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They talk of him as an annoyance. That soldier, they say, with an ego the size of the moon, the cousin of poor unfortunate Magdaleine Robin, a noble by birth and nuisance by choice. There are many who would say as much to his face, had they the courage of a king's papillon growling at its reflection in a mirror.
But to you! To you he is a warrior poet, a tragic hero, a martyr of his art... but you lack the words to properly describe him. You are not a poet, nor are you a hero. You are a viscount and nothing more.
It is a reflection of the strength of De Guiche's love, they say, that he would marry Roxane despite her irritating cousin, for you cannot have Roxane without also having Cyrano. He is a nuisance, De Guiche says in return. Nothing more.
Nothing more? Perhaps nothing more noble, nothing more steadfast, nothing more fascinating...
You have seen him at the Hotel de Bourgogne, at times lost amongst the crowd and at times making his presence known to everyone in France. He is loud and brash, berating the actors he deems unworthy of so hallowed a stage and once, only once, defending a tearful young Agnés ill-prepared for the rowdy audience at an otherwise dull performance of L'école des femmes. He is silent, identifiable in the fray below De Guiche's booth only by that white plume tucked into his hat and swept across his chest as he listens, rapt, to a certain verse or watches his cousin's box. There is a yearning there, so strong it seems impossible that no one else has felt it. He loves her, moreso than even De Guiche believes.
That yearning stings at your heart for reasons you don't dare seek.
Don't you? He is fearless, and you, fearful. An insult to him, you think. But what can you do? Fawn over him as the impressionable milk-maids do? Throw yourself upon him and forswear everything you own if only he would glance your way for a moment? No. There are few ways for men such as you to meet men such as he.
You borrow a fraction of his courage and make discreet inquiries. Does he have a patron? He does not, just as you suspected. And, as you feared, he will never have one. His pride is too great. He has said over and again that his back will never bend to another, that he cannot creep and cringe and genuflect to a patron. There is a line you cannot hope to reproduce, something like, be contented with flowers, but pick them from your own garden. Everything about you is something he hates. He shall never turn his gaze toward you except in distaste.
Let it be so.
On the night of Montfleury's return to the stage you attend to De Guiche, knowing full well the play will not go on. And when the voice calls out, sly and sardonic, "Wretch! Have I not forbade you to perform these three weeks?" you feign confusion. Who would dare interrupt De Candale's own player? Who would be so foolish, so bold, so breathtakingly honest?
Cyrano!
He perches on the edge of a box, sword at his side, and says snidely, "Then I enter with knife to carve this Italian sausage."
The crowd will not tolerate this. Those on the floor roil like the ocean under dark skies and boo and hiss in return, coming close before retreating at the sight of his blade. He hates their cowardice, a sin worse than any almost--almost--any other.
"And I offer one universal challenge to you all!" he shouts, leaping atop a chair to be seen by all. "Approach, young heroes--I will take your names! Each in his turn--no crowding. Who will head the list? You, sir? No. You? Ah, no. To the first man who falls I'll build a monument!"
Your left hand itches to rise. To be near to him, even at swordpoint... what joy! Yet you stay your hand. Perhaps you are not so foolish after all. And yet...
And yet when he accepts no challengers and returns to bullying poor stupid Montfleury, you feel an emptiness. Your chance has gone.
Beside you De Guiche bristles; though he is not Montfleury's patron he has a fondness for that round little man, and Baro is one of his favorite poets. On his other side Roxane smiles into her fan. You try to summon her fondness. 'Tis better to see the master at work than not to see him at all, is it not?
Despite the protests of Montfleury and the audience, the play is closed. Bellerose protests--surely the crowd will demand its money returned--and what then?
"I will not wound the mantle of the Muse," Cyrano tells him, and throws him a purse. What a gesture! What a wit!
"Sir," Bellerose returns, "under these terms you are invited to close our play every night."
De Guiche gathers the Marquis about him, making to leave, and reluctantly you join him. Down below Cyrano dresses down a meddler who slights his nose, and De Guiche sighs.
"Presently this fellow will grow tiresome," he says.
And you, you witless thing, you return, "Oh, he blows his trumpet."
And beyond Cyrano bristles.
"Well, will no one interfere?" De Guiche looks around the theatre, and no, none will.
None will, but he is there, there to be seen and perhaps more? Is that not the impetus for which you have searched?
"I myself will proceed to put him in his place," you say.
The heavens above grow still as you cross the floor to that ragged swordspoet, every inch of your too-ornate clothing sharp against your skin. Cyrano does not look at you.
"Your nose," you say, coughing, searching yourself for some semblance of wit. "Your nose is rather large!"
"Rather," he says. His stony grey eyes betray nothing. "Is that all?"
You fool. To think you could have but an eighth of his elegance with words! You watch as if outside your own mortal shell as he demonstrates to you a dozen different witticisms you could have employed--"Hark, the horn of Roland calls to summon Charlemagne!"--and you know that he knows you now as a supercilious bumpkin, a fool, a--
No. You draw your sword.
As awkward a gesture as you have made, his eyes shine like the sun when you do.
"So be it," he says. "You will die exquisitely."
"A poet," you say over your shoulder. De Guiche does not respond.
"Why, yes, a poet, if you will." Cyrano strokes his own sword with a faint, fond smile. "So while we fence, I'll make you a Ballade Extempore. I'll compose while I fight with you, and at the end of the refrain--thrust home."
"Will you?" you ask.
He bows slightly. "I will."
So be it, then. He will kill you--and you have no doubt that he will--but you will see the master in action, near enough to breathe the same air, close enough to touch. You will be with him if only for three stanzas of eight lines each and a refrain of four.
He coughs. "Ballade of the duel at the Hotel de Bourgogne Between de Bergerac and a Barbarian."
A title. It isn't hard to extrapolate his meaning. He closes his eyes for a rapturous moment, choosing his rhymes, then opens them again and stares into your soul.
"Lightly I toss my hat away," he says, doing the same, "languidly over my arm let fall/The cloak that covers my bright array/Then out swords, and to work withal!" His smile shines on you like the sun, bright and burning. "A Launcelot, in his lady's hall/A Spartacus, at the Hippodrome!/I dally awhile with you, dear jackal/Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home."
His sword reaches out to meet yours. Steel meets steel, and the fight is on.
He fights as he rhymes--as easily as breathing. From one side of the great hall to the other, with a clatter of steel, the two of you dance. He's near, so near, so close that you fancy you can hear the beat of his heart in the air between you. He backs you to the wall and whips his sword's tip over your too-ornate clothing.
"Where shall I skewer my peacock? Nay/Better for you to have shunned this brawl!/Here, in the heart, through your ribbons gay?/In the belly, under your silken shawl?/Hark, how the steel rings musical/Mark how my point floats, light as the foam/Ready to drive you back to the wall/Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home!"
You rally to have him so near, backing him as if he did not expect such enthusiasm from you. Every volley he gives you offer back in cold steel, so pleased with yourself that it never occurs to you that he is indulging you. Not until he breaks each strike, thrusting himself forward as if in playful intimidation.
"Ho, for a rime!/You are white as whey," he all but sings. "You break, you cower, you cringe, you... crawl!/Tac! And I parry your last essay/So may the turn of a hand forestall/Life with its honey, death with its gall/So may the turn of my fancy roam/Free, for a time, till the rimes recall/Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home!"
He pauses. This is your moment. If you were to strike perhaps you could wound him. Perhaps he would parry again. It matters not. You can only stand, staring in awe as he announces solemnly:
"Refrain." He raises his sword heavenward. "Prince! Pray God, that is Lord of all/Pardon your soul, for your time has come!/Beat--pass--fling you aslant, asprawl/Then, as I end the refrain..." And he strikes. His steel is so sharp you barely feel it pierce between your ribs. All you can do is stand, staring in wonder as his lunge brings him near enough to smell the wine on his breath. You barely understand as your legs collapse beneath you. Only your friends' arms keep your body from striking the floor. Breathless, Cyrano pulls back and salutes. "...Thrust home!"
As the arms of your friends carry you away your eyes never stray from his face. He stands, his head held high, as his own friends, officers, rally around him, but his eyes stay with yours. There is a moment of understanding, or perhaps it is your last delusions. Perhaps he knows what it is to have an impossible love.
Either way, you will die tonight, happy.