VII. BARELY EVEN FRIENDS

It was raining as Lucien and Belle picked their way through the streets, which seemed to pretty nearly reflect their mood. But Belle didn't even seem to notice it, let alone the steady dampening of her dress and hair. "I just don't understand," she fumed, "how there can be so many heartless, stupid, unfeeling, cruel people in the entire world, let alone just in Paris!"

Though Lucien stood at least a head taller than Belle, he habitually shortened his gait so that they could walk together. Just now, however, he found himself hurrying to keep up with his angry friend. "I'm sorry the day had to end this way, Belle."

Belle emitted a sound that was half sob, half sigh. "My day! I had a lovely time earlier, Lucien. Thank you for bringing me. But I can't even begin," she fumed, "to dwell on how badly my day went, when today must have been the worst of that poor boy, ah, Quasimodo's life. What did that poor boy ever do to—No. It's worse than that. They mocked that poor, defenseless young man for his looks. As if they were something he could help."

"You're too good, Belle."

Belle looked sideways at her friend. "Am I, Lucien? Don't you think they did wrong?" But Belle was so upset she couldn't wait for an answer. "They said this Quasimodo was a ward of Judge Frollo…? But it doesn't make sense; why would he try to arrest the gypsy girl for interfering, then? Wait, why didn't he even try to stop that vile crowd? He had an entire—there were guards—" Spluttering with rage, Belle paused to draw a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not surprised Quasimodo never set foot outside the cathedral before today, if this is how people decide to treat him!"

"Quasimodo," mulled Lucien sympathetically. "Belle…his name means 'half-formed'."

"I'd like to kick whoever named him then," said Belle fiercely. "And you!" she began suddenly, rounding on a surprised Lucien. "You held me back! You kept me from—"

"—from doing what?" Lucien retorted defensively.

"Oh, I don't know!" Belle cried, flinging her hands into the air. "Anything would have been better than just standing there, watching those people torment him—"

"And did you think that if you went up there and tried to put a stop to things, people would listen? That Judge Frollo would applaud your wisdom? What makes you different from the gypsy girl in that respect, Belle? What would you have accomplished, other than getting yourself hurt into the bargain?"

"In case you didn't notice, Lucien, the gypsy girl, who did help him, wasn't hurt!"

"No, but she was pretty nearly arrested! Somehow I don't see you escaping capture so easily! I mean, imagine if she didn't know all those flashy magic tricks! Do you know what the guards in the Palace of Justice do to pretty women prisoners?"

Belle's eyes flashed. "They're not all like that."

"Mon Dieu, Belle!" Both were so angry that Belle seemed to accept Lucien's swear as a matter of course. "You've known the Captain of the Guards a few hours, at most, whereas you've known me for years. And in case you hadn't forgotten, he was the one trying to arrest the gypsy girl!"

Belle seized on the worst possible part of what Lucien had said. "Where does how long I've known you come into it? Lucien, are you comparing yourself to him? Is that what this is really all about?"

"No—why?" Lucien added hastily, his tone changing. "Is that all any of it means, to you?"

In the grey light, Belle nearly tripped over the familiar uneven cobblestones of the street on which they lived, but she gave Lucien glare for glare. "To me, this afternoon was the sad exposure of the complete lack of justice exhibited by people, let alone the so-called Palace of Justice."

"That's what it was to me, too," Lucien protested.

Belle strode away, reaching for the door handle. "You could have fooled me," she said coldly, without looking back, and stepped into her house, locking the door behind her. Then she slumped against the thick door, burying her face in her hands.

"Belle? Is everything all right?" A bulky figure appeared in the kitchen door.

"Papa!" She'd never been happier to see her father. Wrapping her arms around him, Belle buried her face in her father's shoulder and poured out the day's events to him, beginning with the festival's initial fun and her new friend, and proceeding to the crowning of the King of Fools and all that had gone wrong—including her argument with Lucien just a while ago.

Belle never quite knew how it'd happened, but by the end of her story she was sitting at the table picking at mutton and buttered bread. "Lucien was right about one thing," she said wryly, swallowing a small mouthful, "and that's how long we've known one another. And I thought that meant I knew him well, too. I always thought Lucien was…well, nice," she finished lamely. "And now to find out he doesn't care—"

"Belle," interrupted Maurice gently but firmly, "Lucien does care. He cares about you very much. First of all," he began the new sentence quickly, holding up a hand to forestall her protest, "he wouldn't have kept you from getting hurt by that crowd. It's the same thing I would have done, and I am going to thank him for it, since you won't."

Like most people, Belle was relatively immature when angry. Rather than acknowledge the subtle rebuke, she just emitted an aggrieved sigh.

"And secondly…" It was Maurice's turn to sigh. He was aware that Belle was going to hate what he said next, but sooner or later she would have to face up to it. "If Lucien didn't care about you, Belle, he wouldn't be protective of you towards a man that we hardly know, and so cannot immediately trust—yes, even if he is well-read. And he wouldn't be jealous of your acquaintance with this man, either."

"Jealous? Papa!" Belle put down her fork and knife. "Lucien doesn't care about me that way! We are very good friends, but only very good friends. Today Lucien was just being…"

Despite his daughter's indignation, Maurice smiled. "You can't put another name to it, can you? Belle, I was a young man in love once. I know what it looks like."

Belle cut a piece of mutton and put it in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully for a time—as much because it was mutton as because she was lost in thought—swallowed, and remained silent. She picked up the half-eaten slice of bread.

Maurice watched her shrewdly. "You're not actually thinking about what I said, are you?"

"No." Belle assured him loftily, earning a laugh from her father.

"I wish you would," he told her. "If you truly value your friendship, you ought to at least realize what's wrong with it." Standing, he kissed Belle on the forehead and retreated to his room.

Soon afterwards, Belle was lying on her own bed in the dark, but she couldn't sleep. She tried to sleep on her back, but she felt as confined as if she lay in a casket. Startled by the morbid thought, she rolled over onto her stomach—which made her neck hurt as she twisted her head from side to side. Then, she moved back onto her side. From there, she had a perfect view of Lucien's book of stories, resting on her bedside table.

"Argh!" Belle found that lying on her other side provided her with a view of the bedroom wall. With such a bland expanse before her, it was easier to think calmly about things.

For most of the afternoon and all evening, Belle had been angry enough to punch something, like a boy brawling in the street. It was absolutely maddening that, not only had the hunchback's humiliation been a heartbreaking display of human cruelty, but as if to add insult to injury, Belle could hardly focus, now, on the earlier, happy events of the day.

She now realized guiltily that she had, in fact, rather wanted to punch Lucien. But nothing that had happened that afternoon was his fault, was it? Belle made a face at herself. It wasn't like her to be so thoughtless. So impractical. So unappreciative of her best friend.

She was Lucien's best friend, too. Though she had been forced to face the possibility that he cared about her romantically, Belle refused to dwell on the effect it might have on their friendship. Instead, she blushed with shame, recalling every word of their argument with painful clarity. The sooner she apologized, she resolved sheepishly, the better.

.:..:..:.

The next morning after breakfast, Belle wrapped herself in a shawl against the continuing rain. Taking a deep breath, she opened the front door and stepped out onto the threshold—

"Ow!"

"Belle?"

"Lucien? What are you doing here?"

Lucien looked uncomfortable. "I came to apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was…completely ungentlemanly, and I acted like I was your father and not your friend. I was out of place, and I'm sorry." Though Lucien, too, seemed to have undergone a parental lecture, his sincerity was unmistakable.

"I have something to be sorry about, too," Belle protested. "I was very upset about what we saw, yesterday. I still am. But today I know better than to lash out at you. And, yes," her eyes twinkled, "perhaps you were a little over-protective of me, but then we're such close friends. If I thought you were being foolish, or you were in danger, I'd try to do something about it, too."

"I know," said Lucien ruefully, remembering several past occurrences. "You've always been quick to tell me when I'm being a fool."

"Aren't brothers and sisters bound to tease each other mercilessly?" Belle asked. "I have known you so long, I think of you as an older brother."

It was a tactful note to strike; but Lucien looked as though he considered it merciless indeed. Still, he only smiled down at Belle and said, "Would you like to come over? My mother just baked a pie."

"Of course," said Belle.