A/N: Kind of a shortish chapter this time, I know. This story is taking FOREVER to finish, but hopefully everyone's still enjoying it.

And I'm not going overboard on my use of Gringoire, am I? He's sort of an OC but he *was* in the original book, after all...

Chapter 9

"It was not Quasimodo."

Gringoire's purple cloak did not seem sumptuous, or artistic, or anything anymore. He found it just got in his way now, and did nothing to keep out the chill autumn wind.

He supposed it was almost midnight now, as pale sharp stars were beginning to appear in the dark sky. "Quasimodo," Gringoire muttered to himself. "I had never thought I'd hear that name again! No wonder they didn't trust me." He sighed, and idly kicked a stone on the street as he pushed along.

Gringoire knew his time with Frollo was nothing to be proud of. He had to admit, even to himself, that Judge Frollo did have one of the most brilliant minds in Paris – that was why he had wished, so badly, to study under his influence. But he also had one of the cruelest and blackest hearts Gringoire had ever seen. He remembered how Quasimodo, the poor young hunchback (almost 14 when Gringoire first met him?) was a near slave to the judge, how Gringoire would be forced to sit by in respectful deference as Frollo berated the poor creature in the midst of their studies on justice (which sometimes spilled over from the Palace of Justice to the cathedral).

"He must be disciplined, you know," Frollo would tell Gringoire politely as they returned to their books. "He is very often lazy and unprincipled, and he tends to force his slothful ways on my brother, Jehan."

Ugh, Jehan was almost as bad as Frollo – he had the charm Frollo lacked but scarcely a third of his intelligence. At first, Gringoire had appreciated the youth's sense of humor and even might agree to a practical joke or two. But he soon saw that Jehan was only charming so long as he got his way, and when he did not, he revealed how ungrateful, spoilt, and even vengeful he truly was.

As he walked along the streets Gringoire remembered how a few years ago, perhaps two, he had had his nose buried in a thick law book, feeling that law – at least, according to Frollo – was far drearier than he had ever imagined. "Where is the justice in any of this? I thought that laws were supposed to help people." He flipped through a few dry pages as he waited for Frollo to finish his business there in Notre Dame. "But they only seem to divide and punish them." He had jumped as he heard crooked footsteps outside the study door.

"Oh, pardon me Monsieur Pierre!" It was Quasimodo. But before the words had left his mouth Frollo had appeared out of thin air, like some kind of demon. "Quasimodo! How dare you interrupt my pupil in his studies?" He struck the boy on his flabby cheek. "That will be another day in silence for you, since you clearly do not appreciate its virtues. To your belltower, at once."

"Yes, master."

As Pierre watched Quasimodo limp away, he noticed Jehan lurking behind his brother's robes, clearly chuckling behind Quasimodo's back.

Gringoire had turned back to his studying – his face was burning. How could he profess himself a student of – of Justice? – when he was too weak to stop the cruelty of a single man?

And so he had snapped his book shut. "Monsieur Frollo," he said, looking the judge straight in the eye, "I can no longer serve as your student. Our philosophies are far too different, for I find your unkindess to the hunchback boy appalling."

Gringoire had been surprised that he had spoken so…sensibly, since he was usually so vapid. So, evidently, was Frollo, for he had turned as white as stone.

"How dare you," he gasped, "so insult a Minister of Justice?"

"W-when you show me one, I shall apologize."

Jehan laughed and Frollo, for once, silenced him. He then resumed his normal even expression, and regarded his student. "Very well, Pierre Gringoire. I suppose you think you have learnt all you need; I am afraid to tell you that you are clearly incapable of rational thought, and so unfit for most anything – unless someone takes pity on you. As I have."

But Gringoire had tasted defiance, and it was almost as good as wine. "Well then! If I am not fit for life in Paris I…I suppose I shall have to become a poet and travel the countryside!"

And that was exactly what he had done, armed with only a pen and paper and a fresh mind. No one understood why he worked so long at his pathetic poems and plays. But he was determined to write something that would change the world more than any strict laws would do, so he had daydreamed and travelled until he decided to pass through the city again, just a few weeks past. "How could my time with Frollo haunt me so? I suppose it is simply recompense for my cowardice during those years, even if I did finally rebel. But oh, the irony! Enough for an epic tragedy. Oof!" Gringoire, absent-minded as usual, had evidently collided with something. He looked down and saw it was a little girl who was crying.

"My dear, what is the matter?" Gringoire asked, beginning to note a chorus of fervent voices far away.

"Please sir, is it true? Is Quasimodo really to be locked up for murder?"

Murder? "Child, what are you talking about?"

"Everyone is gathered in the square, saying that Quasimodo killed that wicked Sister Gudule. But it's not true, it was not Quasimodo! I saw Frollo's brother Jehan running away when I went to close the goat pen before bed, and no one will listen to me!"

"Here, child, dry your eyes." Finally, the cape was useful for something. But when the girl took it in her hands she cried, in a burst of childish recognition, "Wait! You are the man who is friends with Esmeralda, aren't you!"

"Well…yes."

"Oh, sir! I'm Mariette Garouche! Can you take me to her? Other than me, she is Quasimodo's dearest friend, and if anyone can save him, she can!"

Gringoire wasn't sure what to do…how could he return to the gypsies? They would never take him back. But Mariette took his hand so trustingly, he knew he had to somehow.

"I will take you there, child, but I don't think they'll be happy to see me. Stay close, and follow me!"

Gringoire rather wished he had brought some kind of weapon, for he feared Clopin might have guards placed in case he returned.

But it's better not to think of that, he decided as he and Mariette pulled open the doors to the secret catacombs. "Be careful," he warned, and descended first.

The second he dropped into the darkness Gringoire was confronted by five glaring, jangling skulls, and felt his arms pinned behind his back.

"Maybe you've heard of a terrible place…"

"Wait!" Gringoire cried. "Pierro, is that you?"

"Where the scoundrels of Paris – "

"Pierro, please! Quasimodo is in danger!"

"Collect in a lair…"

The little girl screamed behind them.

"Mariette!"

"Maybe you've heard – "

"Wait, men, stop!" It was Pierro's voice. One of the skull masks disappeared in the darkness. "Gringoire, do you have Mariette with you?"

"Yes!"

"She plays with Belznik…Esmeralda's mentioned her too. Let 'em go."

"M. Pierro, we must see Esmeralda," Mariette insisted.

"Can you take us there? Please? It's a matter of life or death!" Gringoire waited breathlessly as Pierro considered. Without a word, the red-bearded gypsy led them on in silence.

The Court square was empty, for everyone was still asleep. "You call for her," Gringoire told Pierro and so, taking his orders literally, Pierro bellowed, "ESMERALDA!"

Esmeralda tumbled out of her tent in a green dressing gown. "Pierro, what the h – " Her eyes narrowed as she spied Gringoire. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. At about this moment an unshaven and nightgowned Clopin staggered out of his tent (the one with the banners flying above it). He blinked, sighted Pierro with Gringoire, and instantly cried "TREASON!"

But as soon as Esmeralda saw Mariette, her face softened. "Mariette, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Please don't be angry with Monsieur Gringoire, he was only helping me. Esmeralda, Quasimodo has been arrested, accused of murder! He's to be put in prison!"

"Put in prison! But that means – " Esmeralda knew exactly what that meant, and they hadn't a moment to spare. "But why do they say that?"

"He apparently attacked Sister Gudule," Gringoire supplied, "but I don't believe that. Mariette said she saw Jehan Frollo running from the scene of the crime."

"I knew it! A Frollo is a Frollo."

"Yes, I – I think that's true," Gringoire nodded. "And I also think he might have had something to do with the attack on your people today. Those guards were Frollo's henchmen."

"Then you didn't send them. You were telling the truth." Esmeralda sounded tired, but it wasn't because of the late hour – it was from regret. "Of course it was Jehan. I trusted Quasimodo's kind heart more than the facts in front of me. I'm sorry, Gringoire."

"True. But it was I who studied under such a man, and tainted my reputation," Gringoire added. "And I have regretted it ever since."

"BEAUtiful words, yes, but what of Quasimodo?" Clopin demanded.

"We have to save him. Our only hope lies in the villagers; the soldiers will never listen to us – gypsies and a poet – but they might listen to an entire crowd of Frenchmen."

"But what will we do?" Clopin asked critically, stroking his chin. And then he knew. "If we cannot use force (though we shall try!) we shall have to put on a performance, and no one knows how better to do this than Pierre Gringoire, former poet-scoundrel."

"I'll try my best." For once, he would be good at something. He had to be.

It was probably two o'clock in the morning. Esmeralda pulled her hood over her dark hair and tried to blend into the crowd of shrieking villagers.

"Murderer!"

"Monster!"

They were so fickle, so willing to turn on their friend and believe a lie. They know no better – and hopefully they will be as willing to change their minds in Quasimodo's favor.

She and a crew of other gypsies, all in their drabbest clothes, crept noiselessly up to the Palace of Justice. Was Quasi within one of those wretched cells now, where Esmeralda had suffered just a few months before? She shuddered.

And then she felt a large, heavy hand clasp onto her shoulder. She grasped at her cloak to cover herself as the hand wheeled her around to meet a face.

"Phoebus?" He knew her even when she was disguised, apparently.

"I'm sorry, Esmeralda – "

But she had forgiven him already. She couldn't help it. "Don't be sorry, I overreacted – "

"No, listen." Phoebus' face was dead serious. "You don't understand. I locked him up."

"Y-you – "

"I'm the cathedral guard. Nothing ever happens in a church, huh? I had to do it, it's the law. But I know I have to get him out, too."

Esmeralda would have been speechless if she wasn't Esmeralda. "Why did you have to do it, Phoebus? We both know he's innocent. You're the cathedral guard – can't you defend him?"

"No. It's his word against Sister Gudule's, because she is a nun."

"But she's crazy!"

"I know that. But if we can convince her to change her mind – convince her of the truth, maybe we can get him out of there and save him."

Would it work? Esmeralda bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the gypsies advancing on the prisons. "They can handle this without me. Let's go."