Author's Note: Poor Denis; it's only a flesh wound, right? Almost to Chapter 30, which will feel like a big milestone to me, seeing how long it takes me to update. Incidentally, I'm pleased as Punch that I've just broken the 2,000 pageviews mark on deviantART-not bad considering pretty much all I ever post there are TC chapters and illustrations. Thanks so much for the support, and thanks for putting up with another long wait!

Musical Recommendation: "Agathon" from "Serenade After Plato's Symposium" by Leonard Bernstein. I've always loved this work, even though it's connection to Plato's text is a little tenuous. Bernstein takes Plato as a mere springboard for his 5-part picture of different loves. This one is the most earnest, a picture of rising passion and devotion.


In the first moment of agony, Denis thought he could never again experience so much pain. But this moment was followed by another, and then another, deep in his lower leg. With every shudder, he was more conscious of the pain, more offended that nature would not simply allow him to lose consciousness. The knobby surface of the cobblestones pressed into each vertebra of his back. When was the point that men in pain could pass from an unbearable world, at least for a few moments, if not for eternity? If he did not enter oblivion soon, surely any moment now his opponent would send him there.

Here he realized how far he had drifted. He thought for a moment that Heaven had sent an intercessor, one of the stone angels come to life, hurtling down from Notre Dame to protect him. Her voice drifted down from above, clear and commanding. Only when the tone shifted to a plaintive wail did he realize that this powerful protector was in fact Margaret, and already her voice was fading into the distance. He forced his eyes open-his lids moved like shades with rusted hinges-in time to see her struggling in the grasp of Captain Malbert, who dragged her like a mastiff worrying a rabbit. Only then did he remember that they were surrounded by the crowd, and another insane thought flickered through his mind, that none of them could hear Margaret's cries without pity. Then he reminded himself that courage need not flow from pity. The only voice that rose in protest belonged to the Archdeacon, but it remained distant enough that he was sure no help would come from that direction.

The circle was quiet again. Conscious of how pathetic he must look, he rolled over and tried to heave his quivering body from the ground. He craned his neck to look up at Frollo, and recognized the demonically transcendent face of his executioner. Strange how the face of a man in battle could look like the face of a passionate lover (and strange how memories of poor Nicole still appeared to him at the worst of times). Every thought sounded in his mind like the softened thud of a muffled drumbeat, not nearly as momentous as it ought to have been. The cathedral above seemed to swallow the entire scene with its presence, its hundred statues with their hundred pairs of eyes turning it into a silent stone Argus.

"She's watching you," he whispered.

Frollo paused, the light fading from his eyes. He peered up at the cathedral, then over his shoulder at Margaret, as though he couldn't determine which of the two was watching in judgment. He whipped out a cloth from a pouch at his waist and wiped down his blade. That done, he stared at Denis, until the light returned to his eyes. Denis braced himself.

The end came like the blow of a club in his ribs. He rolled over from the impact. But there was no blade. The man who had kicked him turned, put on his hat, and mounted a black stallion, then rode after Malbert. In the midst of the black figures on black horses, Margaret in white stood out like a snowflake on sable. He reached for her outstretched hand. Perspective made it seem as though they touched.


A servant had brought one of her old dresses, but Margaret refused to take off her wedding gown. She had pulled her chair away from the fire and placed it before the window, which faced Notre Dame. The promise of rain was still unfulfilled, and the clouds had descended as far as the cathedral towers.

They had already caught her opening the window and examining the stone sides of the Palace, after which they had closed and latched the windows, threatening to put her in the dungeons if she got any ideas. Not that it mattered; the surface of the stone was sheer, without a single foothold. She had tried to cry, but it was impossible. Shock paralyzed every part of her body, but periodically the tension snapped, and she caught up whatever was nearest her reach - a chess piece, a cut glass bottle of scent - and hurled it against the wall. At this moment, an ebony chest was the nearest object. The carved wood splintered against the stone. A glass bead rosary tumbled out and rolled to Margaret's feet. Struck with guilt, Margaret took up the beads and sat down. She wanted to intercede for Denis, and she wanted to keep herself from releasing the hatred that burned like a votive before the image of Denis prone beneath Frollo's implacable stare.

Down the corridor, Jambesfolles the greyhound slunk through the shadows, Frollo's hat grasped in his jaws. He had discovered it lying on a chair in the library and taken it hostage. Since Margaret had vanished, some of his allegiance for the Minister had returned, which meant that every article of clothing was fair game for a good chew. He had almost succeeded in throwing the Minister off his trail, when he caught a familiar scent of violets. He almost dropped the hat in surprise. The chase was forgotten, and he nosed his way towards Margaret's door. Whimpering, he rose up on his hind legs and scratched at the locked door. The hat was left on the floor unguarded.

"Wretched beast," Frollo snarled. He turned the chaperon over in his hands, examining it for rips and tooth marks. Then he heard Margaret's prayer above the dog's whimpering. Could it be the girl was finally repenting of her transgressions? Against his better judgment, he unlocked the door. Jambesfolles slipped inside ahead of him and galloped to Margaret, who sat with her back to the door. She stroked Jambesfolles' head but did not cease praying or acknowledge Frollo. She had come to the Salve Regina.

". . . vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae, ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle."

Without contemplating the danger, Frollo placed his hand on her shoulder. "Dear Margaret, you can't know what a relief it is to me to see you humbled thus. Your sins are many, but Heaven cannot fail to hear the prayers of such a contrite heart. I do believe you may be saved after all."

"From you? No, I don't think there's anyone who can help me now."

"Margaret, you disappoint me. That is not what I meant at all."

"Leave me. Please." Her nails dug into the wooden arms of the chair.

"I only came to tell you, my dear, that the boy will surely live. The blade only grazed his limb. I could have struck to kill."

"You are the soul of mercy."

"I did think I might receive some credit from you. I was fully within my rights to take his life. You forget, Mademoiselle, that it was he who implicated my honor. I could not refuse the duel."

"You had no reason to interfere. You don't want my land. I have nothing to give you. Except my misery-perhaps that's what you're interested in?"

"If it should lead to your salvation, it is a necessary purification. But there is another consideration."

"If you mean what I heard you discussing with Captain Malbert, I know nothing of any importance."

"But you know something." He curled his fingers and tightened his grip.

"Something about a boy who told your men that the English are coming here to Paris instead of Calais. That's all. And that you never intended to have mercy on my father."

"There is nothing that could be done. Would you have me lay the city open to invasion, so the enemy and your father can simply sail to victory?"

"I heard what you're going to do. You said you'd prosecute him."

"I have no choice. The law must choose no favorites, Margaret. At any rate, it's quite likely there will be no trial at all. We don't expect him to survive the invasion, you know."

Her hand flew up and landed with bared claws on top of his. He did not even wince.

"I don't hold your anger against you, my dear. I understand this is only an irrational outburst, a reflection of your distress." He smiled in the assurance of his invincibility. This girl would give anything to run him through with his own blade, and she was powerless. She dragged her nails down the back of his hand, watching all the while for some expression of pain. Instead of releasing her, he took hold of her hair and pulled back until her ear was next to his thin lips.

"You realize, of course, that it doesn't matter what you tell me you've heard. I simply can't allow a little mouse to skulk about the Palace overhearing secrets of state and then continue at liberty. One who spies on her host can hardly be trusted to speak the truth."

Margaret squirmed and bit her lip to keep from gasping at the ticklish touch of hot breath inside her ear. "Then why don't you send me to your convent and be done with it?"

"A convent? Hardly a secure holding place for a spy, wouldn't you agree? Even if you do seem to be showing some signs of spiritual improvement. You know, if we could only improve your manners, I do believe you might not be so objectionable a match as I once considered you, my dear."

"The daughter of the man you destroyed?"

He ran the tip of his finger along the edge of her ear. She lunged away from him and covered the side of her head with her hand. "What better demonstration of my mercy than to marry his innocent daughter? That is, innocent in the eyes of all Paris. They would remain ignorant of my real mercy - that I could have you executed as a spy, or consigned to the dungeons. And you, my little wife, conscious all your days that I have spared you, and could revoke my decision at any time."


Denis woke halfway to find himself lying in the cell he had slept in since Margaret came to Notre Dame. His head seemed to move more often than he willed it; they must have drugged him. The pain in his leg still rose and fell like a wave breaking on the shore. The whole limb was stiff. He wondered if he could be paralyzed. He raised himself and threw the sheets off his body. The entire length of his left calf was bound in white linen, tinged with a faint red stain further towards the heel. The sight was far less extreme than he had expected. He began to fear he was overreacting to a wound that any soldier would have considered superficial - he had not been raised a warrior.

But if that was the case, then there was no need to lie here and convalesce while Margaret suffered unknown cruelties at the hands of Frollo and his men. Denis looked around the room for a crutch. There was nothing. But of course; they would want to keep him in bed until the wound healed, however long that took. He panicked to think they might have locked him in. Gasping and panting to keep from screaming at the pain, he dragged his legs to the side of the bed, then hobbled on one foot to the door.

It was unlocked. He collapsed against the wall in relief. Then he tried to think of some substitute for a crutch, something like a walking stick. It had to be here on the ground level. He would never be able to climb the stairs to his old quarters in the bell tower, which also meant he wouldn't be able to enlist Quasimodo's help. He squinted to focus his wandering, sluggish mind. He couldn't ask the Archdeacon for help in leaving. He would be sympathetic, but implacable, leaning on his crozier -

Denis trembled at the epiphany. As long as he wasn't stealing, and as long as he put it to an honest use, surely it was no crime?