II: The Shadows of Thieves
In the silent hours of the morning, when the sun had yet to grace the world and when the birds had yet to soothe listening ears with a cheery song, Judge Frollo stood above the city of Paris, brooding in his private quarters. Glowering at the few individuals who greeted the first light with a yawn and a brisk stroll into the market, he pondered their destination. Taking a sip of wine from his goblet, allowing the rich, bitter taste to conquer his senses and rouse him, he imagined walking amongst the Parisians as they strolled through the labyrinthine streets. For he had imagined that they'd indirectly and unintentionally lead him to the root of that foul prose, one of which he deemed was written by that of a heathen, an outcast, a gypsy.
"The Cour de Miracles," he drawled before quickly taking another sip of wine as a means of rinsing his mouth from the vulgar words in which he spoke. It had been a rumor, a small piece of conversation passed through the cracks in brothels, that the Cour de Miracles was a thief's hideout; and though no Parisian had ever ventured inside the eerie melting pot of cut-purses and vagabonds, the rumor was spread nonetheless. However, Judge Frollo hadn't been one to dwell upon gossiping words, yet he believed that such a place existed.
As a boy, energetic and curious as any youngling would be, he'd depart to the stables and drag a tree branch along the dirt path he took as a means of marking his trail for his imaginary soldiers to follow. And when he'd arrive, quietly rounding a corner and discarding his branch within a heap of hay, he'd peer up at a solemn man who sat atop a dark horse,
"Father, where art thou going?"
"A questioning child is worse than disobedience. However, such disobedience will be vanquished today—be proud of your father, boy, the Cour de Miracles will be conquered."
"Where is the Cour de Miracles? Is it far?" he'd probe further, as if gently poking the hardened man with his discarded tree branch.
"Ask not another question, boy," his father would sneer, raising a hand in authority as if to strike him across the face, "Now, make haste and return to the Palais."
His father, though diligent in his work and respected for his continued success of keeping the safety of Paris up to par with the King and his officials, grew obsessed with his ministrations—sought to rid the world of thieves rather than punishing them for their heinous crimes in hopes they'd not commit them a second time.
"No one deserves a second chance," he'd preach, "Once a thief tastes the sin of crime, he'll commit them again and again until his ecstasy cannot be satisfied."
Many began to deem him mad, claimed he had lost his senses upon the passing of his wife who neither held a smile as she walked amongst the Parisians when attending Mass at the Cathedral de Notre-Dame nor bid her own child a parting smile as he accompanied his brooding father on his daily rounds of the city. And upon his final breath, which hadn't been words of an undying love for his only child, Claudius Frollo, he told the boy of a black notebook that sat in a hole in the leg of his desk. It was a journal, a bound booklet of confessions which spoke of a secret gathering of bohemians and vagabonds: The Cour de Miracles.
"Your Honor," called Captain Bonheur from the crack of the door, waking his master from his thoughts, "The preparations have been met."
"Very good," responded the judge, taking another sip of wine as he glanced at the city one last time, one thought lingering within: To find the Cour de Miracles is to find the hand which wrote 'The Minister'.
A thick, heavy cloud of smoke clogged the sky and drained the morning of its happiness, leaving the Parisians under a grey shadow as they moseyed about, some with a basket of fish and others with a warm baguette. However, one woman in particular, standing at the foot of her door, crinkled her nose and scowled at the foul stench that sickened her. And before she could lift her eyes and ponder the dingy smell which revolted her, she spied a far more revolting scene: Judge Frollo marching with his faithful guard.
His presence alarmed the Parisians, silently ordered them to make way for his snorting horse as it trotted past, heavy hooves pummeling into the cobblestone. He refrained from looking at them, found it tiresome to lower his gaze to their level, and reminded himself that it was in their natural right to abide by his orders and surrender their respect and gratitude to him for keeping to his duties: bringing justice to Paris. And he too, much like the woman who lurked in her doorway, crinkled his nose at the foul stench of burning which lingered in the air; although it was due to his own actions that the heavy smog clogged the city (burning peasant owned bookshops to the ground), he deemed it false and soothed his pride by placing the blame upon the gypsies whom he knew were at fault.
He came to a halt. The woman in her doorway gasped and quickly downcast her gaze, for she assumed that it was her repulsed glower which had stirred his anger. She was right. He focused upon her, slightly snickered at the dirty apron tied about her large waist, and attempted to address her impious nature, however a low wind rolled by and with it came a few stray parchments with burnt edges, black words fluttering down the streets of Paris. And as they floated about, tiny hands reached for them, madly collecting them and stuffing them within a flour sack; it was a small gypsy boy.
Judge Frollo would have ignored the brat had the child not have interrupted the attempted scolding he was about to bestow upon the woman with the dirty apron. But it was inevitable and perhaps planned. The gypsy boy grabbed the burnt parchments, scrunched them in his hands, the loud crinkling sound irritating the brooding judge and causing him to slightly twitch, and he crumbled them into a ball.
But with the weight of the judge's glower resting upon his small, childish shoulders, the boy gasped at the sight of the ruthless man and refrained from movement. Perhaps, in his youthful mind, he thought that he would remain unseen by the judge if he stood still and attempted to blend in with the city, either that or the child was fear stricken. Nevertheless he remained motionless.
"You there," said a rather thick guard, pointing a gloved finger at the meager child, "Clean up that mess."
Frollo smirked upon the orders and directed his hardened gaze back to the woman whose eyes had grown weary at the sight of the gypsy boy. And then, instantly, they lit a glow as a clump of parchment soared through the air and struck the judge, summoning a stream of blood to trickle down his grimacing lips, for within the parchment laid a heavy rock. Sneering and wiping at the red stain upon his face, the judge sharply averted his eyes and inwardly cursed the boy as the lingering Parisians held back their mocking laughter behind upraised hands.
He'd have approached the boy, struck him across the face for such insolence, but deemed such actions unwise, not due to compassion but due to the fact that the child ran. The boy relied upon his dark, skinny limbs to carry him far, and in this sense he was like a mouse scurrying away to the cracks at the greeting of a candle's light entering a dark room. And Frollo pursued him.
Though he was infuriated over his impending humiliation, he couldn't resist the wicked grin which grew upon his face as he charged after the gypsy brat, for he assumed he'd lead him to that ghastly congregation, the Cour de Miracles. Captain Bonheur and the other lingering guards trailed close behind, the reign of galloping horses and clattering armor echoing about the city. The boy led them deep within the network of Paris, however his small shadow which flickered upon the alley walls never fell out of the judge's sight as he pursued him, and soon his shadow grew dark and large as a bright, orange light swallowed him.
Halting, Frollo lifted his eyes to the orange blaze before him and discarded his previous thoughts of the smog that consumed Paris. Though he had denied the fact such smoke was created due to his duty, burning bookshops in the name of the King lest The Minister be read by innocent eyes, he now fully denied it as his eyes fell upon a gypsy bonfire. Bundles of twigs and thistles covered the ground and incoherent chanting numbed his ears. It was foul, their gathering. It was heathenish and damnable.
"Your Honor," said Captain Bonheur from behind as he and other guards approached, "What are your orders?"
Frollo snickered, "Attack."
Bonheur flinched upon his words, scratched at his beard, and grimaced, for he had hoped they would be ordered to snatch the troublesome boy and issue him a day in the stocks. But such hopes were purged. And as the weary captain peered at the glowing fire which was surrounded by a mass of bohemians and vagabonds alike, he spied a makeshift gibbet and whispered a prayer before addressing his concerns. "Your Honor, with all due respect, we haven't the army for that."
"Never you mind that, Captain. Gypsies are anxious things. They will come willingly lest they be broken upon the wheel."
Bonheur refrained from replying and silently mouthed curses under his breath as he questioned his master's sanity. And as the horde of men began to venture into the blazing light of the bonfire, Frollo raised a pale hand and halted them, for the scene which unveiled itself to him was odd.
A young girl, no older than sixteen, stood amidst the jeering crowd of gypsies. They pranced about her, shouted curses, and deemed her unworthy. But she held her head high and refused to glance at the grotesque faces which contorted under the flickering flames of the burning thistles. Her dark, exposed shoulders were pulled back due to the twine which bound her wrists behind her, and it allowed for her bust to be pressed forward, stressing the seams of her white blouse; she was like a statue in this form, motionless and oddly domineering.
"Fit her with the noose!" cried a gurgled voice from the crowd, summoning a loud cheer to follow. A man came forth and collected the rope which was tethered to the girl, pulled upon it, and brought her body crashing to the hot ground. The gypsies neared her, stomped their dirty feet about her body, kicking dirt into her face and stomping about her dark curls. She was an outcast among outcasts; a gypsy among gypsies.
"Damn la Esmeralda!" they cried, chanting the phrase over and over, "Damn the traitor!" Dirty hands tore at her clothing, ripped the flimsy material, and left her body partially exposed as her executioner dragged her along the ground. He neared the makeshift gibbet, the tormenting symbol of death. Its heavy shadow fell upon the young girl they called Esmeralda and she neither shivered nor prayed to God for hope, for she didn't fear the consequences of her crimes.
And he'd have dragged her up the wooden steps had she not have staggered to her tired feet and climbed the eerie steps herself, ascending to Hell. Impatient and eager to please the jeering crowd, the executioner snatched her bare arm and pulled her into his embrace where a thick rope greeted her in his grasp.
"You'll die as he died," said the executioner, "wriggling from a noose." Her eyes widened and her lips parted in an attempt to address his peculiar words, but she was silenced by a scarf which was tied about her mouth. He chuckled, pulled back her hair with his bloodthirsty fingers, and fitted her slender neck with the noose.
"She is a criminal among criminals," said Captain Bonheur as he gawked at the scene. However, no snickering retort from the judge followed his words, for the brooding man was lost in his own affairs: ecstasy. The girl was a riveting sight; whether it was her prideful smirk as she stood upon the brink of the abyss or her large bosom which rapidly rose up and down with each uneven breath, she was a sight to behold nonetheless.
Music erupted in the forbidden place, drunkards sung about her dark fate and sultry gypsy women, red silk gracing their shapely forms, danced to a tune which was Esmeralda's funeral song. Children ran about, their hands full of scraps of goods in which they had managed to steal, and old men flirted with young girls in hopes their bed would be warm. And though the thieves were lost in their shallow, drunken stupor, a tambourine fell to the ground and a woman shrieked, for a sword protruded from the gut of a gypsy man who sat near the alley walls.
Blood gushed forth and the festivity ended; the music died, the dancing stopped, and all eyes were no longer upon Esmeralda and her executioner, but upon Judge Frollo as he withdrew his sword with a grunt from the unfortunate gypsy.
"Arrest them," he ordered, and his men diligently obeyed. They spilled into the gathering, snatching the old and the young, the women and the men. They adorned their fragile wrists with shackles, tangled their hands with heavy chains, and fashioned their bodies in such a way that each gypsy was linked to another, this endless train of filth which was to be marched back to the Palais de Justice. Some wept over their dark fate, others attempted to flee only to find a spear lodged in their chest, and the executioner, who once held the chanting crowd in his grasp, fell to his knees as a stray arrow struck him in the gut, leaving Esmeralda to wriggle out of her binding and tear the noose from her neck.
She leapt into the crowd below and searched for the one soul who neither damned her nor defended her during her execution, Nadya. She was an older woman of about thirty—held a gentle face and a soft voice; never spoke out of line and always remained loyal to her values. In her youth she'd dance for silver in the streets and sing songs for the young men who gawked at her, and in time she taught Esmeralda to do as such; However when age made her less desirable, she'd lure desperate men into her bed and quench their thirst with wine before making off with the bit of silver hidden in their purse. But as fate would have it, she learned to love and remain faithful to a man, bearing his children and sharing his bed.
"Hurry," said Esmeralda, snatching Nadya by the arm, "We mustn't linger." She pulled the woman away and attempted to dry her tears which fell not from the violence that surrounded them but from regret and sorrow, for though she had deemed Esmeralda's execution unjust, she also hadn't wished to join her upon the gibbet for defending her. But Esmeralda was a kind spirit and hushed the woman with a soft kiss upon the cheek as they scurried away. From afar they looked like sisters, the younger one calming the elder, though no relation was to be found; and how unfortunate that their bond would end as a hand roughly snatched one of them by the wrist.
"You think you've escaped me," sneered the judge as he reeled the woman into his presence, however at the sight of her dismal eyes and trembling lips, he grimaced. She was not the young girl he saw upon the gibbet, the one they called La Esmeralda. Furious, he lifted his eyes beyond the trembling woman he held and spied the young girl, her shapely form vanishing into the dark shadows cast by the burning flames of the bonfire.
"Have mercy, m'lord," Nadya whimpered, "Have mercy upon me, for I've children." She wriggled in his hold but found that his grip upon her was tightening due to the realization of losing the soul in which he sought. However, Nadya, in fear of being led to the gallows, scratched at his fingers in desperation of prying him off of her, summoning blood to ooze from the wounds and run down the work of his knuckles. And he, presently unaware of her existence, instantly flinched from the strike of pain she bestowed upon him and raised his hand to strike the whimpering woman only to be halted by a soldier's voice.
"Be still, gypsy!" the soldier ordered as he attempted to bind the wrists of a gypsy man who was pinned to the ground. Captain Bonheur oversaw the arrest, glared down at the man and shook his head in disappointment.
"Captain," said Frollo, "Execute her." He shoved Nadya forward and scoffed as she stumbled before Bonheur who watched her momentarily, scratched at his beard, and then drew his sword. The blade came down but neither struck Nadya nor the ground. He had halted.
"I'm waiting, Captain," said Frollo whose eyes narrowed upon the soldier who knew not what to do.
"The woman has children," he said, refusing to look down upon her as he spoke so as to not convince her that he was her savior, for he was anything but that.
"I've no concern of a heathen's offspring," retorted the judge, instantly yearning to issue forth for his captain's execution as well. But then a much wiser thought dawned upon him as Bonheur's words repeated themselves in his mind.
"Very well," he concluded with a wicked grin, "lock her up with the others." Bonheur slowly nodded and carefully reached for Nadya who cooperated and surrendered to him out of fear. Hot tears streamed down her face as he led her away with the others, and she thought of her children, her two boys beaming up at her. And the judge thought of them as well, wondered if they hid within the Cour de Miracles and wondered how long Nadya would suffer under the whip until she spoke of its location.
A/N: I don't think I've stated this yet, but this story takes place before Frollo 'adopts' Quasimodo. I've aged Esmeralda a bit so that she would be a young teen (specifically 16) during the time Quasi was but a baby (specifically 4). I hope that gives you more insight, and of course Esmeralda will be aged up as the story progresses. Anyways, I'm super happy that I got Chapter Two out so early. And as always, if you liked it, tell me what you think! :) Reviews are appreciated.