Impossible though it may have previously seemed, Mademoiselle Géle was even more dedicated to her charge than the old maid she had replaced. She insisted on accompanying Princess Roxanne day and night: sleeping on a bunk beside her bed, sitting beside her at every meal, even standing and waiting for her outside of the water closet as she made her toilette.
She was a woman of few words, and a cold conversationalist, rarely offering more than basic greetings to either her mistress or those in the Lunar Court. Instead, she seemed intensely focused on her diary – carrying it around with her everywhere, and scribbling in its pages frantically every few moments.
One week after Madame des Nuages' departure, Roxanne was growing ever keener on getting to know her new paramour. Her interest was certainly matched, as romantic letters and poems were being slipped under her chamber door every morning. Much to her chagrin, Mademoiselle Géle always snatched these up first – skimming them over before passing them on.
"To check for anything unbecoming," she claimed.
The maid's ceaseless surveillance wasn't the only fly in the love potion. As much as she cared for her dear friend Cyrano, it was hard for Roxanne to truly court the Count des Étoiles when the Prince sat with them at every meal. Not to mention that he seemed to constantly demand the young Count's company himself, almost as though he were a love rival.
With her patience wearing thin, Roxanne decided to do away with the passive manner expected of a princess' courtship, and to take the bull by the horns. That evening, she rushed to the Dining Room as fast as her slippered feet could carry her – briefly escaping her guardian, and, thank the shining sunlight, arriving in a fateful moment where the Count des Étoiles was there waiting, but Prince Cyrano had yet to arrive.
With little time to lose, she approached Christian, and bade him to join her for a walk in the Lunar Palace gardens the following afternoon: choosing an hour when she knew Cyrano would be practising his duelling. Her directness seemed to leave the young noble unusually lost for words: flustering and flailing, stammering and stalling as he struggled to string together a spoken reply, until at last, he simply nodded eagerly at her suggestion.
"Please, don't tell His Highness," Roxanne added.
The nodding continued... and Christian dutifully held his tongue throughout the meal and beyond, barely even speaking to his master as he helped him to bed, and then lying awake for hours in his own: delighting in his little secret, and excited for what the next day would bring.
As Christian crossed over luscious lawns the following midday, he was blinded by two suns: both the celestial orb, ruling over the world below from its highest point, and the golden glow of his beloved, awaiting him on the paved pathway. The princess greeted him with a grin, but he noticed that her expression was strained... no doubt due to the fact that her mysterious new maid was beside her yet again, practically breathing down her neck.
"You look... nice," Christian managed to squawk out after a few moments of mindless adoration.
Roxanne blinked, puzzled - leaving a pause for more words of flattery, but none were forthcoming.
"Why... thank you, my dear Christian," she replied, still touched by the compliment in spite of its brevity. "And you look as handsome as ever. Shall we?"
As they set out on their amorous amble, Roxanne offered Christian her arm, and he dutifully slid his own through it, guiding her along.
A princess! Him, a common servant, linking arms with a princess! His father would never believe it!
And, if Prince Cyrano's cunning scheme went as planned, this would only be the start...
The tender moment was ruined somewhat when Mademoiselle Géle, uninvited and unprompted, immediately did the same thing on the princess' opposite side... but the lovers thought it best to ignore her.
As they strolled past blossoming apple trees, sapphire blue ponds and skilfully shorn topiaries, Roxanne swiftly realised that she was the one leading the conversation. She would ask all the questions, and Christian would answer obediently, rarely saying more than a single word in response.
No loving words. No witticisms. He hadn't once offered a contrary opinion, or even suggested a different subject of discussion. In fact, he appeared to be quite nervous now he was alone in her presence.
This wasn't right. Where was the passionate poet that had won her heart?
"I've... I've adored reading your compositions in the mornings," she remarked.
"Compositions?" Christian replied, confused by the word - until he suddenly realised what she was referring to. "Oh... yes. The poems. I'm so glad you like them. And they were all inspired by you, Your Highness."
"Roxanne."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You may call me "Roxanne"," the princess explained. "After all, we are courting each other now. There is no need to be overly formal any more."
"Of course... Roxanne."
Christian found the name came to his lips very naturally. Simply saying it made him want to pucker up for a kiss. However, before he had a chance to explore that sensation any further, his ears pricked up at the toll of the palace clock bells chiming one.
"Sweet moon shimmer! You must excuse me, Your Highness... I mean, Roxanne... I mean - !"
"Christian, what's wrong?"
"I have to go!" came the flustered response. "I promised to meet with Prince Cyrano at one 'o clock!"
"Can't he wait?" Roxanne asked, aggrieved. "I'm sure he would understand if you explained you were with me."
"No, he order – I mean, he asked me to – I'm sorry, but, I must go!"
Before Roxanne could object any further, the Count des Étoiles was already sprinting back towards the palace. Sighing, she took a seat on a nearby marble bench, and as expected, Mademoiselle Géle joined her – scooching up a little too close for comfort, with her voice little more than a whisper.
"Strange behaviour indeed, Your Highness," she scoffed. "It hardly seems becoming for one of his... breeding."
"He is nervous, that's all," Roxanne replied, matter-of-factly. "I suppose I did suggest courtship a little soon. But those poems, Mademoiselle! He expresses such love in his writing! Perhaps, for him, the pen succeeds where the voice fails?"
"Perhaps," Mademoiselle Géle mock-conceded. "Still, it's bizarre how often he rushes back to Prince Cyrano, like a loyal little lapdog."
"He is a true vassal to his lord," Roxanne stated. "One would hope that everyone in a court is loyal to their leaders, and that they work towards their happiness."
She stared at the maid suspiciously, increasingly irked by her presence.
"Do you not agree, Mademoiselle Géle?"
The ice-cool demeanour didn't crack.
"Of course, Your Highness. I myself wish only to serve you faithfully."
"I'm pleased to hear that," Roxanne said – her tone more flat than flattered. "Come... I wish to visit the library."
As the princess ventured back up the stony walkway, Mademoiselle Géle lingered a few steps behind – furiously filling page after page in her diary all the way back to the Lunar Palace.
"One, two, three, and one, two, three… Christian, if you step on my foot again, you'll spend this evening shining my shoes."
"Sorry, my lord."
Poetic speech, it seemed, was far from the only noble trait that Christian lacked. Here in the Palace Ballroom, as Prince Cyrano basically dragged him around the floor, his hands and feet flailed like an erratic octopus, lacking both rhythm and refinement.
"If you can learn to duel, you can learn to dance," Cyrano insisted.
"I'm not really good at either, my lord."
"Well, we must persevere with both. As the princess' future betrothed, you'll be expected to dance with her at the Ball. You must make an impression on the Solar King and Queen… and not for the wrong reasons."
Christian didn't know how much more of this he could take. Pressure was bubbling up inside him like a cooking pot on the hearth. He was quite content with his life as a valet – household tasks were hardly a hindrance to him. But duelling? Dancing? These were skills in a different league altogether, and even with his complete lack of natural talent, there was too little time left for anyone in his position to truly master them.
After yet another misstep, Christian slipped away from his liege, and fell into a crumpled heap on the polished floor. Cyrano groaned, annoyed - then drew a deep breath to compose himself.
"Let's take a break," he concluded, seating himself on a plush chaise longue, as Christian scrambled to his feet, hanging his head.
"My lord?" Christian said timidly. "I've been thinking."
"How unusual for you."
The servant's wounded expression instantly filled Cyrano with regret.
"I'm sorry," he continued, relenting. "I'm just… frustrated. We are running out of time, and I want everything to be perfect for my dear Roxanne. What were you going to say?"
"I… I don't think I can do this any more."
Cyrano sat up sharply, as though he'd been struck by a lightning bolt.
"What? Christian, you must! You surely don't want the princess to marry that boorish Baron, do you?"
"Of course not! It's just that… well, I met with Princess Roxanne in secret this afternoon…"
"You did what?!"
His hand trembling, Cyrano desperately fought the instinct to draw his sword.
"Nothing happened!" Christian insisted. "Her maid was there! She just… asked to see me alone. Away from you. She… said it was hard to have a true courtship when you're always with us."
The remark wounded the Prince deeply, but he had to concede it was a fair point. After all, Christian and Roxanne would soon be married, and then…
It was the perfect happy ending. Well, for everybody but him. He was orchestrating it, and yet, he still couldn't bear to think of it.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
"Well, when I was alone with the Princess, I could hardly say a word," Christian explained. "I'm not a poet, my lord, let alone a Count. I'm not creative or clever, like you. I'm just a servant without any proper schooling. The man she loves is your creation. Once we're away from you, all of my charms will disappear. I'll be speechless. Powerless. She'll be married to a fraud."
"The words will come, Christian!" Cyrano stated confidently. "Just give them more time, and…"
"We don't have time, my lord. You yourself said so."
Cyrano racked his brains, desperate to find a solution.
"I could send you letters after the wedding," he posited. "Once you're in the Solar Palace, or the Polaris Palace, wherever you two end up. Notes. Prompts, telling you what to say…"
"With respect, my lord," Christian responded shyly, "that's madness. We can't keep doing this forever - have me keep copying down your… "compostitories"…"
"You mean "compositions"."
"Yes, my lord, those. It wouldn't be fair."
Cyrano sighed - pinching the sharp nose of his velvet mask.
"I know you're right," he admitted. "But, by the blessed moon, what can we do?"
Christian took a seat beside his master. Timidly, he reached out to place a hand on the Prince's shoulder, expecting him to shrug it off hastily. Instead, Cyrano let the hand hang there without protest: seemingly grateful for the supportive gesture.
"I think we should tell Roxanne the truth, my lord," Christian suggested gently.
"No," was Cyrano's rock-solid response. "No. Never. I refuse to embarrass her."
"So... you're going to let me do that at the Ball, instead?"
Cyrano chuckled. From the way the dancing lessons were going, both Christian and Roxanne would wind up in a puffy-dressed, powder-blue-suited pile in front of both the Lunar and Solar Courts.
"I mean it, my lord," Christian continued. "It is the letters she loves. You that she loves. You must tell her the truth, before it's too late."
A small, squeak-like sound reached Christian's ears.
A sob? Was Prince Cyrano, master of many talents, future ruler of the Moon Realm, crying before his servant?
"She saw me unmasked once before," Cyrano explained. "Back when we were children. She stared at me in sheer revulsion. I still see her stare, in my nightmares. That's why I can never be with her. Never marry her, and unite our kingdoms, as so many people would wish. As I would wish. It is a dream I dare not have any more."
"Forgive me, my lord, but…well, magic exists. If your no – I mean, if your appearance causes you such pain, why not have it altered?"
"Believe me, I have tried that," Cyrano said, almost laughing. "Every sorcerer in the land has seen this foul beak of mine in private, under cover of darkness. But nothing can be done. It's all down to my fairy godmother – the Solar Queen. When I was but a babe, she told my mother that I would only find true love when I am treasured for my soul in spite of my appearance – and, as it would seem, render it impossible for anything to change my horrendous appendage."
He sniffed.
Another sob stifled, perhaps?
"But what she said will never happen," Cyrano went on, flatly. "What pleases the eye pleases the heart. My vile nose pleases no-one, least of all myself. And so, I will never be loved."
He paused again - his hands clenching and opening as they lay in his lap. Christian, not knowing what to say, said nothing. The sad silence hung around them heavily for a few moments, until Cyrano suddenly slapped his knees, jumping to his feet.
"And that is why we must persevere with our plan," he insisted, his voice taking on a jovial tone. "I'll find a long-term solution, Christian. I'm bound to come up with something before the Ball. Poetry classes with you in the evenings, perhaps? But, for now… shall we return to the waltz?"
Christian obediently took hold of his master's outstretched hands, and allowed himself to be whirled around the room once more.
The slips, squeaks and stomps of his shoes provided the perfect camouflage for the footsteps fleeing away through the halls.