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Fifteen years ago she surprised Cyrano by pointing out, almost laughing, that they were more alike than he thought.
Death and danger were nothing to be scared of on the search for one’s quest; and wasn’t he almost her brother? If she resembled him in this respect, it was only natural.
As she wanders through the rooms of the old summer house she retreated to, where they spent sun-filled days as children, she ponders now the stunned pain that seized her.
Loving someone from afar, for so long and without fail and without declaring himself, it was never the way Roxanne favoured, but it is one she understands. Heroes of romance would love this way should their love be unreturned.
Today she is the one realizing that in things of love, as well, she and Cyrano had more in common than she believed.
There were words, she acknowledges, palm brushing against the reeds. The wit she demanded and which came to him with so much ease, and the passion he never could repress that he lit in her.
They were both good liars, she thinks, looking over the seas of corn rippling with wind. They both lied because they loved, and love was the one great truth.
Roxane understands why Cyrano kept quiet; she thinks he knew she would.
She would not have forgiven him if he’d spoken and lived, and he wouldn’t have forgiven himself for breaking down; for making them both into a sordid, ill-fated item of gossip to be giggled at.
It is not a comfort, but there is strength to be found in the fact that though she didn’t know him in time, she knows him now for all eternities. And he knew her in return. Maybe it is not so surprising after all.
Love is a demanding king, and one doesn’t fight in the hope of winning.