As always, my thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! I didn't know it had been so long since I updated! Sorry about that. Things have been pretty crazy for me lately. But crazy in a good way. I'll tell you more later. In the meantime, here's what you've been waiting for! :)

I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.


Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Nine: L'Air ne Fait Pas la Chanson*

"I know you haven't made your mind up yet

But I would never do you wrong

I've known it from the moment that we met

No doubt in my mind where you belong"

"Make You Feel My Love", Bob Dylan

This winter is going to be a bad one. Arnaud can already tell.

It has been raining heavily for days. The pond is twice as large as it was during the summer, and the fields have begun to resemble a marshland. Technically, the harvest work shouldn't have begun until after Saint Martin's Day, which marks the official beginning of winter, but this year, the farmers were forced to begin their harvesting several weeks earlier. Fortunately, the Lefévres managed to harvest their crops before they could be drowned, but they weren't able to furrow the fields before the downpour started. Whether the soil will be ready to support more crops next year is anyone's guess. They'll just have to hope for the best.

There are other signs. A couple of weeks ago, Arnaud noticed that the ducks and geese were migrating, much earlier than usual. The great oak has been dropping barrages of acorns on everyone's heads. And the crickets keep finding new and innovative methods of getting inside the cottage. Marie has only recently forgiven Gabriel for dropping one of their little houseguests down the back of her dress.

It's been nearly a week since the girl's return, and it has rained every day since. If Arnaud was a superstitious man, he would be tempted to regard it as some sort of portent. But of course, that would be ridiculous. It's just a meaningless coincidence.

In a way, Arnaud is glad that Marie decided to leave the farm for a while. It gave her some time to think, and although it wasn't easy seeing Quasimodo so depressed, her absence did give him the opportunity to realize exactly how much she means to him. As Sextus Propertius says, "Always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows." Not that the two young people are lovers, exactly... and not that Arnaud is the least bit prepared for that eventuality. God knows he's reluctant, to say the least, to even contemplate the thought of his adopted daughter in that context. He'll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Still, he's glad that Marie is back. Very glad. Inexpressibly glad.

Finally, he can get some decent food in him.

Of course, every member of the Lefévre household is invaluable. But there's no disputing which member is the cook. Marie can take some water, a few vegetables, and a slab of meat, and turn it into a mouthwatering stew, with a side of chewy bread to soak up the savory liquid. But when she left, she condemned the men of the house to fend for themselves. And cooking is not Arnaud's métier. In fact, he can just barely make porridge, and it usually ends up looking like something one would find on the floor of the chicken coop. At least, that's what Gabriel astutely pointed out to him.

Needless to say, everyone was relieved when Marie decided to return home earlier than she had intended. But no one was more relieved than Quasimodo. That much was painfully evident from the way his face positively radiated joy as he sat with the rest of the family around the kitchen table on the night she came back, listening with rapt attention to her amusing stories about the goings-on at the Fourniers'. His green eyes had a tender light in them that Arnaud had never seen before.

And it doesn't take a scholar like himself to recognize what that means.

From his place in the driver's seat of the cart, Arnaud gives André's reins a flick, urging the big horse to pick up the pace — as if the pouring rain isn't enough incentive to get back to the farm as quickly as possible. Under normal circumstances, he would have already been home from selling goods at the market some time ago, but there was an important errand which demanded his attention, and it took even longer than he had expected. Still, it all worked out in the end, and that's what counts.

Arnaud sighs and pulls his cloak tighter around his gaunt frame, but to little effect; the rain has already soaked through to his skin. He wonders, a little guiltily, what his life would be like if things were different — if, for instance, he had chosen to pursue his studies at the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève instead of taking over his brother's farm. Would he be spending his days next to a roaring fire, poring over ancient texts, discovering lost pearls of wisdom and earning the praise and admiration of learned men? He will never know.

By the time he arrives home and meets Bernard, who offers to disengage the horse from his traces, night has already fallen. He is tired, drenched, hungry, and shivering. But then, as he trudges wearily inside the cottage, a chorus of youthful voices welcomes him home. Quasimodo takes his wet cloak from his shoulders and hangs it in front of the hearth to dry. Gabriel pushes him into a chair close to the fire, and Marie hands him a wool blanket and a bowl of hot stew.

As his feet gradually begin to thaw, so does his heart. He may not be a distinguished writer or philosopher, but he does have a loving family. He has all he needs.

He brings a spoonful of soup to his lips. "Delicious as always, Marie," he says with a smile.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yes, mam'selle."

As they sit around the hearth, chatting about their day, Arnaud notices Quasimodo watching Marie with the same tender quality in his gaze that he remarked on a few days ago. It is only when the girl addresses him that he snaps out of his trance.

"I'm sorry?" he says, blinking.

Marie rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. "I knew you weren't listening," she says, smiling. "I said, I saw Joséphine's father in the village today. He told me that Joséphine is doing very well in the city. And she asked me to give you her thanks again for the gift you made for her." She hesitates a moment, then adds, "And to tell you she's sorry that you couldn't make it to the wedding feast."

Quasimodo shrugs his huge shoulders in resignation. "It's all right. We both know I wouldn't have been welcome, anyway." He chuckles somewhat darkly. "Besides, I doubt that Joséphine would have wanted the happiest day of her life to be spoiled by an angry, torch-wielding mob."

Arnaud feels a pang of sympathy for the lad, and Marie sighs and shakes her head. "Oh, Quasi..."

"I don't mind," Quasimodo assures her quickly. "Really." He smiles softly. "I have all I need."

He holds Marie's gaze steadily as he says this. Although the girl blushes, she doesn't look away. The air is heavy with unspoken emotions.

Growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second, Arnaud is on the verge of telling Gabriel that it's time for bed, when Bernard comes inside, and the moment is over.

The old man is soaked to the bone and clearly not pleased about it. "André is being difficult again," he growls, wiping the rain from his face.

Quasimodo stands up. "He's not letting you take off his bridle?"

"No. That damned animal is even more stubborn than I am. And the rain is coming down hard. He'll catch his death if he stays out there much longer."

"I'll see what I can do." The young man reaches for his own cloak and, wrapping it around himself, heads out into the cold, wet night.

As soon as he walks out the door, everyone turns to Arnaud. "Well?" Marie asks expectantly in a hushed tone. "How did it go? Did you talk to the curate? What did he say?"

"One question at a time, for heaven's sake," Arnaud replies in amusement. "To answer your first question, it wasn't easy. As for the second, I did talk to him. And at first, he told me in no uncertain terms that it was out of the question. I tried to reason with him, to tell him why it was so important. That didn't seem to go over so well. So in the end I appealed to his mercy, which, I was relieved to discover, is still more or less intact." He grins crookedly. "The upshot is, it worked."

Bernard sits down heavily in the chair Quasimodo vacated. "Thank God."

"He's agreed to allow it, just this once," Arnaud continues. "But it's going to have to be soon. This Saturday, as a matter of fact."

"This Saturday?" Marie repeats, her low voice tinged with excitement. "But that's Saint Martin's Day! That's perfect! Oh, Quasi will be so ecstatic!"

Gabriel is shaking his head. "Yeah, but how are we going to get him there? He won't even leave the farm."

"Oh," says Bernard unconcernedly, slowly inching his chair closer and closer to the fire, "I'm sure Marie will come up with something."

The girl regards him dubiously. "I will?"

"Think about it, cricket. The lad would do anything for you. If anyone can get him to change his mind, that person is you."

"Bernard!" The old man looks up at her, seemingly taken aback by her indignant exclamation. Her face is crimson with embarrassment. "You shouldn't say things like that. You make it sound like... like he's..."

In love with you? Arnaud almost says, before he manages to restrain himself. He already decided months ago that he's not going to get involved. If it is meant to be, then the two will work it out on their own. Hopefully.

At that moment Quasimodo comes back inside, drenched from head to toe. He wastes no time in removing his dripping cloak and hanging it beside Arnaud's. "I g-got André's bridle off," he says, his teeth chattering. "I th-think he's just acting up to get attention."

"What a coincidence," Arnaud remarks as he rises to his feet. "Gabe used to employ the same tactic when he didn't want to go to bed."

"It worked, didn't it?"

He ruffles the boy's dark hair. "Indeed it did, my sly young fox." He takes the blanket off his own shoulders and hands it to Quasimodo, who accepts it gratefully. "Take my chair by the fire, Quasi. I'm off to bed."

He smiles. "Good night, Arnaud."

"Good night, Uncle," Marie chimes in. "Dulcis et alta quies placidaeque."

"Show-off," says Gabriel, shoving her playfully.

"'Night, lad," mumbles Bernard, half-asleep already.

As he drags his tired body up the stairs, Arnaud feels a smile tug at his lips. "Good night," he says quietly. "My most excellent, unparalleled, and beloved family."


Marie knew it would be difficult. She just didn't know how difficult.

Frankly, she has no idea how she is going to pull this off. As Gabriel already remarked, Quasimodo is by no means eager to join the rest of society. Considering what invariably happens every time someone sees him in public, she can't say she blames him in the least for his reluctance. How can she possibly convince him to leave the safety of the farm, let alone set foot inside the city walls ever again?

But then, she remembers who they're doing this for, and why. She remembers how important it is for this to work out. And she decides not to take no for an answer.

"No," Quasimodo says instantly.

Marie sighs. Here we go.

"But you have to come tomorrow," she persists, following him as he carries a fresh bale of hay across the barn to André's stable. "It's Saint Martin's Day. A holy day. A day for feasting and celebrating. You can't spend it here."

He opens the door of the stable and sets the bale down inside. "I told you before," he says, kindly but firmly, "I don't mind. I like it here. I don't need to leave the farm to enjoy myself."

She knew he would say something like this. And that is why she prepared herself for it. "That's not the point," she replies, refusing to give in. "The tradition in our family every year has always been to attend the morning mass at Saint-Martin-des-Champs. And now you're part of the family, too. That means you can't get out of it."

Quasimodo's lips quirk in a faint smile. "That's very nice of you to say," he says as he reaches up to stroke the horse's muzzle. "And I appreciate the thought. But you have to be realistic about this, Marie. You know what'll happen if I ever go out... out there."

"That won't happen this time," she insists.

He laughs incredulously. "How can you say that? Of course it will."

As he steps back to close the stable door, Marie places her hand on his arm. "No, it won't," she says vehemently. "I won't let it."

"Marie..."

"When we first met, I told you that I wouldn't let anyone hurt you, ever again. I swore on my parents' graves. That is not a promise that I take lightly."

Quasimodo gazes down at her hand for a moment, before hesitantly reaching up to cover it with his own. His skin is rough and warm. "That means a lot to me," he says quietly. "But you shouldn't feel obligated to protect me from the world. You don't owe me anything, Mariette. I'm the one who owes you." The pad of his thumb brushes lightly across her wrist, and Marie finds it increasingly difficult to focus on what he's saying. "I owe you... everything."

"Then come with us to the city, and I'll call us even," she says with an impish smile, aware that she is probably blushing madly.

He returns her smile, but shakes his head. "Nice try," he replies, releasing her hand and closing the door of the stable. "It's all right. You go ahead with the others. I'll look after things here until you get back."

Marie suppresses a growl. Who knew he could be so stubborn? All right, Quasi, she thinks, you made me do this.

Taking a deep breath, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not leaving you alone on your birthday, and that's final."

He gapes openly at her, his blue-green eyes wide in surprise. "How..." He clears his throat. "How do you know tomorrow is my birthday?" he asks at last.

She smiles again, and this time, her smile is gentle. "Because you told me."

"I did?" He blinks. "When?"

"It was on the third day after you came here. You were trying to eat your breakfast, and I wouldn't stop bothering you until you told me exactly how old you were. I was convinced that you couldn't possibly be older than me." She smirks. "And then you just had to prove me wrong when you said you'd be twenty on Martinmas, and I'd only just turned nineteen."

Quasimodo lets out a quiet chuckle. "I can't believe you remember all that."

"Well, of course I remember," she says fondly. "I remember everything you tell me."

As he looks at her again, her heart begins to race. In the several months since she has known Quasimodo, he has never held her gaze for this long. There is a look in his eyes that she has never seen before, a warm intensity that makes her feel excited and terrified at the same time.

Marie already decided, before she came home from the Fourniers', that she was not going to confess her feelings to him until after his birthday. No matter what, she wouldn't let anything lessen the importance of that day. But she soon found that, each day following her return, it became more and more difficult to restrain herself from blurting everything out in one tumbling torrent of words. It was sheer torture just to keep her mouth shut.

And now, under the scrutiny of those riveting eyes, she feels her resolve beginning to weaken.

Desperate to divert her mind from this line of thought, she returns to the issue at hand. "Quasi, I know you're nervous about this, but you don't have to worry. You won't be alone. You'll have all of us, right there with you." She smiles reassuringly. "Trust me. Everything will be all right."

He regards her warily, clearly unconvinced, but less firm than before. "I don't know..."

Marie takes a step closer to him, and puts a gentle hand on his immense, misshapen shoulder. "Please," she says simply. "Please come with us. For me."

A long sigh escapes him, and she can feel his muscles relax under her hand. Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. "All right," he says in a tired voice. "I'll go. For you."

She grins and hugs him tightly. "Thank you," she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back again. "I guarantee you won't regret it."

She only hopes she's right.

The next morning, like every morning before it for the past week, is cold, dark, and wet. But as it turns out, this works to their advantage. As the cart splashes along the muddy road, with Arnaud in the driver's seat, the rest of the family sits huddled together in the back of the cart. Bundled up in their hooded cloaks to keep out the steady, unrelenting rain, they resemble the monks at the Abbey of Saint-Martin's. If anyone were to glance at Quasimodo, they probably wouldn't notice anything different about him. At least, Marie is praying that they won't.

But it so happens that no one does. The few people they meet on the road barely acknowledge their presence, so intent are they to reach their destination and get out of the rain. But that doesn't prevent Quasimodo from stiffening visibly in fear every time they encounter someone. In an effort to calm his nerves, Marie reaches out for his hand and pulls it into her lap, ignoring the irritatingly amused looks she receives from Gabriel and Bernard. In response, he squeezes her hand tightly. After a while, he seems to relax.

As the wagon jostles along the road, Arnaud explains to Quasimodo a little about the history of Saint-Martin's. At the time of its founding, over four hundred years ago, the abbey was outside the walls of Paris and stood in the middle of a field, inside its own fortified wall; hence its name, Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields. Since then, the city has expanded, and the abbey was encompassed within the new wall.

Technically, the cathedral in which the Lefévres attend the Saint Martin's Day mass is not Saint-Martin's itself, but rather Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, which is a parish church built more recently within the walls of the fortified abbey. From the time of its building, it has been a center for charitable works, as well as a refuge for pilgrims. It is nowhere near as grand as Notre-Dame, Arnaud admits, but in his opinion, it is no less beautiful. Quasimodo seems skeptical.

At last, Arnaud pulls on André's reins, and the wagon slows to a halt. Marie nudges Quasimodo, and points directly above his head. Raising his eyebrows curiously, he looks up.

Towering over them, starkly outlined against the gray sky, the cathedral of Saint-Nicolas is an imposing sight, with its high Gothic arches and stained glass fenestrations. Though its façade is devoid of the myriad carvings, statues, and gargoyles which adorn Notre-Dame, there is a simple elegance to its clean lines that never fails to take Marie's breath away. But her favorite part of all is the bell tower.

Judging from the expression on Quasimodo's face, she's pretty sure he agrees.

As they pile one by one out of the cart, Arnaud looks at the young man expectantly. "Well?"

He gives a sheepish smile. "You're right. It's... beautiful."

After tying the horse to a hitching post, they file in through the doors of the church. It is early. The morning service does not start for another half an hour, and as a result the cathedral is nearly empty. Their footfalls echo through the vast space, bouncing off the marble columns and the high vaulted ceiling. As they walk slowly through the nave, a reverent hush falls over them all; even Gabriel, who usually keeps up a running commentary on everything that crosses his mind, is rendered silent by the dignity and splendor of the cathedral.

Gradually Marie becomes aware of the sound of approaching footsteps. She turns to see an old man, dressed in the traditional vestments of a parish priest. It is Jean-Sébastien Lacroix. He has been the curate of Saint-Nicolas for longer than Marie has been alive. He is a stern man, but kind.

At his approach, Quasimodo turns quickly away, trying desperately to hide his face. The priest appears not to notice him. Instead, he smiles faintly at the Lefévres. "Good morning to you, my children," he says in his slightly gruff voice. "Bless you for coming on this somewhat intemperate day."

"Good morning, Monsieur le Curé," Arnaud answers pleasantly. "We wouldn't dream of missing today's service. Particularly in view of the circumstances." He inclines his head toward Quasimodo, who seems to be completely absorbed in inspecting the arrangement of the stone tiles under his feet. "You'll forgive my impertinence if I remind you of the agreement we made."

"Of course, of course." The curate steps forward, raising his voice. "Quasimodo. Come and let me have a look at you, if you please."

The young man freezes, startled at this blunt request. Slowly, he pulls back the hood of his cloak and turns around, his eyes on the stone floor.

"Yes, Monsieur le Curé." His voice is barely more than a terrified whisper.

At first, the old man's eyes widen as he takes in Quasimodo's distorted face and twisted figure in the flickering candlelight. But then, as Marie watches, her stomach churning in apprehension, his expression gradually turns to one of profound pity. "Oh, my son," is all he says.

There is a long, tense silence. Finally the curate clears his throat. "Are you ready, Quasimodo?" he asks at last.

He blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the oddness of the question. "Ready for what, Monsieur le Curé?" he inquires politely.

It is Marie's turn to clear her throat. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," she says, feeling her face growing warm. "I'm afraid we neglected to inform Quasimodo of our agreement. The truth is, we wanted it to be a surprise. He has no idea why he is really here."

Quasimodo turns to her, looking alarmed. "Marie?"

But the curate merely smiles. "Come with me, my son. And the rest of you, if you would like."

They follow him to an alcove set into the south side of the nave, and up a long spiral staircase. At last they arrive in a large, drafty, open room, surrounded on all sides by slat-like eaves. The bell tower.

Forgetting his unease, Quasimodo gazes all about him, enraptured. He takes in the towering space, the enormous rafters, and most of all, the bells. As for Marie, it is the first time she has ever seen them. She is told that they are nowhere near as numerous, or as large, as the bells at Notre-Dame, but they are nonetheless impressive.

"Do you like them?" the old priest asks Quasimodo after a few minutes.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Curé," he replies breathlessly, seemingly unable to tear his gaze away from the great brass behemoths. "They're... They're exquisite."

"Good. Because I want you to ring the morning mass."

Quasimodo's head whips around to stare at the curate in pure shock. "You... You what?" he croaks.

"I'm told you were the bell ringer at Notre-Dame for six years. To make music to God in His own house, my son, is no small accomplishment. No doubt, after such a rare privilege, it is likely not much of an offer, but nevertheless, I would be grateful if you would accept."

As Marie watches, Quasimodo's eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he seems unable to say anything in reply. "I..." A half-stifled sob escapes him. "I would be honored," he chokes out at last.

By now Marie's own vision is slightly blurred. "Wonderful," says the priest simply. "Then I shall leave you to your work." He moves unhurriedly toward the stairwell, where he pauses. "Eleven minutes past eleven. Don't forget now."

"I won't," Quasimodo says fervently. "Thank you, Monsieur le Curé."

"Don't thank me, my son," he answers over his shoulder. "Thank your family. It was their idea."

After he disappears down the stairs, the young man turns toward them in astonishment, and Arnaud clears his throat. "Actually, it was Marie's idea," he clarifies. "If you must blame someone for the deception, blame her."

As Quasimodo stares silently at her, Marie smiles a little guiltily. "Sorry about the heart attack, Quasi."

Without a word, he steps forward and folds her into his embrace. Instantly, Marie feels her knees go weak as his powerful arms hold her tightly against him. Her eyes slip shut involuntarily, and she rests her chin on his shoulder, smiling stupidly.

Bernard had said — perhaps jokingly, and perhaps not — that Quasimodo would do anything for her. Marie knows now that she would do anything for him.

"Happy Birthday," she whispers, hugging him fiercely.

All too soon, he releases her, though not without pausing to bestow an impulsive kiss on her forehead. As she blushes furiously, Arnaud grins and shakes his head. "Come on," he says, gesturing toward the stairwell. "We don't want to be late for the service."

The others descend the spiral staircase, but Marie lingers behind in the doorway, reluctant to leave. As she casts one last look over her shoulder, she sees Quasimodo gazing at her steadily, with that same warm, intense, heartfelt expression on his face. If she had to give that expression a name, she would have to call it love.

She just barely manages to avoid tripping and falling down the stairs.

At precisely eleven minutes past eleven, the bells begin to ring. One by one, the heads of those sitting in the pews look up in wonder and delight as the sound reaches their ears. There is no doubt that it is the most beautiful carillon music any of them has ever heard. To be sure, those are the same bells they hear every day, and yet there is something different about the subtle harmonies and combinations of the tones. The result is both comfortingly familiar and exhiliratingly new.

From her place in the pews, between Gabriel and Arnaud, Marie smiles, her heart swelling with pride.

Finally, she understands the meaning of the proverb, "The sound does not make the song."


After the morning mass, the Lefévre family clambers into the cart and heads home. The rain has not lessened; if anything, it is coming down harder than ever. Twice on the journey back to the farm, the wagon wheels get stuck in the soupy mud, and everyone is forced to get out and jostle it free. The air seems to have grown colder, as well. As they sit together in the cart, they are obliged to huddle together for warmth.

And yet, for all that, Quasimodo can't stop smiling.

In all his twenty years of existence, he cannot recall ever being this happy. Not even close. Even when Esmeralda, that goddess among mortals, deigned to offer him a drink of water, he was not as profoundly affected as he was this morning. And when he learned whose idea it was to arrange for him to ring the bells at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, it was all he could do to keep from weeping with joy. As it was, he couldn't resist holding Marie to his racing heart, not even caring whether everyone was watching or not. He was moved to his very core.

He very nearly kissed her. Not on her forehead, or the back of her hand, but right on her sweetly curved lips. At the time, he was relieved that he successfully restrained himself.

Now, he almost wishes he hadn't.

Of course, that would have been out of the question. Utterly unthinkable. But as he sits beside Marie in the cart, her small body leaning into him for warmth, he finds himself thinking about all sorts of improper things. Things which have never before even crossed his mind. Like what she might taste like. Or whether her slender neck and shoulders are as soft as they look. Or how far those adorable freckles extend underneath her dress.

His face burns in shame, but he can't help it. He has never felt this way in his life.

"Quasi, are you feeling all right?" asks Gabriel, startling him. "Your cheeks are all red."

He clears his throat. "Couldn't be better," he says weakly.

The rest of the day, in accordance with Martinmas tradition, is devoted to feasting and games. In the homely warmth of the barn, the Lefévres and their extended family while away the hours by playing cards and backgammon, joking, laughing, and eating everything in sight. At one point, Gervais Fournier — village shoemaker and cousin to Joséphine — arrives with two bottles from his store of harvest wine. After hearing from Arnaud earlier that week that Saint Martin's Day was also Quasimodo's birthday, he was determined to bring him a gift. Deeply touched, Quasimodo is unable to refuse.

After a late supper, which consists of a succulent roast goose prepared by Marie, everyone retires to their beds, too drowsy from good food to keep their eyes open. As Quasimodo bids his family good night and goes back to his loft above the barn, he can't help feeling a little overwhelmed. He's simply not used to this much happiness.

For a long while, he stands in front of his completed model of the farm. Well, almost complete. He still hasn't carved a miniature version of himself yet. He takes up his chisel and a block of wood, staring at them in quiet contemplation by the light of an oil lantern. Perhaps he has waited long enough.

He hears a sudden creak as the barn door opens and closes, and his heart gives a flutter at the sound of a low voice. "Quasi?"

Swallowing hard, he sets down the wood and chisel. "Yes, Mariette?" he says evenly.

"May I come up?"

Lord, please give me strength. "Of course."

"Don't worry, I won't ask you to take out any splinters," he hears her say as she climbs the ladder to his loft. "I had the sense to put on shoes this time."

Quasimodo chuckles. Before long, Marie's auburn head appears, followed by the rest of her diminutive form. "Don't laugh," she scolds playfully. "That was a very grievous injury."

"Oh, I know," he replies very seriously as he takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. "And you bore it with the stoicism of a Greek sage."

Marie laughs, and his heart gives another leap in his chest. He can't help but notice that she hasn't released his hand.

"Please, have a seat," he says, gesturing to one of the many bales of hay which litter his loft. "Would you like some wine?"

"Ummm... All right, that sounds nice."

As she sits down, Quasimodo busies himself with opening one of the bottles from Gervais and filling two goblets. He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I don't have proper chairs," he says, mostly because he feels he should probably say something. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience with entertaining guests."

"Oh, that's all right. I like it up here. It's cozy."

He smiles slightly to himself. Turning back toward her, he hands her a goblet and sits beside her. For a while, they sip the wine in a companionable silence, and he finds himself thinking that he could easily stay like this forever. It doesn't occur to him to ask why she is there. He's just glad that she is.

It's not until he refills their goblets that she speaks again. "I brought you something."

He looks up at her in surprise. "You did?"

The girl fishes around in the numerous pockets of her dress. "At least, I think I did. I know it's here somewhere. Here it is." She pulls out a small object, but doesn't show it to him. "I didn't want to give it to you in front of everyone else," she says, her cheeks slightly pink — though whether it is from embarrassment or the wine, he can't tell. "I've been working on it for months, but it's not very good."

Curious, Quasimodo sets down his cup. "What is it?"

She bites her lip. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Oh, Mariette," he says fondly. "Of course I won't."

With a melodramatic sigh, she holds the object out to him. His eyes widen as he takes it from her, turning it over in his hands. It's a little wooden replica of himself. It is very simple, but faithful and accurate in its representation. The artist made no attempt to ignore the subject's physical deformities, and yet it was clearly carved by someone with a loving eye. The radiant smile on its painted face is enough to make his throat constrict.

"It's wonderful," he says tightly.

Marie makes a little noise of dissatisfaction. "You'd say that even if it was terrible," she says, not unkindly. "Anyway," she continues, standing abruptly and taking the figurine from his hands, "I was getting tired of waiting for you to make one, so I decided to do it for you." She places it with a flourish on the table among the rest of his carvings. "There. I think that's a good place for it, don't you?"

Quasimodo stands up to get a closer look, and suddenly finds himself unable to form the words necessary to give an answer.

Marie has placed the figure of himself right beside the figure of hers.

She gives a nervous smile. "Kind of looks like it belongs there, doesn't it?" she asks a little shakily.

Before his mind even has a chance to catch up with the rest of him, he steps forward and takes her hands in his. For a moment, he doesn't trust himself to speak. "I..." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I think you may be right," he murmurs huskily, his throat burning.

His heart begins to pound in his ribcage as Marie takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. At first he is disappointed when she gently pulls her hands from his grasp, but his pulse soars once again as she reaches up and clasps her arms behind his neck. Driven by pure instinct, his own hands find their way around her waist, pulling her even closer. As she gazes up at him through her thick eyelashes, he feels something stirring within him, something frightening and wonderful and impossible to ignore.

Breathing shallowly, he leans in and tilts his head toward hers. He can feel her warm breath on his face. For an instant, her nose brushes against his, and his eyelids drift shut in rapturous anticipation.

"Marie! Are you up there?"

At the sound of Arnaud's voice, they fly apart with a shared gasp, their faces glowing. With a valiant effort, Marie attemps to compose herself before replying. "Yes, Uncle," she says very calmly. "I had a birthday present that I forgot to give to Quasi."

"Oh." There is a short silence. "Well, then, give it to him and get back to bed." His voice has a slight edge to it that leaves no room for argument.

"Yes, Uncle," she calls again.

Still reeling from Arnaud's sudden interruption, Quasimodo receives another shock as Marie leans into him again, trailing a hand gently down the side of his face. "Happy Birthday," she murmurs, placing a kiss firmly on his lips.

When he is finally in command of his faculties, she is gone.

He lets out an explosive breath and shakes his head.

Looks like I won't be sleeping tonight, he thinks with a dazed smile.


Deeheehee! That was fun. I enjoyed writing that far more than I probably should have. I hope you liked it. The song I picked for the quote at the beginning is a favorite of mine; actually, you could almost call it the anthem for my story. There's a beautiful cover version by Adele that I particularly love. I'd be happy to email it to you, if you like.

So the reason this chapter took forever, and the reason that I've been so terribly busy, is that I'm engaged! For realsies! I had no idea so much planning was involved just to get married. If we had our way, we'd just hunt down a Justice of the Peace. Gotta please the relatives, I suppose. Anyway, hopefully I can balance writing and planning without neglecting one or the other. Do be sure to leave a review, if you'd be so kind!

R.R.

* "The Sound Does Not Make the Song"