Not Love

The Archdeacon did not love the girl; of that, he was certain. No, this was not love. Love required tenderness, genuine caring... and Claude Frollo held neither for the gypsy witch.

Rubbing the sparkling scarf absently between his elegant fingers, he wondered briefly if he was even capable of the emotion. His own brother he found weak, vulgar and utterly licentious, an annoyance to be dealt with only when necessary. And Quasimodo... although admittedly Frollo felt protective of the boy, the feeling was far from love.

Then there was the gypsy witch. When he thought about her, his heart beat faster and his mouth went dry and his mind crawled with unholy thoughts. He desired her with an animalistic passion, but of love there was none.

In fact, he hated her.

His soul was repelled by her vile ilk as a whole. Their dirty, heathen ways were repugnant to him and their very way of life was blasphemy personified. He had devoted his entire life to purifying the city from their sinful influence. Gypsies had no qualms about theft, murder, disrespecting authority both judicial and divine, promiscuity, adultery... Seduction.

The Archdeacon swallowed and glanced around the moonlit chamber. He smoothed his iron hair back, closing his eyes tightly as if the action could repell the violently lustful thoughts springing too readily to his mind.

"Lust..." The word was alien to him, as should have been the concept. It tasted dirty coming off his lips: that most damning emotion, that impure feeling that he had never experienced before in all his life, now consumed him with a hungry fervor to rival the greedy gates of Hell, trying always to corrupt the souls of the virtuous. The Archdeacon had never gone against his vows, but now realized he had never truly been tempted. The gypsy girl had lured him in and made a mockery of his virtue. The beautiful, cursed gypsy witch had ensnared his body despite the resistance of his mind.

Frollo had vowed to cleanse the city of their kind. And he would, by the holy Father, he would. Once he found the Court of Miracles...

A smile curled his thin lips as he thought of how he would punish the gypsies for their transgressions once they were captured. Imagining them all begging him for mercy, he imagined the speech he would give to the townspeople.

"Now at last are the heathen gypsies of Paris cast to the judgment of God, thrown upon His mercy with no chance of salvation save recantation! Their immortal souls corrupted with sin, they must be purified by sufferance to achieve redemption in the Lord's holy eyes!

"For decades I have fought their blasphemy in this city, and today they will repent their sins or burn forever alongside Lucifer!"

Well, something like that anyway. It was an excellent chance to remind the common people about the dangers of fraternizing with gypsies.

Yes, the gypsies would burn, but the witch... he could not kill her, at least not yet. Not until he got what he wanted.

He hated the way she had gotten under his skin and stayed there, slowly sucking at his resolve like a fat leech lodged within his body. His mind screamed that he was pure, not to commit this sin, but his cold eyes gave no hint to the turmoil inside him.

Then Archdeacon Frollo slowly knelt on the floor before his shrine to the Virgin Mary, entwining his thin fingers tightly.

"Beata Maria," he began, his voice cracking slightly, "You know I am a righteous man. I have dedicated myself to a life of virtue, serving the Lord and the people of this city in all ways imaginable. I have sacrificed all comforts for the glory of our heavenly Father. Always I have set others on the path to redemption, whether they would will it or not, and now my own immortal soul-" he coughed "-my immortal soul is at risk. I have been ...tempted sorely with ...pleasures of the flesh."

The words tasted awful in his mouth. He had to choke them out through his distaste. He was ashamed to admit his failing to the Saint Mary, and clutched his hands tighter. Realizing the scarf was still wrapped in his lean fingers, he growled and thrust it away from himself. It lay on the floor, blinking seductively at him in the moonlight. He bared his teeth and returned to the prayer, rage crescendoing in him.

"Maria, I call upon you to cleanse me of this debilitating lust! Destroy the gypsy witch, and let me be free again! Destroy her, or else let her be mine and mine alone!" he yelled, almost fevered in his shameful desire. The gypsy witch... He grabbed up the scarf and breathed its exotic aroma, ran his tongue along it-

"Minister Frollo?" a maid called tentatively from the doorway. "Did you call, my Lord? Only I thought I heard shouting..." She petered out uncertainly.

Face instantly rearranged to an unreadable coldness and scarf concealed in the sleeve of his cassock, the Archdeacon turned to face her.

"Thank you, no. Perhaps you are guilty of sin and being tormented by demons, Claire," he drawled condescendingly, voice radiating icy threat. "I think you ought to go to shrift tomorrow, don't you?"

Voice quiet and words casual, the maid still sensed the violence behind his demeanor of calm and shrunk back, eyes wide. "Yes, Sir. Of course I will, Minister." She curtseyed quickly and raced off.

Claude Frollo could not resist a slight smirk at the way the maid was frightened of his holy wrath. His authority in this city was unassailable, gypsy witch or no.

The archdeacon's thin lips spread into a wide smile as he thought of her. She would be his in the end.

"I can wait forever, my lovely gypsy," he purred to the sparkling scarf. "I will find you eventually."

The lust welled up in him again and he embraced it for a moment, allowed himself desire. But for all its intensity, it was desire.

And not love.

No, not love at all.