~ The Sun of His Universe ~
In a featherbed with satin sheets and silk-covered down pillows, the greatest swordsman in all of France recovers from his bullet wound. He sleeps lightly and does not dream. But if he did dream, it would always be of her.
There is a knock at the door, which wakes him. “Who calls?” he cries to the door.
From without, he hears the unmistakable voice of the Hunchback. “Quasimodo. May I enter, Cyrano?”
“At once,” Cyrano answers with a tired smile.
As Quasimodo hobbles in, he carries a tray full of breads, cheeses, meats, and wine. The wart that had long displaced his left eye is missing, replaced by a faint scar left by Napoleon’s finest surgeon.
“Feeling better?” he asks, setting the tray on the bed.
“Yes, thank you.” Cyrano studies his friend with suspicion. “You…You heard me from behind the door, did you not?”
Quasimodo smiles shrewdly and pulls on his earlobes. “A gift…from our angelic friend.”
Cyrano laughs and winces in pain. “He gave you hearing and me life. It seems you received the better gift, for life does not seem worth living without—“
“You have a visitor!” Quasimodo declares, cutting him short.
“Oh?”
The Hunchback nods with restrained excitement. He hobbles back to the doorway, steps out into the hall, and ushers in the sun of Cyrano’s universe. She is a woman of the most perfect and well-formed beauty, with a kindly countenance that augments her exquisite looks. She wears an elegant dress and her honey-golden curls are done up in the latest fashion. With tears on her rosy cheeks, she runs and kneels at Cyrano’s bedside.
“Roxanne,” he says with quaking voice, taking her hand.
“Oh, my poor and courageous Cyrano!” she cries. “We are free! Napoleon has set us and all our friends free, all thanks to you.”
“Words are not a measure for my happiness,” he tells her with a tired smile. “It has been a long four years since the revolution claimed our freedom. I hope your prison cell did not wilt your spirit beyond reflourishing.”
Roxanne smiles bitter-sweetly. “I hardly noticed my cell at all, for I was too busy mourning my Christian. Oh, Cyrano, I miss him every day! Would that he had survived the war before that horrid Reign of Terror! I have decided to resign myself to a convent to mourn my late husband ‘til the end of my days.”
Cyrano places a reverent hand upon her damp cheek. “Oh, devoted saint. Oh, noblest of noble wives. Believe me when I say that I share in your loss of a love forever denied.”
Roxanne smiles down upon him like a spring morning’s first light and kisses him sisterly upon his brow.
Quasimodo looks at him in perplexed confusion. “Tell her,” he says silently with his crooked lips.
But Cyrano only quells his heart’s passion and comforts his lady in platonic silence.
Epilogue
In the First Consul’s office, Napoleon stares across his grand desk at the seated and subdued Josephine. On the desk rests the Iron Key and Iron Mask, mercifully emptied of the head it once contained. Napoleon studies his wife like a stretch of ragged landscape that he had only just reclaimed from his enemy. His gaze is cold, calculating, and eerily calm. Josephine can only manage to give him meek glances, so powerful is his stare.
After several minutes of this, he finally speaks. “Oh, my wretched Josephine, my false and unfaithful wife. What have I done to displease you?”
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away.
“Have I not given you every comfort and pleasure you’ve asked of me?”
“You have,” she answers, shrugging her porcelain shoulders.
“Then why did you betray me? Why did you leave me for that fallen king?”
Now, Josephine meets his eyes, and her gaze hardens and sharpens to match his own intensity.
“Because he would have made me a queen. Dare you chide me for such an ambition, to grow and excel to a height worthy of my potential? Did I not deserve it? Did you not call me a goddess-made-flesh when you wooed me? You are the greatest man I have ever known, husband. But even you could never make me Queen of France!”
Napoleon frowns and tucks his hand inside his jacket. He moves his gaze over to the Iron Mask on his desk. He picks it up and thinks for a moment while looking at the empty eye holes.
“My dear sweet love, I could never make you Queen of France. However…” He looks up at her, a dark smile on his lips. “I will make you Empress of Europe!”
-fin-
About the Author
Aaron Hollingsworth is not French, although he claims a bit of French ancestry on his mother’s side. He was born and raised near St. Louis, Missouri, a city named after the only canonized king of France. He has always wanted to write a romantic adventure without the romance. He encourages his readers to visit and like his Facebook pages “Aaron Hollingsworth-Science Fantasy Writer” and “Four Winds-One Storm”.
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