CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Claude hadn't expected to spot Belle on his way to speak with Father Darius regarding complaints of their cathedral guard's soldiers, and how the lack of notable presence the night the Prince of these lands visited was inexcusable, but it was pure chance that he spotted the young brunette taking a stroll through the hallways, her nose buried in a book and she had a look on her face that he hadn't seen before, but he didn't deny he'd wished for it whenever he enticed her to come to him.
She had stars in her eyes, truly a sight to behold. Claude stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen, not until he wanted her to spot him.
There she was. His beauty, her dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, such a delicate little bird, trapped here, in a cage, and he, only he, could set the Dupont widow free—a painting for his eyes alone. He could not even begin to explain how the day Belle Dupont dared to defy his orders and talk back to him had set his insides aflame, like the brightest Hellfire, how, though it had been a precious three weeks since his last visit to the cathedral, the sereneness of the girl's smile was drenched in his memory, her eyes haunting her behind his closed lids at nighttime.
The night was the only time he could be with his love, catching a whiff of her sweet and subtle scent, drowning in her intoxicating scent.
Some nights, Claude calmed the excitement in his soul to prevent waking his beauty as he watched her fall asleep in her chambers, as he had done so many times before, she unaware of it all. Even in sleep, she was beautiful to him. When she was awake, though, the budding rose was utterly radiant.
One day, he'll be so much more than just a stranger towards her. She will be his to love forever, and how sweet it will be when that time will come for them both.
He watched, concealed under the cover of the darkness of the shadows, as she moved in the light, the beams of moonlight shone through the stained glass windows, giving the petite woman an ethereal, haunting appearance, almost like a spirit. Claude loved her softness, her eyes showed him her essence—her very soul, so pure, and innocent. Passion turned her eyes into the brightest orbs of fire and every time he looked into Belle Dupont's dark brown eyes, he knew that she would fight to the very last tear for her life. She would not let the world break her. Her passion made her beautiful. Belle Dupont's little imperfections to him made her perfect.
There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements, and a quiet softness to her voice like a soft wind in the summer. Her skin was pale, glowing as she moved, so fragile, and yet so flawless and smooth, so soft. The Judge admired the way her black dress of velvet and lace—one he'd painstakingly gone out of his way to give her—flowed with her movements, seeming to float with her as she moved. To the Judge, she was perfection.
You'll make a good wife to me soon, my love. He wanted her, and she would not go to him. Pursuing the one who refused him made it that much more of a challenge, but he liked a good challenge. She would go to him if he had to force her. She was his. No one else's.
Belle had lifted the hem of her gem to walk without tripping, and he caught a glimpse of her delicate bare feet, pale and perfect, like her. Her movements were silent and ethereal, gliding as she moved in the moonlight. Claude could remain silent no longer and spoke up.
"What are you doing out here, my child?"
Oh, by God and His Angels above, and the Seven Hells below, this night could not possibly get any worse. Belle glanced nervously back behind her, as though mysteriously expecting the beggar woman to suddenly materialize out of thin air and appear right by her side again.
For a moment, she wished that were the case, as she did not wish to face Judge Claude Frollo alone. However, judging by the stony look in the man's impassive expression, Belle could see gaining no benefit by lying to the judge as to why she was out wandering the halls at this late hour.
"A—a stomachache, Your Grace," she murmured, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks as she dared to adjust her stance and make to head in the general direction towards Sister Alice's quarters. "N—now that my husband and father are gone, I—I have no home anymore," she whispered. "A fever, I think," she managed to gasp out hoarsely, wishing for nothing more than the tiled floor beneath her boots would open up and swallow her whole, not letting her re-emerge until the Judge was well and truly gone. "I—I was hoping that Sister Alice would be awake," she murmured, painfully twisting her fingers together, biting the wall of her cheek.
She was not aware that she'd drawn in abated breath and held it until she heard herself release a tense exhale through her nose, her nostrils flaring like that of an angry bull's. Belle did not know entirely what kind of a reaction she was anticipating from the judge, and she swallowed nervously past the growing lump in her throat as she had to crane her neck up to regard the judge, given that he was much taller than she was, by at least a foot or more.
But then again, most of the men here in Paris were taller than Belle, and she thought it not fair, how short she was.
When the Judge spoke, his baritone voice was languid and smooth. "I am afraid that Alice's ah…sleeping habits are rather unorthodox, my child, there is every chance that she would still be up. Was it perhaps something that you ate?" he added, his graying brows furrowing into a frown as he, for the first time since stumbling across the girl, truly got a good look at her features. "And I was sorry to hear of your father and husband."
Belle blinked, unable to hide her feelings of shock upon her ashen features. She was quite certain that she would have faced Claude's fury. She bowed her head in submission and bent her right knee, gathering the skirts of her black mourning gown in her hands, dipping into a low curtsy, careful to mind her manners around the tyrannical, pompous, aging fool of a judge.
"Perhaps it was something that I ate. A..and thank you. They...my father will be missed greatly," she murmured, painfully twisting her fingers together, and bit the wall of her cheek in trepidation as Judge Frollo surprisingly held out a robed arm and offered it to her.
"Alice's quarters are this way. Come. I myself was unable to sleep, and whenever I cannot sleep, I wander the halls. I find it calms my mind. What of you, child? What ails your mind?"
Belle blinked, uncertain if what she was hearing was genuine. "I…when I lie awake at night, all I can see is my father's face, right before he…before he died," she whispered hoarsely. "I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I can't even pray to God anymore, Your Honor…"
Claude was barely able to stifle his smile as he stepped from the shadows and allowed the warmth of the lit torch on the wall behind Belle Dupont's head nearby to bathe half of his careworn, lined face in the dim light, and by this, he was better able to study the young widow's movements and her range of facial expressions. He could practically see the young brunette's emotions in those dark chocolate orbs of hers.
A wide range of emotions flickered throughout her eyes at having unexpectedly wandered into him at nearing the witching hour.
It did not, however, stop the look of pure, unadulterated terror that flitted through the girl's dark eyes, though the multitude of feelings that passed through the Dupont widow's eyes ranged from complete disgust to yes, even fear for him, and perhaps, even…victory. She thought she had won.
Claude felt his frown deepen as he regarded the young woman. He was deeply beginning to regret his decision not to evict the child from the cathedral following the girl's husband's murder, as well as that of her father, but he liked to consider himself a decent, honorable man, and he would not turn away a soul in need of sanctuary.
Though there was something glistening in the girl's dark eyes aside from the moisture that threatened to escape her lids, something mysterious that Claude found he wanted to know the secret to.
The Judge watched her stand there, her hand numbly overtop his arm as she allowed Claude to escort her towards Alice's chambers, his gaze fixated at the unspoken sad story behind her rich brown eyes.
A woman of almost twenty and one much too young, his own misshapen ward's age, too lovely, to bear the face of a widow now her husband was gone.
He blinked, startled, even adorned in black velvet and lace as her mourning gown was now as she grieved for the loss of her father and husband, even in a strange sunburst of sadness like this, the girl was still so pretty, and for a moment, he did not fault Quasimodo for becoming ensnared in the woman's trap. His callused fingers dug into the skin of his palm, the hand currently not guiding the young brunette woman further down the hall, as hard as he could.
Oh, yes. He had allowed his misshapen wretch of a ward, no longer a boy, and fully grown in body and mind at the age of twenty-two, to continue to see the girl, despite his initial warning to the young woman now clutching onto his arm in a vice grip to stay away from him.
Partially because he wanted to see if the rumors that he had heard from the other gossiping hens, these nuns if they were true. If this girl and Quasimodo were spending increasing amounts of time together. And so, he had spied on them.
Watching them take walks throughout the cathedral, the boy behaving in a much more animated fashion than whenever Claude was around. He had been standing in the corner of his study room window for hours, just across the way of the cathedral's library, watching the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and read to him, seeming not to mind at all when the redheaded bell ringer wrapped an arm around her slender waist.
It was repugnant. He had meditated like death for hours. Claude did not know what to make of this new development, and he could feel his jaw clenching, his teeth grinding in silent anger. How he had seen them just last week—the way Belle Dupont held the vicious bastard whispered a threat to Claude's ambitions for the boy.
She was unhinging him, from where he had watched behind a pillar. He had never once believed Quasimodo capable of being reigned in by attention, especially in the arms of a girl.
A demon and an angel. Oil and water. These two are not meant to mingle like this, this witch's heathen ways involving corrupting my son's mind must be stopped, one way or another.
Claude furrowed his brows as he recollected finding the abandoned babe on the steps of Notre Dame, how when he had pulled back the bundle of cloth concealing the newborn's face, he had been repulsed by the cretin's monstrous appearance.
The Judge at the time had wanted nothing more than to throw the squirming demonic bundle down into the well nearby, or take him into the sea up to his knees and let the waves carry him away, resolved to let the monster go, to see the swaddled bundle crash against the sharp rocks of the ocean, but when the baby's eyes had lazily open, revealing a pale azure light, Claude had been disarmed. Jehan's eyes and it was then that Claude hated himself.
For the child, his deceased brother's spawn, this demon, this monstrous whelp, was now Claude's burden, his cross to bear, a test sent to him by the Lord to prove his worth, and now that the boy was a grown adult, both in body and mind, possessing the very basest and carnal of urges that had gotten Jehan killed, and had left him with the wretch, he knew that this girl holding onto his arm was the cause. And that, he could simply not allow.
Claude bit the wall of his cheek, wondering if it would soon be occasion enough to pay another visit to the Prince soon, in a day or two. The Judge furrowed his brows into a light frown as he noticed the young brunette beauty turn her head away and swallow hard, one hand clutching onto her stomach, as if in pain.
"Are you in agony, my child?" he asked, already full well knowing the answer, and not giving her time to answer as he watched her lips part open to offer a response. "We are almost to Alice's. Now that…given your circumstances," the Judge began hesitantly. "What will you do? Where will you go?"
He did not know what possessed him to ask such a thing of Belle, but all of a sudden, he needed to hear her answer.
"I…I do not know," she confessed, her voice sounding pained. It matched her expression. "I—I know that you said that I was to stay away from Quasimodo, b—but…I have nowhere else. No place to call my home, Your Grace. Might that I could stay inside the cathedral, I—I would…"
Claude glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at the bewitching beauty of a French Rose clutched onto his arm. Just the simple touch of her bone-white hand atop his was enough to send a fiery, overwhelming heat spiraling between his legs, invoking long-forgotten feelings of lust and sweet, delectable sin, feelings that had since lain dormant, ever since La Esmeralda.
He bit the wall of his cheek and prayed that she did not notice. His sudden desire was reaching his limit. If he did not act on it soon, there was no telling what he would do to the girl. "You may stay," he heard himself say, as he lowered his tone an octave, watching out of the corner of his peripherals as the girl blinked in surprise, and for the briefest of moments, a small smile crept onto her pretty face, and Claude found himself wishing that it would stay.
Belle dipped her head in acknowledgment, at first seemingly stunned into silence as the power of speech fled her lips. "Th—thank you, Your Grace," she whispered faintly. "I…" But her voice trailed off as the Judge fixed her with a stony stare, his lips pursed into a thin, rigid line.
"My…arrangement for you, however, does not come without its conditions."
Belle stifled a pained wince as the Judge's hand drifted down and came to grip on her wrist, hard enough to break it. She inhaled a sharp breath that sent swells of nausea wracking her frame and she fought back the urge to vomit for the third time in one night. Gods, why was she so sick?
Belle nervously fidgeted with her knuckles, wanting to look away from Judge Claude Frollo's listless gaze, and found that she could not do it at all.
"Stay away from the bell ringer, child. He is nothing but an accursed wretch, and he should ruin your life if given the opportunity. You have already had a hard enough life these last two weeks, mademoiselle, do you really want to make it harder on yourself, Dupont? I will, out of the kindness of my heart, allow you to remain within the cathedral, but should I find that you are spending time with my son in any shape or form on my next visit, you will be dragged outside from this place, and I will have you arrested. Or…" Here, he paused, smirking in bemusement at the girl's dawning look of horror and outrage upon her pallid features.
"Or, Your Honor?" she whispered, trepidation laced throughout her voice, and she did not bother to fight back down the crack in her fearful tone as it cracked and faltered, as did her resolve.
"Or…I could provide for you, mademoiselle," breathed the Judge, relishing in the look of growing discomfort in the girl's darkened eyes. "You could stay here. In the cathedral. With me. I could give you a comfortable life here in Paris. One where you would never want for anything else again. You are a Dupont, widowed or not, you are a noblewoman, Belle, who deserves the highest form of respect and in behalf of my adopted son who could never be that for you, nor would he be able to provide for you, truly, in the manner that you deserve, milady. I apologize. And…I am willing to compensate for the tragic loss of your father and husband. If you wish to keep your good-standing within Parisian society and your wealth, then say yes."
A silence was nothing that he could have hoped for. He glanced at the young widow out of the corner of his eye as words left her. He swallowed hard and waited for the girl to process his declaration of his…feelings.
Belle blinked owlishly at Judge Frollo as her lips parted open, though no words came out. The power of speech had left her lips, and when she attempted to speak, all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. She stared skittishly into those bright gray eyes burning with anger, and her heart fell silent.
The moment she realized she'd misinterpreted his actions, his words, his expressions for so many years... as if he'd been speaking a language that she couldn't understand... that moment her words stopped was the moment Belle's heart broke.
"Answer me." The Judge commanded of her, and it escaped his lips as a guttural roar. But she couldn't will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a shaky finger in her face. "Do you have nothing to say, Dupont? I have poured my heart out to you, and I offer you the chance of a lifetime, now tell me what your answer is!"
He was demanding of Belle an answer.
But her mind felt as blank as unmarked parchment paper and her eyes wide as she stared at Quasimodo's master in utter horror.
His eyes desperately searched hers…waiting. She just had to say something. Belle bit the wall of her cheek as she wracked her brain for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her. Judge Claude Frollo could assuredly sense the revolt she nursed against him for the way he mistreated Quasimodo, but if she wanted to prove to him that she was as smart as the rumors from the nuns claimed her to be, and the girl wasn't stupid, then she had better embrace the offer, but to her—
"I wish that you could listen to yourself, sire." Belle's breath trembled and she emanated a tense exhale as they paused, just outside of Sister Alice's chambers, though Belle had not yet lifted her knuckles to knock and announce their presence. "You propose to me but two weeks after my husband and father's deaths. So much talk of respect, Your Honor. This is disrespect towards me in its highest form, Your Honor." She felt him exhale and his body tense in suspense.
He let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat. "I'll be leaving you with more time. I have to leave Paris to return home, few days' ride east of here, and you would do well to make up your mind within that time frame, child, or I should have you thrown out on the streets, where you will be reduced to a simple beggar, or worse, whoring to survive, Belle."
Belle bristled and was unable to stop the fiery retort as it tumbled unchecked out of her mouth as she violently shirked away from the judge's ironclad grip upon her wrist, clutching her hand close to herself and rubbing it gingerly. "You—you could defeat an army of fire breathing dragons and I would never consent to this match!" she snarled. "Not in this life, or the next, Your Grace!"
The Judge offered a small life that sent a tremor of revolt down her spine. There was no warmth in that cold, calculating chuckle. "My bastard ward has a hold on you, doesn't he? What on earth could you possibly see in a monster like my son, dear sweet child?" he asked.
Belle narrowed her eyes and backed away until her back was pressed against the door of Sister Alice's quarters.
"I would rather have the 'monster' than the judge three times my age and a man who is old," she growled, feeling herself tremble with angst, feeling as small as a child as she shivered with both anger and fear, clutching herself as she raised her knuckles and gingerly rapped on Sister Alice's door, biting the wall of her cheek. "Don't make me do this, Your Grace, please, if there is a shred of decency in you, do not do this to me," she begged, glancing around nervously, desperately hoping someone would come along and interrupt them, but at this early hour of the morning, such help was highly unlikely.
Anyone, please come. Darius, Quasi, Alice, where are you? Please…
She swallowed nervously and met the Judge's gaze.
The Judge let out a low warning growl from the confines of his chest. "I see. You appear to have spelled my son, and it would seem that it works the other way as well. He has spelled you, somehow, by demon's curse. You're not developing feelings for Quasimodo, are you?" he asked, delighted at this development.
If it was true like he suspected it might be, then it would serve him well to teach his accursed wretch of a son a lesson in all of this, what it meant to succumb to sin and lustful urges, and finally, be free of the boy's evil, wickedness forever, and it would all that much more satisfying. He recognized he was growing jealous.
"Do forgive my prying, but I confess myself a little bit jealous if it's true," he crooned, admitting that fact out loud made him feel relieved. She belonged to him and nobody else.
Especially not his son.
"No, Your Grace, I'm not," Belle argued. "You—"
Jude Frollo snarled and bared his teeth, and Belle let out a muffled squeak and promptly fell silent.
"Don't lie to me, girl," he muttered. "I see it in your eyes. You find my ward attractive, don't deny it. I can see it in your eyes. Well. No matter. You will be mine, Belle, or I shall have you arrested and burned at the stake for witchcraft and sorcery. See if I don't. You'll marry me in a fortnight, and you know that I will give you a great life. You'll never want for anything else in your life ever again. I can promise you will have a good life with me," he murmured quietly, his voice silky and seductive as he kissed her earlobe before working his way down to her collarbones, pulling away to stare at her flushed, angry expression and into her eyes.
The Judge, deciding she needed further incentive, pulled out his knife from its sheath and fingered it lovingly. The knife sat precariously against the skin of his palm, soft enough not to pierce his hand, hard enough to enforce his intended message.
The harsh metal should have been cold and raw against his pale skin, but his numb body could not feel anything except for the excruciating pain of the Dupont woman's betrayal and the humiliating rejection that stung like salt in the already tender wound of his heart. He could see it in her eyes; she was already beginning to develop feelings for Notre Dame's bell ringer.
He pressed the point of the blade against her throat. Belle's throat held in a silver grasp, and all she could do was stare lifelessly at the listless, emotionless, gray eyes before her that held the blade and a terrifying coldness she had never seen in him before.
Once, he had been happy, in the years his brother was still alive, or so she had heard rumors from the soldiers of the church's guard.
But now, looking into his eyes, she could see no trace of the vibrancy and charm his eyes once held, no trace of the kind man he could have become had Claude made different choices in his life. Trembling, she tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting Claude to end her anguish, half hoping that he would.
A small stream of blood trickled from the feeble cut that she could not feel. He didn't flinch or remove his gaze from hers. Belle's frozen heart shifted at the sight of his merciless gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her.
Oh, God, she thought and suppressed a moan. His steadfast grip on the weapon shifted, causing more blood to flow from the raw wound he had inflicted on her. Smirking, Claude glanced down, and his gaze landed on the book she'd dropped. He picked it up and thumbed through a few of the pages, amused at her choice.
"Tristan and Iseult," he muttered thoughtfully. "An interesting choice, mademoiselle. The woman betrayed King Mark of Cornwall, who was dearest to him. Iseult, his own wife," he hissed through clenched teeth, relishing in the horrified stare she was giving him, like a cornered deer. "The king was heartbroken. His queen wounded him more deeply than anyone else in his life ever could have done."
Belle was rendered speechless, unable to speak. All she could do was gape in shock.
The Judge continued. "When the king found out what his queen had done, King Mark threatened to have her burned at the stake, and her lover, Tristan, hanged."
"I'm familiar with the story, Your Honor," she snapped, wrenching her arm away from him. "I know it well. It is one of my favorites."
"Then you are familiar with the ending," he remarked drolly, swiveling his head lazily almost to regard the young brunette whose throat he currently held hostage.
"Yes," she said defiantly, jutting her chin out at him. "I am."
"Then, like Iseult, you know what happens if you betray me," he replied, grabbing her wrist again and pulling her close, entwining his fingers in her dark strands, loosely playing with them. "Are you frightened, child? Don't lie," he warned.
Belle stared at him, her chest slowly rising and falling.
"Yes," she admitted truthfully.
Good. The smallest admission of fear. It'll do. He smirked and cupped her chin in his hand, sneering at her dazed expression.
"It is time that you accepted your fate, witch. Open your mouth," he ordered. She didn't.
The Judge, without warning, kissed her, forcefully pressing his lips against hers and was surprised by her reaction. Belle stiffened, not returning his kiss, and shirked away from him, backing away against a pillar, terrified.
His body crushed hers and he pressed a hand against the back of her head, pressing in hard and urgent. He grabbed the back of her head tightly as his kiss became more demanding, hungrier. The Judge pressed lingering kisses against anything he could reach. Belle's jaw that drove him wild, his breath curled against her skin as Claude's hands skated against her sides, his fingers grabbing onto the back of her dress for support.
Belle cringed, hating herself and desperately wishing Darius would turn the corner, come to her aid as he had once before a few weeks ago, or even how Quasimodo, had two weeks ago, with that Prince in the library. She knew Frollo would leave marks she doesn't want, but she could not make a scene or who knew what he would do to her if she tried to escape. The feeling of his teeth against her neck felt like a dagger.
He pulled her close and slid his hand down the curve of her hip and Belle drew in a sharp breath as she felt his hands wander up her skirt. She felt the graze of his lips against her neck and she shuddered out of horror. Belle broke away, gasping for air, shooting him a look that would have turned him to stone if she'd had the ability.
"That was pleasant," he commented, not bothering to hide his twisted smirk that formed on his thin lips, that was more of a grimace than a smile. "For you, as well."
She backed away and stared up at his towering form, her eyes wide and round with fear. No one was coming to help her; she was alone with him. "I—I'm flattered, Your Grace, that you want to marry me, but I—I just know what to say," she admitted nervously.
"Say that you will accept my proposal and marry me after all this is over," he hissed.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she apologized. "But I cannot marry you! What on earth would you want with a lowborn common farm girl like me? I am nothing!" she exclaimed, doing her best not to let her eyes wander and betray her. She had to stall him long enough for someone—anyone—to hear him and come.
Claude allowed a dark chuckle to escape his lips as he laughed, unable to help himself. "You foolish girl. I will have you for my wife because you, my dear, are the most beautiful girl in all of Paris. Surely you can see it for yourself, and if you can't, you're even blinder than I thought. I deserve only the best, and to me, you are the best."
Belle felt a tremor of cold wash over her. Gaston had said something similar to her, once. "Your Grace…I…I don't think…" Her voice trailed off as she looked at him.
He snorted and smirked, burying his face in her hair. "What?"
Belle was staring at him with such intensity in her dark eyes that he didn't know what to make of it at first.
She was losing control and growing angry, but he knew her better than she knew herself. She didn't dare grow angry in front of her, she knew better than that. Belle knew what happened to the people of Paris who displeased him or disobeyed him. She had heard the stories from the nuns, and from Quasimodo during her time spent in his tower. As she spoke, her voice shaking with rage and fear as she dared address him.
"If you love me, you'll sacrifice yourself. Walk right into the flames of Hell and never look back. If you love me, you'll do it. Walk into certain death and do it for me. Isn't that beautiful, Your Grace? Then I'll remember you as one who forever loved me, and you'll live on in my memory, immortalized. I will be quite safe. That is what you want, isn't it? You do love me, don't you, Your Honor?" she asked.
"You're clever, child," he whispered, nipping at her ear. "There's no one coming for you," he continued. "It's just you and I. Alone. As it should be, my pet."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth that the pair of them heard footsteps. Someone was coming. The sound of approaching footsteps filled the otherwise empty corridor. Claude cursed under his breath and whirled around, no longer mind that they were in a Holy House of God and His angels. When the person turned the corner, he could see the man was a priest. The priest was young, close to Captain Phoebus's age, maybe a little younger by a few years.
"Father Darius," he growled through gritted teeth, and when he turned back around to face the girl, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach as Sister Alice had wrenched open the door of her personal quarters and was regarding the seething look of hatred in the young brunette's eyes as she shot the Judge a withering look that would have had the ability to turn Claude to stone had she possessed the power to do so. But she did not.
"Your Grace. Belle," spoke up Sister Alice in a tone wrought with concern and suspicion as she quirked a thin brow Belle's way. "What can I do for you both at this late hour?"
"I believe the child here is suffering from an ailment of the stomach," he explained airily, turning back towards Belle. "When Sister Alice is finished prescribing you something for your sickness, she will show you to your room." His words escaped him as a snarl as he relinquished his grip upon Belle, ignored the nun's stunned, horrified expression intermingled with that of revulsion and horror.
"Come, child," murmured Sister Alice as she clutched onto the young brunette's arm, all the while casting dark, withering looks down the hallway as the older woman stared after the Judge's dark, retreating silhouette as he made to follow Father Darius, a truly wicked smirk etched upon still-handsome features.
Though he turned around, just once, to glance back over his shoulder, and Judge Claude Frollo's face was the last thing Sister Alice and Belle focused on before the nun, a heavy scowl on Alice's features, as she closed the door to her chambers and allowed the wooden door with a deadbolt lock to serve as a barrier of protection, shrouding Belle Dupont in the only measure of comfort she could provide.
Claude paid the horrified looks of the women no mind as he strode towards the confessional booth, his gaze fixated upon the handsome Father Darius's tall form.
What he was doing as a priest here for the last few years was beyond Claude's understanding to comprehend the man's choices in life. The man could have gone on to conquer entire continents, and yet, here he was, a priest. His motives confused the Judge, even after all these years, but he would learn the truth from the priest very soon. Right now, as a matter of fact. Claude grinned.
"Excellent," he whispered. He'd been looking forward to this. Belle had used the distraction to flee and take her leave of him, but he didn't care. He knew he would be seeing her again very soon, whether she knew this or not. He would be sure of it. The Judge grinned and straightened the rosary around his neck as he walked to the confessional and waited for the young priest to join him. He didn't care if he had to wait all morning. The stakes of his little game of cat and mouse were working out better than he had anticipated.
The girl wanted to play her little games, then she would find herself a new opponent. Him. And he always won. He knew how to play Belle Dupont's game.
And how to win.