JMJ

SIX

At the sound of music commencing for the dancer, Quasimodo slowed down and came to a stop. Turning gradually he peered out from under his hood pulled as far over his face as it could go and still allow him to see if he lifted his head high enough. The girl he had run into was now on the stage. The music was for her, he realized. She was one of the gypsy dancers he had seen before from his tower. It was strange to think that he might have seen this very girl at one time or other and never realized her true beauty from so high a height.

Despite himself he crept back towards her as her dance began. He was drawn to the music, to the brilliant colors of her clothing and the glinting of her earrings, but mostly he was drawn to the girl's captivating smile. To Quasimodo it felt as genuine as the smile from a saint, especially when once she seemed to be smiling at him. At least for a split second until he reminded himself that she could not be smiling at him. She had already seen what a horrible freak he was up close and there were so many other smiling faces directed back to her that he knew she could be smiling at any one of them.

He too smiled a little anyway, but it was lost to anyone for he lowered his head and pulled his hood even though it would go no further. With a heavy sigh, he gathered himself again. He had a thought to back to the towers right then, but as he lifted his head to look once more upon the graceful beauty as light as a bird on her little bare feet, he took note in one person in particular who was not smiling. This person was not the only one who looked displeased for some reason, but the glower and intense stare of this certain person was one that Quasimodo knew only too well.

"Master …" he breathed, and he gulped.

Frollo was a distance from Quasimodo, and perhaps in the crowd he would not have been able to pick him out, but Quasimodo doubted that. If he had been able to pick out Frollo then Frollo would be even more likely to pick out him if he happened to look. Right now all his attention was on the movements of the girl as though he was a great looming owl like a roc ready to pounce upon a graceful little deer. But Quasimodo did not notice this so much. All he saw was that Frollo already looked angry. Perhaps he already knew Quasimodo was out and had gone to look for him.

Backing away again with the utmost care, Quasimodo made to slip behind the crowd and make his way back to the cathedral from a side where Frollo would not see him, but it was too late for that.

"There!" shouted a voice as Quasimodo made it a safe enough distance away from the archdeacon.

Quasimodo jumped. Surely they were speaking of him. Indeed they were, but their grins did not make sense as Quasimodo spun around to face a crowd of people behind another street.

"Thank you for volunteering! You're perfect!" the same man exclaimed eagerly.

"'P—perfect!?'" gasped Quasimodo in utter disbelief who had never heard such a word used for him.

"Who better for the pope of fools!" another man exclaimed.

A woman at his elbow heartily agreed.

"We can't have a real procession without proper authority!" laughed the first man.

"No, hardly!" laughed the second.

And without knowing what was happening entirely, Quasimodo found himself being dragged along as into some nightmare. Thrust upon a throne in false gold paint and a satin cushion, he could only stare with huge eyes as his kidnappers threw off his hood and placed a type of cap on his head. A scepter, really a shepherd's staff, was shoved into one of his hands, and a crimson cloak was placed over his first cloak.

"How befitting!" exclaimed another woman from the crowd, "that the Hunchback of Notre Dame be our lord and master on such a day!"

"Your Excellency!" exclaimed a fourth man. "You're flock awaits you!"

"Do you have some words of wisdom before we begin?" asked yet another man with a bow after kissing Quasimodo's new cloak.

Quasimodo gulped and wondered if these people were drunk. He could not find a voice despite renewed urgings and pleadings from the crowd.

At last Quasimodo finally found a crack of a voice enough to say, "What are we doing?"

Everyone gasped. "Ah, such wisdom!" "Such power over the French language!" "Yes, where are we the people of France and the people of God going!?" "What does the future have in store for her?" "The people of this nation need to answer such a question!" "For France, the first daughter of the church! Where is she going?" "We could not have picked a better to lead us through these difficult times of passing through plague and poverty!"

Needless to say, nobody answered the boy's question. After some time and some homage, he was suddenly lurched forward by a pair of white horses upon his parade float cart and away into the streets of Paris in the most maddening procession of the deepest bowels of the innermost psyche where dreams are the most insane. All Quasimodo could do was to clutch his staff with one hand and with the other clutch the side of his throne as he inwardly bewailed his forced service.

#

In need of some fresh air, Fr. André stepped out onto the steps of Notre Dame. He had absolutely no interested in seeing the festivities. Going about his day as though he had forgotten that it had existed, he seemed to neither hear nor see what was going on around him. He was still only thankful that no one fought him for a sacrilegious ceremony inside the cathedral, which was said to have been tried more than once before his coming and was certainly prevalent at other churches in Paris and in France in general. However he could not ignore that no more than a moment after he stepped out the portal door, he saw the archdeacon coming towards him from the square.

Fr. André had last seen him quite occupied inside over a book, but here he was as if he had spirited out somewhere in Paris and had come a long way to get back to Notre Dame. He was going to walk out to meet him. The archdeacon was apparently just as surprised, if not more so, to see Fr. André on the front steps. Yet Fr. André had not taken the last step to the street when a ragged and miserable hand stretched out imploringly towards Fr. André with a rusted metal cup.

"Would you not have pity, dear abbé, on a poor blind man at the steps of the house of Him who cured the blind and lame and the lepers?" said a voice like a strained ballad on a dry throat. "For my family, I pray you."

Of course, Fr. André could not refuse the poor man without only eyes to support the rest of his body, which would surely go into as much decay as his clothes if no one took pity on his plight. He went back inside in a moment and brought him some charity money for his cup and a drink from a cup he had been drinking from recently himself.

"Oh, merci, merci, abbé!" said the gray beggar with tears forming in his eyes as he took the cup and drank greedily.

It was here that Frollo arrived, and the beggar glanced back at him out of the corner of his eyes in a queer sort of way from under his broad shaggy hat and dirty gray hair. Frollo glanced back with a little disdain but was quite unperturbed as he watched the beggar slink away with his gain.

"Your … Your honor," said Fr. André unused to the title; he straightened involuntarily in the presence of the archdeacon judge.

"What brings you out here?" asked Frollo calmly, but there was a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Excuse me, your honor," said Fr. André with a sort of bow of his head. "I was just getting some air."

"And what do you think?" Frollo asked with a strange half smile that faded quickly.

"Think?"

"Of the vibrant feast."

"Ah!" said Fr. André feeling a tad uncomfortable. "I think … well. Paris is much different from where I used to serve. It's so …"

"Filled with lunatics?" Frollo offered.

"Well, I was only thinking that the Feast of Fools seemed to be rather on an excessive level here," said Fr. André. "I've been told things worse than what I see now, but hopefully those are only rumors. Food, drink, and children's games and puppet shows are harmless enough."

"Scantily clad women dancing?"

"Is that true?" asked Fr. André who could not see the dancers from this side of the cathedral.

"Only too true," said Frollo. "Married men drooling over little girls even if most of the rest of what can openly be seen seems harmless enough. I've seen it all: cheating people out of their money, mocking all authority, dressing obscenely, partaking in pagan rituals, and all in the name of being opposite. That's the Feast of Fools, and that's only in the daylight hours."

"Doesn't anyone try to do something about the abuses?"

"You might as well get used to it," said Frollo. "Picking people's pockets, you know, is another way of celebrating the day …"

"Oh, no!" gasped Fr. André instantly understanding Frollo's meaning. "That poor beggar couldn't've been—"

"There's nothing to be done about Paris," Frollo interrupted darkly. "And there's nothing to be done about the Feast of Fools. Some churches in Paris can barely seem to get rid of the Feast of the Boy Bishop."

Fr. André hesitated. "But isn't respect for our Lord discussed at Mass to these poor souls who can't possibly be purposely trying to dishonor their faith in Christ's …?"

Frollo was already departing, passing him in through the portal, but that was not what caused Fr. André to stop speaking.

"Wait," said Fr. André more to himself, but the confusion in his voice caused Frollo to stop before he allowed the door to close upon him.

"What is it?" asked Frollo.

"Isn't that your … uh, I mean, isn't that Quasimodo in that—eh, procession?"

Spinning around like a top, Frollo looked and saw to his utter surprise the same thing that Fr. André saw. In the main float on a lofty throne sat none other than the Hunchback of Notre Dame, miter on his head and staff in his hand.

Frollo's mouth clamped shut in disbelief, and he pushed past Fr. André.

As for Quasimodo, until he saw his master, he was growing somewhat accustomed to the situation. Actually, he was beginning to feel rather pleased with himself. After all, it was the first time in his life he had seen so many people happy to see him. It was overwhelming, certainly, but it was not admittedly a cause of grief to have people kiss the hem of his cloak and bow their heads before him. He was surprised too that many people actually knew who he was, and it surprised him that they did not seem to think of him as a monster at all. Perhaps he had misjudged the people, or he had misjudged himself. Either way he allowed himself to smile, and he waved his free hand to people that called out to him— even if only meekly.

But when he saw Frollo there was no more comfort in the throne than a bed of nails. Slipping away as quick as a rabbit he dashed into the crowd.

Naturally, the people in the procession were quite confused as to his behavior, but no one had time to pursue him as the archdeacon stood in front of the procession and halted it with one broad movement of his strong hand.

"You will not bring this parade of mockery into the presence of Notre Dame," said the archdeacon with a voice like thunder, and he went on to say that the whole procedure was completely inappropriate conduct even on the Feast of Fools.

When some tried to protest that they had not any intention of bringing the procession into the cathedral, the archdeacon simply thrust out his hand a second time as indication that he would not argue about it before he moved on. Then he pursued Quasimodo. He left the partiers rather in a funk, but they would not let the end of the procession ruin the rest of the day at least as they aimed to pick up quickly to enjoy what they had missed from the rest of the festivities.

Quasimodo meanwhile was still racing away from Notre Dame. Maybe Frollo had not seen him in the procession after all and he could still slip into the towers before Frollo knew of his absence there. But as jumpy as he was and still moving quickly as he looked over his shoulder back at Notre Dame, he slammed right into someone's small stand and knocked most of the fruit onto the ground.

"Hey! Watch it!" snapped the man who owned the stand. "You ugly donkey, look what you've done!"

"I—I'm sorry," Quasimodo tried to beg wringing his hands and bowing his head. "I—!"

But he could not stay to help pick up.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frollo coming his way.

He had seen Quasimodo. There was no hope for it now.

Still he fled as though by instinct. Guards took notice then as he was certainly running suspiciously and from the honorable Frollo. Seeing them, Quasimodo ducked again into a mass of crowd. There was no place to hide or to go until he saw a gypsy tent. Instantly he ducked inside.

Panting and gasping for breath with a heart pounding right into his throat he closed his eyes and tried to think straight through his dizzying thoughts.

"I knew this was a bad idea," he wheezed. "I knew this was—"

And it grew only worse as his words were interrupted by a startled scream.

Quasimodo turned and to his horror he found that he was not just in a tent but what was a place to dress. It was the girl from the stage he saw before him, and though she was almost finished with the strings to her normal dress never before had he felt so terrible about anything he had done. A monster as himself coming in upon such a delicate situation as this! He might have died from the experience right then as she fell over a little in her surprise.

"I'm sorry!" Quasimodo tried to explain. "I'm sorry! I didn't know! I—!"

"No! Just get out!" exclaimed the girl as she finished the last button of her boot and got to her feet in a sweeping motion.

The flap opened roughly.

"What's going on here!?" a very princely man demanded, and his bright green eyes narrowed instantly upon the bell ringer. "You!"

Quasimodo was frozen to the core. His heart stopped as his eyes shifted up to the knight. His nightmare had grown from strange to terrible, and more than anything he wished he had never left the tower.

The man, Phoebus by name, released Quasimodo from his glare in time to turn around to another knightly man named Pierre Giroux who was followed by some of Frollo's old guards.

This was enough to release Quasimodo from his spell, and he again made to dash away. It was far too late now, however. Phoebus did not even have to tell Pierre to chase after him. Although Quasimodo managed to get out of the tent he was grabbed in a moment by two guards and Pierre.

"Wait!" said the girl suddenly as she too was freed from her stupor. Running to Phoebus she tried to say, "I don't think—"

With the strength of a mule Quasimodo suddenly kicked Pierre right in the stomach. He fell back into the tent and the girl backed away involuntarily. Not long would she have stood back before she would have attempted to speak out again, but it was at that moment that another gypsy pulled her away from the scene. There were too many guards around for comfort.

And it took about four guards to hold the struggling Quasimodo down onto the ground. Though he screamed and begged, his fighting them only made it worse until at last Quasimodo gave in and resisted no more. He did not see Frollo watching from further back in the middle of the square, nor did he know of his disgusted leer as he watched with no attempt to stop what was happening.

"Your honor!" exclaimed Fr. André running to Frollo's side after Quasimodo was taken away. "What's going on?! What are they doing?!"

"Nothing that concerns you," said Frollo pulling Fr. André back with him to the cathedral. "It's all being taken care of."

"But shouldn't my congregation concern me?" Fr. André demanded.

"It's not a member of your congregation, abbé."