Dom Claude Frollo closed the doors of the cathedral behind him. Normally, he would be in awe of the picturesque interior, but tonight the building was shadowed, mirroring the haunted state of his soul. She was dead. It was her own fault. He had given her a simple solution: "If you will belong to me, I can save you from bodily and eternal death." She had refused, the fool! To her own loss! How could she have turned down a chance to prolong her life?

Claude blindly made his way up the winding stairs until he came to a little red door. He opened it, and entered the belltower room. What he saw nearly stopped his heart. He let out a strangled gasp and sank weakly to his knees.

The gypsy girl was lying on a pallet, as still as death. Yet Claude saw her chest rise and fall, so he knew she merely slumbered. He blinked repeatedly, and when the vision did not disappear, he knew this was not a fever dream. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape huddled in the corner. He knew Quasimodo must have rescued her.

He slowly got up and walked over to where she lay. Moonlight streamed in through the window and illuminated her beautiful, sleeping frame. She seemed to glow. Her copper skin seemed paler in the light of the moon. He took one of her delicate hands and caressed her fingers. Her head was wreathed in a halo of moonbeams. She was an angel, shining bright just for him.

With his other hand, Claude wove a lock of her raven hair between his fingers. He gazed upon her face; her emerald eyes were hidden behind curly lashes that fell on her cheeks. He did not wish those eyes to open; he knew if she woke up and saw him, she would be frightened and repulsed by him, and the spell of her ethereal beauty would be broken.

Her lips, so full, so perfect. He remembered, not long ago, when he had graced them with a touch, not nearly enough to express his feelings, but tender all the same. "Esmeralda," he whispered her name. There was more he wished to say, but dared not. Instead, he leaned over and kissed her blossoming rosebud lips. He lingered, eyes closed, drunk on passion. When he finally pulled away, her facial muscles twitched, but then relaxed. Had she felt his touch? If so, it was not enough to wake her.

Claude wrapped his fingers tighter around her dark tresses before gently releasing them. They fell onto her pillow, framing the face of the most beautiful being in all of Paris, nay, in all God's creation! Claude stepped backwards out of the room so he could have the sight of her as long as possible. She so serene, he so tormented. If only he could make her see that his heart beat for only one—-she was that one! If only she had not been a gypsy and he had not been a priest! But it was against the will of God. Their love could never be.

Claude was in the doorway of the room now. A shaft of moonlight caught a single tear trailing down his cheek, encapsulating it in the glow of the moon. The moon was wounded over his lost love. The moon was bleeding for them. Claude felt his own self-inflicted wound under his robes. More tears fell, moonbeams cascading down his face. Before he could do anything rash, he turned his eyes away from the moon of his life and fled.