DISCLAIMER: I still do not own Hunchback of Notre Dame. All characters not mentioned in the book by name are my own creations. If you ever wish to use them for a story, send me a message and ask.
Author's Note: I just keep getting carried away with my writing. When I first started formulating this story in my head I had formed this one scene in my head. It was my intention to include that scene in chapter two, but I was too happy with where it was going with Gitana meeting Dartagnan and all. I had wanted to incorporate Dartagnan as a larger character, and the chance presented itself there, so I planted the seed, and now Dartagnan plays as big a role as several other characters. After that I decided to play that scene out as chapter three, but Celie's new life presented itself as more important in that moment. So I moved that idea to chapter four, but when I began writing, I ended up writing a lengthy chapter on Frollo's past. I was angered with myself for falling through on my intentions three times, so I firmly told myself this morning that I would include that scene in this chapter. But, alas, I failed to deliver. I was once more carried away with the situation I created for the chapter, and this time I promise you, my loyal readers, and myself, that chapter six will be completely dedicated to the scene that started off the idea for Aurelia.
Chapter Five: The Creation
"I must surely be seeing things. Little Eskarne Gasso, well, Aurelia now, isn't a little girl anymore. She's a grown woman. That young girl must have been her daughter. Well, if she is, as I suspect, Eskarne must not be far from here," Dartagnan muttered to himself in fond memory of the little girl he had met when he was barely a man.
Dartagnan paced the inside of his puppet wagon, concentrating on the small girl who had so suddenly sparked up so many happy memories from his youth. The fourty-three year old man settled himself into the workbench near the small table he used to repair and create puppets. He cracked his knuckles and pulled out the children's favorite puppet, Padget.
"Ah, Padget, you and I have been through a lot together. We have a good twenty five years of puppeteering together under our belts, now, don't we?" he sighed affectionately to the wood and cloth figure on his hand.
"Well there sure is a lot more under my belt than there is under yours!" teased the puppet in its shrill little voice. The puppeteer chuckled to himself and lovingly set Padget onto a tattered cloth on his work table. On the shelf above the table was a vast assortment of paints, polishes, paintbrushes, carving tools, work rags, colored fabrics, sewing needles, a paint chipper, spools of thread and glue. Dartagnan took the paint chipper, paints, polish, and paintbrushes from the shelf.
"You're due for another tune-up," he murmured as he went to work chipping away the gleeful expression from Padget's face. Just as the master puppeteer was polishing the puppet's new expression, a knock sounded on the door of his wagon. With a sigh Dartagnan heaved himself up from his stool and walked over to the door. He pushed it open and found the head of the guard of the Court of Miracles, Eric Paverall, and his eldest son, Clopin, standing outside of the wagon.
"To what do I owe this extreme honour?" said Dartagnan sarcastically, a large smile plastered onto his face. His eleven year old son ran into the wagon and sorted through the puppet trunk, searching for his favorite doll. Dartagnan shook his head, still smiling, and stepped out of the wagon to speak to Eric.
"Bonjour, you majesty," Eric nodded to the King of Gyspies.
"Bonjour, Eric. Were you planning on staying to see Clopin back to the Court?" the aging king responded.
"Oui. Then I was going to attend to some... other matters afterwards," sighed the guard. He played with his golden hoop earring as he always did when he was nervous.
"Don't worry about Clopin tonight, I'll make sure he's home safe. Besides, I'm sure those other matters are more important than babysitting my son," Dartagnan clapped Eric on the back.
"Thank you, sir," the guard nodded. He ran a dark hand through his shaggy black waves of hair. "I'm afraid I must be on my way."
Dartagnan watched the gypsy guard retreat down the street, then turned his attention back to his son. He sighed as he noted how much Clopin looked like he did when he was that age. Even now, there was a strong resemblance between the father and the son. The two had the same shoulder-length black hair, the same black eyes, their noses were nearly the same, but Dartagnan suspected that Clopin's would grow longer still, Clopin took after his father with his puppeteering, acrobatics, temper, and self-esteem. Yet he still had his mother's singing talents, impatience, slender frame, and sense of humour.
"Papa, can we make my puppet today?" asked Clopin, begging his father with his big black eyes to agree to it.
"Of course we can," Dartagnan walked over to his son, who was already sitting on the workbench. Dartagnan noticed that Clopin had already gone ahead and chosen fabrics and paints to use. Dartagnan showed Clopin how to measure and cut the fabrics so they would fit his hand.
"Now remember, you're going to want to still use this puppet ten years from now, so make sure there's enough room in there for once your hand grows," he reminded his son. Clopin nodded and traced his father's hand to use as a guide.
"What next, Papa?" asked the young boy, eager as always to finish.
"Next you're going to sew his tunic and gloves together. Remember how you helped me fix Padget last month?" Dartagnan asked his son. Seeing Clopin nod in remembrance, he continued, "That is how you're going to do it. Remember, take the needle from the top to the under of the fabric so the children won't be able to see the thread when you perform for them."
Clopin slaved away over his puppet's body while his father mixed paint colors for him. As soon as Dartagnan had finished mixing the paints, Clopin was dipping his brush into the black paint to draw a mouth onto his puppet's round head. Dartagnan chuckled silently to himself at his son's impatience, yet exquisite techniques.
"Papa, could I give him a hat?" Clopin asked, interrupting his father's thoughts.
"Of course you could, did you leave any fabric left?" Dartagnan questioned him, receiving a nod as an answer.
Nearly an hour later Clopin proudly held up his puppet, which, surprisingly, was very well made. The puppet had a fuschia and royal blue tunic with a yellow over-shawl with little golden bells, it's hands were covered with black gloves. The figure had a large smile on it's face, a rather long nose, and wore a fuschia mask. Clopin had given the puppet straight, shoulder-length black hair, a golden hoop earring, and an extraordinary blue hat with a large yellow feather sticking out the top of it.
"I'm done, Papa!" Clopin showed his father, grinning from ear to ear.
"Not quite, my son. He still needs a name," Dartagnan reminded Clopin lightly.
"Lil Clopin. Just like me," Clopin stated matter-of-factly, cradling the puppet lovingly.
"Very well. The next time you come to my wagon, be sure to bring him and I will teach you how to maneuver him to delight your audiences," Dartagnan said to the young gypsy prince. "Now, before I leave I need you to do me a favor."
"Yes, Papa," Clopin answered as a son should, but with an eager look on his face, glad to be able to do something important. There was no doubt in Dartagnan's mind that the eleven-year-old's ego had grown since he had come to the wagon that afternoon.
"There is a gypsy girl waiting in the cemetary. She is a little younger than you. You are to go to the cemetary and bring her to the Court of Miracles safely. Do try not to show off too much. This is very important that you bring her back safely. Once you are in the Court, do not stop and speak to your friends, bring her straight to our tent and wait for me to get there. Try to make her feel at home, she's never been to the Court of Miracles before now," Dartagnan explained Clopin's mission to him, making sure he understood what was to be done.
"Don't worry Papa, I won't scare her away," Clopin grinned at his father. The boy scooped up his puppet, attached him to his belt, and with that he ran out the door in the direction of the cemetary.
'Let's hope not,' Dartagnan thought to himself as he readied himself for one last errand before returning home.
