A/N Soo...this is a fanfic based around Cyrano by Geraldine McCaughrean...which in turn is based off a play in French. I think McCaughrean changed quite alot in the rewrite though, so those of you who've studied the original might find it a bit different. Anyway, this is set after Cyrano's death, at the funeral.
"Mademoiselle Robineau," greeted leBret, touching his hat.
"Monsieur le Bret," said Roxane softly, from beneath her dark mourning veil.
"I wish it were under a happier circumstance," replied le Bret, taking her arm as they walked towards the graveyard.
He spotted a faimiliar bulk at the graveside.
"de Guiche is here," he informed Roxane.
"We are honoured to have him in our presence," said Roxane, bland, the bitterness barely even present in her voice.
"I expect he'll have a speech to make," said le Bret, eyeing the comte with suspicion as they arrived by the grave, the coffin suspended over a hole in front of them.
"I do not care," said Roxane defiantly, her grip on le Bret's arm iron strong, "I am here for Cyrano alone."
"And I too," assured le Bret as the priest began to speak, Latin words that blended into one continuous chant.
It was not a large gathering, reflected le Bret. Many had come for the service, but the decision had been made that only those closest to Cyrano would attend the graveside- what was left of his cadets, Roxane, le Bret, Rageneau, the sisters from the convent and some friends from his childhood. It seemed he was not close to those he had become acquainted with after the Siege at Arras and his subsequent injury, although many had attended the service.
Thus, the final gathering was very small. le Bret could only assume it had taken all of de Guiche's considerable social clout to allow him to attend, and even with his enormous bulk by the graveside it was still sparse in its population.
"Not very Cyrano at all," murmured le Bret.
"H-he did like a good s-show-" managed Roxane before dissolving into a spasm of tears.
le Bret drew her closer, watching in silence as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
The crowd began to disperse, awkward small talk arising as they left the graveside. le Bret noticed the gravediggers waiting by with their spades.
"Let's take a walk, Madame," he said quietly, steering her away from the impatient soil turners.
Eventually, they found a small bench, not so far away from Cyrano's grave. Roxane drew back her veil.
"It seems absurd," remarked le Bret, "that we were two of the people closest to Cyrano in his life, and yet it seems we know very little about him."
"Only of his love for me," added Roxane, her eyes shining opaque, "and to think, I was sure for so long that all there was to him was what everyone saw, his panache, and yet-"
"So much lay underneath," finished le Bret, "he was a noble man, that's sure."
"Or a fool, perhaps. If he'd only explained from the beginning they were his letters, that he wrote them...perhaps-" Roxane trailed off, unsure.
"Perhaps not, Mademoiselle. Think for a second - imagine Cyrano as you knew him all those years ago. Your love for Neuvillette aside...if Cyrano had confessed his love for you, what would your instinctive thoughts have been?" asked leBret, curious.
"That-" said Roxane slowly, "that I could love him as my dearest cousin, a brother in spirit, a father figure and my best friend all in one but not...a lover. Not a lover, no. Oh, le Bret, why must I be so shallow?" she cried, disgusted at herself.
"Not shallow, Roxane!" said le Bret, "it isn't that monstrous nose of his that would have prevented you from marrying him."
"Then what?" asked Roxane, perplexed.
For the first time in a long while, le Bret laughed.
"Who can tell? It is that mysterious quantity love, that which can neither be defined or predicted but actsas though the wind, across all of France, twisting, and turning without plan or premeditation. Simply, Roxane, you and he were just not destined to be together."
Roxane bit her lip.
"Perhaps you are right," she conceded, turning to watch the sun set, wrapped in its robe of orange light, "either way, he was my closest friend and only visitor for over 15 years. I have much to thank him for."
"Indeed," said le Bret, "a noble soul. Will you be lonely now he is gone?"
"Exceedingly," said Roxane softly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Perhaps I could visit, from time to time?" suggested le Bret lightly.
Roxane tore her eyes from the skyline.
"I will not fall in love again, Monsieur le Bret," she warned him.
"Nor would I want to you to!" said le Bret, minorly horrified, "but perhaps you will enjoy my company?"
Roxane nodded silently.
le Bret smiled.
"Come, my lady. Paris is no place to be after dark."
Together they rose from the bench and headed away from the graveyard.
The atmosphere stirred, shaking early spring blossom from the tree above Cyrano's grave. It danced gracefull across the soil and settled, bit by bit, like snow on the fresh soil. The breeze stirred again, stronger this time, and as the sun sank below the horizon it seemed to whisper one word, over and over again.
Panache, it called, caressing the gravestones in the lonely churchyard, panache.
Anyone reminded of Moulin Rouge when le Bret was soliloquising about love?
Probably just me.