I don't know why, but (having gone back to the film a number of times in the past couple of weeks) I always feel bothered when it gets to the part of the "Court of Miracles" number when Clopin changes into his executioner's costume. The fact is, even if he is middle-aged, as it would seem, I just don't see how he could have any flab above his waistline, when he's so active and all. Never mind the fact that there's no evidence of it under his tunic at any time. Then yesterday I got to thinking about how he randomly pulls that little puppet of his out from his clothing during that same number, and call it intuition, call it a loopy, random idea, call it whatever you want, this idea came and lay down at my feet.

Copyright belongs to Disney and Victor Hugo.

Phoebus approaches Clopin's caravan, scratching his chin. The gypsy king is wiping some perspiration off the inside of his mask during his spare time. Phoebus, reaching the caravan, stops at the window and says, "Um, hello Clopin -"

"Ah, Captain! To what do I owe this pleasure?" Clopin inquires without looking up from his work.

"When are you ever going to start calling me by my name?" Phoebus frowns, but amiably.

Clopin chuckles. "If you want your future told, you must speak to Marguerite; it's not exactly my forte." He raises his eyes in the captains' direction, but otherwise his position remains the same.

"Very funny," Phoebus retorts. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something, if you don't mind."

Clopin breathes on his hand a bit after putting his handkerchief away, then leans back, his mask now resting on his chest. "Alright. Ask away!"

"Uh yes, well it's kind of a personal question, mind if I come in?" Phoebus starts to open the door on the side of the caravan.

"Yes I do," Clopin replies, hurriedly shutting it before the captain can enter. "If you're unable to ask through the window, perhaps you should wait till another time, or better yet, leave well enough alone!"

There are a number of ways Phoebus would like to respond to that snap, not all of which are pleasant on any scale. The problem is, Clopin's irksome tendency to be so stand-offish about "classified information" only serves to heighten one's curiosity, and it's impossible to be certain whether that's a deliberate side effect or not. It works nevertheless, and so Phoebus ultimately just resigns himself to speaking through the window again. "All right, fine," he sighs. "What I want to know is, how do you carry your puppets around so easily?"

Clopin's brow raises. Phoebus elaborates further. "You know what I mean, Clopin. I've seen you pull one or more puppets out of your clothes at random occasions, but they're completely invisible when they're beneath your clothes. How do you do it?"

Clopin looks blank for a moment, then he grins slyly. "Thinking about entering my trade, eh? I haven't exactly reached the age where an apprentice is worth considering, my friend."

"Forget it," Phoebus raises his hands in the air in submission, "I don't know why I even asked!"

As the captain walks away from the caravan, he suddenly feels a gloved hand pinch his shoulder, leading him over to the side of the caravan. Glancing around out of the corners of his eyes, Clopin whispers, "You're asking me to reveal one of my deepest secrets, Captain. Something I don't usually do, and even if I did let go this time, I'm not sure you could handle it."

Almost stupidly, Phoebus inquires, "Does that mean you are going to let go?"

"Shh… alright, if you insist. But not here. Come to the Court of Miracles and meet me in my tent this evening."

Clopin then reaches into the caravan through the window, pulls out his cloak and applies it to himself, then swishes it around himself and disappears. Having seen Clopin, Esmeralda, and a few other gypsies do that over the years, Phoebus reckons it'd be another nice trick to know the details behind, but he probably ought not to push his luck when Clopin's revealing things.

/

Things have come a long way for Phoebus since the first time he came down here. When it was first proven to the gypsies that he was worthy of their trust, it did not take long for their cold, suspicious stares to transform into the smiles of friends. Even the ones who keep watch in the catacombs, upon recognizing him, exchange warm greetings with him.

Even so, Phoebus always admittedly feels a couple steps out of place if and when he comes down here without his wife, but Zephyr's been having trouble with nightmares and wants his mother with him, so she's stayed behind.

Presently he reaches the tent which houses the gypsy king, when he's at home. He's about to call out to him, when Clopin's lithe figure springs out cheerfully, announcing, "Well, well, if it isn't my good friend, the Captain of the guards!" He takes a moment to laugh so much over that statement Phoebus wonders how his spine doesn't snap in half. "Now then," Clopin goes on, slapping the blonde on the back, "What can I do for you?"

He didn't forget, did he? Well, this is sure to make things awkward. "Um, you remember this afternoon, at your caravan?"

Clopin scratches his chin, furrowing his brow, as he glances over at his shoulder. Then his face brightens, "Mais oui! You wanted to know how I keep my puppets on me without distorting my figure! You know, I must have fallen asleep waiting for you to show up here for that."

Clopin showed absolutely zero signs of having been asleep when Phoebus arrived, so he doesn't know how much credibility can be lent to that comment. "So… about the puppets?"

"Yes, of course, of course, the puppets," Clopin says, shaking his hand as if to say, "Patience, now." Glancing around them again, he leads the captain inside his tent, making sure the entrance is fully closed. "Now then," he turns around and smiles, "What were you asking again?"

"Clopin," Phoebus groans.

"A joke, mon ami, simply a joke. I've got more, but I can see you're not in the mood," he frowns, apparently disappointed by that. "Very well then, I'll get to the point. How do I hide the bulk of my puppets on me?" With a clap of his hands, everything in the tent darkens to pitch black, save for the golden-orange glow set off by a small candle near the bed. Standing in this light, Clopin whisks his tunic off and tosses it aside, asking Phoebus, "Tell me, Captain, what do you see?"

Phoebus gulps nervously. It's not escaped him that Clopin has at any rate begun the process of shedding his clothes, with no one but Phoebus present, in his tent. Clopin rolls his eyes. "It's nothing like what you're thinking, Captain. You wanted to know about the puppets and I'm showing you!"

"Uh, right, right," Phoebus mutters, shaking his head briefly.

"So, what do you see?" Clopin motions down his midriff.

"The gut of a middle-aged guy who doesn't get much exercise," Phoebus replies. It is a bit confusing, since nearly everything Clopin does seems to be exercise.

"Oui. Now you wouldn't think an acrobat like me would have all this, would you?" Clopin motions around his torso, just above his waistline.

"What does this have to do with puppets?"

Looking up at the captain again, Clopin crosses his arms and looks annoyed. "You have a real problem with interrupting, you know."

"Sorry," Phoebus holds his hands up submissively again.

"Anyway, as for the puppets, you're looking at their storage unit right now." The gypsy king grins in a way made eerie by the lighting.

"I beg your pardon?" Phoebus blinks.

Clopin rolls his eyes again. "I gather you want me to show you every step of the way. Alright, here!" Phoebus' jaw drops as Clopin reaches into his stomach, via a pouch of sorts the captain had not previously seen, and draws out the puppet that looks like him. Phoebus stands there, looking catatonic, so he breaks the silence by making his puppet say, "Gee, Clopin, it's so dark in there! Can't you give me a match next time?"

Phoebus continues to stare in fright as Clopin draws the stick he uses to whack the puppet out of his stomach as well. "Non! I do not wish to be burned from the inside out!"

"Forgot," the puppet submits, shrugging.

Turning back to his terrified guest, Clopin smirks and asks if he would like to see everything else he keeps in there. Phoebus responds with a grossly effeminate squeak, which causes Clopin to laugh his head off - after this it wouldn't be too surprising if that could happen literally.

"You know, you're anything but a lyrical tenor, Captain!" Clopin wipes a few stray tears from his eyes, then turns serious. "But remember now, what you have just seen here," Clopin approaches Phoebus ominously, "never leaves this tent. Understood?"

Silently, Phoebus nods as if commanded to in a hypnotic state. Clopin smiles, twirls around, and in a flash everything is as it was when the captain came in earlier. "Now get out, if you please," Clopin shoos his guest away with his hand. "I want to get ready for bed, and I don't want anyone seeing that!"

Squeaking unnaturally again, Phoebus tips his hat and backs out of the tent.

"Trois, deux, un…" Clopin counts with his fingers. As he expected, Phoebus can suddenly be heard screaming his head off, waking up the gypsies who'd retired for the night and alarming those who were still up and about. Peering out of his tent, Clopin watches with amusement as the captain blurts out to everyone about the "marsupial" they have for a king. Reaching into his tunic, he pulls his favourite puppet out again.

"So that's why you don't tell people like him anything important?" The puppet asks.

Clopin laughs. "Oui."

/

"Marsupial! MARSUPIAL!" Phoebus yells, his head springing up from the table.

"Phoebus, what are you screaming about?" Esmeralda asks, staring at her husband.

Confused, Phoebus looks at everyone sitting at the table around him. His wife, Esmeralda; his giggling son, Zephyr, seated on the lap of…

"YOU!" Phoebus jumps up from the table, pointing an accusing finger at Clopin.

"Me?" Clopin asks innocently.

"What are you doing here?!"

"I invited Clopin over for breakfast today, remember?" Esmeralda says.

Phoebus' mind begins to clear. He realizes there are a more than a few unusual circumstances afoot. "Then, what was I -"

"You fell asleep, Phoebus," Esmeralda frowns, then softens her expression as she shakes her head. "I told you you've been working too hard, dear."

Deciding it was all just a weird dream his mind concocted to "escape" the stress of work, Phoebus sighs, then proceeds with his unfinished porridge. He glances up apologetically at Clopin, who just shrugs, then delivers him a knowing wink.

"Phoebus, what's the matter?" Esmeralda looks worriedly at her husband, for he has now frozen in place, porridge-laden spoon half-raised to his mouth, wide-eyed in shock.

The End.

AN: Hmmm… I wonder if I may be on to something here. If this could somehow be proven to be true, wouldn't it be neat to see what other secrets about the gypsy king could be uncovered simply by looking at the subtle clues onscreen? Then again, would we really want to know them?

I don't know if people in fifteenth century Paris would have known about marsupials or not, seeing as most marsupials are from Australia, and I don't actually know if there are any to be found in France or anywhere in Europe, for that matter. Still, when you see a guy reach into a pouch in his body and show you what he stores in there, what would you call it?