JMJ

SEVEN

The caravan was packed to leave, for the gypsies had stayed long into the night. It was a most profitable day for them on the Feast of Fools, for it was the one day upon which their entertainment was the most appreciated. It was the one day upon which they were actually sought after. They had only just finished packing now in the grim early morning, and most of the gypsies were already inside their wagons and starting off.

However there was one girl among them no older than sixteen, who whether or not she had a wagon to invite her in, was by herself as she often was. As she stood on the edge of the caravan she found herself turning her head towards the square of Notre Dame. She could not see anything from where she stood, but the echoes of shouting and a great commotion could be heard coming from there.

A look of deep sadness covered her features, and without telling a soul, she slipped away as a stray cat might about her own business. No one made to stop her. As she came to the square she was surprised to see how many people were crowding around. Some of them were gypsies, so she was not the only one in the crowd to come see even if for a different reason. Most of the spectators however were the culturally French, but those who were present whether of Gypsy, Christian, or of some other origin, for the most part watched with a disturbing interest as the strange prisoner was dragged forward in a fountain of chains to a block where he was serve his sentence.

The girl stood back a pace and gasped. She knew for what reason the boy from the tower was being punished, and she knew that the queer person as ugly and gruesome as he appeared had been as scared to see her in the tent as she had been of him. Perhaps more so.

The crime of an attempt of adultery or kidnapping was charged to the prisoner's name aside from resisting authority. She knew the first crime to be false, and for the second who could blame him? The injustice of the scene culminating in her mind made her feel ill, but she would not leave. In dismay, the girl continued to watch as the guard brought out a whip.

She watched the terror in the prisoner's eyes grow from dull confused misery to true horror, and they widened to their full capacity. He squeezed his eyes shut for the coming pain after they wrenched off his cloak and tunic as one would pull a wrap from a slab of meat.

"No …" she breathed and winced against the pain at the crack of that strong whip against tender naked flesh.

#

In the arcade Fr. André too watched the revolting display in front of the House of God, and he could not believe what he was seeing.

A public whipping!

He hardly knew that Frollo had approached save that he felt a sudden unexplainable chill run up his spine which caused him to turn to his side to see the archdeacon standing there.

"Your honor, shouldn't we do something about this?" asked Fr. André miserably and he clutched the sleeves of his robe as he heard the sound of the whip crack and the cry of the boy down below.

"I can't interfere with the law," muttered Frollo as still as stone.

"But he can't have done what they say he's done, especially if he is only a halfwit as you said," cried Fr. André imploringly. "Didn't you defend him at the … 'trial'? It can't have been much of one …" He paused. "And even if he did commit a crime! This is obscene! Please! How is whipping and publicly humiliating a sinner going to make him want to repent? All these people watching …" He shuddered. "Jeering. Cheering! It's the Coliseum syndrome and at least a near occasion of sin if not sin of the gravest sort! It's … it's …"

"It's not the quiet little village of little simple farmers," retorted Frollo calmly as he gazed on upon the square as though gazing into a fire or the reflection of light dancing upon the sea, "this is Paris. I told you there was nothing to be done about Paris, and sometimes, no, there is no other way to deal with a sinner than public penance."

"But this might kill—"

Roughly Frollo turned to André, and the little man felt as though he would melt into the floor on the spot.

"Don't you think," said Frollo through clenched teeth, "that if I could do something I would? He's lived with me as my son all sixteen years of his life. Do you think I don't care about his welfare? There's nothing to be done, especially now! They'll release him in an hour of chains with whipping on and off with long pauses in between. They're doing that much because he is my son, and because the victim of the crime is not powerful enough to press for further punishment. It was only a gypsy girl."

"I'm sorry, your honor."

Fr. André bowed his head now hidden within his hood. He could not help but think of the ancient pagans scourging the early followers of Christ and still may be doing in pagan countries. He could not help but be reminded of the Scourging of Our Lord at the Pillar. Yet, here a civilized Christian nation as France was whipping someone who could not have deserved it. Christian men had no right to whip and torture even a hardened sinner. Lock them up or banish them, yes, so they would do no harm to others, but torture was only the work of the devil. To torture someone who had the mind of a child and who was hardly capable of purposely offending the law, that was a crime, which without repentance, would scream to God for vengeance.

As he felt Frollo stepping closer to the ledge at his side, Fr. André could not help further still the thought of the Pharisees and elders of the Jews looking on and doing nothing to stop the tragedy against an innocent Man — not only doing nothing, in fact, but feeling satisfaction to know that the Innocent was finally being taken from their sight. Though he himself felt nothing but nausea and horror to see this scene nor was he saying that he felt the poor boy to be a saint, he tried to suppress the uncharitable thought that he could sense some form of that same angry satisfaction in Frollo watching his adopted child be tortured as the pagan fathers of the early Christians watched their children be slaughtered before their eyes when they would not sacrifice to the demons in the guise of gods, or as even the Pharisees themselves looking up upon the Cross.

He tried to shake the thought out of his mind as he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

Frollo had said that he could have done nothing to intervene. The archdeacon deserved the benefit of the doubt, for the alternative was far too vile to be true.

There was a short pause as Frollo examined the little priest with so much turmoil in his head.

"Come," he said coolly then. "Inside with me."

Fr. André followed miserably behind Frollo, but very slowly and he looked back once more at the wailing cries from the little bell ringer.

"Master! Master! Please, master! Save me!"

He glanced again up at Frollo, and he could not bring himself to step any further. He bowed his head again and prayed that such madness as this would cease from the face of the earth.

#

Dropping his head so heavy and limp, Quasimodo could no longer bring himself to look up towards the cathedral in the hope that his master would appear to save him. His hope was lost and the pain numbing to the core. The crowd still watched but their interest seemed to have dwindled as their numbers had been greatly reduced. But Quasimodo could no longer see them. He hardly could tell that the whipping had stopped for the hand that held the whip to take a rest and wipe the brow of the head attached.

The administer of the punishment stood back and had a drink as he sat down upon a stool, but Quasimodo, the prisoner was still in chains so numerous and so heavy that even they had provided some protection from some of the blows. What had struck him barebacked had been more than enough to bear however.

"I'm sorry, master …" he choked and he spit out what he thought was mucus but was a gob of blood. "… Forgive me … master …"

Then after a time he perceived again the murmuring crowd penetrating his mind. He could hear some say how revolting a creature he was now that all could see him uncovered as he truly was out of human apparel. What a beast he was.

Tears had already rung him dry, but a few more globs managed to trickle down his cheeks.

Then he heard footsteps in front of him.

In fright, he feared that whipping would continue, but as he lifted his head he saw not a guard dressed in black, but an image as wonderful as the angel that freed St. Peter from prison. She looked more beautiful in her white blouse and Gypsy skirt than she could have ever hoped to be beautiful in her dancing dress. The dirt on her face only enhanced her genuineness. The care in her eyes held his eyes in place upon hers. As a spirit wreathed in light she descended upon him seemingly unaware of the voices of the surprised crowd. She seemed to his weary eyes to float towards him as she fell upon her knees in front of him.

"I'm sorry," whispered the voice like tinkling bells. "I'm sorry this happened because of me. I know you didn't do it on purpose." She paused. "Here."

Quasimodo could barely remember how to breathe as he stared back. As a cup of water rose to his lips he could barely understand what a cup was or the need for water, but the cool liquid down his throat was almost as comforting as the sight of this spirit of kindness in front of him.

What had they called her at the trial?

La Esmeralda …

#

"Come on, you," growled the whipping guard as he stood up from his stool.

With a snort he began to march towards the girl.

The knight Pierre Giroux, who had been present at the public punishment and almost as disgusted as André, moved at once to stop the guard from doing anything to hinder the girl who impressed him so greatly. Her kindness for the poor bell ringer struck such a chord that the thought of any harm against her from some great a lout as that man with his whip caused a rage to build up inside of him.

But he was not given the chance to show anything.

Phoebus, his superior stopped the guard instead.

"No," he said. "Leave her alone. She should be commended."

The girl smiled a little as she turned to Phoebus from whom such words she did not expect in a scene as cruel as this one.

"Besides," Phoebus went on crossing his arms. "His punishment is practically over anyway."

Sir Giroux took this initiative instantly to say, "Release him!"

Quasimodo's chains were unlocked, and he fell into a heap on the ground. The girl tried to help him, but as she reached out for his hand, Frollo appeared.

The girl felt his eyes before she looked back to see them glaring down upon her with the intensity of some great owl beneath his cap. It was not anger she saw in his eyes, but what she did see was nothing she cared to know. It was the stare of a bird of prey upon a rodent. First she made to block his view of Quasimodo as though to protect him, but she felt quite disoriented, and could only watch as the man moved past her and helped Quasimodo to his feet.

Quasimodo himself barely responded with more than a sickening whimper as the archdeacon wrapped the boy's cloak over his shoulders and led him back into the cathedral.

La Esmeralda looked up at the tower, at the painted figures of saints and angels, but her eyes soon locked onto the lurking grotesques and gargoyles. She could think of no better comparison for that man that had just taken the poor boy back into that mysterious tower. He had been staring at her as some of those horrid creatures leered down from the heights upon the people of Paris. The only thing that seemed to hold them back from launching an assault were the angels and saints which stood in front of them, but were they good enough? Certainly they could not stop the man who had taken the poor boy away.

#

Although he could not hear the sound of thunder, in his heart Quasimodo felt the dull throb of a distant storm. In a silence that was deafening, Frollo cleaned Quasimodo's wounds, bandaged him, and gave him an old shirt to wear that did not fit him until they could replace the tunic he had lost. Then he brought him up into the tower and laid him to bed upon his mat. He pulled the blanket up to the chin, and then in a cold, stiff manner, Frollo turned away. Without a single word of parting, without so much as a nod or a shake of his head, Frollo left the tower and closed the door neither softly so as to not disturb the patient, nor banging it to show his anger. As though there were no emotion left in his heart at all, he left Quasimodo to himself.

Would that Frollo had yelled at him with all the power of a raging tempest rather than leave him in such silence! The silence hurt more than any scolding, more than another beating.

Squeezing his eyes shut Quasimodo did not bother to wipe the tears from his eyes as they rolled down his face and onto his pillow.

"Oh, Marie," he whispered. "Why didn't I listen to you …? There would have been no worse day in the Book of Hours than on the Feast of Fools for me to come out. The day of madness …"

#

The ringing bells sounded first far away, and as Quasimodo awoke from his deep and troubled slumber he only caught the end of the after-humming in consciousness as he opened his eyes. Even then he was in a fog.

"The bells …" he moaned heavily. "The bells …"

"The altar boys are taking care of the bells in your absence," said a deep familiar voice at his side.

Surprised to hear the voice of Frollo, all remnant of sleep left the boy.

"Young Timothée just rang it now," Frollo continued in a calm, quiet voice. "I myself rang them last night after you went to bed."

"You, master?" asked Quasimodo with uncertainty, and he paused and looked down at his blanket. "I'm sorry, master. I'm sorry for causing so much trouble. I didn't mean …" He closed his eyes and held back a tear. "Forgive me."

Frollo sighed, but said nothing in response to that. He stood up from where he had been kneeling in front of the mat, and he turned to the table.

"I brought you something to eat and to drink. You need to keep up your strength to heal properly."

Quasimodo nodded and swallowed hard as he tried to ignore the pain enough to sit up. "Thank you, master."

Frollo made him lie back down.

"I'll bring the food to you …"

#

It was a long time before Quasimodo felt able to get out of bed, and when he did, Frollo would not allow him to ring the bells until he had healed more. Though, once Quasimodo was up and about again, as slow as it was, Frollo would not allow the altar boys to come up any longer either. He went up himself to ring the bells leaving Quasimodo feeling very worthless without his purpose in life.

"I am cold. I am nothing. I am as the stone grotesques outside my walls," he wrote taking up a piece of parchment one cold and dreary afternoon. "But in one thing I am different. I feel pain unless it is so that stone feels pain too but has no voice to say so. If we both feel pain, however, it can merit us nothing, because that is what I am. Nothing."

He looked down at what he wrote and thought how miserable and hopeless it sounded as he reread it. Such hopelessness on a once so fresh piece of paper when he had always wished to make nothing but beauty to make up for his appearance! There was no beauty in this.

Closing his eyes briefly, he lifted his head to the window where stood the wooden figure of the archdeacon, Benjamin. In the darkness in which Quasimodo sat, the figure was only a silhouette against a gray cloud mass.

"Pray for your innocence so that you remain pure and good-hearted. Pray for the gift of understanding, for wisdom and discernment. Pray that you never forget about the temple inside of you," Quasimodo repeated quietly to himself, and shook his head.

Taking up another sheet of paper he began to write again.

"A hope for being whole,

For that elusive soul …"

Again he shook his head and dropped it into his arms upon the table.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,

ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen …"

He whispered the prayer of his promise into the wood of the table, and continued to whisper the rest.