Evening settled on the city. A smoky darkness slowly descended on the roofs, softly extinguishing tapers and candles until the whole of Paris was still. But in one high room overlooking the Place de Notre-Dame, a light still burned and three voices whispered harshly and urgently.
"You were right, noble seigneur. We entered the Cathedral this afternoon, and overheard the hunchback talking to the archdeacon about her. It seems she was there this morning, but she left with another man before noon -"
"You were meant to watch every entrance, you fools! Didn't I tell you -?"
"Seigneur we did, but he must have used an entrance we didn't know about."
"Or maybe he's a wizard, to spirit her away like that -"
"Superstitious nonsense!" A fist slammed against a tabletop so violently the candlelight flickered sharply. "I don't want excuses! I want you to find her!"
"Perhaps... Perhaps the seigneur could ask the city guards to help him find her?"
"Idiot! You think I want to draw attention to the fact my wife flew the coop and made me the laughing stock of the region? In any case, it's not as if she'll be my wife for much longer. It's settled - we'll do things my way, and you'll get no pay until I have her in my grasp."
"Yes, seigneur."
"Keep an eye on the cathedral and the churches hereabouts. The little Christian will go to Mass once she thinks she's safe enough, and then we'll have her. And if not -" the voice grew warm with anticipation - "if that doesn't work, there's more than one way to skin a cat..."




At that moment Clopin grinned to himself as he arranged the bouquet of flowers within the jug. The men would laugh if they saw the great Gypsy King choosing flowers for a woman like a lovesick fool - but the fact remained that he was no lovesick fool! All he was doing, as leader of the Court, was organizing a simple gift to welcome the Court's latest visitor. White roses suited Curran's pale elegance, and if he added a white silk ribbon wrapped around the jug the effect should be -
"Very nice."
The poisonous sarcasm in the watcher's voice almost caused Clopin to drop the rose he was holding. "Oh it's you, Vesha," he muttered as he saw the girl with the burnt cheek watching from the tent's entrance. "It's customary to let people know you're there, you know - did no-one ever teach you manners?"
"What, you mean manners like that 'milady' you've got holed up here?" the girl replied as she entered. "It's her I've come to talk to you about."
"Curran?" Clopin said, startled. "Why? What's wrong?"
"She's what's wrong! That little mademoiselle! She's only been here a couple of hours and already she's been acting the fine lady, patronizing us and trying to make us feel like dirt!"
"Really? What did she do?"
"Told us to get out of her tent like we were her servants! And then she acted like we were the rude ones, because we said how soft her skin was. It was like she was too grand even to talk to us!"
"Really?" Clopin repeated, aware of how stupid he sounded. He knew Curran was a lady, but he hadn't considered the possibility that she might think herself too good for the Court of Miracles. "Well - it's possible she might have misunderstood something you said. Did you say anything that might have offended her?"
"You're acting like it's my fault now!" Vesha said indignantly. "All I said was about how soft her skin was! Honestly, Clopin, whose side are you on - the Gypsies' or the gaje's?"
"It's not a question of 'sides', Vesha!"
"Oh, isn't it?" the girl spat back at him. "It's not a question of sides? Do forgive me, I must be wrong - I thought I was forced to live down here because gypsies aren't accepted above ground! I thought that in Paris I could be put in the stocks for daring to dance in the streets to earn my living! I thought that in Paris a girl could be called a slut if she were a gypsy!"
"Vesha -"
"Let me finish, Clopin... I thought - stupidly, I thought - that in Paris a girl could be held down by half-a-dozen French soldiers and a flaming torch pressed against her cheek for the sole reason that she was a gypsy!!"
Clopin could see that the girl was close to tears as she finished her speech, and tactfully looked away. "Vesha, no-one denies the wrong that was done to you. But because some gaje are evil doesn't mean they all are, and if one of them is persecuted - an outcast like the gypsies - we should look beyond their race and give them shelter."
"And you don't think she had enough shelter in Notre-Dame?" Vesha sneered. "You're a hypocrite, Clopin! You didn't look beyond her face! Come on, admit it - if your precious Curran was old, and fat, and ugly as sin, wouldn't you have left her back in the Cathedral instead of inviting her down here?"
Her words contained enough truth to sting Clopin hard. "It's not her fault she's beautiful, Vesha," he said at last.
"No," Vesha agreed. "Maybe not. But she is a gajo. She's a stranger and she doesn't belong here. All I want you to do is promise you won't treat her with favoritism. Let her taste the real gypsy life with the rest of us, instead of lying on a bed of white rose petals as your favored guest! Do you agree?"
"You're not in a position to demand anything of me, Vesha. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly." The girl with the scarred face made as if to leave, but just before the exit she paused and turned back to him, a horrible smile on her lips. "And you'd better understand this, Clopin - the moment you start putting the gaje over your own people is the moment you say goodbye to your position as the Gypsy King. You rule because we elected you, and if you decide you like French people better we true Gypsies can always find a new King."
"I don't listen to threats, Vesha."
"But you just did, didn't you? Sweet dreams, your Majesty!"
Clopin waited until past midnight before he left the Court of Miracles with the jug of white roses: no-one saw him leave, and no-one saw him return empty-handed. In the morning, however, a merchant walking in the old cemetery was surprised to see a bouquet of fresh white roses sitting in front of a mossy, long-neglected grave. Engraved on the headstone were the words Curran Lefebre, morte le 5me mai 1455, but the name meant nothing to him at all.




Quasimodo wrinkled his nose as he waded through the slime that led him to the Court of Miracles. There must be other entrances - ones that didn't stink so badly - but he hadn't been granted the secret of those ones, so he always had to use the one he'd found with Phoebus long ago. Now the light was growing, and he heard the sound of voices beyond. He knew he should tell the guards he was present, but he felt uneasy about approaching the men who'd once trussed him up for hanging. Instead, he flattened himself against the stone and peered round the corner of the entrance, hoping for a glimpse of her.
He saw her almost immediately - spotting that thick mass of blonde hair was no hard task, he had to admit! She was sitting down over a large sheep's fleece, picking out stones and splinters to make it ready for spinning. But as she raised her head the sight of her face made him gasp quietly. It was as if she'd aged four years in the four weeks she'd spent down in the Court: instead of youth Quasimodo saw grim determination, and instead of her former spirit and humour there was only quiet despair.
Then Curran raised a finger to her mouth to suck out a splinter, and Quasimodo saw the blood that stained the creases of her palms. With horror, he realized that her soft hands had been badly grazed by the rough work she'd been made to do. Now they were so raw that every splinter reopened the wounds and made them bleed again.
"Clopin..." Quasimodo heard Curran call faintly to the Gypsy leader.
"What is it, mademoiselle?" he replied. No 'milady' or even 'cherie' now, Quasimodo noted with disbelief, just the formal 'mademoiselle'. He wasn't even looking at her - in fact, it was as if he was trying not to look at her.
"I've finished with this fleece now, it's clean and ready for spinning."
"Good. You know the routine - place it on the pile for the spinners and pick up another one from the pile by Vesha."
"Clopin - please may I go on spinning or washing duty? My hands are beginning to hurt."
"No, not until you've finished with the fleeces! Otherwise the spinners will have nothing to spin. Now find another fleece and start again." And Clopin turned away towards where the blacksmiths were working. Quasimodo took one last look at Curran's miserable face, strode out from his hiding place and placed himself directly in Clopin's path. Boiling with rage, he yelled:
"What in the name of the Almighty is going on here???"