"Now, my boy, there is something that we need to discuss," Frollo said, corking the bottle of wine back up.
"What is it, Master?" Quasimodo asked, clearing the table of plates and cups as they had just finished lunch and an afternoon lesson after Sunday morning mass.
As the boy put the tableware back away, Frollo answered, "It seems that I am being called away to attend a conference out in Orleans—a symposium—which will be held Tuesday and Wednesday. The Bishop there will be housing myself and the other officials at his personal palace. I leave tomorrow morning and will return Thursday evening at the latest."
"What's a symposium?" the boy asked inquisitively.
"It is a gathering of high-ranking, learned men such as myself to discuss an assortment of subjects. And given that it will be held in Orleans, no doubt the topic will be predominantly about law."
Quasimodo blinked at the Minister, bewildered. "So…You won't be here? I won't see you until Thursday, Master?"
"It's only a few days, Quasimodo. I've already discussed it with Father Augustin and you'll be in good care, no need to fret. Besides, this is a very important meeting for me; it's been years since I last attended such an event to speak to my old peers."
Quasimodo's expression was crestfallen, almost forlorn as he gripped the edge of his brown tunic. Looking back up at Frollo, he then said, "Okay, Master, I understand. What will I do then?"
"I trust that you and your studies will not fall behind in my absence, correct? And that you will keep this bell tower from falling into disarray?"
"Oh no, Master, of course not! I mean, yes! Um…I'll do my best. What will I be studying while you're gone?" Quasimodo inquired compliantly.
"I want you to study the parables of Christ. I trust the Archdeacon will enlist your assistance in the church's maintenance." The boy affirmed the judge's orders, Frollo lightly ruffling the boy's red hair. "Very good. Now then, I have work to finish before I leave so I must be on my way. But I will be back this evening to deliver some supplies for the next few days."
Back at the Palace of Justice, Frollo had given his staff their orders for the days to come, not wanting his household to fall into disorder while he was gone. He also informed his soldiers that Captain Gerard would be in full command. "And if I return to any discord or slack among my battalions," he commanded to his troops perfectly lined up outside the Palace. "There shall be severe retribution…"
Later that evening, as Frollo sat down for supper with the boy, he reminded Quasimodo to keep up on his academics and for the Archdeacon to keep watch over him.
"Promise that while I'm gone, you will behave—and if Jehan happens to show up here, do not let him talk you into doing something foolish. Do I make myself clear, Quasimodo?" Frollo asked as he cleaned up their dining ware.
"I promise," Quasimodo said. "Be safe, Master!"
X
The next morning, Frollo was finishing up the last of his notes for the Captain to read, leaving them neatly arranged on his desk before throwing the satchel of clothes over his shoulder and heading outside, the morning air greeting him warmly. As soon as the coach lurched forward, Frollo watched from the small window as Notre Dame disappeared into the distance, a smile stretching across his grim face to finally be on his way out of Paris.
Some might have enjoyed taking in the scenery of the countryside, but not the Minister, who preferred studying a few old books that had long been neglected during his time in office. After hours of reading with the minimal sunlight that made it through the window, Frollo could see the walls of the city coming into view, closing Chronica Regni Gothorum and taking in the landscape.
The revered city of Orleans…where the infamous Joan of Arc was executed for simply dressing as a man because she wanted to fight for her country against the English. As a boy, the Minster recalled his father recounting his witnessing of her execution in the city of Rouen, tied to a stake and burnt before the world for her supposed "heresy."
Once inside the city, Frollo instantly felt the pressures that weighed heavily on his shoulders be lifted off. He scrutinized the daily life of the people of Orleans going about their business, sneering at the sight of gypsies freely performing without the local authorities interfering. Given that Orleans was smaller the Paris, it didn't take long to arrive the Bishop's palace on the east side of the Loire River, only a street north of the Saint-Croix Cathedral.
The coach entered through the gates, the palace's footmen nodding respectfully. Exiting the vehicle and arranging his hat, Frollo was instantly met by a young man, whom he assumed was the Bishop's valet, parchment and quill in hand. "Name?" the man asked instantly.
"Claude Frollo, Minister of Justice, Paris," the judge answered monotonously, hands behind his back.
"Ah, yes. Here we are." The young valet ticked the name off of the parchment. "Welcome to Orleans, Minister. I take it you had no trouble on your journey here?"
"As smooth as one could hope," Frollo clipped, not one for idle chitchat.
"Very good, sir. His Eminence, Bishop Dimont, is currently seeing to some matter regarding the church, but he sends his regards. He promises to welcome his guests tonight at supper. So please, allow us to give you the grand tour and show you to your room."
Gesturing forward with his hand, Frollo replied, "Lead the way." He followed the young footman through the palace doors, whose portal above was adorned with the image of Saint Michael.
Once inside the foyer, Frollo studied a triptych decorating one of the walls, which depicted a bright and graphic Second Coming. A sort of reminder of the fate of one's soul, lest any visitors conjured up any unscrupulous ideas while inside the Bishop's home.
The valet clapped his hands, a young maid instantly entering and curtsying before him and the Minister. "Sonia, would you be so kind as to show Minister Frollo to his room?"
"Of course," she answered, her tone docile. "Right this way, Minister." Taking the satchel he handed to her, she strode across the foyer with the judge on her heels. Leading him up the grand staircase, she quickly said, "You will be staying on the third floor, Minister. It is where the Bishop houses visitors, so you will be neighbors with his other guests. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, the Bishop has arranged for you and the others to be escorted to the University. "
Frollo admired the clean and pristine atmosphere of the Bishop's home. Its intricate paintings on the walls and vaulted ceilings, the concrete newels of the staircase decorated with regal-looking lions, and tapestries and coat of arms hanging prominently to remind its guests of the owner's background and status. As a high-ranking man of the clergy, there was without a doubt that no expense was spared in the palace's design.
Walking down the third floor's long corridor, Sonia stopped at the end of the hall, retrieving a key from her apron and unlocking the door. Entering the room with Minister behind her, she rested his luggage on the grand bed. "Here we are, Minister. Supper will be served in about two hours and Bishop Dimont has given his guests permission to explore his library on the second floor. His Eminence hopes that you find your stay comfortable." With that, the young maid handed over the key, bowed, and left the Minister to his room.
Frollo studied the ornate guestroom, which was quite luxurious in comparison to any of those found in the Palace of Justice. On top one of the room's small tables was a bowl filled with fresh looking yellow plums. Its fine tapestries and imported furniture gave a sense of life in comparison to its guest, who radiated darkness and somberness.
Removing his hat and throwing it carelessly to the bed, Frollo took one of the plums from the bowl and walked lithely towards the great window. Taking a bite from the sweet fruit, the Minister examined the serene city of Orleans, for the first time in a long time feeling lighthearted.
X
Meanwhile in Paris…
Quasimodo scribbled over the old wax tablet he used for practicing letters; without the Minister, he found himself endlessly drawing what he hoped looked like one of his gargoyle friends when he unexpectedly heard the sound of frantic footsteps hurrying up the south tower steps. Leaping to his feet, he hid himself behind one of the wooden pillars. His master wasn't due back for a few days, so the boy waited to see who was brave enough to enter his domain through the neglected stairwell.
Bursting through the door was Jehan, sweating profusely and out of breath, haversack over his shoulder and a large book under his arm. His blue eyes darted around the space of the bell tower, jumping when he discovered Quasimodo hiding from and eyeing his uninvited guest, red hair falling over his face.
"Afternoon, Quasi," the young man coughed, trying to appear casual and straightening up. Clearing his throat and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, Jehan asked, "By any chance, is, uh…is my brother around?" He cocked his head back and forth, looking for any trace of the Minister.
"No, he went away to somewhere called Orleans, I think," the boy answered, stepping toward Jehan, curious what he was up to this time.
"Really?" Jehan looked relieved at the information. "Interesting…Well, he needed a vacation anyway—he always seems a little too tense, if you ask me. Do you happen to know when he'll be back?"
"Well, he said in a few days."
"Alright, good then." Jehan kneeled, meeting the boy at eye-level, book resting on his knee. "I need a favor from you, Quasimodo. Can you do that?"
Blinking at him, Quasimodo shyly answered, "Um…I think so. What is it?"
Taking the thick book into his hand, Jehan explained, "I need to hide some things because there are some people who, let's say, really want to get their hands on them. So, if I leave them here, you need to promise me that you won't tell anyone where they are…especially Claude if he comes back early. Do you understand?"
Studying the large brown leather-bound book and the bag bulging with more loot, no doubt, Quasimodo felt an uncertainty wash over him. "You want me to lie to my master?"
"Not lie, per se," Jehan answered, not entirely confidant in his own words. "Just don't mention it at all, so you're really not lying, you're just not going to bring it up…ever. Got it? What my brother doesn't know won't hurt you, or more importantly, me."
Quasimodo wanted to reject Jehan's request, seeing as it would probably be better to leave him to handle his "people" on his own, and it would not risk getting into trouble with the Minister of Justice later on. However, his good nature reminded him of the countless times Frollo had relented in giving into his brother's requests for money and help, no matter how reluctant. Family seemed to be a core part of the world his master had created for him. If he said no to Jehan, he'd never forgive himself…
After a long-suffering sigh, Quasimodo answered, "Okay." Nodding, he prayed that he was making the right decision. "You can hide your things in one of the old broom closets. There's one behind the Joseph statue." He pointed across the way towards the indicated statue, Jehan scurrying towards it and jiggling the knob trying to open it, cursing under his breath when it wouldn't budge. Limping towards the frustrated man, Quasimodo opened the small door with ease, much to Jehan's astonishment.
Kneeling down and taking the haversack from his shoulder, Jehan began to remove from it fine silver, small purses that jingled with coins, and other treasures while Quasimodo looked on with inquisitiveness. Eyeing the book, the boy asked the distracted Jehan, "What book is that?"
Jehan glanced back at him, a frantic look in his blue eyes. "Never mind that! It's top secret, so don't go snooping around with it."
Quasimodo shrunk back, nodding his head, afraid to inquire further about the mysterious text. He then asked, "If these people you're hiding from want to steal from you, why don't you just ask your brother for help?"
Jehan scoffed as he inspected the items he arranged on the floor. "Please, if I went to him for help on this, he'd never let me hear the end of it."
"But he's Minister of Justice, right? He'll just throw your friends in prison and you'll be safe."
Jehan chuckled nervously. "It'd really be best if we don't tell him anything about my situation—Not because I'm afraid of him or anything—it's just…we really shouldn't trouble him with this little issue that I can resolve with my friends. And in case you haven't noticed, Claude has a tendency to fly off the handle about things, even when a problem isn't as bad as it seems. Just don't tell him anything!"
Quasimodo timidly nodded his head, Jehan standing up and looking inside the bag, counting the number of items left in. "This should be enough," he muttered, folding the flap over and hiding the sack's contents. "Not a word to my brother, right? And keep that book safe!"
The boy glanced at the mysterious book lying adjacent to the rest of Jehan's contraband. "But what if he does ask—what if he finds this stuff, Jehan?" Quasimodo asked, gesturing to the arrangement of loot inside the broom closet.
Brushing his curls back, Jehan sighed then answered, "Think like me, Quasi. Push comes to shove, what magic three-word phrase would I use on Claude? One that's sure to take his attention away from the matter at hand?"
The boy shrugged his uneven shoulders. "Um…'I need money'?"
"Don't be cheeky. No," Jehan deadpanned with an unamused frown. "Just say, 'I don't know'. The less you know, the safer you are."
Hands shakily clutching at his face, Quasimodo agitatedly responded, "But I do know! And now I'm lying to him!"
With a swing of his arm, Jehan shut the broom closet door, ignoring the hunchback's anxiety. "Out of sight, out of mind—it's that simple. Just do as I say and you'll be fine. You know, someday you're going to have to learn how to stop listening to every word my brother tells you. Now, I have to go sort out some business in town and I'll be back later, probably tomorrow. Remember what I said—I'm counting on you!" With that, Jehan quickly scampered off, leaving Quasimodo in silent solitude.
Fighting the urge to take a peek at the mysterious book, his mind riddled with questions, Quasimodo reminded himself that there were cells to be swept.
X
"Well Maimonides says that one can find contentment without the presence of God—one only has to set limits for themselves!" A portly red-faced magistrate in bright gold and teal barked.
"Do you not recall the words of Thomas Aquinas?" Frollo protested, surrounded by his peers and arguing over the words of theologians, mystics, and other revered names in one of the University's great halls. The next day could not come quick enough, the Minister eager to speak with his old associates. The previous evening was properly fueled with speak of each other's cities and accomplishments, drinks provided by the Bishop. Frollo received praise for his recent efforts against the gypsies from other envious magistrates.
"Without proper religion, one falls to the basest desires, and, therefore, will never truly be happy in life," the Minister bit back. "Aquinas wrote that carnal pleasures could never substitute for the love of God! It's as if you've never even read his work!"
"One cannot rely on faith alone—even Rashi wrote that it only takes enough willpower to overcome temptation! He wrote that holiness is derived from libidinous discipline, and that the most difficult temptation to control is caused by the greatest sin. Unlike Ramban, who believed all sins are equal."
"Which is just ridiculous!" Frollo retorted, waving a ringed hand. "Aquinas went into great detail in defining the weight of sins—therefore, all sins are not equal."
Despite the intense and impassioned debates he found himself in, Frollo had not felt so alive and content in such a long time. To be discussing such fascinating subjects with others was like a breath of fresh air. No gypsies to be cleared from the streets, no whining brother asking for help, no exaggerated caricatures of him drawn on building walls in charcoal.
In this great hall, surrounded by men of high esteem, away from the pressures of Paris…it was quite vitalizing.
Frollo heatedly continued, "But what he wrote that is most interesting is-"
"Enough God-talk, Frollo!" A voice boomed, a large judge dressed in red clapping him on the back. "Why not something from days past, say…alchemy? I hear you're quite familiar with the subject!"
The surrounding magistrates laughed, nodding and chattering in agreement. Forcing a jocular smile, Frollo absolutely hated when others brought up his past dabbling in alchemy—the subject being one of the few areas from which he yielded no success.
Gritting his teeth at their inquisitiveness and prodding, Frollo stiffly replied to the man, "A word of advice, Basile: after over twenty years, a joke can become very exhausted and is no longer funny. Besides, are we simply going to ignore that King Henry was possibly murdered? And by orders of his own son."
"That country is run by over-ambitious tyrants!" said one judge. "They can't decide who should rule their people, yet they have the time to war with France for well over a century!"
"Thank God for Charles and Louis or we'd be English colonies right about now," said another.
Frollo felt relief that his abrupt discussion of politics could avert the embarrassing topic of his alchemic background. Besides, condemning the English Crown always seemed to bring bureaucrats together, the magistrates continuing to discuss the historic bitterness between the two countries.
"We are a resilient country," Frollo stated lightheartedly. "I firmly believe that our good King will be able to take Calais back from the English in due time."
"On another note, Claude," one round, red-faced judge broke. "How is your brother? I recall the last time I was in Paris, you had your hands tied because of him. Remember the mess he made because he was found in Catherine Messier's bedchambers? Her husband wanted to put you both in the ground!"
The laughter of his peers ridiculing him enraged the judge, who could not lose his temper at the risk of bruising his image. Clearing his throat, he collected himself, trying to keep from lashing out. "As a matter of fact, Jehan is finding his way. I ordered him to stop his childish nature and mature, and he has taken my advice to heart. Now he has found employment in the city and does not bother me for an allowance as he did before. I have faith that he is finally learning how to be a responsible adult and put his trouble-making ways behind him."
X
"Bad news: you have to hide me!"
Quasimodo looked down to the moonlit loft where he could barely make out the silhouette of a fidgety Jehan pressing the stairwell door shut.
"What happened?" Quasimodo asked, leaping down from one of the rafters.
"It turns out, my "friends" are a little more pissed off than I thought," Jehan answered, barricading the bell tower door shut with a nearby barrel. "They're waiting outside the church right now, so I'm going to have to hide here until they leave. Shouldn't be more than an hour—that's no trouble, is it, Quasi?"
"Umm…No, it's fine," the boy answered. "But the evening bells will be ringing soon."
Jehan waved his hand. "Ah, they don't bother me. What's there to drink around here?" The young man brushed past Quasimodo and treaded up the wooden steps to the boy's loft. Instinctively, Jehan began raiding the beaten wooden cabinet, emerging with a smooth green bottle. "Ha! So here's where Claude keeps the good stuff!" The curly-haired young man then took a hearty swig from the bottle.
Without warning, the loft rung with the heavy tolls from the bells above, Jehan and the boy swiftly covering their ears. When the resonation finally died down, Jehan crudely remarked, "Jesus, how do you live with that?!"
Before Quasimodo could stutter out his answer, Jehan quickly responded, "Never mind. You know, I've always wondered, Quasi, who rings the bells?"
Quasimodo's eyes instinctively traveled upwards towards the bells. "His name is Igor," he answered. "He lives in the other tower and doesn't like to be bothered. Master says when he first brought me here, Igor moved out of the south tower to the north. Master says he's a hermit."
"Hmm." Jehan chewed on the information, looking around the dark little nest. "My brother's kind of mental for sticking you in here, but who am I say? I should go downstairs soon and check if my "friends" are still out there."
"Wait!" Quasimodo grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Can…can you stay here tonight, Jehan?"
Jehan whipped around, stunned by the question. "Really? You're always up here by yourself—what do you need me for?"
Quasimodo's eyes darted away, shrugging. "I…I miss my master. I miss talking to him."
Jehan laughed a little in disbelief. "Who'd miss that?"
"I know you don't get along," Quasimodo reflected. "But he's the one who raised me, and teaches me, and isn't afraid of me like other people would be. So I miss him."
Jehan looked at the sincerity in the boy's misshapen face, biting back any sarcastic comments about his brother and understanding. True, he could safely return to his lodging in about an hour or so, the thugs outside would grow bored anyway…but Jehan could not help but feel pity towards his adopted nephew. Rubbing his chin and examining the dark vast space above his head where the bells were hidden in blackness, he sighed. Reluctantly, he replied, "Alright. If you want me to, I'll hang around here tonight."
Quasimodo gave him a small but grateful smile. Stepping towards him, he beamed, "Great! You'll get used to the other bells—just cover your ears."
Looking back at the shadows above, Jehan wrinkled his nose remembering the dreaded sound. "Fine, sure. Umm…where will I sleep?"
Quasimodo waved him forward, leading him to a few barrels near his own sleeping quarters, grabbing a few blankets that the Archdeacon left folded on top in case of a bitter cold night. Handing them to Jehan, the boy answered, "Anywhere, really."
Jehan shrugged, walking across the way and setting up under a few broken statues and gargoyles. Laying back, hands locked under his head, he commented, "I've slept in worse."
"Like what?" Quasimodo asked, covering himself in his blankets and looking over at Jehan.
Jehan chuckled. "I can't tell you the number of times Claude kicked me awake because I fell asleep in an alley on the way out of La Falourdel's or some other God-forsaken tavern. Nothing better than waking up in a pile of rotten cabbages with your brother screaming at you to get up!"
Wrapping his arms around his knees, Quasimodo looked down at the dusty floor before him before looking back across to Jehan. "Has…has he always been like that? He doesn't laugh, and he barely smiles—he's always so serious."
"Yeah, miserable bastard, my big brother," Jehan laughed, Quasimodo not liking his colorful language. "My whole life he's always been a bit of a stick in the mud. He's not one for gambling, drinking, or anything fun—it's work, work, work with him. But that's what Frollo men do—from what I've gathered—we either dedicate ourselves to work, or other things we love."
"So he loves his work?" the boy surmised.
Jehan looked over at the boy, his contemplative expression concealed by the darkness. "I guess…to tell you the truth, Quasi, I don't know if Claude has ever really loved anything or anyone—I mean, the man thinks he's above everyone like he's King David. And he doesn't tell me anything about his life, so it's anyone's guess where his hang-ups come from."
Quasimodo chewed on this information for a moment. "Do you ever ask him?"
Jehan's eyebrows rose. "Ask him about what?"
"About his life. He told me your parents died when you were little—do you ever ask him about your family?" Quasimodo could just barely remember asking the Minister the parts of a family at four years old when the man began reading the Bible to him.
Jehan glanced over at the boy's hunchbacked silhouette, blinking at the boy's inquisitiveness, taken aback greatly by his question. "Well…no, not really. I never…really asked. I guess I never really cared because Claude or someone else has always been the one taking care of me, and it didn't seem important to ask about some dead family members. And I have the feeling that asking him about that stuff might open up Pandora's Box. But I guess, in a strange, twisted way…maybe Claude does have a heart and cares about some people and he just doesn't like showing it. Maybe there's a chance he's not just made of stone like we think he is and his heart's only buried under a lot of marble and pessimism."
Quasimodo could see his master's stoic countenance in his mind, his protective nature of his brother striking him in particular. Always having money for Jehan, vowing to keep the city safe from criminals, and shielding the boy from the cruelty of the outside world. "So he really does care about us?"
"I think so," Jehan answered confidently. "Claude may be an angry, stone-cold tyrant, but I think deep down he gives a damn about the both of us. But if you ask me, he needs a woman!"
Quasimodo was surprised by Jehan's sentiment, especially in contrast to the young man's usually crass nature. Maybe under his cold, collected demeanor, the Minister did love his family…
"So how do you think he's doing at that meeting thing he's at?" Quasimodo asked, changing the tune of their conversation.
"His symposium? He's told me about those things: it's a bunch of old men sitting around talking about law and philosophy and all that other jargon," Jehan remarked sardonically. "I know Claude's a bit of a wet blanket, but I'm sure even he's probably bored to tears surrounded by nothing but bureaucrats right now."
X
"…so the second nun tells the priest, 'I got into a fight with another nun'. The priest blessed her and told her to go drink some holy water," one bald minister told, as the night had been filled with blue humored jokes and anecdotes. "The third nun laughed harder than anyone else; and the priest asked her what her sin was…she tells the priest, 'I pissed in the holy water!'"
The sitting room occupied with magistrates filled with boisterous laughter at such a tale. The day's academic conference had concluded hours ago as dusk approached and the Bishop's guests were returned to his palace, where they kept their discussions alive and fueled by wine. Frollo sat in the circle of cushioned chairs with his peers, refraining from drinking at the rate of his peers and keeping his wits sharp as he listened to their words. Even he could not help but occasionally chuckle at a few less than respectable tales told by some men. It was certainly better than staying in the suffocating bubble that was Paris, only spending his downtime with the boy or his brother.
"I have one!" One judge with long pointed nose and lanky hair piped up. "There was a man who went from being a deacon to working at the royal treasury, but he was a corrupt man: he was stealing sheep that belonged to the church of Saint Julian—essentially stealing from a dead saint! And the shepherds notice that the sheep have gone missing, thinking that Julian's ghost is eating them. And one day, the deacon-banker takes a bad fall in front of Julian's tomb and couldn't get back up on his feet. When his servants found him lying there, they ask, 'What are you doing on the ground? You never take this long to pray?'"
The men erupted in red-faced laughter, Frollo shaking his head that such blasphemy could still be quite humorous. How surprising that aside from the hours' worth of discussion, the usually-tense judge could find himself relaxed even with these off-colored stories.
The balding judge looked to Frollo and said, "What about you, Claude? You've been silent almost the whole night—very unlike you! Care to jump in? I'm sure even you have a tale that could match anything said tonight."
"Not particularly," Frollo evenly answered, taking a drink from the cup at hand. His fellow judges groaned at his stoic nature, especially proving earlier that he was as sharp as ever in an academic debate.
"Well we've already spent the day talking about your areas of expertise," the barrel-chested judge in red, Basile, retorted. "Put aside everything about law and theology for once and see if you can talk about something else!"
Eyes of his fellow magistrates on him, Frollo looked down at his cup of wine. "Very well, if you insist," he said, his mind deciding on a less sacrilegious approach, given that he had heard enough stories from his men and his brother. Placing the glass on the small table on his side, he sat up straight and spoke. "There is a man on his deathbed, surrounded by his wife and four children. Three of them are strong, healthy, what have you…but the youngest is the runt, of sorts. 'Wife,' the man says to the woman. 'Assure me that the youngest child really is mine. I want to know the truth before I die, and I will forgive you…' His wife says, 'Of course he is. I swear on my mother's grave that you are his father.' After she says this, the man dies happy that she told him. After he passes, the wife says to herself, 'Thank goodness he didn't ask about the other three'."
The Minister's story was met with approving laughter, a grin touching his thin lips, happy that his obligations were not plaguing his mind for once.
"I knew you had a sense of humor, Claude!" the bald judge commented, leaning over and patting Frollo on the back. "It's just hidded under all that cynicism!"
While his peers laughed, Frollo looked out one of the room's windows and noticing how late it had become. "Well, gentlemen, it has been an invigorating day of discussion, but I should be retiring for the night, seeing as there is another day for such conversation."
"Hold it!" Basile stopped him. "We've been telling these stories all night and catching up, yet you've barely said a word. Some of us haven't seen you in ages, Claude, so why don't you tell us more about how you've been keeping Paris in check?"
The other men nodded their heads, Frollo knowing that he was cornered now and it would be pointless to try and leave now. "Well," he began calmly. "What is there to tell? I do everything in my power to expunge any evil that tries to root itself in my city, just as you all do with your respective homes." Nervously but trying to remain impassive, Frollo reached again for his glass, sipping the wine and hoping that would be enough to appease his fellow learned men.
The lanky-haired minister suddenly spoke up. "What's this we heard about you having a son now?"
Frollo coughed, nearly choking on his drink, eyes widening at such an inquiry. Shakily taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth, he asked, "How…how did you happen upon thatinformation?" He had tried so ardently to keep from the whole of Paris from discovering his guardianship of Quasimodo—but if his fellow bureaucrats learned of this, there was no concealing the truth any longer.
The same inquisitive judge answered, "Apparently Louis told one of his advisors, who told some of the proctors, who told a few ministers…you know how news can travel, Claude."
"Is it true that it looks nothing like a child, but something reptilian?" the bald judge pried curiously. "I heard it could easily pass for a cathedral gargoyle!"
"Enough!" Frollo ordered, his deep voice silencing the room of judges. "It seems rather pointless to try and hide the truth any longer, so I will tell you…Yes, I did adopt a child—a deformed one at that—only to serve as penance of sorts. Penance for what—the details are not important. But I have had him baptized and have vowed to raise him as a son."
For a moment, the sitting room was dead quiet, only the sound of crackling firewood filling the atmosphere. Frollo waited uneasily for someone to speak, having nothing more to say himself, locking his fingers before him and listening to the silence, his heart hammering in his chest.
Abruptly, the big-chested judge in red remarked, "You should have just sent the boy to a monastery—give them a few guilders and they'll start cutting his hair into a tonsure before he's even in the door! Believe me, Claude, I've got three bastard sons—all of them sent away to live with monks."
"I've sent away two boys to the Church and a girl to the nunnery," the bald one commented.
"Three to the monastery, two to nunnery," the lanky-haired, long-nosed one interjected.
Frollo studied the placid expressions they bore, even at admitting the deeds stemmed from their licentiousness, a sense of disgust filling him. "My self-imposed penance would not cease at sending the boy away," he curtly clipped. "I may not have wanted to care for him, but I have my responsibility and I intend to complete the task given to me."
Stricken silent by Frollo's words of denouncement, once again the room was silent, almost in shame. Frollo rose from his seat, smoothing out his robes. "As I have stated before: it's been a rewarding day of stimulating discussion, but it is quite late. Gentlemen." Giving a small nod, Frollo took the opportunity and left his fellow magistrates, stepping into the corridor and striding towards his chambers.
Absent-mindedly brushing back his hair, Frollo wondered how Quasimodo was faring without him there. Hopefully Father Augustin was keeping his end of the bargain and checking in on the boy to see that he was not up to any trouble. Speaking of trouble, he thought. Jehan is the one you should be worrying about. If there was any hope, the young man was not stirring up any problems in his absence and his "job" was keeping him busy.
And the gypsies…he mused, unlocking the door and entering his chambers. Removing his judicial robes, he continued to think. The Captain will keep them alive until you return—then you may resume cleansing the city of them…After all, the Captain was trustworthy enough, despite his numerous protests against the Minister's policies against them. He was an able soldier and impressive leader.
X
With a loud clank the iron-barred door swung open, its swarthy tired occupants cowering together in the farthest corner, darkness surrounding them. They expected a horde of the Minister's soldiers telling them that their trials awaited, but were surprised that instead it was only one soldier.
Shadows concealing the tall brawny soldier, key in hand, his familiar voice commanded, "Follow me. There's another entryway in the back of the Palace past the stables—I'll help you escape through there, but you have to stay close and quiet!"
X
The sound of the morning bells resonating for the city to hear, Quasimodo quickly sat up and covered his ears. Once they stopped ringing, the hunchback looked over towards the broken statues across the way from him, Jehan absent. He glanced around, only silence as he listened and searched for any sign of the younger Frollo.
Getting up, the boy routinely washed his face at the nearby water basin and fixed his red hair using the water's reflection as a mirror. Lumbering towards one of the grimacing gargoyles, Quasimodo asked his stone friend, "Did you see where Jehan went?"
Silence continued to pervade the bell tower, not unfamiliar to the boy. "Maybe it was finally safe for him to go out," Quasimodo mused. Turning to another one of his stone figures he said, "I hope he's alright—he seemed really afraid to go see his friends yesterday."
Looking around to the motionless statue pieces and broken gargoyles, Quasimodo chirped, "I'm going to go downstairs and see if Father Augustin needs any help."
After hopping down the spiral staircase, Quasimodo was welcome by the cool air in the church's nave, stopping suddenly when he saw something in front of the doors. Squinting and focusing his ill-matched eyes, Quasimodo could see a mop of curly blond hair peering through one of the church's door opened just enough to let in a smidgen of sunlight.
Tiptoeing towards the unaware Jehan who sat crouched, peering through the barely ajar door, Quasimodo looked over the man's riotous curls and trying to see what he staring out to. "What are we looking at?" the boy suddenly asked.
A startled Jehan jumped at the boy's voice, quickly shutting the door and pressing a finger to his lips. Standing up and opening the church door again just slightly, Jehan's blue eyes looked out into the square again, his actions confusing Quasimodo. "I'm just checking to see if my "friends" are still out there waiting for me," he quickly explained, pushing the boy away from the doors. Jehan sighed, eyes wandering over the large atmosphere of the empty nave and aimlessly sauntering through. "Damn…I guess I'm stuck here until Claude gets back from Orleans. I doubt he'll be thrilled when I tell him that I have a few more people who want to do away with me."
"At least you can claim sanctuary," Quasimodo piped up, teal eyes darting over the black and white tiled floor before following Jehan who turned to amble back up the stairwell.
Jehan laughed. "Yeah, I remember when I was twelve and broke a window from Doctor Aveline's house," he mused as he and the boy winded up to the bell tower. "As soon as Claude found out, I made a beeline for Notre Dame screaming, 'Sanctuary!' Imagine my disappointment when he burst through the door and dragged me out of the church, telling me that when I claim sanctuary it doesn't count!"
Quasimodo found no difficulty picturing the young man being yelled at by his perpetually-irked brother. Upon reaching the bell tower, Jehan instantly dropped himself down on one of the wooden benches, a sullen expression adorning his face.
"I'm going outside," Quasimodo said, lumbering out into the sunlight. Jehan craned his neck, curiously following the boy, who climbed onto a parapet and dropped down.
"Quasimodo!" Jehan cried, leaping to his feet and rushing outside. Gripping the ledge, he looked down, stunned to see the misshapen boy nonchalantly hanging by one hand onto a water spout. "What…What are you doing?!" he asked the boy, who nimbly climbed back up over the ledge.
"I learned how to climb the rafters, so I'm learning how to climb the cathedral walls," the boy answered, eyes wandering over the cityscape. "Master doesn't mind. He just doesn't want me to get hurt."
"You're kidding, really?" Jehan asked, interested.
"It's true!" Quasimodo grinned. "Watch this!" The boy leaped back over the ledge, Jehan watching intently as the boy dropped and climbed down, landing before the trio of sculptures and ornate round window below. "See? It's easy!" Quasimodo called, looking up at his adopted uncle.
When the boy climbed back up to Jehan, the young man cast an astonished look at the boy. "Well I'll be damned! I'm impressed, Quasi. Soon all of Paris is going to see you climbing around like a monkey."
Walking back inside, Quasimodo spoke up, "You never told me: why are you afraid of going outside to see your friends?"
"Uh, it's complicated," Jehan answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But if you really want to know…they want to "talk" to me over some money issues—remember, it's nothing you need to go telling my brother about."
"Maybe you can talk to them," Quasimodo suggested. "That's what the Archdeacon says—to talk problems through instead of violence. Have you tried that?"
Jehan snorted at this. "Let's just say that we're beyond talking things through," he darkly replied. "At this point, all the only way they might want to talk is with their fists."
"Do you remember the story of David and Goliath?" Quasimodo asked, Jehan stopping and looking down at the misshapen boy. "He was smaller and not as powerful, but he took a few stones and defeated Goliath the giant."
"So you think I should try to be David and take the risk?" Jehan asked, half-jesting, trying to contain his laughter. "Even if it means getting beaten to a pulp?"
Shrugging his small lopsided shoulders, he replied, "You could try, or wait for the Master to come back and help you."
A revelation suddenly struck Jehan: If he stayed marooned here in Notre Dame, Claude would no doubt find out about his operation…something he would rather avoid. If Jehan could reason with his "friends," then maybe, just maybe, he could keep from this issue escalating even further—the last thing he wanted was Claude getting involved in his business…and what a business it was…
"You know what? You're right!" Jehan told the boy, inside dreading the harsh reality of his situation, a false smile etching over his face.
Quasimodo beamed, someone taking his words into consideration for the first time in his young life. "I…I am?" he asked, his good eye widening.
"Yeah, of course," Jehan coolly replied, placing a hand on the boy's hunch. "What can I say—you're a bright boy and you've inspired me to take responsibility into my own hands. Besides, Claude doesn't deserve to get mixed up in my affairs, right? So I'll go and sort things out, and we won't tell my brother about this little mess, will we?"
Quasimodo smiled and shook his head. Giving the boy a thumb's up, Jehan brushed past him and headed towards the wooden steps. "Smart boy! I should go nip this thing in the bud before things get reallybad. Besides, Claude's coming back soon, and you want to make sure everything's spick and span, right?"
Quasimodo nodded, Jehan marching down the stairs. Shutting the stairwell door behind him, his fake smile instantly faded. Running a hand over the length of his face, the young man muttered under his breath, "Dammit…"
Trudging back through the nave with his heart thrumming speedily in his heart, Jehan pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the sunlight. A few steps into the bustling square, he glanced around, searching for any traces of his associates. Suddenly, he felt his thin arms enclosed, himself being dragged away.
"Miss us?" Jehan looked up to a large warty-faced man, his other arm locked by a tall, square-jawed one.
Jehan laughed timidly, feet threatening to trip as they swiftly pulled him along. "Hey, boys! I was just coming to look for you! Um…how much did you say I owe you?"
X
Back into the cesspool that we call home, Frollo reflected as his coach rolled through the gates of Paris, his soldiers welcoming him back dutifully.
He stepped out of the vehicle before the Palace, eyes narrowing when he saw a familiar-looking curly-haired young man marching down the steps. Satchel on his shoulder and book in hand, Frollo quickly asked, "What are you doing here?"
Jehan looked at his brother, walking down the last step. "Claude, nice to see you too. I was just checking to see if you were back yet." Jehan averted his blue-eyed gaze from his brother, turning his head aside.
Frollo raised an eyebrow at the boy's strange manner. Grabbing Jehan by the jaw and turning his face to the side, the judge's eyes widened: Jehan's once-cherubic countenance was sporting a bruise around his left eye. Rolling his own eyes, Frollo coldly asked, "What happened?" releasing the boy's jaw from his firm grip.
"Um…tavern fight. You know what happens after a few drinks," Jehan lied, hollowly chuckling. "How was the trip? And what's that?" he asked, pointing to the book in his brother's hand.
"The symposium was just fine, refreshing actually. Overall quite enjoyable until Minister Chaucer suggested inviting a few strumpets into the Bishop's home, so he won't be attending any future academic events. And this," Frollo showed him the black-covered book, entitled Liber Diversarum Arcium. "This is for Quasimodo. I picked this is up for him during my time there. I figure the boy might enjoy learning something creative to pass the time—after all, 'Idle hands are the Devil's workshop'. Anyway, I should look in on the Captain's reports, but I trust the city was no trouble in my absence."
After bidding goodbye to his brother and pushing through the Palace doors, Frollo breathed in the familiar scent of his abode of stone walls, happy to be back in his sanctuary. Though mentally exhausted from the symposium, the judge knew there was work to be done and to take time to unwind would be most counterproductive. Upon entering his study, Frollo gazed out the window to the face of Notre Dame staring back at him. Touching the stone wall, he wondered how Quasimodo had fared without him in the few days he was gone, promising himself that he would go to visit his ward later in the day.
Placing his hat on his desk and taking a seat, Frollo rubbed his tired eyes once he saw the reports filed over the days. Automatically he skimmed through the numerous accounts of thefts, disputes, fights and what not. One parchment piece seized his attention, brows furrowing in surprise by what he read: …mass exodus of Romani persons…At least over a hundred Roma had fled Paris during the time he had been away, slightly disheartening the Minister as he would have enjoyed being the one to do so.
Speaking of gypsies, he thought. He had a whole dungeon packed with them, meaning there were trials and executions to be arranged at the earliest. Best to see how many are to be dealt with. He would need a headcount and the rest of the day would probably be confined to the courtroom. Rising from his seat, Frollo decided it would best to seek out the Captain and inquire about this large gypsy flight.
Strangely, Frollo had not seen Captain Gerard since arriving back in Paris; usually he would have been standing in the Minister's study, summarizing the state of the city. Striding through the corridor, Frollo stopped two guards making their rounds, feeling something was amiss.
"Do either of you know the whereabouts of the Captain?" Frollo asked firmly, hands locking behind his back.
The two exchanged unsure glances before one answered, "We haven't seen him today, Minister. He's probably out making his rounds."
"What exceptional work this is," the judge caustically remarked. "It is assuring to know that my men are on top of such things—such as knowing where their leaders are." Waving them away, Frollo thought that perhaps this now-elusive Captain could be found in the dungeons.
Unlocking the dungeon door, Frollo stopped and listened. He was not greeted by the echoing sound of tired and pained groans and cries. Striding deeper into the belly of the Palace, Frollo turned towards the first cell…
"What?!" he cried, gray eyes widening. The cell, once occupied by some fifteen gypsies, was now empty! Rushing down the corridors, he was horrified that every cell that once contained a mass of them was empty. Anger bubbled up inside him—it was though every gypsy had vanished!
"Lieutenant!" His voice boomed, a bumbling soldier rushing to his commander at the ready.
"Sir?" The man asked, trembling under his armor upon seeing the rage twisting the judge's face.
"Explain to me why that when I left Paris, there were near a hundred gypsies lining these cells, and in the blink of an eye, they've disappeared?!"
"Umm, Minister…" the soldier stammered. "You gave Captain Gerard complete control while you were gone. A few days ago, he told us all to clear out of the Palace and said that you'd have us punished for insubordination—he was the only one here. And he gave us orders to stay out of the dungeons."
"And where is he now?" Frollo icily asked, his breathing labored, a vein bulging in his temple.
"I…I think the Captain skipped town—nobody's seen him since that night!"
"You are telling me that my Captain of the Guard released every gypsy here, and then fled Paris?" Frollo asked in a low voice, his fists shaking at his sides.
"I-I think so, Minister."
Without warning, Frollo's chest tightened and he could only hear a loud ringing in his ears. Fingers yanking at his gray hair, a resonating and harrowing cry escaped from the top of his lungs, resounding throughout the empty dungeons.
x
*A/n: I know this is the lengthiest chapter I've done so far but I hope it was acceptable. As you can see I rely on the Description Cut trope a lot cause it's a classic. Liber Diversarum Arcium is a real book on painting cause Quasi needed to start somewhere. And I think we needed more Quasi and Jehan moments.
Weird fact: the yellow (Mirabelle) plums here (like in the movie Perfume), turns out they're actually illegal here in the States, go figure.
It might be awhile before this story picks up again-idk-cause I'm kinda at an impasse right now. So if there's anything you might wanna see, review or PM me! And I'm gonna move along and rewrite "Little Boy" cause I really need to. Read and review! Comments are always appreciated!