Chapter 6: Seeking

"An intelligent heart acquires knowledge, and the ear of the wise seeks knowledge."

(Proverbs 18:15)

The prospect of sharing his lessons with Esmeralda did not simply lift Quasimodo's spirits, it sent him soaring. He lifted an oaken bench effortlessly, brought it out from its former place inside of the tower. It thudded on the stone floor as he placed it before Esmeralda. He indicated she should sit upon it; it wouldn't do for her to sit, as he did, on the cold stone floor in front of his Master. She was delicate. Treasured. And he was at least able to provide this small comfort for her. He was nearly as excited by the prospect of showing her to the room he had chosen for her. While they waited for his Master to arrive and begin their instruction, he regaled the gypsy with his descriptions of the room, as best he could. She listened to his halting words, attempted to interact with him and show her excitement.

Quasimodo, unused to interacting this much with anyone excepting Frollo, quieted as they waited. He retreated into his internal meanderings, where his words were not halted, his voice clear. Esmeralda would be so contented in the room he'd found! He had already brought a few warm blankets from those made available by Father Beaumont and the nuns, but if she was cold, he could always find more! The bedding was not quite as luxurious as his Master's featherbed, but the narrow bed in the room he'd chosen for the gypsy at least boasted a canvas mattress stuffed with wool. It would, no doubt, be more comfortable than the cold wall she'd slept against the night previous. A small table and chair were placed across from the bed and provided whomever sat there with a beautiful, if cold, view through the large window. Through the window, Esmeralda could gaze upon the Seine and….

"Quasimodo, you are distracted," Frollo's voice cut into his reverie, as calm and cold as the snow still piled against the cathedral doors.

"Sorry, Master, won't happen again."

Frollo's smile looked more of a pained grimace, the skin around his mouth slightly reddened. Quasimodo was unsurprised by his Master's rebuke of his daydreaming. He lifted a straight-backed chair with ease, and placed it in front of the bench he'd already provided for Esmeralda. When Frollo sat down, Quasimodo awkwardly took a seated position on the floor. Not certain of what else to do, Esmeralda folded her hands in her lap. She was unsure of how to approach a lesson in general and was further perplexed by how she was ever to calm her nerves around Frollo, who just a few minutes ago had his fingers curled in her hair, his tongue caressing her own, his….

"Should I seek out two other, more attentive, students? Between you and the boy, I have been unable to obtain anyone's undivided attention this afternoon," Frollo said to her, his voice stern, but softened a fraction.

"You have my attention, Your Grace," Esmeralda offered, her voice growing raspy from the cold.

Frollo was grateful for the few moments of composure he was able to obtain after his ward had called out to him. He was set to plunder the gypsy in a stairwell, for all things holy. Shameful. He needed to come to grips with his desires, mold them to his will and teach them when it was acceptable to surface. Perhaps if he had the gypsy fully, he would be able to overcome this crushing lust clouding his mind at every turn. She would yield to him; he was sure of it. The way her body arched against him, opened to him like a greedy flower, enticing and beckoning him to drink from her sweet nectar….

"I thought the cold was supposed to focus the mind. It seems your focus is just as fractured as ours," Esmeralda teased, the ghost of a smile flitting across her lips.

Frollo scowled at her, released a shaken breath.

"Quasimodo," the Archdeacon said, his eyes never leaving the gypsy, "do you recall what we were studying during our last lesson?"

Quasimodo rolled his one good eye up, trying desperately to recall quickly.

"Saint…Saint Aphrodisius?"

Frollo smiled. Esmeralda was surprised at the unexpected kindness within the expression.

"That was the lesson before our last, though, with the excitement of the past few days, it's understandable you'd forget. You did well in recalling his name this time, my boy. Righteous punishment, Quasimodo. We were discussing righteous punishment."

"Amos," Quasimodo offered, his hands gesturing to Frollo, spelling out the name.

"Yes, the Book of Amos." Frollo pulled a small, leather bound book from his robes. Where that had been when he had been pressed against her, Esmeralda was uncertain. "'And I will smite the winter house with the summer house; and the houses of ivory shall perish, and the great houses shall have an end, saith the LORD.' Quasimodo, what do you interpret these words to mean?"

Quasimodo pondered for a moment, seemed to look around to the various immobile statues surrounding them. Silent and becoming increasingly frantic, he stammered.

"It means…it means…they…well, I…."

"Prosperity does not absolve you from judgment," Esmeralda stated, her voice resonating in the quiet.

"Indeed," Frollo acknowledged. "He continues:

I have smitten you with blasting and mildew: when your gardens and your vineyards and your fig trees and your olive trees increased, the palmerworm devoured them: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

I have sent among you the pestilence after the manner of Egypt: your young men have I slain with the sword, and have taken away your horses; and I have made the stink of your camps to come up unto your nostrils: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

I have overthrown some of you, as God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah, and ye were as a firebrand plucked out of the burning: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

Therefore, thus will I do unto thee, O Israel: and because I will do this unto thee, prepare to meet thy God, O Israel."

"He judges without the people understanding that they are being judged."

"How so? Explain," Frollo queried.

"The pestilences are given and raze their lives to the core, but they do not repent because they do not know they are being punished."

"In their obstinance and railings against holiness," Frollo said, casting a reproving glare at her.

"But if they did not know for what they were being judged, how is it fair?"

"Justice is not always fair."

"Neither is mercy, but are we not urged to be merciful?"

"Blessed be the merciful," Quasimodo offered with a grin, thankful to be able to interact on some facet with the discourse by which he was confounded.

"Yes," Frollo said, an appraising gaze cast over her face. "Beautiful and capable of intelligent discourse. A shame that you waste your true talents dancing for coins."

Esmeralda's eyes burned; fiery passion turned from lust into rage so easily by Frollo's vile tongue.

"It must be easy to hate and judge from such a lofty position, Your Grace. When it is your belly going hungry, I wonder the lengths to which you would go to quiet the groaning."

"You've no idea of what you imply, gypsy," he hissed.

"How can you condemn so easily, then?"

"Because that is what God put me in my position to do."

"Condemn the truly wicked, certainly, but those who only seek to sustain their lives? What of them?"

"They have ample opportunities to seek out redemption, as you are now."

She raised a dark eyebrow, her green eyes blazing and locked onto his own grey eyes.

"And if I did not attract your attentions, would I have been given the reprieve from your righteous judgment, Frollo? Would I be spared your wrath if my face was blighted, my body old and unseemly?"

"Do not mistake my indulgence in building your knowledge of the laws of Our Lord for an invitation to heap your insults upon me, Esmeralda." His voice cracked, slightly, as he said her name. "I am just as prone to weakness as are other men."

Esmeralda softened at that.

"Can you not impart more of the mercies provided and less of the wrath, then? If you know we are all weak, why not take joy in the knowledge that there is forgiveness along with righteous judgments?"

"Wrath from above serves the purpose to bring the wicked back into the Lord's mercies," Frollo said, his voice cold again, not daring to look at Esmeralda. "The lesson ends here. Quasimodo, think on your own weaknesses and pray for forgiveness."

He left in a flourish of black robes, the bright red of his chaperon's liripipe trailing after him. Quasimodo tapped his large hands on his knees, unsure of what to say. Esmeralda's frame shook with rage, with desire, and alighted before Quasimodo was able to form a response. She ran after Frollo, not caring for the moment that she was leaving her friend in such confusion in his bell tower. So focused on her task was she, she nearly barreled over the small framed girl who was slowly climbing the stairs to seek out the notorious bell ringer.

"Mademoiselle Esmeralda, my apologies," Mademoiselle Richeliu said, softly, her voice kind. She looked at the gypsy with interest barely contained by her propensity to demure. "I nearly ran into the Archdeacon as well…I must watch my steps more closely."

"Yes," Esmeralda said, hurriedly, "Quasimodo is just up the stairs…have him show you his bells." She began to descend the stairs, but a thought stopped her for a moment. She turned back to the girl. "Don't let him ring them. You'll go as deaf as he."

Esmeralda's youth and dexterity suited her goals and she easily caught up with Frollo in the stairwell. She grabbed his arm, dragged him into the room she surmised Quasimodo had established for her use, given how well it fit his descriptions. Frollo had a terrified look in his eyes.

"What do you want from me, temptress?"

"I am no temptress."

"What do you call your vile dancing? Your body melding against mine? Your immoral green eyes?"

"I cannot move your thoughts in any way they do not wish to be moved. You are not so moldable, surely."

"At every turn you rise up against me, tempt me, show me what I could have if I would only give into sin."

"You are a man, Claude."

He gazed at her, into her soul, she feared.

"What?"

"You are a man. Why must you hate yourself for desiring a woman?"

"You are no mere woman. You are a witch."

"I am not."

Frantic now, he hovered over her, backed her against the table, a cold breeze from the window caressing her frame.

"Perhaps I should test you. Wicked as you are, you would answer my questions with ease. Would you escape a pyre as easily?"

The crack of her small hand against his cheek echoed in the stone walls of the bedroom. His eyes, focused now, locked on her own for a moment. He dropped to his knees before her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and buried his head between her breasts. Esmeralda focused her gaze on the Seine, her arms grasping onto the edge of the table, as the Archdeacon wept against her.