Chapter 1: Deux frères (cont.)

1453

Novices walked, in formation, down the nave of Notre Dame. First in line was the first in his class: overachiever Claude Frollo. The sweet smell of incense wafted from Claude's swinging thurible as he marched towards the altar.

The soon-to-be priests took seat in the pews. Liturgical chants reverberated through the vastness of the cathedral. Today was a joyful day: an ordination ceremony was about to begin.

At the pulpit stood Père Dupin. In his booming voice he delivered the sermon. Claude tried best as he could to pay attention, yet all the Latin phrases quickly became but a buzz in his ear.

Within the hour, Claude Frollo would be an ordained priest. This thought should have delighted Claude, who had for years devoted himself to prayer and scholasticism. Yet the young man could find no joy in his achievement. Glancing furtively over his shoulder, Claude scanned the crowd in search of Jehan.

Père Dupin called the novices to bow. In front of the golden cross, they pressed heads and palms to the floor.

When his name was called, Claude stood. He walked up to Père Dupin, gazing into the Archdeacon's once brown eyes - rimmed now with milky blue. Beneath their glassy glaze, Dupin's eyes gleamed with something like paternal pride.

Claude knelt before Père Dupin as he placed his hand on the young man's crown. Dupin sprinkled his adoptive son's head with holy water before signing the cross. Then, by lowering the vestments over his shoulders, the Archdeacon officially anointed Claude Frollo as a priest.

The newly named cleric returned to his seat. He forced a smile as he watched, listlessly, the rest of the service. Claude's racing thoughts soon drowned out Père Dupin's words once more. For what felt like hours Claude sat staring at nothing in particular, awaiting the ceremony's end.

"In saecula saeculorum," finally concluded Père Dupin, "amen."

"Amen," repeated the congregation. Claude, in his distraction, failed to join them.

As the parishioners began to disperse, Claude saw the opportunity to retreat to his room. Yet as he headed towards the stairs, he felt a heavy hand weigh upon his shoulder. Claude turned to see Père Dupin's joyful smile as he hugged him tightly.

"Congratulations, Claude. You have a bright future ahead of you."

"Thank you, Father," he answered, hoping his tone would not betray his apprehension.

Yet Père Dupin had known Claude long enough to know when something troubled him.

"Is something the matter?"

"I-it's nothing."

Père Dupin narrowed his cloudy eyes.

"I could not help but notice Jehan was nowhere to be found during the service."

"He... was feeling unwell," Claude lied. In truth, he'd not seen his brother since Friday afternoon. It was now Sunday evening.

"Your brother sure does get ill a lot, doesn't he?"

Unable to answer, Claude evaded the Archdeacon's gaze.

"Excuse me, Father," he said, and ran back to his chambers at a speed nearly as quick as the beat of his heart.

For hours he paced his room, awaiting Jehan's return. When the pacing grew tiresome, Claude turned to the bookstand in search of a distraction. Theology, philosophy, and natural science were usually Claude's predilect topics. But he knew today these subjects would prove too dense for his troubled mind. Grudgingly, he picked one of his brother's chivalric romances out of the shelf.

Reclining on the bed, Claude began to read. From the first chapter, the story seemed to him hopelessly melodramatic. The sappy plot would not have bothered much Claude were the prose any good. It was not.

Claude yawned as not a second, nor a third, but a fourth love interest to the heroine was introduced. The novel so thoroughly uninspired him that Claude did not realize he'd dozed off until he was awoken by the creeping door. He opened his eyes to see his brother, staggering into the room.

"Jehan? Where were you? Why weren't you at the…"

"What sort of welcome is this, brother dear?" Jehan slurred. "Didn't you miss me?"

As Jehan squeezed his shoulders, Claude's nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of brandy on his brother's breath.

"Of course I missed you! Don't you remember, today was my…"

Claude trailed off as he caught a whiff of something besides liquour. Rose, perhaps - and oud. A hint of cardamom, too, and patchouli.

"Why," questioned Claude, "do you smell like perfume?"

"Come on. Can't a man care about his personal hygiene?"

"This is you we're talking about, Jehan. You're a grown man and I still have to pester you to brush your teeth."

Pushing his sibling away, Jehan grumbled:

"Leave me alone, Claude. I'm tired."

"Jehan, please... I'm worried about you."

Lovingly rubbing Jehan's arm, Claude tried to look his little brother in the eye. Yet Jehan's blue-green gaze was fixed upon the floor. Claude heartened at what was, he thought, a sincere expression of remorse - until Jehan retched.

"Oh, no..."

Though Claude stepped back, his shoes were ruined all the same.

1454

It was not the first time he'd known a woman.

It was not the first time he'd known this particular woman.

Yet it was the first time he had brought a woman to his own bedchambers.

Among hushed laughter, they scuttled up the stairs to the cloisters. Fingers splayed out, brown eyes beckoning, she pressed against the door as it closed behind her. He drew nearer, placing his hand in the small of her back. He tasted the cinnamon of her neck, her jawline, her bosom - but not her lips. Never her lips.

The affair had begun as sordidly as any of Jehan's. Though he'd long been a regular at Madame Bach's, sweet, shy Florika had never caught his eye. Sure, she was pretty - but in a house so full of beauty, pretty was a cheap commodity. Yet, one night, Jehan's go-to girl was out sick, and he figured Florika would do.

That night, something changed in him. He found himself returning to Florika time and again. At first, he did not understand why. Nothing she did was particularly dirty. Later, he found her charm lied precisely in that fact - she was the only person with whom intimacy did not feel dirty. Soon his visits to other women grew less and less frequent, until Jehan did not want to see anyone else but her.

One evening, as he and Florika laid limbs entangled, an odd fancy struck Jehan.

"Would you like to meet me somewhere else?" he'd asked.

Against her better judgement, Florika said yes.

Now, as he held this girl in the quiet darkness, a realization crept upon Jehan. Breathing heavily still, he pulled back from their embrace and reached to cup her flushed cheek. As she looked at him by wan moonlight, her dark gaze seemed infinite. The pair stared at each other for a small eternity, both understanding what neither was bold enough to say.

Biting her lip, Florika threw her arms around Jehan's neck. He inhaled her sweet breath as she drew him closer, and, for the first time, allowed her mouth to meet his.

When Jehan kissed her, he knew: he'd never known Florika at all. He'd never known, truly known, a woman.

Tasting Jehan's lips, Florika knew: though she had been taken by too many men to count, she had never truly given herself to one.

She tugged on the ribbon that held his copper waves. He undid her braid, night-black hair tumbling down her back. Button by button, she revealed the chemise beneath his doublet. Hook by hook, he unfastened the lacing of her stays. Devouring each other's lips, they stumbled onto the bed, hands fumbling in reborn inexperience.

"Jehan…"

"Jehan?" cried a man's voice.

The lovers quickly drew the covers over their bodies at the sight of Jehan's brother. Claude shielded his gaze with his hand as the pair half-dressed hurriedly, yet in his mind he still saw the girl's bare figure. He still heard the melody of her soft sighs. For a second, Claude allowed himself to imagine it was he whose fingers fiddled through the blue-black strings down that back of sinuous rosewood.

He shook the sinful thought off his head. The girl was a heathen - that much could be surmised from her dark hair and dusky complexion. Surely she was a seductress, put in Jehan's path to tempt him. Yet Claude's will was stronger than his brother's - he remained steadfast in his resolve to resist temptation. He fixed his eyes upon the wall and stood cross-armed as his brother approached, hopping into his hose.

"Please, Claude" said Jehan, "don't get angry."

"You've brought a girl in our room?" Claude asked. The hurt in his voice turned into disdain as he added, "A gypsy, no less?"

"But Claude, I-"

"Jehan, how could you throw away our livelong vows for some fleeting pleasure?"

Jehan glanced back at the girl, who had kept to a corner. She who'd blossomed so beautifully for his eyes was once more but a rosebud in winter. When he turned to her, Florika hid her tear-stained face in Jehan's chest. Jehan dried her eyes with a tender hand before presenting her to his brother.

"Claude… This is Florika." Soft as a prayer, Jehan whispered, "I think… I think I'm in love with her."

Jehan stared his brother in search of a complicity long lost. After a few seconds, Claude's expression began to soften - but as he opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by Père Dupin's sonorous bass, booming from the corridor.

"Claude?"

"Merde!" Jehan muttered.

Claude refrained from indulging his impulse to scold his brother from swearing as he and Jehan hid the girl behind a curtain.

"What's going on in here?" bellowed Père Dupin as he burst in through the door.

"N-nothing, father."

Père Dupin stared in scrutiny at Jehan's sweat-soaked hair and disheveled clothes. He could have sworn he'd heard a woman's voice from the corridor. Yet Jehan looked back at the archdeacon with the same charming smile he used as a young boy whenever he had to weasel out of trouble.

Knowing that any effort to fish a confession out of Jehan would be fruitless, Père Dupin turned instead to his brother. Though his mouth had long learned to recite endless excuses, Claude's eyes still spoke with perfect candor. The young man darted his gaze away in an attempt to conceal his obvious unease, yet this evasiveness only reinforced Dupin's suspicions.

"Is it nothing, Claude?" pressed the Archdeacon, who had noticed Claude's blushed cheek and bobbing throat.

The young man once more could not bring himself to meet his mentor's eyes. He wrang his sweaty hands as he debated whether to once again lie for Jehan. For too long he had defied his morals for his brother - and to what end? The lack of consequences for his actions had only enabled Jehan to further defile all the laws of Notre Dame.

"Tell him, Jehan," Claude pleaded, his voice thin and strangled, yet his brother did not speak. "If you won't, I will!"

Drawing the curtains, Claude grabbed the girl by the arm and roughly threw her onto the ground. Jehan rushed to Florika, helping her up as she hid her face in her hands.

"Pack up your belongings, Jehan," said Père Dupin, a hint of heartbreak in his stern voice. "I expect you to be out of here by tomorrow."

"But, Father-"

"Sorry, Claude, but I've no choice: your brother is expelled."

The two brothers and the girl stood in silence as the Archdeacon left the room. Claude reached his hand out to Jehan's shoulder, but he pushed him away.

"What did you think would happen?" snarled Jehan. "You know these people are -"

"These people? These people have given us a home, and comfort, and safety."

"You call this comfort? You call this safety? Well, you can have it. You're welcome to it."

And Jehan, and the girl, left.

1462

"In nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

"Amen," echoed the parishioners.

Dom Claude Frollo was fond of the quietude of midnight mass. Its only attendees were members of the clergy, aside from the odd fanatical layperson. Nuns and priests scuttled out of Notre Dame, their voices but a faint whisper. Frollo welcomed the silence. This morning, the cathedral had been particularly full - today being Quasimodo Sunday, a high holy day. The fatigued priest longed to finally retire to his room.

It had been several months since Frollo was named Archdeacon of Paris, and only now did he begin to realize how demanding his duties truly were. Yet Frollo, never one to shy away from an arduous task, welcomed the workload.

He felt greatly honored by his title. At thirty-four, Frollo was the youngest man to ever preside over the archdiocese. Though he was justly proud of this achievement, Frollo also cherished the position for a more sentimental reason: his nomination had been Père Dupin's dying wish. As he walked back to the cloisters, Frollo smiled wistfully at the memory of his mentor.

Yearning for sleep, Frollo entered his bedchambers. Standing before the mirror he disrobed, averting his gaze from his own nakedness. He quickly covered his wiry figure with a fresh shift, and returned his eyes to his reflection. As he combed his cropped dark hair, he noticed a single white strand. Though Frollo was not usually a vain man, he fretted over this early sign of age.

Youth had always eluded Claude Frollo. Since a too early age he had borne the role of the devoted one, the dutiful one. Too many sunlit days he had forgone for the dusty dark of a scriptorium. Though his rigor earned him respect, it cost him love. Frollo's peers always had thought him humorless and high-strung, and so he'd only found friendship in his books and in his horses.

Frollo was, for the most part, content where his decisions had led him. After all, greatness never was achieved without some sacrifice. The lone gray hair would be but a reminder of the station he had reached were it not for one single regret. Only one regret truly weighed upon Frollo. One regret shrouded each of his days in darkness. One regret robbed him of sleep each night, deepening the purple shadows below his eyes.

Unable to shake the guilt off his shoulders, Frollo could do nothing but hope rest would quiet his troubled mind. He blew out the candles, readying himself for bed. As he turned to extinguish the fireplace, he heard a knock on his door.

"Do come in," Frollo grumbled in annoyance at being bothered this late in the evening.

A novice brother timidly entered the room.

"Your grace," said the young man, handing Frollo a missive. "A letter has been urgently delivered for you."

Snatching the letter out of his hand, Frollo dismissed the novice.

The envelope bore no name and no address. Its humble wax seal bore no emblem.

Hastily, Frollo opened the envelope and took out the letter. He rapidly scanned the message. When his eyes finally found the address they'd sought, Frollo rushed to his cloak. Figuring his indecency would be pardoned given the urgency of the situation, he drew it directly over his undergarments. In half-laced riding boots he dashed out of the cathedral, towards the stables. Mounting his ebony colt, Frollo stole to a place far, far away from Notre Dame.

As he rode past the Île de la Cité and towards the more unsavory parts of the city, the streets became narrower and narrower. Finally, Frollo found himself forced to tie his horse up to a lamppost before heading down a dark alleyway.

The stench of human waste permeated the street. Frollo drew his handkerchief - spotless white, trimmed in eyelet lace, and perfumed with clary sage - to his nose.

He counted seven bawds, twelve vagabonds, and tens of dilapidated buildings before he finally arrived at the address: 42 Rue Galois. Apprehensively, he knocked at the door.

A figure, clad head to toe in heavy black robes, came to greet the visitor. His face was covered in a beak-like mask.

"I'm Father Claude Frollo."

The birdman stood silent, expressionless.

"I-I was told..." continued Frollo, his commanding baritone reverting to the tremulous treble of his youth. "I was told to come to this place."

As he opened the door, the birdman motioned a gloved hand towards the dark corridor.

Fighting the impulse to retch, Frollo held his handkerchief tighter to his nose. It was no use. Even the sweetest of perfumes could not mask the scent of death.

Bodies upon bodies - one could scarcely say if dead or living - lined the room in rows. Filled with an all too familiar dread, Frollo walked through this makeshift hospital. He looked upon the moribund, at once hoping and fearing to find a well-known face.

Then, he saw him.

"Jehan!"

The man who laid before Frollo was but a shadow of the little brother he'd once known. Jehan's once full and rosy cheeks were now sallow and gaunt. His once thick hair hung limply, pinned by sweat to his pale face. From Jehan's thigh bulged a large, rotting apple, barely concealed by his thin, pus-soaked chemise.

"Hello, brother dear" Jehan said weakly.

Frollo rushed to his brother's side, zealously pressing his handkerchief to Jehan's damp forehead. Jehan drew the white cloth to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle a cough.

"Jehan, where have you been?"

Before he could answer, Jehan was overcome with hacking and wheezing. As he waited for the fit to subside, Frollo caressed his little brother's hair - just as lovingly as he had done once, long ago.

"Traveling…" replied Jehan as he caught his breath. His coughs had stained red Claude's kerchief. "Hounded from city to city with my beautiful Florika."

"That gypsy? You're with her?"

"She died just two weeks ago. The pox... a terrible thing to watch her suffer."

Enfolding Jehan's death-blackened fingers in a tender hand, Frollo enveloped his dear brother in an embrace.

"Jehan… Let me take you back. I'll bring you home…"

"Claude..."

Once, beneath the lofty arches and majestic dome of Notre Dame, the two brothers had found a sanctuary. As Jehan withered in his arms, Frollo clung to the desperate hope that those innocent days could be once more.

"Come with me, dear brother..." he whispered. " I'll find some way to cure you, and then things will be just the way they used to be. We- we'll finally be together again! We'll live in the cathedral once more… I'll help you turn your life around! I can lead you down the path of righteous-"

"Enough, Claude! Enough of your pieties!" balked Jehan, forcefully pushing Frollo away. "It's too late for me, anyway."

Jehan shut his eyes, drawing a labored breath. Slowly, he blinked, then looked his brotherin the eye. In the stormy sea of Jehan's gaze, Frollo saw a sincere sorrow for the first time in his life.

"But…" Jehan added, softening his tone. "If you've truly discovered charity at this late date, there is someone you can help."

At his gesture, the birdman exited the room - and returned bearing a bundle in his arms.

Frollo furrowed his brow.

"A baby?"

Jehan nodded.

"…Yours?"

Jehan nodded once more. Not without hesitation, Frollo took the baby into his arms. He uncovered its face -

Gasping in horror, he drew the blanket back over the child. Never in his life had he seen a sight as frightsome as this… creature.

"A monster…" he shuddered. Frollo turned to admonish his brother. "It's God's judgment upon you! The wicked shall not go unpunished."

"I should have known… I was a fool to think you would look after him."

"Look after him? Me?"

"He has nobody else."

"But he's a gypsy child."

"…And mine." Jehan's gaze flickered. "Take him… If you can find it in your heart."

"Jehan…"

The blood-stained handkerchief dropped to the ground.

"Jehan?"

Frollo reached a tentative hand to his Jehan's shoulder, gently nudging it as if to stir him from an unpleasant dream.

"Jehan!" cried Frollo once more, desperately shaking his brother's limp body.

It was no use.

Frollo froze, knowing not how he ought to think or what he ought to feel. He longed for tears - it did not matter if salty with sorrow or bitter with anger - to stream down his face, yet they never did.

Was he now to mourn the loss of everything he'd ever loved, or was it eight years too late? Was it suited to rage, and if it were, was he to rage at God, at his brother, or at himself?

For minutes he sat, breathless, alongside this unnamable nothingness - daring not to speak to it in fear one single world would utterly destroy him. He was not brave enough to move - not even to kiss his brother's forehead for the very last time. Frollo was determined still to never break out of the chokehold that gripped him, until -

The baby cried.

The baby cried, and suddenly, Frollo became aware again of the small living thing he held in his arms.

Hesitantly, he unveiled the child's face once more. This time, though he grimaced, he did not recoil. Perhaps shrinking away would have been the more prudent reaction, for it was said the devil dwelled in cursed children. Yet he could not help but wonder what sort of foolish devil would choose such a tiny, helpless little creature as a host.

Awash with a distantly familiar feeling, Frollo softly hushed the child. He rocked it in its arms until finally, the crying ceased. The baby reached out a chubby little hand, grasping at the air, seeking nothing in particular. Against his better instincts, Frollo extended a long, thin finger, allowing the child to grasp it in its - his hand.

Holding the last remainder of the little brother he had failed to protect, Frollo had a revelation: the Lord had granted him a second chance. Though he had not saved his brother, he was determined yet to save this creature.

As a final farewell, Frollo squeezed Jehan's languid hand - then left.

He hid the child beneath his cloak as he walked down the cobblestone streets, realizing then that this child was never to see the light of day. Of course, Frollo had his reputation to worry about. Even if the baby were not disfigured, people would speculate as to whence this child came. The wrong sort of rumor could cost Frollo his position.

Yet the common folk were not only gossipy, but superstitious - they would view the boy's appearance as a curse. Were he to venture outside, people would surely hate, and scorn, and jeer. It was wisest to hide the boy away, keep him lock away where no one else could see.

In a way, it could prove a blessing. Whereas Jehan had been led into vice and sin by the temptations of the a morally debauched and putrefied world, this child forever would forever remain in his sanctuary, pure and untainted.

Frollo mounted his horse and retreated to Notre Dame. As he walked into the cathedral, he failed to notice a single figure kneeling by the altar in prayer. He took the child up the stairs to the dark bell tower, from which he was never to escape.

In commemoration of the date, Frollo gave the child a name – thoughtlessly ignoring the name's second meaning, "half-formed":

Quasimodo.

Now, here is a riddle

to guess if you can,

sing the bells of Notre Dame:

what makes a monster

and what makes a man?