In the darkened confines of a dank prison cell, a man sits reclined with his eyes closed. In his mind some tune is being played, a perfect record of a memory, each note preserved impeccably in a grand sequence of music. As a former patron of the arts, he had taken in many a play, opera, and concert. Those were the days when he displayed his white plume and bravery with equal panache. Those were the days when he could wear a sword as keen as his own wit. Those were the days he shall never see again. Or so he thinks.
He hears the footsteps draw near his cell. Trying to ignore them, he begins to conduct the music in his mind with his long, elegant hands.
“Monsieur De Bergerac,” the voice says.
“Not now!” he answers. “The concert is far yet from its crescendo. Bother me not!”
“I mean not to bother-“
“And yet you do!” the prisoner retorts, silencing his unseen visitor for a few more bars of melody.
“Monsieur De Bergerac, I am in the service of the Napoleonic Army,” the voice says with some measure of frustration.
The prisoner scoffs, not bothering to open his eyes. “Ha! Of that I was aware the second you approached my cell! The sound of your boots, that soulless mechanical rhythm of your gait! Such are the footfalls of a soldier who lacks style and soul.”
The visitor laughs. “Monsieur, you dare insult the man who would liberate you?”
At this moment, the concerto ends in the mind of the prisoner Cyrano De Bergerac. His eyes open, and he sits up to face the man on the other side of the iron bars. “Of what liberty do you speak, officer? My King is dead. My nobility in the eyes of the people, stripped. The people I once swore to defend with my last breath, they are mad with a myriad of ideas of liberty! I am already a free man, Monsieur Officer! For the only true liberty is the liberty of the mind!”
At this, the officer inclines his head and says “Touché, Monsieur. Bravo.”
Cyrano rolls his eyes at the visitor. “Touché you say! Ah, but if I had a sword I would impress upon you much more than a mere touch!”
“I’ve no doubt of that, Monsieur. Your skill with a blade is unmatched.”
“Not unlike your skill with flattery, Officer. What is it that you want?”
“To fulfill my task.”
“Which is?”
The officer produces a set of jailer’s keys. “To let you out of this dank hell, treat you to a good meal, fit you with new clothes and a sword of your choosing, and to bring you before my commander and First Consul.”
“Napoleon himself?”
“Indeed, Monsieur. He would have words with you about a delicate matter that you of all people would understand.”
“What matter?”
“A private one, between you, him, and two others who are presently being recruited by my fellow officers.”
He turns the key in the lock and opens the door. The prisoner emerges from his darkened confine, a fine specimen of a man, save for one feature: his nose. Tall, broad of shoulder, and narrow of hip, he walks with the gait of a warrior prince. His eyes reveal alert certainty and a heroic soul. Despite a prisoner’s existence, his hair and mustache are immaculately groomed. But his nose is so abnormally large and protruding that it draws all attention from his finer points.
“What are you looking at?” he asks the officer, his fierce eyes narrowing in suspicious accusation.