with a smile. Ten years she’d been manning the buffet at the same theater… perhaps it wasn’t the worst job, but he could imagine how bored she must have become over so long a time. Especially with the louts this place used to employ and how rowdy the patrons could become. Maybe he’d done his fair share of contributing to that as well, he mused wryly… ten years ago he’d entered a lengthy duel with a viscount he’d only known for about five minutes. If he were a domestic caught on the sidelines, he might very well be terrified.
Clemence smiled a little sadly at his compliment before dropping her gaze back into her lap. “Well, as—as soon as he’d finished kissing me, Robert jumped in to defend me and hit him. And before I could tell them to stop, all four of them were having the most horrible row, throwing punches and breaking glasses over each other’s heads. I tried to intervene, but… that was right when one of them took out his sword.” She swallowed thickly. “I never saw who it was, but… that’s how I got the scar. Robert’s friends never apologized—not that I ever heard—and the theater manager scolded me for getting in the way… so I handed in my apron that night. I’ve seen too many fights, and this—this one was the worst.”
“There was still an element of courage to your intervention,” Cyrano said after a moment’s silence, unsure if anything he could say would comfort her. “And of nobility, thinking of your brother’s safety rather than your own. In a duel, to mark an opponent’s face is considered the height of dishonor, being so easy a target… but one never lets the other’s dishonor discolor one’s own outlook. You are a woman with many enemies, you bear their scars openly—be advised, wear them like armor. Be proud that yours is the moral vantage, endure as a martyr would, and other men such as Robert’s friends will know that nothing they do can damage that armor. Scars fade, but it will withstand and serve you well.”
It wasn’t anything special—his fellow cadets would have scoffed at the sentiment and dismissed it as childish. But they were hardened men, not a young lady with so little experience with the world and its violence; she needed gentleness and encouragement, not a rousing call to arms. And no doubt his lack of experience was showing. Roxane… Roxane hadn’t needed such words in years… not since they were children playing among the bulrushes together. What did he know of that kind of naivete anymore? But it was still a lesson they had both learned so long ago, one that he still held to with so many years lining his face… and it seemed to do the trick. Clemence’s smile was a little more sincere as she looked back up at him. “You’re as eloquent in person as you are in the Gazette, Monsieur de Bergerac,” she said with another blush painting her cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Cyrano merely smiled in response and leaned beside her against the balcony to watch the patrons trickle back out the doors. Occasionally she would crane her neck to see a certain pod of half a dozen men or so, bantering boisterously among themselves and shoving each other in that way that only not-quite-boys can, making their way outside. He heard her breath catch as they stopped by the door, as if they were waiting for someone—her brother, no doubt—and she unexpectedly darted her hand out to squeeze his, which he let her after a moment’s surprise. Whatever it would take to calm her nerves—it was better than Ragueneau’s habit of nearly fainting when he’d endured more than he could take. It took the young pod about ten minutes to decide it wasn’t worth the wait and join the exiting stream, to which Clemence seemed to finally exhale and let go of Cyrano’s hand. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching up for her mask and peeling it away to reveal…
Well, well, well… this was an interesting turn of events. “My dear mademoiselle, you have deceived me. You might have mentioned that we had met before those ten years ago.”
This time she blushed even more furiously. “I didn’t think you would remember me, Monsieur.”
“Ah, but you do my memory a great disservice,” he retorted with an even broader smile. “The little guardian angel who offered me a month’s satisfaction in a single free dinner.” How fate loved a jest indeed—but this one he would welcome. “If you may think nothing of a moment’s boldness, dear child, you look no different now as you did then.”
Clemence laughed, a fuller and less timid sound. “I’ll accept being called a child this time, the way you say it. You’ve hardly aged a day yourself, Monsieur.”
“Oh, don’t lie so—you mar what might have been a flawless second impression.” Cyrano’s own expression was wry as he got to his feet, leaning on his cane as the floor momentarily spun under him. “Remember what I said about scars, wearing them with pride… I have cheated death many times and find myself no more handsome for the wear, but no less undefeated.”
“What happened?” She rushed forward to take his arm, but he shrunk from her as he drew himself upright. “They called you the Heroes of Arras, but I can’t imagine what must have happened…”
“A great deal happened,” he replied glibly. “In my own case, a stray cannonball sought an argument with my skull. Miraculously, my skull emerged victorious… and I stand before you now… more or less the same Cyrano de Bergerac who refused more than a handful from your table years ago.” Remembering her cloak on his arm, he unfurled it like a magician with his cape before draping it back around her shoulders.
“And thank God for it, too,” Clemence said, smiling up at him even as she busied herself with the ties of the cloak. “Or else you would not have been here to hide me from my own enemies.”
“A trifle, my dear Mademoiselle Voizin, a mere trifle. It is payment enough to finally know your name.” Lifting her hand, he kissed it as he would the hand of a princess, the same as he had a decade ago. “And now let me ask but one more thing of you before your brother spirits you away.”
“Anything you like—you have an hour of my time, Monsieur.”
“Allow me to buy us both dinner from the downstairs table. Think of it as repayment.”
“You don’t have to repay me for anything… but thank you.” And Le Bret was right—her eyes didn’t avoid him as she followed him back downstairs to pass another pleasant hour, and her smile never faded. Of all things that the Theatre de Bourgoyne had never altered in all this time, perhaps this was the best of them all.