Chapter Twenty-One
On a particularly gray morning in early October, the woods surrounding the marketplace of Paris were filled with an ominous brittle silence that Jamet as he emerged from the edge of the woods wasn't entirely sure that he liked.
There was a shriek from the trees that made the poor boy jump and shiver into his cloak as much as he could for warmth, and if he looked close enough at the River Seine, thanks to the freezing rain they'd gotten earlier, the lake had already partially frozen over. It was kind of strange, for the lake to be frozen over and it wasn't even December yet, but then again, they'd gotten snow in October before, so it wasn't entirely unheard of.
Before too long, old man winter would be upon them, and he could tell France was in for a bitter cold winter this year. He let out a sigh and continued on towards the marketplace as he followed the Barreau girl. The marketplace was always hustling with activity. For most, it was a daily part of their life, but for poor Jamet, who, even at age twenty, had barely set foot outside of the Frollo estate, he wasn't quite sure if he was having a panic attack or a heart attack.
Either one seemed plausible, given his paralyzed state as he followed the petite little blonde that had so captured Master's attention as she expertly navigated the busy streets of Paris. But by God's good graces, poor Jamet did not want to do this, oh, no.
He winced and gingerly rubbed the burn mark on his arm, still sending swells of pain up and down his entire arm and traveling through his spine, Master's latest punishment when he had tried to refuse. What Master was planning to do with her was downright dastardly and evil, and for that, for Jamet's part to play in all of this, he deserved to burn in a lake of hellfire for eternity for agreeing to go along with it, but he knew if he didn't, Master would kill him.
To be honest, Jamet wasn't entirely sure why he had come here. Was it to obey Master? Maybe. Was it to try to warn the girl who Jamet knew seemed kind enough?
Maybe. Jamet didn't know, and he wasn't sure why he felt the painful pang in his chest and it felt like his stomach lurched as he recollected Master Frollo's words as he relayed the rather gruesome details of his latest plan to get rid of the cathedral's bell ringer.
Blood, he thought wildly. Blood, blood, lots of it, A—and death, he thought, almost choking as he tried to fight back the swells of nausea that seemed to course through him.
Hesitantly, he crept closer towards the little blonde woman for a closer look at her features. She really was quite pretty, even from afar, though Jamet could not help but notice the jealous stares from the women as she passed by them in the street, or the stares and whispers of the men behind her back, how they claimed only a witch would marry a demon. Unfortunately, it was all Jamet's fault why he was here like this, following her.
His doing, and there was no going back. This was it, where his actions have led. For better or worse, Jamet was here now, and the minute he tapped Madellaine Barreau on the shoulder and alerted the girl to his presence, there was nothing he could do to take it back.
The trees that lined the edge of the village this morning became veiled in the heavy mist, their trunks a somber brown color with sable cracks that gnarled the bark and twisted it, giving them a truly grotesque appearance, as if their limbs were trying to reach out and take you.
As Jamet's poor eyesight passed over the woodland's edge that bordered the marketplace near the town square of Notre Dame, the trees became nothing but silhouettes against the blanket of white, as if it were only day where he stood, engulfed in the twilight. His mind was reeling as he struggled to maintain his sights on the Barreau girl, while a lost child wailed for his mother, a man frantically searched for a missing cat, the vendors screamed out offers at the top of their voices to attract business to their stalls, and the townspeople tried to haggle for the best prices possible. Jamet had never seen anything quite like it. This was the Parisian marketplace, a place that was drowning in a sea of people, though only one person in particular that he wanted to keep an eye on. Madellaine.
The salty odor of people crowded so close together mingled with the nose tingling aroma of spices brought in from distant lands, places that Jamet could only dream of visiting one day, mixed together and gave the marketplace a rather unique scent, which hung in the air from early morning until late evening, at least that's what they said of it. Poor Jamet had never considered himself claustrophobic before, but in that almighty swell of humanity as he trailed Madellaine Barreau, the young man felt the panic rise within the confines of his chest.
When they had moved in front of Jamet, some crinkling their noses in disgust at how awful he smelled, and his missing fingers on his right hand, or at the scar above his right brow bone, or the horrible scar slashed across his face, a horrible jagged diagonal line of bright pink mixed with white, that suggested it had never healed.
When they moved in, he had to also, and if his feet failed to keep up with the former circus performer's movements, he would risk being trampled underfoot by a passerby. Even in the bitter early October cold, with clouds above that promised freezing rain soon, he could feel the warmth of all these bodies pressing in against him and he hated it. People here in Paris were gaunt and serious, there was hardly a single utterance in the thousands strong throng, save for a few scared yelps.
There was nothing for it but to move with the crowd. He could smell the people, too. Some of them smelled even worse than Jamet, which was really saying something.
Jamet let out a muffled shriek as he felt a gloved strong hand clasp over his mouth and violently tug him out of the bustling crowds of the marketplace and off toward a side alley. He struggled against the cloaked figure but felt the tension release in his shoulders as the hooded man lowered the hood of his black cloak and relinquished his grip on Jamet.
"M—Master," he whispered hoarsely, heaving to catch his breath, one hand clutched at his ribcage as he doubled over, wheezing and coughing, feeling quite short of breath.
"You found her? Where is she, Jamet? Tell me right now, or I should cut out your tongue," he demanded, his icy gaze following Jamet's shaking fingers as he lifted an arm and pointed towards where the young blonde woman had paused outside a stall. Jehan exhaled slowly through his nose and clapped the young servant on the back. "Good lad."
"B—but what are you going to do to her, M-Master?" Jamet whispered, painfully wringing his hands together, biting his bottom lip hard enough to crack and bleed.
Almost immediately, as Master's head whiplashed upward and to the left to regard the young boy, Jamet regretted asking the question. He flinched and bowed his head. "I'm sorry, sir," he squeaked, his voice coming out as little more than a breathy little squeak.
"That's a good boy," complemented Jehan, though with Master, Jamet knew it was never that simple. "Head for the cathedral if you want. I'll….be along shortly, boy."
When Jamet made no move to do so and a pained expression crossed his features, Jehan let out a growl and grabbed the younger boy by the scruff of his tunic.
"Do you need another reminder of who you belong to, boy?" he growled, whispering the threat through clenched teeth. "I am your only friend in this life. You don't have any friends, Jamet, save for me. Nobody else likes you, kid. You're a liar and a thief. A murderer," he whispered. "Where would you be without me" Jehan hissed. "You'd be hung for your past crimes, boy. I saved you. You survived because of me. Never forget that, Jamet Dupon. Ever."
'Y..Yes, Master. My...apologies." He dipped his head in submission and felt his other hand drift towards his arm, gingerly rubbing the burn that Jehan had seen fit to give him for daring to protest against this violent and frankly evil plan of Jehan's to kill the cathedral's bell ringer.
Jamet watched in silence, daring to poke his head around the corner of the building that Master had seen fit to drag him behind, recognizing that dark look in Master's eyes. It was the look he got whenever he felt like a wild beast pulling against its chains, and when he got like this, there was no stopping the man, for he was more monster than man. Jamet watched as Master hung back, allowing for a little bit of distance between himself and the married young blonde. He gulped nervously at Jehan Frollo's expression. His was of one being forced to endure an unpleasant odor. His gaze was unwavering and unabashed as he stared at her back, and when she shifted to the side just so, his face blanched at the sight of the girl's gold wedding ring on her left hand and he scrunched his nose in disgust.
Those haunted blue eyes did not travel up to the girl's face or down to her brown boots, but they followed her as if really focusing on something a couple feet further away. Perhaps it was his introspective nature that led him to be locked in thought as he watched, it was hard for Jamet to tell as he watched Master, before deciding he couldn't watch anymore. But Jehan made no gesture of recognition as the girl passed him by, no raised hand or stiff nod in acknowledgement. Madellaine Barreau lifted the skirts of her green gown and quickened her pace to the street corner and melted into the Parisian crowds.
Jamet stifled a low moan at the back of his throat as he caught Master's gaze.
Go home, his eyes silently seemed to tell his servant. Get out of here, boy.
Jamet bowed his head and offered an awkward little bow before turning away and shuffling back towards the stables where Jamet had tied their horses. God help you, milady, because no one in this damned town will help you, Jamet thought, anguished. How he wished he could help her, but though Jamet's allegiances had changed ever since the girl had come to visit them, and how it puzzled Jamet that anyone, especially Master, could even think of harming a single hair on her head, for she was much too pure and innocent.
What was even more troubling were the rumors swirling around the town that he'd heard from passing villagers in the crowd who would part wherever the girl walked, just like Moses and the Red Sea, as if they were afraid of her, was that she was expecting.
Jamet bit his lip again, tasting the coppery blood that had lingered on his bottom lip and blinked back briny tears. The thought of Master inflicting harm on an innocent…
Was just too much. Too much for Jamet, but how on earth could he help her?
Almost as if on cue, as if God Himself had sent an answer to Jamet's fleeting plea, the gentle toll of the cathedral's bells began to send their flood of sound into the town square. Jamet got an idea. Maybe someone at the cathedral can help poor Jamet. Can't hurt to warn someone there. One of the soldiers, maybe…he thought.
A strange little half-smile on his face, he turned his back on Master Frollo, a mistake on his part that he would later come to regret and made to head towards Notre Dame. Surely, someone there could help him. Help her…
Humming the soft melody of the many different bells' sounds under his breath, poor Jamet failed to notice Master sneaking up on Madellaine…
As Jehan followed the Barreau girl towards the riverbank of the River Seine's edge away from the crowded streets of the marketplace, for which Jehan was secretly relieved, Jehan could feel the horrible aching and pounding at the back of his skull, like something was following him, lurking in the shadows, taunting him.
An evil no one else could see. But inside Jehan's head, the youngest Frollo son could feel it raging inside him as he crept up behind the Barreau girl, as wicked horrible thoughts of inflicting pain and immense torture on his monstrous accursed wretch of a son began to fill Jehan's mind.
His heart was cold, and he had no room at all for pity. For he felt like his only safe 'haven' these days was one with many victims that he could flay alive, that would take his pain and keep it, victims who became paralyzed with fear before he even so much as laid a finger on them. But his greatest satisfaction and perhaps his sickest one yet, lay in taking away peoples' lives, their loved ones, and he could almost taste the difference right now.
Knowing that he'd struck a blow into the lives of their families, their friends, was sickly sweet and intoxicating to Jehan, especially ever since the loss of poor old Claude. Now, as he reached out a hand to tap the girl on the shoulder, he wondered why it was then, that he could not shake the smell of her hair, how it strangely smelled like lavender.
At the thought of all the problems the little Barreau girl and his wretch of a son had caused him over the last few days, he knew that Madellaine, as long as she remained married to the boy, was becoming a rather large problem for him, one that had to be remedies. Well, no matter. He would take care of the boy soon enough, but first, then… He tapped the little blonde on the shoulder gently, so as to not startle the girl, and was not at all surprised when Madellaine Barreau turned around and her face drained of color.
"You," she breathed, hissing the word more so than speaking it. He watched as her eyes darted wildly to the left and right, looking for any signs of escape. "What is that you want of me, Jehan? I—I thought I told you to leave my husband and I alone, monsieur."
Jehan raised his hands in mock surrender and a warm grin swept onto his handsome features. "I merely sought you out this day to make amends, mademoiselle. I…apologize for the way that I treated you over the last two days. First in the tavern and then again at my father's estate. You must understand that it came from a place of anger. Grief will make a man do many things that he is not proud of, just as I am ashamed of the way that I treated you and your husband. I was wrong, and I beseech your forgiveness."
The youngest Frollo son watched with no small measure of amusement, though he kept it well concealed, as a varying rang of emotions passed through the young blonde's azure eyes, ranging from shock and fear, to more pleasant emotions like hopefulness and even possibility acceptance of Jehan's 'apology.'
"I…I do not know what to say, Jehan…You have not behaved admirably towards me or to Quasimodo, so why should I expect to believe you now? I...I need a moment, monsieur, please... forgive me."
She huffed in frustration and stomped her foot. Jehan smirked as she stomped her way down closer towards the edge of the river, which had, thanks to the frigid temperatures of Paris, even in the brutal cold of October, had already begun to freeze over.
A strange occurrence, but not altogether unheard of, especially given how frigid and bloody cold the temperatures were becoming, and walked across the frozen bits of the River Seine.
"Mind the ice, won't you?" he called out.
He decided he could grant her this moment to think over his words, though he would get what he wanted, in the end. Jehan always did. Jehan continued to observer her movements. How she shoved her knuckles in her mouth and bit down on them in anxiety.
Madellaine lifted her chin to gaze at the man she knew that she hated, because of the horrible way he treated her husband, and her, though that was to a lesser extent, not wanting to meet his glacier blue, piercing gaze.
The young woman's once fiery blue eyes seemed doused in ice water, unnervingly making the blue even paler. It was like she had drifted in a shell, too tough to reach. Jehan's gaze drifted downward towards her left hand, admiring the yellow-gold of the ring his son had no doubt given her during their courtship when he'd finally proposed to the young circus performer. He faltered in his resolve as he noted a scar he'd not seen before, seemingly self-induced. He wondered what she feared.
Jehan could tell by the way Madellaine turned away from him that she was insecure, the way her eyes cast downward, and she had trouble looking him in the eyes. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to abuse could ever experience.
The mental scars were a tapering factor in the nonexistent serenity of Madellaine's domestic life as a former street rat, perhaps when she had lived with that awful ringmaster, Sarousch.
They caused an agony that could only be seen on the inside. The pain that, unknowingly or not, Madellaine was allowing Jehan to see. The young blonde noticed where his eyes had wandered and her face flushed pink, and she gave a desperate tug of the sleeve of her gown and promptly pulled it back over her hand.
The stories and troubling accusations of the Barreau girl's strange behavior, as told to him by Jamet prior to the incident in the mess hall a few mornings ago, only seemed to grow as time passed, the more Jehan learned of her. Jehan bristled as Madellaine said nothing to him in response, turning away.
"Mind the ice!" he called out harshly over the fierce winds as he watched his son's young wife tread lightly across the frozen surface of the river towards the spot where Madellaine had noticed a flock of cardinals. Jehan stopped. The river before the heart tree was strange, the ice wasn't flat like it should be, but rather broken. "More like the bark of a tree," he growled, to which Madellaine heard her husband's father make the comment, though she made no passing remark about it.
In the cracks beneath the ice as Madellaine carefully followed the small flock of cardinals, awestruck by the vibrant red of their plumage, the water was discolored, more like glacial melt in its brilliant blue. Madellaine knelt down to detect the aroma, it was like nothing she had ever smelt before, not bitter, not sweet, but…almost soothing in a way.
Taking a stick, she poked at the ice and it was as solid as it looked beneath her brown boots, and it moved in just the way it should, only much slower. The ripples radiated out as the young woman expected, but almost as if in slow motion, like time momentarily seemed to halt in the gesture.
Madellaine took her eyes off the water and stood up, listening, and watching to the chirp of the birds who thrived on this weather. Even with the wind, there was hardly a breeze in the trees that lined the edges of the woods, which unnerved Madellaine greatly. She whirled around on the edge of her boot and she slipped, hardly having time to cry out, as she had only cared about what was above her, trying to see what she could, admiring the cardinals.
The colors of the river around her swirled and clouded her vision, leaving nothing but white spots. She let out a startled cry as she realized nothing was happening as her footing had faltered. She had slipped on the thick ice of the Seine. The ice broke beneath her boots: cold water, no breath, no pain in her lungs whatsoever.
The afternoon's cold fall sunlight that was only seconds ago so strong was now a blur. Her arms flailed against the icy water that stole heat from every part of her skin. Her head hit the ice and bubbles brushed against her cheek. One hand found the gap, shooting into the wintry air, hoping Jehan or someone else would see it, though she highly doubted the bastard would save her, as her body gave one final push for the light above the ice.
Darkness and icy coldness enveloped Madellaine completely. The water closed in around her, filling the young woman with a sense of panic and deep dread. She held her breath as long as she could, too long, in fact. Red and black splotches danced in front of her and she could not remember if her eyes were open or closed at all.
The coldness she had felt upon entering the river's water was completely gone. A desperate hot wave had come over her, warming even her frosted toes in her now drenched, icy, and probably ruined boots. Madellaine's heart was beating rapidly in panic.
The urgency for air was more apparent than ever, and there were no red blotches in her line of vision anymore. It was all black, nothing but darkness. She opened her mouth, gasping for air, and then nothing. Madellaine moved her arms like she was climbing rocks, but it was only ice water around—water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air. water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air.
After only a few seconds of being completely submerged, her brain was in full panic mode, there were no coordinated movements, just clawing through the thick liquid that threatened to invade her lungs. From her lips came an explosion of air bubbles, moving away from her at a peculiar angle.
Madellaine almost realized she wasn't facing upwards, that she was struggling perpendicular to the surface, that she could, if she strained to listen, almost faintly hear Jehan's shouts above her. Already, her thoughts were groggy. Her limbs slowed, stopped, and she began floating in the ice water of the lake.
That was when he saw him. Jehan swimming downward from beneath the icy depths of the river's frozen over surface above, but she knew it was not to save her. He would kill her, to drown her in this icy, watery grave.
But she knew it was only a vision, one that her mind had created to ease the painful death of drowning so horribly and unexpected like this, but it seemed so…so real. Even if she were to die unceremoniously like this, she knew Jehan was no angel of death, no god was he.
She briefly wondered if Jehan were tasked with lighting the way to the dimension the departing soul would be bound to for their next life. He swam toward her. But then Jehan seemed to pause, eyeing Madellaine completely submerged in the water much like a curious dog would look at something it was not sure if it could trust or not, and if it were deciding whether she was safe to eat.
A brilliant shade of blue met her own, though her vision was fading and fast, and a wrist—was it Jehan's or maybe Phoebus's?—grabbed onto her wrist, and slowly, Madellaine was towed up towards the night life above, back to her real life, to where Jehan waited for her at the foot of the ice, no doubt to flay her alive for her insubordination of the humiliation she had caused him a day or two ago back at the estate.
Her body shook so violently on the ice as she was pulled out of the icy water that she could not form a coherent thought due to the incessant chattering of her teeth and how soaked through to the bone that Madellaine was. Her stomach contracted so violently, she didn't even care who it was that had saved her and was watching her suffering as she retched up the water that had only moments ago filled her lungs and threatened to drown her. Her lungs drank in the freezing air in noisy rasps and again, the hands came, urgent voices—did the voice belong to Jehan? Phoebus? Quasi? Or was it Clopin?
She did not know. Instructions. Someone, probably Jehan, was telling Madellaine to stay awake, not to go to sleep as the young man hurriedly wrapped his cloak around the young woman's violent, convulsing form. Jehan was talking to her, asking her what had happened.
"S—slipped," she mumbled, casting her eyes downward, not wanting to meet Jehan Frollo's gaze. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that she owed him her life.
Jehan said not a word at first, wrapping the young woman in a warm swaddle of his cloak and then said not a word as he gingerly lifted her in his arms, careful to support her waist, allowing her head to rest against his firm, stocky chest.
Madellaine, at first startled and shocked by the sudden gesture, quickly shrunk into his warmth as much as she could, not sure what else to do in the moment. Jehan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, gently rubbing her back in small could feel the hatred and animosity burning a hole in the back of her skull, though to her immense relief, he did not comment on it.
Despite the heaviness and the icy feeling in the pit of her stomach, it fluttered a little at the selfless act Jehan had just performed. Despite their differences, the man had saved her life. For that, she owed him. Maybe there's hope for him, yet. Maybe...he's not so horrible after all, she thought.
She sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the air a little warmer somehow, and she was grateful.
"What happened, Madellaine?" Jehan demanded hotly, his voice hard and rigid, his facial muscles tense, and his left eye began twitching randomly.
"Slipped," she repeated hoarsely. Suddenly, her throat hurt. "You…saved…me," she whispered through the continued incessant chattering of her teeth. Madellaine bit her lip to keep from biting her tongue off and fell silent as Jehan grasped her by her elbow and wrenched her rather violently to her feet, still angry with her, draping an arm over her shoulder and supported most of her weight. "Th…th-thank you," she managed to gasp out.
"What were you thinking?" he snarled, his brows furrowing in a concern state as he scowled, regarding the young woman as he, upon seeing that she could no longer walk as her half-drowned state had thrown off her equilibrium, he gingerly lifted her in his arms and began to carry her bridal style back to the safety and warmth of the church.
"I…I'm sorry," she whispered, surprised she could even get the words out, honestly, given the incessant chattering of her teeth.
"Didn't I tell you to mind the ice?" If Jehan was being honest with himself, he did not like how the girl in his arms looked. Her lips were tinged blue, her face stark white.
Dark circles had begun to form underneath her eyes as the cold wind moved in to meet the warmth of the young blonde's blood, as well as Jehan's, their only defense against such chill aside from their clothes, though hers were currently soaked through to the bone and would do her no good.
If he did not get her back inside soon, she would freeze, and then his plan would be for naught. There was a shriek from the trees that startled poor Madellaine, whose nerves were already frayed from her near-death experience of drowning. Jehan noticed and gave her shoulder a surprisingly tender, encouraging squeeze.
"Don't look at it," he advised bitterly. "It's just a branch twisting under the weight of all this damned wind and freezing rain," he grumbled darkly, keeping his eyes cast warily to the trees, but then his attention was drawn back towards the woman in his arms.
But Madellaine could not help but be drawn to it. Something about the path back to the church rendered her speechless and unable to look away from its almost blindingly white hue. It was so…so…well…white, in the fog and frigid temperatures.
Staring at it was like staring at nothing, and to stare at it, she imagined herself engulfed in the vast loneliness that was the unnaturally cold weather for the first week of October. Oh, why had she ventured out without Quasi again? Had it been to escape the constant arguing of Victor and Hugo? To give her husband some time alone?
"Y—you're g—going to…kill me, a—aren't you," she whispered, still struggling to reign in control of the chatting of her teeth.
She glanced down at her dress and cloak, both of which as well as her boots were soaked through to the bone, frozen.
Under the thick haze of the swirling fog, the colors of the world became dull and muted, and yet…there was something about the pathway back to the cathedral that rendered it beautiful, at least in her eyes, it did. The trees showed their lofty arms once more, a smile playing upon Madellaine's freezing lips, which were now still tinged a slight blue color. Madellaine was struggling to stay conscious, feeling her eyesight blur, but not because tears were welling up, though they were.
Everything became fuzzy, and then she saw nothing at all. Her consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a horrible blackness that was colder than the ice from which she had just been rescued. Her heartbeats echoed loudly, pounding, and echoing in her ears, alongside fading, weak, pitiful pleas for help.
The feeling in her body drained away. Then nausea crept from her stomach to her head. The world around her went black and Madellaine fell into an uneasy sleep. The last thing Madellaine heard before she faded out of consciousness as she dove for the haze of black mists swirling in her thoughts, anything to escape the tide of his horrible pain at being submerged in frigid water, was Jehan's voice, speaking to her.
Jehan, she thought wildly, her last cohesive thought before she passed out, struggling to speak his name from her lips.
The last thought before she lost herself to the darkness of a dreamless sleep was that Jehan Frollo had saved her life...