Prologue: Les cloches de Notre Dame
Seven times rung the bells. Seven times sung the bells.
Morning in Paris,
the city awakes
to the bells of Notre Dame.
Walking down the the Pont d'Arcole, a peasant boy made his way to the boulanger, four deniers in his pocket. He was to buy three baguettes, to last the day for maman, papa, tante Celestine, grand-mère, as his seven p'tit frères. The boy's mouth watered at the thought of blancmange and sugared almonds and baked pears. Yet, he knew papa would hit him were he to return without the day's bread, and one spare coin could buy him no sweets but for quince. Quince pleased not the boy's palate.
Down the Pont d'Arcole the boy walked. Down the Pont was the Rue, down the Rue, Notre Dame. Down the Rue, echoed a voice, clear as the bells.
The fisherman fishes,
the bakerman bakes,
to the bells of Notre Dame.
The voice had a strange and haunting timbre: the low notes rich, warm, lachrymose - the highs resonant and clarion bright. The chiaroscuro of this voice echoed that of the bells. Such a voice, the boy supposed, had to belong to a youth some five years older than himself.
To the big bells
as loud as the thunder.
To the little bells,
soft as a psalm.
What did this mysterious bard look like, the boy wondered? The boy dreamed him fair-haired and fancily dressed, some nobleman who had abandoned courtly life to woo his beloved with tales of princesses and dragons, of treacherous villains and knights in shining armor. The troubadour's ladylove would have skin of ivory, eyes of sapphire, lips of ruby, and hair of gold. Though it couldn't have been easy to woo a beauty such as she, the maiden fair must have been smitten by the bard's weeping lute and gentle tenor.
And some say the soul
of the city's the toll
of the bells,
the bells of Notre Dame.
To the boy's surprise, the bard's clothes were nearly rags. He was clad in a heavy cloak, his features obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. From the calloused brown hands picking at the lute's strings and long dark tresses hastily tied behind his back, the boy gathered - the bard was no Frenchman, but a gitan.
Beside the bard sat a white goat that ought to have been turned into stew many moons ago: the poor thing's ribs jutted out and its fur was matted and mangy. The goat affectionately nuzzled its head against its owner's lap.
The Romani bard took off his hat and left it at his feet, as if to incite passersby to drop a coin.
The boy looked upon the bohemian's face and saw he had once more been mistaken, for she was in fact a woman clad in men's garb.
The woman was no longer young, not yet old. Her dark hair was grayed around the temples; her dark eyes were lined with weariness.
The woman noticed the boy's stare, and grinned at him knowingly. Setting aside her lute, she signaled towards Notre Dame.
"Listen. They're beautiful, no? So many colors of sound," the woman's voice fell and rose as if still in song, "so many changing moods."
The boy narrowed his eyes. Inside his pocket, he clutched the four deniers mother had given him. Her kind approached only when they needed money, and he had none to spare.
"Maman said I mustn't speak to Gypsies."
"Ah, but you already are," said she, smiling wryly.
The boy did not return the smile, nor did he avert his gaze. He stood quietly, scrutinizing the woman's face. He noticed a gold ring upon her nose that did nothing but call attention to the fact her nose was slightly overlarge. Even in her youth, he imagined, the woman mustn't have been a great beauty.
"Did you ever hear the tale of the bellringer of Notre Dame? Hidden away, up there, high, high in the dark belltower?"
The boy looked away, for he knew her kind were not to be associated with. Yet curiosity burned within him. He had heard rumors of a horrible monster, of a beautiful dancer, of a city under siege. Yet each version of the story was so different that he did not know which one to believe, or if to believe at all.
He returned his gaze to the woman, and heeded not his mothers warning.
"I have heard rumors."
"Rumors are rarely to be believed."
"Do you know the real story?"
"Perhaps."
Knowingly, she smiled.
The boy paused. The woman was purposefully being evasive in order to pique his interest, this he knew. He did not want her to win.
... But he did want to hear her tale.
"Then," he said, accepting defeat, "will you tell me?"
The woman shook her head.
"It is no story for children's ears."
Her words wounded the boy's pride. Come the spring, he was to turn ten and three. He held the number as a true mark of manhood.
"I'm not a child," he protested.
A throaty chuckle emerged from the woman's throat.
"Very well. If you insist, chava," she said, laughing yet, "then I will tell you."
One, two, three, one, two, three, the woman strung upon her lute. The chords sung of danger ahead.
"But I must warn you: it is a terrible tale. A tale of a man…"
The woman's dark voice grew darker yet.
"…and a monster."
A/N: Most of the action will be delivered in a traditional fit format, but I will include the songs in script format after the relevant chapters. I have compiled lyrics from the movie, Glöckner, and the US stage productions, plus added some original lyrics of my own.
P.S. As a kid, I was fed quince sandwiches and found them disgusting. I much prefered "bocatas de chocolate" (a bar of chocolate on baguette).