Esmeralda woke up again and, after a brief moment of disorientation, was surprised to find herself not in the gutter where she remembered collapsing, but in a far more comfortable place. Her eyes snapped open and she was instantly on guard. In her experience, losing consciousness in one place and awakening in another never turned out well.
"Ah, you are awake!" A voice said. Esmeralda shuddered, recognizing that voice.
"Well don't just lie there," the voice continued, "Get up, girl, and speak."
She scowled. No, something was not right. It was not his voice she was hearing. It was similar… but, lighter somehow, less guarded. Whoever this was seemed to be a combination of annoyed and amused.
"Who are you?" Esmeralda asked groggily. Why did her head hurt so badly?
"That is a rather improper thing to say, considering it is my bed you are bleeding all over."
"Bleeding? What--" she tried to sit up but fell back down with a groan. She hurt everywhere.
Surprisingly, he laughed. "Do not trouble yourself with it. That mattress has seen worse things." At this Esmeralda cringed and bid her mind not to think of whatever it was he could be implying. "I mean to buy another one someday, if I can ever convince my brother to give me the money. He is terribly stingy like that."
"Where am I?"
"Are you mad, girl, or just an imbecile? I told you that you were in my bed."
"Yes, yes… but, how did I get here?"
"Ah… now that is a different question entirely. You should have said that in the first place." At his teasing, Esmeralda gave a little frustrated sob. That seemed to change his demeanor ever so slightly. "I apologize," he said. "I happen to be suffering from the aftereffects of my evening of revelry, and I am unaccustomed to sleeping on the floor unless I have first fallen unconscious. Besides that," he added with a leer, "usually when I awake with a woman in my bed it is under different circumstances."
This boy was rather crass, Esmeralda decided, but in a comfortably familiar sort of way. The men of her gypsy tribe were the exact opposite of polite society. They treated her well enough--better than most, when she thought about it--but her brothers spoke and guffawed loudly and told stories that would make delicate flowers like that insipid Fleur-de-Lys keel over in an instant.
Esmeralda snarled at the thought of her rival--not even noticing the way her companion recoiled at the expression. Slowly she began to recall what had happened to bring her to this point.
"So, are you going to tell me your name?" the young man asked.
She peered at him for a moment, not sure if she should trust him. He looked harmless enough--probably not much older than herself, she noted--but she noticed some books strewn about the room. A scholar, then? A student of the university? It did not especially matter--recent events inclined her to distrust people who could read. She hadn't exactly had good experiences with men of intellect, after all.
Then again, the silly Gringoire fellow could read, and he'd been kind enough. But her odd pretend-husband had been next to useless when it really mattered.
Then again, from the empty bottles and clothing thrown down haphazardly alongside his other belongings--well, he was obviously not too scholarly.
"I am Esmeralda," she said after her short deliberation. "And you are?"
"Jehan Frollo du Moulin, at your service madamoiselle."
Esmeralda tensed. Hesitantly she asked, "Are you familiar with the archdeacon of Josas?"
"He is my brother."
"I have to go," she said suddenly, rushing to stand despite her instant lightheadedness and lack of balance. Jehan took her arm to steady her, only to be forcefully shaken off.
"My goodness, you are skittish as a mouse!" he exclaimed as he watched her panic. In a moment, Esmeralda found a black bottle of wine shoved into her hand. "Here," the young man said, "this will help."
The frightened gypsy wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He was being so kind to her--more than should be expected from a stranger--and, as of yet, had required nothing of her but to know her name.
But there must be some catch to this--some joke. This generosity could not be genuine. He had to have something more terrible in mind. He was family to the most evil man alive. Surely two brothers could not be so very different.
She swallowed a mouthful of the wine anyway. It did help.
"Better now?" he asked. She nodded. "Good. Now, as I was going to say… haven't I heard that name before? It seems awfully familiar. Wasn't there a dancer who went by that name? Oh yes! I know… a pretty little gypsy girl, if I remember correctly. Could you---"
"NO! I… no… I do not know of her. I am… not from here."
As Jehan looked Esmeralda up and down, she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Would he connect her with the gypsy dancer? The girl who was tried for witchcraft and had died in prison? The priest was correct in his threat to her--she truly was dead as far as the world was concerned. A supposed 'resurrection' would make matters infinitely worse for her.
But he did not seem to recognize her, which disturbed her in its own way. Had she changed so much?
"Not from here, eh? What has brought you to Paris, then?"
"A man… a man who believes himself to be in love with me. But he was wicked and evil, so I ran away. But then I was attacked in the street. How long was I asleep?"
He shrugged. "Long enough that I am no longer as drunk as I'd like to be. 'Tis a terrible story you have told me, Esmeralda, and you have my pity. The question now is--what to do with you?
Just then there was a loud pounding on the door.
Jehan stepped out of the bedroom and into another room, out of Esmeralda's sight. She waited and tried to listen, but all she could make out was the quiet rumbling of male voices. This continued for four or five long minutes until the door swung open once again and Jehan returned with his visitor.
The robed guest slowly removed his cowl, revealing what Esmeralda had dreaded most. Her archdeacon had come.
"It would seem, my brother," Claude murmured, "that I will not be needing your assistance after all."
--
Seeing them side by side, Esmeralda got a chance to really compare the brothers. Jehan was three or four inches shorter, his hair two or three shades lighter, and his eyes younger and more amused. He seemed broader, too--still rather lean but not skeletal like his brother. He wasn't just younger, but he carried an ease that suggested he'd had none of the hardship and self-denial that the archdeacon subjected to himself. Claude scowled at her with eyes hard as diamonds; Jehan wore an impudent, lopsided grin that implied he might just start laughing at any moment.
Life held no fairness for the little dancer. If someone had to fall mad with love for her, why could it not be the younger of the two brothers?
With a deceptively soft tone, and without looking away from the trembling girl, Claude addressed his brother. "A moment alone, Jehan, if you would."
"But what of the money you promised me? It is hardly my fault that---"
"Do not trouble me with your destitution right now. We will discuss that shortly. Please leave."
Jehan grumbled, looking more childish than he had before, but departed from the room.
They were alone.
"Esmeralda," he said. So much seemed to be packed into that single word--relief, frustration, joy, fury. It made Esmeralda wonder how one could make her name mean so many different things. He spoke as if he loved the sound of her name. He could make it a rebuke or a prayer, but he always used her name with deliberation… as if it was special to him. As if it was not the type of thing to throw around thoughtlessly. She had always liked her name for its uniqueness, but she kept that bit of vanity to herself--she never expected someone to take notice of it the same way. Phoebus couldn't even remember it---
Phoebus.
"He never truly loved me, did he?" she asked so pitifully. The archdeacon considered her for a moment, trying to decide if she was speaking to anyone in particular. Her eyes were glassy and fixed on some invisible point above his head. She did not seem real, somehow. Claude found himself very afraid to touch her.
He cleared his throat. "You are injured."
The broken gypsy looked away, hiding the trickling gash from his view. "He pushed me," she answered hollowly. "I thought he loved me… did he ever love me?"
Claude did not answer. Confirming her realization at this point would be cruel. And, while Claude had long decided that he was not opposed to cruelty… now did not seem the time.
He reached out and took her chin firmly, gently forcing her to face him. He ran a long finger from her temple down to her chin. She did not flinch, to Claude's surprise. She did not seem to be paying much attention to his presence at all. He left her briefly and returned with a damp cloth, which he used to clean the blood and grime from her face.
"It will scar," he said at last.
This did bring the gypsy out of her stupor. Esmeralda paled at the idea of a scar on her face. Not because she worried for her complexion--the concept of beauty never seemed as trivial as it did right now--but because she knew that, every time she saw her reflection, she would be reminded of how she had been deceived. Every time someone looked at her, they would be able to see the sign of her foolishness. Of course, they would not know what it was… but she would. And she found herself feeling extremely ill.
Without much warning, Esmeralda began to sob in full force. This was not fair, nor was it right. This should not be happening to her.
Claude continued to look at her coldly--her tears had lost their effect on him--but produced a small vial from his pocket.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, knowing full well she did not. "It is oil. A special oil that might help to prevent any scarring on your face."
He did not know what reaction he expected for his offer, but he found irritation blossoming when he saw how her watery eyes narrowed. Why did she continue to distrust him when he was standing before her, despite his anger and her betrayal, offering something she desired?
"What is it you want?" she countered. The man she knew would not offer such kindness without a price. She was sure of it.
His eyes glittered a moment as he considered her words. In the end he answered, "Two conditions: that I will be the one to apply it and…"
"And what?"
"That you will return to me without protest." He was careful not to say 'willingly' as even he was not so deluded as to believe that she would make that concession. Not yet, anyway.
Esmeralda considered his offer. Without Phoebus… her hope was gone. And her reason for leaving had lost some of its passion. Granted, she still wished to be free… but freedom, without Phoebus, seemed… less bright, somehow. Like a shadow had dulled her greatest desire.
"If I refuse?" she asked.
The priest's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Then I shall take you anyway," he said without pity. "Now that I am certain that you will flee from me--I am no longer above the use of force. My gentleness for you is growing thin. My pity as well, as you have shown me none. If you thought me cruel before, you would despise me then, for I would no longer permit the small freedoms I so generously granted before this… this… betrayal."
The gypsy felt her heart speed up. What had happened to him? What had become of the man who raged at her in fury or fell weeping at her feet? This controlled manner of his speech, this passionless demeanor, frightened her more than she thought possible. It reminded her of the men who stood by, unmoved by her screams, as the torturer slowly crushed her foot. Had he lost his fervency? Or was it still there, stirring under the surface, waiting for a moment of true privacy between them.
A slight whimper issued from the back of her throat; her voice wavered as she spoke, "And if I agree?"
His eyes softened--almost imperceptivity--and she exhaled. When he spoke next, his voice deepened and lost its harsh edge.
"If you agree, I shall consider this a lesson learned, and I will allow us to forget this incident. I love you, Esmeralda. You choose to ignore it… but I love you. Consider your decision, for I am offering you more than the healing of your wound. I offer you forgiveness--something I have extended to no other. This is your one chance. If you refuse, you will not be offered such mercy from me again."
His words translated clearly: she was coming with him, regardless. But she could choose whether the next few days were pleasant (well, relatively speaking) or unbearable.
The little dancer hesitated. Her pride told her to fight him all the way. But that pride was so tarnished from her recent, violent rejection that she felt less compelled to listen to it. Esmeralda found herself feeling tired… so very, very tired. Everything seemed to matter less and less with each passing moment. Surely it couldn't hurt to give in… to let him win just this once.
She could always change her mind later.
Right?
She looked up again to see the priest's eyes narrowing and she could see a tick in his jaw--indicating he was not as restrained as he made it seem. He was growing irritated with her hesitation. It was the potential danger she saw in him was the deciding factor.
"I accept."
