A Gypsy's Love
Bonjour! My name is Marie Trouillefou, and what you are now reading is the story of my lover, friend, and husband, Clopin, and I. Our story is, I must say, quite riveting- forbidden love, tragedy, and other things most people think only happen in fairy tales.
It all started about, oh, 3 months after the Notre Dame fiasco. Things were finally starting to return to normal except for the gypsies. There were more in the streets now, and they were becoming more outgoing since Frollo had died. But as I watched these people closely, I saw they were still plenty cautious about certain things, like the location of their home and, sometimes, their own names. I realized that even the source of anti-gypsies had been vanquished, there were still some of his supporters out there.
It was about this time I met Clopin, and that, dear readers, is where our story begins.
I was in downtown Paris, only a little ways from the cathedral. My mother, 2 younger sisters, and I were shopping when I noticed my sisters had disappeared. I sighed and said, "Mother- Madeline and Contessé are missing again. I'm going to go look for them." Mother said, "All right, but be careful Marie."
So I set off in search of Madeline and Contessé. Twin girls can be so mischievous, I thought. I have lots of younger siblings- 3 sisters, and 3 brothers. My father is a duke, so naturally, we were pretty well off. My mother is the daughter of a count, raised in the French countryside. Madeline and Tessa were a few years younger than me- I was 19- and the others were even younger.
I finally found them in front of Notre Dame, sitting by a gypsy's puppetry cart. I saw a man inside the cart, with a large purple hat, a red mask, and a multicolored jester-like outfit. He was holding a small puppet that looked just like him.
I stopped and stood by the twins. I'd seen this man before- he had hosted the Festival of Fools only weeks before. Now that I saw him closer up and not jumping all over the place, I noticed that the part of his face that wasn't covered by the mask was actually quite handsome. He told the twins' favorite story- the one about the bell ringer, Quasimodo. Madeline had told me about it before and raved about the ending, so we stayed a while and listened.
It really was a good story, and I was most impressed at the man's unbelievably high notes at the end. I wasn't even aware those notes were possible on a man's voice!
Afterward, I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. I leaned down to Madeline and Contessé and said, "Mother's waiting for you in the market."
They nodded in unison and sped off. I started to go after them, but couldn't help but turn around and walk over to the man's puppetry cart. He was putting away the Quasimodo and Frollo puppets and some scenery. I said, "Hello. That was quite a display."
He turned around to face me and chuckled.
"Thank you, miss…"
"Consteau. Marie Consteau." I said.
"Miss Consteau. Thank you." He repeated.
I smiled. "Your name?"
He said, "Clopin Trouillefou."
Before he could say anything else, I heard my mother shout, "Come along, Marie!"
I sighed. She almost always called for me at the wrong times. To save face, I said, "It was nice meeting you, Clopin." He nodded with a smile.
(Clopin took out the puppet again. It looked back at Marie, and Clopin said in puppet voice quietly, "She's pretty!" He looked down at the puppet, which looked back at him. Clopin said in normal voice even more quietly, "Yes… she is pretty. Even beautiful.")
We quickly became friends. It turned out that the difference in gender and status didn't make any difference in the fact that they had a lot in common; we both love music; we were good with young children; and once, he mentioned something about having a responsibility towards those he loved. Being the eldest, I could definitely relate to that, although I had no idea why he felt so.
One day, I was in the sitting room doing some needlework, when I heard my father slam the door to his study, holding my 7-year-old brother Péter angrily by the hand.
Oops.
With all the commotion caused by my other siblings, the nanny must have lost track of Péter and he had snuck into my father's study again. I put down my needlework and silently followed them to the nursery. My father began his usual you-are-unfit-to-entertain-my-children-and-if-this-happens-again-you-will-be-fired!! rampant.
The worst part was, all of it was true. Her idea of entertainment was reading them poetry- and not nursery rhymes. The poetry even I find quite boring, such as Homer's Odyssey.
That's when I got an idea. If she couldn't entertain my brothers and sisters, I knew someone who could…