Title: The Beauty of Triangles

Summary: When she saw it, Esmeralda knew that if initially she had never believed in God or the existence of one, she would now. A smile. Not a predatory smirk, not a simpering line dripping with scorn and sarcasm. It was gentle, small but noticeable enough. Judge Claude Frollo was smiling.

Genre: Drama/Angst
A/N: Bonjour, mes ami! Did anyone miss me and my Frollo/Esmeralda stories? Yup, I can hear the sounds of crickets already. I have decided to get back into writing more of my infamous, still dearly beloved Disney pairing. A rare pair, but I am happy that there are still plenty intrigued by them as I am. Please support me at SmiteTheWicked on Twitter; that's my Frollo RP account and now on with the dance. I choose to write Frollo and Esmeralda in a certain way, beyond Disney's portrayal without it going overboard into OOC territory. I think at the end of the day, Hunchback of Notre Dame really fleshed out human characters, with the pliability for complex thoughts and emotions. Again, is why the movie is terribly underrated and so is the book.

Evening in Paris meant that the city prepped for retreat. In this humble act of returning home, packing up wares, closing up shops and stifling yawns, it almost felt that all Parisians – be they working class, from upper echelons, Christian or heathen – were united in one common ritual. There was something nostalgic and communal about the act of stripping oneself of one's role in preparation for a safe, comfortable night's sleep. Even if that comfort varies from fresh hay in a cot to a grand four poster bed with pillows stuffed with goose down.

The dancing gypsy girl, La Esmeralda raised her hand to her mouth to contain the yawn that threatened to leave it agape in the most unladylike of manner. Truth be told, all adage about women behaving as feminine, delicate specimens could be flung from the bell tower of Notre Dame for all she cared. The young Romani wished for rest and nothing more. T'was a routine yet exhausting day. Though one was used to the acts that would follow for each day one awakened, it did not stave off that familiar feeling of lethargy as one performed those acts to the best of one's abilities. Esmeralda winced as her bare feet met the cold, clammy cobblestones of Paris. Times like these she did wonder if the gypsies should invest in the craftmanship of shoemaking. A snort escaped her at the thought of Clopin, their beloved King – though only in name, Clopin loathed any idea of hierarchy in his clan – fashioning cloth slippers for all his people with signature bells on the toes.

Imagine fleeing from soldiers in those! The trial would be a hilarious travesty if one were caught. This absurd train of thought (no doubt the result of an exhausted mind) left Esmeralda trying to not wake the city with her fits of laughter. She pressed her palms to her lips as her faithful goat, Djali, scampered about and through her legs, wondering what tickled his mistress so.

"Oh, Djali, don't worry. I've not gone mad. I was just entertaining a funny thought of Clopin making us all shoes with bells on them. I can already see the look on that cruel Judge Claude Frollo's face if we ever had the misfortune of meeting him personally and he saw those on our feet."

The name of the public official – and how very easily, smooth like milk imbued with honey – flowed past her ruby lips. The effect was so sobering, the humour died in her emerald eyes. Esmeralda was no stranger to the Minister of Justice and his comings and goings, having slipped away on numerous occasions when her keen ears detected the heavy thuds of his stallion's footfalls or her nimble nose discerned that foreboding – yet undeniably enticing – scent of herbal freshness, smoke and prayer incense.

Must be nice living in a home with running water and readily available cleaning amenities.

She pulled a snarky face to no one in particular as she followed this forbidden red string of a thought. The ball of yarn unravelled, leading her down more inappropriate visions. As logic persists, the next image that popped into her head was not just the soaps and ointments the minister must apply to possess that sort of scent but of him, in a warm bath, lathering a chamois upon his fair skin. Did a man so fearsome, so cold and thorny in his reception have soft, smooth skin?

This time instead of bursting into giggles, Esmeralda near choked on air, the blood rising to the tips of her ears. If the cool Parisian night air had raised goosebumps upon her caramel skin, whatever mortifying visions her tired (yes, because it had to be very tired) brain conjured lit tiny flames beneath her skin. She peeked to her side and saw Djali, head tilted, his face twisted in concern. These long days of dancing and singing were taking a toll on his poor mistress' health, of that the little kid was certain. Huffing, arms akimbo, Esmeralda kept walking.

"Oh, don't give me that face, Djali. If it will make you happy, tomorrow we shall have a rest day." Now, that was more like it! Rest days meant that he and his mistress could go rolling in the meadows at the outskirts of the city and nibble their weight in the juicy, green grass. If luck was on his side, there would be tasty, sweet clover blossoms to devour. A serene smile masked the mortification Esmeralda initially felt. What a simple, wonderful life it must be, the life of a carefree animal.

The darkening sky provided ample comfort in the form of shadows as the gypsy manoeuvred her way through the winding backroads of the city. Living here most of her life and often on foot, either making soldiers eat her dust or tending to the homeless who found some form of sparse comfort in these isolated corners, away from the prying, gawping and often repulsed citizens of Paris, etched the blueprint of Paris in the back of her mind. A worried dint deepened between her well-marked brows. It is for these people especially that Esmeralda laboured to earn gold for, as much as those idiotic guardsmen believed she stole or dappled in immoral business to acquire it.

If, perhaps, the Minister of Justice allowed himself to see for once how the gypsies truly were, he would not view them as pests to be crushed underfoot. Esmeralda was no fool dropped by the notable stork yesterday, however. It was unwise, excessively optimistic to think all of her people were morally good people – if anyone knew what being good actually is. Clopin had recounted to her stories, in as neutral and conversational a tone as possible, to distance himself she supposed, of gypsies breaking into people's homes and raiding them of their food and valuables. Sometimes, spilling blood with nary a qualm.

Yet, were those not acts borne out of sheer desperation? Certainly, even if it was no excuse of course, there could be some understanding or empathy afforded for such acts. She halted all of a sudden in her tracks, and such a jarring pause it was that Djali was still happily skedaddling until he discovered the jaunty jingling of his mistress' tambourine and bracelets had stopped. Oh no, was she having an epiphany, now of all times when the most rational thing to do was return home and tuck straight in to a warm bowl of broth with generous chunks of sourdough?

The gypsy girl pursed her lips. Ironic how on an evening when she was tuckered out, her mind decided to run rings about various sensitive topics, topics that the more she picked at, the more they smarted. Well, that is what one gets when one has itchy fingers. It dawned on her as the sun gave way for the moon to take centre stage that the minister himself probably rationalized his actions and beliefs in the same way. Again, it was unwise to think Esmeralda naïve. A man of such calibre, such a position could not have assumed such without intellect, without logic and quick wits. No doubt he rehearsed his reasons – excuses more like – in front of his full-length mirrors, that ridiculous hat perched upon his silver hair, articulating them over and over in his domineering voice until he felt they were adequate enough in their persuasion.

Of course, as she reiterated previously with her own people, that did not make any actions, which were so evidently wrong, right. There could possibly be nothing humane or godly or lawful in dragging people off the street for causing a mild ruckus (Alright, she had to admit, the brawl between the gypsies and the group of schoolteachers could have gone over more civilly. But no, Laird had to throw a rotten tomato) or for raving around, pointing his finger at her people, accusing them of earning their money by solely dishonest, illegal means. (Then again, did not Clopin teach her people the art of deception, of trickery to garner sympathy for the masses?)

Ah, she was thinking herself into a huge headache. Up her hands rose to rub her temples where a dull throb was starting. Respite. Bed. Legs needed to carry her to the Court. Evidently, her fatigue was addling her common sense. Judge Claude Frollo was a grown man who made his own decisions, prejudiced, cruel and ruthless as they were. He could dress it up as pretty as a strumpet but all that makeup, the corset and the padding will melt away in time. Surely, and she would gamble the gold coin she earned daily on it, that his reputation preceded any other motivations for his unjust treatment. To be feared by all was such a morbid desire and yet, that was the Minister of Justice for you.

Esmeralda would live to wonder if there was some truth to the idea of being enthralled by thoughts of someone that they would eventually materialize in front of you. As her treacherous mind kept mulling over this unexpected yet eerily absorbing subject of the chilling, merciless Minister of Justice, she came to a full stop when her ears trained to hear the clinking of metal strike cobblestone discerned the sound of quiet conversation.

Children. Scurrying forth, but with light, nimble steps and careful to avoid potholes and puddles, the gypsy girl continued down an alleyway, her eyes straining as the indigo dusk pervaded the sky above. Yes, that disjointed, adorable gibberish was the sort only a child could conjure up from French. With Paris being plunged quicker and quicker into blackest night, the gypsy's maternal instinct sent her flying to ensure the lost babes would be escorted home, unscathed.

As she rounded a corner, she noticed two young boys, the older about nine and the younger no more than four hand in hand. They wore clothing of reasonable material, save for a patch here, a little tatter there. Boys will be boys after all. Their hair was scruffy and dirty blonde, and if Esmeralda looked them in the face, she would discern a sizable bruise on the right cheek of the older and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of the younger's nose. The older had a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, weighed down with contents and he kept a good, secure grip on his younger brother, whispering to him and humming little nursery rhymes to comfort the tiny runt whose squirms grew in intensity as the sun dipped further and further into slumber. Esmeralda released a sound between a choked gasp and a sigh. Poor little things; what parents could have sent them out to run errands when it was getting dark and inevitably, dangerous?

As she wished not to scare them, she kept a good distance between them at first and closed it in intervals. However, before she could devise a way to approach them without sending them scrambling, screaming at the tops of their lungs, that familiar scent wafted into the air followed by the steady, heavy thuds of a mature stallion's hooves.

Shit.

Halting in an instant, she ducked behind the nearest wall, peeking out just enough so her green eyes could follow the mincing steps of the little boys. Her first instinct had been to scream but she bit it down at the last second. A scream would alert the judge into believing it was an emergency, possibly incriminate her in the whole affair what with his tendency to accuse before interrogate. Her noble wish to protect the boys would be seen as an amateur attempt at kidnapping and both herself and those sweet, undeserving children would know nothing but claustrophobic isolation. The Minister of Justice was notorious and yet unpredictable; there was just no true way for one to be absolutely sure what his next move would be.

Her blood ran as cold as the rainwater collected in the cracks between the cobblestones as the ebony stallion, snorting, its wild mane plastered across the front of its snout emerged from the obscure dark. Its rider, sharing in its black coat, nearly melded into his horse as one organic figure of night. An impenetrable night where no light could dream to shine through. Frollo's face as with all the times Esmeralda espied him was set in an immovable mask, as if he could have been carved from the finest stonemasons, a truant gargoyle missing from its perch on the cathedral. Yet, somehow, unlike how he appeared during the day, in this nocturnal vigil, that mask beheld a peaceful quality. As if here, when the public has gone to rest, he could breathe easier. The gathering of lines between his eyebrows was not as tight as usual and his lips were relaxed into a frown of neutrality, rather than pulled downwards into a scathing sneer.

The expression remained static save for a raised eyebrow as the judge discerned the small figures nearing him. Upon recognizing that they were mere children, he did not waste a second to dismount from his steed. Esmeralda's eyes widened as he bridged the distance between him and the children. What was he even doing, riding out when the city was preparing for sleep?

Perhaps Clopin is right. Perhaps, he is actually a night fiend, a vampire who feasts on the blood of innocent children.

The snort that burst through her nose would have given her hiding place away if she had not covered her mouth with her handkerchief. Though the gypsies had their fair share of superstitions and stories to tell at bedtime to chastise naughty rascals, the idea of a man who so believed he was the absolute pinnacle of holy purity turning out to be the boon of nightmares was rather hysterical in its humour. Composing herself for there was no telling when she would need her senses about her, she resumed her observation of the interesting events that unfolded before her.

"Bonsoir, little ones," The older boy released a squeak of fright and was about to flee in the other direction with his brother in tow when the judge lunged forth and caught hold – in a tender yet firm grip – his slim arm. "No, wait, please don't run. I only wish to ask two young children why they are wandering alone when all of Paris has gone to sleep."

Esmeralda's eyebrows had about disappeared into her hairline as the minister who would rather choke on his fancy wine than humble himself before any mere mortal lowered to his knees, just a little taller than the two children. His triangular chaperon concealed his face from her vantage point but from the softening expressions on the boys' faces – though the older still belied a hint of apprehension – she concluded Frollo was trying to gain their trust.

"May I please have your names, good sirs?" Sirs? The girl had to bite down on her lip to restrain the giggle about to burst forth. The older boy shifted from one foot to the next, his eyes darting about, still pins and needles. The younger boy stared up into Frollo's face, or more accurately, at the large chapeau the man wore. Transfixed as very young children tended to be when something captivates their capricious attention.

"H-Henri, sir. This is my younger brother, Th-theodore. Sir, please don't be angry with us. We were just…" He paused, rather awestruck as the judge's stony face morphed and moulded into that of a cordial, tender smile. Frollo's eyes fell to where the boys' hands joined together.

"You are travelling somewhere together? I can see that you're both very close." A twinge of sadness flickered upon his austere features, but he squelched it down, keeping up his appearance of benevolent kindness. Brotherly love. A fantasy of decades past.

"I…I have to protect him, sir. He…he's only four. I'm the older one and…"

"And you want to make sure that the dangerous world never hurts him." Henri's eyes widened, his mouth hung open a little before he shut it and responded with a careful nod. Esmeralda strained her ears. The conversation itself was intriguing enough. However, it was the catch of despondence threaded through the words that sent her curiosity into a fever pitch. The judge spoke as if he could relate perfectly with what dear Henri was experiencing.

Frollo shifted his attention onto the younger of the two little lambs. "Bonsoir, Theodore." That same, uncanny gentle smile.

"Red."

"..Excuse me?" He blinked, his eyes announcing his bewilderment until the young boy pointed a tiny, chubby finger at the glossy, crimson fabric draped upon his pauldron. He made a noise of epiphany and lifted the fabric up to the little, mesmerized boy. "Yes, it is red. Rouge."

"Red." Theodore repeated as was the habit of children building up their oral vocabulary while their developing brains attempted to sync the word and the objects they signified. The small hand petted the red velvet in the minister's open palm as if it were a dozing kitten. A chuckle, a deep rumble of an amused laugh, left Claude Frollo's lips and Esmeralda's stupefaction increased hundredfold.

Judge Claude Frollo, a figure whose clutches were more iron than the Bells of Notre Dame, was laughing? With a child?

"Do you favour the colour red, Sir Theodore?" The boy nodded with such enthusiasm, Frollo was certain that if he did not possess the necessary neck joints, his head would have toppled right off. The chubby finger lifted once more. Henri watched on with a rapidly beating heart. The strange man had been kind enough to them, had not raised their voice as most adults would if they saw unsupervised children milling about in the dark and had not written them off as delinquents. Still, he was a stranger nonetheless and one wrong move and they may see a worse fate than languishing in the Paris alleyways from cholera or some other equally lethal form of disease.

Frollo followed the line of Theodore's finger and after swivelling his head about and concluding that it was not anything nearby, he pointed at his hat. "You favour my hat, Sir Theodore?"

This time the little boy, who probably came up to just above Frollo's knee, flashed his small, yellowing teeth from behind his chapped lips. The pointed finger graduated into an open, beckoning palm. His other hand severed contact with his brother to join its partner, the little fingers wiggling in anticipation. "Please?"

This stole another chuckle, a sound many would never have the chance to hear, from the minister and to Esmeralda's mounting astonishment, he lifted the gaudy, iconic hat from his head and deposited it upon Theodore's with a dramatic flourish, as if he were bestowing a title upon the boy. The little chuckles he allowed free now developed into a clear, resonant laugh as the brim of the wide, triangular hat slipped to overshadow young Theodore's eyes.

"Why, it's a perfect fit, Minister Theodore." The judge pronounced the title with grave solemnity but Esmeralda, her mouth agape, watched as now – with no obstacle blocking her line of sight – she discerned how Frollo was trying his best to smother the beginnings of an affectionate smile on his thin lips.

"Thank you! Thank you!" The little boy practically danced with his new adornment, the red sash trailing now upon the cobblestones, given the drastic reduction of height.

A smile. Not a predatory smirk, not a simpering line dripping with scorn and sarcasm. It was gentle, small but noticeable enough. Judge Claude Frollo was smiling.

If wonders would ever cease, Theodore was returning that smile with a beaming one of his own. Even Henri who vibrated with nervous energy managed to muster a lopsided grin. This stranger really was quite nice. He had to be if he was letting him play dress up with his funny hat. Henri had heard passing tales and maybe, caught a look at this man who seemed more like a friendly spirit than an actual person, what with his dark clothes and silver hair. He was apparently very important, so important that he was the only person that made his father still his fists in the marketplace.

Theodore gripped the sides of the expansive plush hat with his small fists and chortled, lifting it up to expose his eyes before dropping it once more to conceal. He repeated this motion for a bit and it succeeded in eliciting more of those rare, precious laughs from the judge.

He, the Minister of Justice notorious for leaving many a heathen writhing in anguished nightmares for restless nights on end, was stooping low and quite literally so to play Peek-A-Boo with a lost boy who he allowed temporary ownership of his official headdress!

Esmeralda felt her ears burn. Her hand slipped upon the other to pinch at the flesh between thumb and forefinger. The startling jolt of pain confirmed her worst suspicions. All she was witnessing was not the result of a sleep-deprived, addled brain and if memory serves correctly, she had not imbibed a drop of alcohol today and for the past few days so intoxication too was totally ruled out. Despite the glaring evidence, the gypsy was slack-jawed, green eyes wide and in utter incredulity. This man, who many dubbed freely a monster behind closed doors, when he was out of earshot, was displaying humanity in its sincerest form.

The children now calmed and warmed to a sufficient degree; she watched the judge's frame straighten slightly. Ah, back to business. He took up Henri in questioning – not interrogation – once more.

"Monsieur Henri, please do be charitable to an old man. I am having trouble understanding why two young boys are out of their beds, not saying their prayers and getting the sleep they require to grow into fine, young Christian men. Could you please tell me?" He waited, patient serenity on his face as the boy started up his fidgeting once more, casting his eyes anywhere else but at him. His fingers twisted in restless anxiety upon the strap of the burlap sack about his shoulder.

As young Henri scoured for his words, the judge's eye flickered down to espy the contents. An indistinguishable sigh of relief rose from his throat when he noted the common, drab nature of them; not stolen goods. In his decades of service, he had been confronted with suspects of thievery and treachery who had not yet seen their tenth birthday. Often times, they were corrupted by shoddy parenting or the complete dearth of both caretakers. The boy hauled clothes with him, as well as a folded-up parchment.

"We…we don't want to go home, sir. Home is bad. Home is where we get hurt and…" The answer came forth, doddering at first but gaining confidence with each slow intake of breath. Frollo's brows dipped into sympathy as he detected the note of tearful exasperation in the enunciation of certain syllables. Ah, runaways. Those too, he had come into unwanted contact with. Not that he did not wish to help these vulnerable scamps but, because the meeting should not even have started to begin with. Just because a case was rare did not mean that it was pardonable.

Esmeralda clenched a fist against her own shuddering heart as Henri's story, punctuated by the beginning of sobs and a furious wiping of his eyes with the back of his arm, continued, including chains of events that plunged into such an abyss of depravity and cruelty, it sickened her to her very core. Djali, who accompanied his mistress through this unsettling affair, was more than trained to understand that he was not to create a ruckus or any mischief. He was far too busy gawping at the sight of the tremendous stallion, which loomed behind the gaunt, pale human, his red, furious eyes fixed only on his master. How could anyone grow to be that big?

The judge touched two fingers to his chin as he absorbed the harrowing account that slipped from the boy's lips. His barely restrained quaking form, how his despairing eyes shifted to his younger brother who was now rolling up the red ribbon of Frollo's chaperon with intense concentration and the emotional catches in his statements added to the grave authenticity of his account. The smile vanished – and Esmeralda would deny it to the ends of the world but she missed the confounding sight almost instantly – and in its place, a look of deep rumination took residence. Up he rose, his joints cracking in the process; sounds, which the aged minister cursed in silence given his juvenile audience. This profession aged you like the fermentation process of winemaking.

His hand descended to the boy, a gracious offering. "Come with me. I promise that I will make this right. Please know, right now, under God's watchful eyes, that I believe every word you have told me."

Henri's head jerked upwards, his brown eyes goggling at the minister's aged countenance. A face that would have sent him scuttling under his late mother's skirts due to its sharp features. The thundering voice accompanying this visage too was born and bred to strike terror into feeble hearts. Yet, the compassion and trust he had received and from an adult that he never exchanged words with till tonight urged Henri to commit what may have been considered foolish.

Esmeralda gawked, dumbstruck as the boy launched himself into the minister's robes, holding him firm about his lower half, murmuring sobs of gratitude that were muffled by the luxurious velvet. Frollo went ramrod straight. The image this village boy evoked two visions he had forced himself to repress. That, firstly, of another boy, much younger than he who scampered at his heels, dubbed him "Mon frère" and pulled with all the incessance of a stubborn mule at his arm, pointing with greedy delight at a fruitcake bejewelled with crystallized fruits. The second was a more recent memory, of a deformed ginger boy who scurried under his robes when thunder struck outside the bell tower, the sound not as comforting as the majestic bells tolling though they were comparable in volume. Had it really been that long since he last remembered how to be tender?

His spidery fingers smoothed over the top of the child's scruffy head and he offered once more, that endearing smile. Esmeralda caught herself; of all choice words to describe such a monstrous individual, she would never have fathomed "endearing" to be one of them. Yet, endearing was what it was and the night persisted in showering her with yet more wonders.

"Are you boys familiar with horses?"

"Horse!" Theodore, who regained his normal sprightliness, went careening right into the massive steed, holding its giant snout with his petite hands. Horror filled the gypsy girl; even if Frollo did possess a smidgen of humanity, the wild beast he straddled did not. The stallion, unaccustomed to being fondled by unfamiliar hands, snorted its disdain and stomped its front hooves. The minister however, responded by caressing the front of its snout with a gentleness that was reserved for cradling new-born babes.

"Hush, Gabriel. Hush. These little ones will be astride you tonight and I will walk on foot beside you. You're a good horse, aren't you?" His voice floated, carried off by the wind towards the gypsy girl who was held, spellbound by the imploring delicacy in its tone. Frollo was known for his commanding voice, a voice that some had decreed could have belonged to a pagan God and what outrage that parallel would have incited in the proudly ecclesiastical judge. Djali too, observed with an open mouth as the equine, which looked as if it would trample him underfoot if he so much as breathed wrongly, assented to his Master's wishes and even nuzzled its snout into his caressing palm.

"Make horse angry?" A tiny voice, brimming with innocence piped up. Frollo chuckled, a paternal timbre as he bent to hoist young Theodore and ensured he was settled properly in the saddle.

"Ah, don't worry about him. He just has an ornery temperament," Heh, like steed, like rider. Esmeralda bit at her lip again to stop the snarky giggle from its release. "In truth, Gabriel is quite affectionate but only to those he knows very well. Just hold on to this rope – it's called a bridle – and don't pull at his mane. That will hurt him and a hurt horse will not be a happy horse, am I right?"

"Right." Theodore showed his understanding with another of his overzealous nods and Frollo snorted in amusement as the chaperon near fell off his head in the process. Up, Henri was lifted, sliding down to sit snug against his brother's back. Fraternal instinct urged him to cocoon his brother with his arms. Content that the children were safely seated, Frollo gave a beckoning tug on the bridle and led the stallion as Henri acted as navigator. Tiptoeing out of her hidden spot, Esmeralda debated dropping the whole issue and returning home.

Obviously, no, she was not going to do that. Despite the grand display of benevolence, the Minister of Justice had shown, she needed to confirm with herself that it was not just that; an elaborate show. Yet, how could such laughter be falsified? With a man who utilized his cunning to all advantages, the gypsy girl knew no one could be too careful. The way of the Romani was the way of the fieldmouse, nimbleness and grace of foot and eyes accustomed to dark passageways and haunting apparitions. She tailed the trio with nary a difficulty. As she followed, ducking here and there around corners in case the judge crooked his head back, she eavesdropped on their humble, plain chatter.

The judge spoke of the importance of prayer, of putting one's hope and faith in God's hands, to behave with virtue and chastity. He intoned of lessons he took of history and arithmetic, sharing interesting facts with the boys on his time fighting Crusades, relishing in their quiet, childlike awe and imparting elementary knowledge similar to that of an enthused schoolteacher. Theodore fisted the hat, which still submerged his small head and lifted it off to examine it from all angles.

"Tri-triangle!" He pronounced with glowing pride, which earned him an approving nod from Judge Claude Frollo.

"Smart lad. The reason why it's called a triangle is because of the numerical prefix "tri", which means three," He held up three fingers to illustrate his point, the rings on his knuckles glittering off starlight as he spoke. "As you can see, a triangle has three corners and three sides. Can you count them for me, Sir Theodore?"

The little boy was more than excited to display his arithmetic prowess and outlined the sides, prodding the plush corners, counting all the way. "One, two, three! Three sides, three corners!"

"Very good." Frollo punctuated his praise with a gentle, brief ruffle of the boy's hair before launching into a theological explanation as to why the word "Holy Trinity" possessed the prefix "Tri", signifying the Father, Son and Holy Mother. As Esmeralda skittered in the background, she found, to her immense befuddlement, that she too was listening with attentive ears to Frollo's speech.

When his tone was not sardonic or accusatory, it was quite soothing to one's ear. A voice intended for speechmaking as it grasped attention almost immediately and held it in its mesmeric grip. Riveting and resonant. It would explain why the townspeople ate up whatever he preached as if it were free choice cuts of savoury gammon. If only the words that accompanied that thrilling voice were not words meant to revile and denigrate a specific race or class.

She followed them all the way till the entered the more distasteful part of Paris, closer to what in these current times, Parisians would have dubbed the "red light district". The minister wrinkled his nose as overtly made-up whores, dressed in tatty scraps of fabric and horrendously elaborate hairstyles, draped themselves against the entrances of taverns, eyeing him as if he were a coveted set of jewellery. With a bit of bite in his tone, he ordered Henri to cover Theodore's eyes and he to close his. These sights should be kept locked away so as not to tarnish children's innocence. Worry snaked up his spine as they journeyed on. If this was the sort of home environment the two lads dwelt in, it was no huge surprise that they would aspire to depart and find somewhere newer, cleaner and purer to reside.

Walking distance away from the taverns, they came to a humble house, which certainly had seen happier, less dilapidated times. Frollo controlled his face to not twist into a cringing frown at how the front door hung on one pathetic hinge, the windows sans any curtains. Naught many of the townsfolk lived here save for those who preferred to live dangerously. Live in sin more like. After assisting the children in their dismount, he had them lead him into what they once called home. The interior made the exterior look picturesque. The kitchen was a veritable mess, dishes caked with the remnants of long-ago meals clogging the wash basin, empty and half-filled bottles of alcohol strewn about on the floors. The only light source available in the cramped quarters was a solitary, stumpy candle. The bedrooms would have been more appropriate for farmhouse hogs rather than young children and the stench of rot hung, pervasive in the air. This time, Frollo was unable to keep his face from screwing into its more familiar sneer of absolute disdain and disgust.

He groped about for a tinderbox to light the candle, checking behind now and then to see that the children were still about and had not gotten into some mischief or worse, touched or consumed any of the contaminated matter left to fester. Indeed, he was going to have some severe words with their father. Only a savage would allow their offspring to live in such derelict conditions. He appeared to still be none the wiser of his stalking gypsy girl who too was in understandable outrage at the revolting conditions the two angels were subject to day in and day out. A gypsy's life may not be luxurious and more often than not, basic amenities such as clean water and fresh produce were in short supply. However, given the communal, fraternal nature of the Romani, they would – most of them at least – pitch in together to pool together these sparse resources. Every man, woman or child could live in some degree of comfort though she knew the townsfolk, and especially the upper class such as Frollo all deduced them as filthy, disease-ridden and primitive. As if overindulgence in luxury did not come with its own fatalities.

Obscuring herself in the shadows, with Djali crouched low and pressed against her shins, she continued her observation of the minister as he ferried the candle onto the rickety table in the living room and bade the children come sit with him.

Though he was revolted beyond belief, Frollo knew that with the young ones, tenderness had to be at the forefront. Henri and Theodore flanked him on either side, the older sitting up straight, his ears tuned to the impending heavy footfalls that signalled his drunkard father's return while the younger leaned against the judge's side, cuddling his chaperon as if it were a homemade toy meant to safeguard him from the unspeakable terrors one can occasionally experience in respite.

"Henri, listen to me. You are a smart lad so I will trust you on this. When you hear your father return, I will be hiding in the bedroom. Blow out the candle when he steps into the house at once and do not give away any sign that I'm here. Can you do that, my dear boy?" The older boy blinked up into the minister's face, now radiating a stalwart gravity. It was unlike his initial cordiality but Henri knew that the man was not going to be a danger and to him, there could possibly be no greater danger than the man who he was supposed to call "mon Papa." He accepted the scheme Frollo proposed with a nod of his head and the judge gestured to Theodore, who was drifting off against his side. He smoothed his palm atop the boy's head, the memories returning.

Jehan.

He shut his eyes, willing the sorrow to dissipate. If anything, the recollection took on a guise. Quasimodo, tired after a day of ensuring the bells were spotless, gleaming in the Parisian sun, had rested his weighty head upon Frollo's knee as he lectured from the Bible. The minister's first instinct was to reprimand him for his lack of attention but, upon hearing the soft snores and how his unruly red hair fell over his mismatched eyes, he found he could only release an exasperated sigh and allow the boy to use him – only for that moment! – as a pillow.

Lord give him strength; these night vigils were addling him. Bless You however, Holy Father, for having me stumble into the path of these two lost lambs. May You have some mercy for their father's ignominious soul.

With Paris now engulfed in the night's darkness, Esmeralda dared to use it as camouflage so she could skulk ever closer, peering into one of the bare windows of the poorly maintained cottage. Djali kept in pace with her slinking footsteps, keeping a wide berth between himself and the minister's stallion who seamlessly became one with the opaque shadows. Its eyes too were closed; monstrous creature was probably tired himself from the night riding. It stood as its master bade, nearby the house but not too near to be noticed by the negligent occupant and rightful owner. The gypsy girl held her breath at having Frollo's hulking steed in such close proximity. If she persisted in her mousy stealth, all would proceed as well as they could. By this point, she no longer felt weighed down by lethargy. Rather, her skin prickled in a morbid exhilaration, the adrenaline of being first-hand witness of a complex mystery, a side of the granite gargoyle Judge Claude Frollo no one else could dream to be privy of kept her eyes wide open, focused, wanting, needing to see more.

Inevitable as with all stories concerning an abusive parent, the nightly peace did not last and Esmeralda stifled a gasp as she heard the raucous, guttural croaking of a man who clearly had too much to drink. From his lips, burst the expletives of a bawdy limerick he had caught wind of at the tavern and as he teetered from foot to foot, groping for the front door, she watched from her vantage point Frollo stand and slip into the bedroom with the muted grace of a prowling wolf. Henri, the plan fresh in his mind, extinguished the candle and pulled his little brother up against him, smothering him in a protective embrace.

The door swung open, slamming the wall and creaking upon its one hinge almost as if in declaration that the man was home. Henri stiffened, eyes shut tight and whispering his prayers as the tall, nice man had instructed him on their ride home. God would protect them; God protected all good people.

Caked in the impenetrable darkness, the tell-tale sign of the man's obnoxious presence was the overpowering stench of liquor that emitted out of every pore in his skin. Henri held his breath as Theodore shielded his face with the triangular chaperon. Perhaps if he did not see anything, nothing bad would happen. The man, shaped like a rotting pear, scratched at his stomach barely restrained in his tunic as his bloodshot, bleary eyes adjusted to the surroundings. His bristly beard lent to him the appropriate appearance of a grizzly bear. Esmeralda loathed him on sight and her hand slid into her skirts to unsheathe the dagger she kept on her person in times when self-defence proved pertinent. If the minister intended to play the waiting game a bit too long, she would take action.

"No supper…" The beast snarled, lumbering into the kitchen and feeling around for something hot, sniffing for something cooked and delicious. With a furious swipe of his meaty hand, he sent the stack of neglected dishes scattering to the floor. The tremendous clatter elicited a whimper from Henri who dug his digits into his brother's tunic, the knuckles gone white. Esmeralda would not hear of any more delay; Frollo's horse was alerted out of its restful stupor and whinnied, annoyed it was so rudely awakened. Djali bleated and darted as his mistress scurried for the entrance, left wide open.

Only to see the glinting blade of a dagger pressed against the Adam's apple of the loathsome brute. Judge Claude Frollo regarded the man, his obsidian eyes boring deep into his skull. While the man was a head taller, relatively younger and if not so inebriated, stronger than the minister, his eyes rolled about in frantic terror as they perceived the sight of him through the haze of intoxication.

"J-j-judge Claude Frollo.." It remained the sole three words the perpetrator could squeak out before Frollo lashed out, seizing the man by the thin fabric of his ill-fitting tunic, lowering him to just beneath his eye level. The blade fitted itself just at the juncture where the man's neck began. Henri had the good sense to sequester himself and his little brother to the bedroom, shutting it behind him. Esmeralda stood, her mouth agape. She must have looked the perfect idiot and yet, she found she could not tear her eyes away from the incredible sight before her. The minister always commanded his men to do the dirty work for him, apprehended the culprits, pin their arms behind them till they were too much in pain to retaliate and haul them to where they will soon experience the Hangman's noose. Here, however, it appeared he was not as frail as many would have believed. Physical strength aside, it took a mere glare from those stony, coal black eyes to leave the initially incensed man to start blubbering for mercy.

Like a Pagan God. Dangerous. Mysterious. Capricious. Beautiful.

"There is not much in this world that disgusts me more than a filthy heathen, those who live outside the normal order, aspiring to inflame our lowest instincts." His grip on the dagger's hilt tightened, his grasp on the tunic wrenching, the blade made a tiny incision within the numerous folds on the man's throat. His life flashing before his eyes, his misdeeds magnified and melding into a giant, dizzying blur – the intentional neglect to find a doctor for his sick wife, the beatings he dealt to his older son who tried to protect the younger, the money he pocketed only to squander on drink and sins of the flesh, the cruel game of dunking both boys' heads in water just to see who could hold their breath the longest – the bastard fisted at the judge's robes, garbled pleas of mercy bursting forth from lips, which only knew well the mouth of the bottle. The minister treated those butchered sentences as if they were cicadas singing in the fields.

"Yet, one thing that truly sets my blood on my fire, makes me physically ill to the stomach, is bearing first-hand witness to a scourge who treats his own flesh and blood in the most appalling manner."

The iron fingers released their hold on the man's tunic and he collapsed upon his feeble knees, scrambling to clutch at the judge's robes to beg for clemency. Frollo sneered in disgust, kicking to deter the man's pathetic advances, the lethal blade's tip level with his forehead that glistened with beads of anxious perspiration. Esmeralda understood now how a moment that lasted minutes could feel as if they were transpiring for eternity. Time in that instance too bowed its mighty head to the minister.

"I am not known for my mercy, pig but I shall give you a choice as undeserving as you are. Either you keep quiet and allow me to restrain you till the soldiers come and toss you into the gallows…" The blade's sharp edge inched ever closer, barely missing skin by a hair's breadth. If the scoundrel would just stop quaking like a leaf enduring Paris' blustering Autumn wind. His hands were clasped tight, the stance of a penitent churchgoer, a stance he conveniently remembered in the heat of this moment. The dagger was retracted and Frollo waited till the expected exhale of relief resounded before lunging forth and catching the human waste right under the chin. His captive would have fainted dead away if not for the searing adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Or…" Esmeralda, and she would have no rationale for it, felt her heart quicken its beats as the judge rolled the word about on his tongue as if he was savouring a grape, allowing the tart, ambrosial juices explode and ignite his tastebuds. The hand wielding the dagger twisted, the blade once more nicked at revolting flesh. "I shall take the liberty of breaking both your legs so you can't leave even if you wanted to. It would be an utmost privilege and pleasure for me but I doubt you see it that way too, don't you, swine?"

This threat, stated so off the cuff, in such an elegant, nonchalant flourish, was punctuated with a predatory smirk that somehow managed to carry an air of disciplined restraint. As simmering as the judge's anger was in the heat of apprehending this perpetrator, the gypsy girl knew that he would not fall upon him like a wolf, rip him limb from limb, devouring him in his gluttonous maw. He waited out the torment for is not one's imagination oft worse than reality? Neither man had noticed her yet as she retreated, knowing that when her presence became common knowledge, it would not end well for her either.

The scum managed to catch the merest glimpse of her scurrying, especially when tiny goat hooves echoed in their wake and he blubbered, pointing to the doorway, claiming an apparition's visit. The only response he received for that was the minister bearing down the blunt, heavy hilt of the dagger into his right cheek – the same side where Henri bore his mark of shame – toppling him onto his side, holding the injured area and attempting to avoid further harm from the judge's wrath, which was rumoured by all of Paris, perhaps all of France to be a force comparable to that of a gale.

"Your lame attempts to detract and deceive me with hogwash of phantoms are amusing to say the least. You can entertain Monsieur Javier with them later tonight; tortured screams become tiresome to listen to after a while." A dark chuckle arose from the menacing official before he drove his foot into the wastrel's ribs, earning another guttural groan and some unwanted droplets of spittle. His ultimatum was presented merely to toy with the abuser's mounting paranoia. Frollo had no intention of putting both innocent boys through any further trauma as they had suffered long enough. Though the idea of mincing up his kneecaps was most tantalizing, their father's screams of agony would keep them awake at all hours when they should be getting their sleep as growing children deserved. The judge sidestepped the inert figure with graceful ease, searching for rags, clothes, any sort of material that could serve as suitable bounds. Soon, he had the monster bundled up like a fat sausage, left to rot, abandoned in the butcher's scraps.

"If you decide to be stupid enough to flee whilst my men reach your home, believe me," A strong hand grasped him by the jowls and lifted the man's face to Judge Claude Frollo's terrifying sneer, a silent avowal of nothing less than immense pain. "I always find my runaway criminals."

He slammed the man's head down, striking the floor with such force, it rendered him unconscious before rising, dusting his robes off and smoothing back his neat silver coif. His duties completed for the night and he too, wishing for the peaceful respite of his canopied bed, he moved to rap against the boys' bedroom door with tender knuckles.

"Lads, you can come out now. The Devil shan't hurt you any longer." Almost immediately, the door swung open and the minister was near bowled over as the two young ones launched themselves against him, clinging and burying their grimy little faces into the velvet of his official wear. Wear that conditioned the people of Paris to keep a respectable distance between themselves and him lest they wished to experience stinging leather upon their sorry hides. Frollo stiffened yet again, as he gazed down upon the mussy mops of hair.

Perhaps I should visit Quasimodo more often. The boy is desperately lonesome up there; dear God, he is starting to think stone talks!

Diverting their eyes away from the fallen beast that was their father, his frame blissfully wide enough to obscure the ghastly view, Frollo summoned his stallion who was keeping a keen eye on the figure in the shadows who too was waiting for the minister's exit. Once Henri and Theodore were settled atop the impressive Friesian, he took up the bridle and guided the stallion on its steady journey to Notre Dame. His watchful eyes broke from the boys, lethargic from the night's turbulent events, solely to ensure that the road before them was safe and that they did not suffer any unnecessary accidents.

Once the majestic cathedral loomed before them, the stone glimmering in the light of La Lune, Frollo nudged both boys in the back, administering the same gentleness he had displayed thus far, explaining to them that they will be protected within God's walls and he will see to it that their Christian education and their souls are secure. He lowered on one knee once more and held out a beckoning hand to tiny Theodore.

"May I please have my hat back, Sir Theodore? My head feels rather naked without it." The child, to his barely concealed amusement squeezed the plush chaperon to his chest, burying his face in it. Ah, such a light, breezy soul, innocent overflowing from the chalice's brim.

"I shall strike a deal then, Sir Theodore. If you return me my dear hat, I will have one of my dear friends who is a skilled whittler to make you a toy that looks just like my horse. Are you agreeable with those terms?" Frollo knew that Quasimodo, what with his own penchant for harmless, childlike entertainment would be more than happy to make him something. The hunchback had a horrific face but his heart and soul? Frollo knew he could turn his back on the sin he committed twenty years ago, forever bury the skeleton but it was unjust, simply wrong, a barefaced lie even for him to claim that the boy suffered deformities upon his compassionate instincts as he had his visage. Confronted with children who not long ago were the same age as his ward sent a faint queasiness through the old judge. It had been an age since he felt this familiar, crippling twinge of guilt. Isolating himself with work, cases, and meetings allowed him to forget.

"Horse?" Theodore quipped, eyeing Gabriel who snorted, flicking his lush mane off his eyes. Truth be told, the stallion wanted nothing more than a good rubdown, sweet oats and to rest for the night. Accompanying his master on this impromptu rescue mission was not the equine's idea of a good time. Especially when one of the mites insisted that his snout was meant for squishing. Frollo chuckled, nodding to confirm the boy's query and was soon, shaking the small hand before his hat was safely back in his ownership. Adjusting it upon his head, he took their hands in his and entered the cathedral's massive halls

The stained-glass windows cast a million, elongated boxes of varying shapes and sizes, of silver light and the boys cowered behind him at the vast emptiness of the church. The sole inhabitant at this late hour was the Archdeacon, Father William who was conducting a sweep of the cathedral, just in case drunkards snuck in from the cold and draped themselves most ungraciously upon the altar. When his keen eyes fell upon Judge Claude Frollo and his two charges, his step grew in energy and he stretched out his hands to welcome the newcomers.

"God have Mercy on us all, where did these poor little lambs come from?" He bent to the children's level, inspecting them for injuries and any violations on their persons. Frollo cleared his throat, his hand a fist upon his chest, the other tucked away behind his back. The immovable mask was back and this time, it had no intention of being taken off. Ever since their altercation two decades ago, he and Father William possessed some friction within their relationship though Frollo knew he had to respect the man's authority, given his high position and his meticulous housekeeping of Notre Dame. Father William was also the only priest who spoke to him with directness, no fear staining his thick brows and sagacious eyes.

"Fear not for their health, Father. I found these rapscallions fleeing from their home. Upon further investigation, I discovered they had been living in squalor under the most incompetent, nay, monstrous of parental figures. I would like to request then, Father for your help in sheltering the boys and seeing if we can find them a foster family." The Archdeacon stared at Frollo, searching his gaunt face for traces of deception, of that same corrupt darkness he had espied when the man behaved most cruelly in front of the doors of Notre Dame. Spilling blood without hesitation. He knew the man had been recently appointed then and was spurred by the thrill of the fresh experience of employment. Yet, there had and will never be an excuse for what he did. However, the evidence was clear; Frollo had shown compassion, benevolence and charity. How the boys held fast to his hands, resting their cheeks against him was as obvious as it could come.

"With God as my witness and Him as my guide, I shall do my best, Minister Frollo." His hands upon the boys' thin shoulders, he nodded in solemn avowal. Frollo, satisfied, replied with a nod and crossed himself, bidding the Archdeacon the new occupants of the cathedral a good night.

"Goodnight, Minister Frollo…" Theodore's clear, lilting voice sliced through the stale stillness of the church, succeeding where many of Paris' most chilling criminals had failed. Freezing the Minister in his tracks. He glimpsed over one of his pauldrons and the Archdeacon regarded a sight more miraculous than if the Holy Mother's statue itself moved her stone lips and starting singing.

A gentle smile, a little small but real nonetheless, alight upon the cold judge's face. "And adieu to you as well, Sir Theodore."

Outside of the cathedral, Frollo allowed a sigh to escape him. Tiredness and emotional turmoil hung like a sword dangling from a rope, ready to plunge and sink itself into his narrow throat. Before he could splay upon his bed and surrender to sleep where no memories could haunt him, he needed to inform the guards at the Palace and tuck Gabriel in for the night. His stallion looked almost comically unamused at him as he hoisted himself into his rightful place astride him. He patted at the side of his horse's sterling neck, smoothing elegant fingers along the lustrous mane, combing it into a presentable place.

"I know this is not what we expected when we embarked on our vigil, Gabriel but unfortunately, duty called. I promise you will get the best oats tonight for being so wonderfully cooperative." Commanding his horse to proceed homeward, the stallion started but suddenly halted, baying and snorting as it discerned a strange presence. Frollo frowned; Gabriel hardly displayed skittishness so he peered out into the darkness, La Lune being his only source of illumination.

Ah. I had almost forgotten about that one.

Straightening himself upon his irate stallion, Frollo's tone was calm, collected and commanding. "How much longer do you intend to cloak yourself in night, gypsy?"

A shuffling of feet, a jingling of bells, the bleating of an apprehensive kid and the figure materialized out of the darkness. As if a wandering spirit finally revealing itself for the naughty apparition it was. The minister's mouth parted ever so slightly. He knew he was being followed, knew someone had been watching his every move since he stumbled upon the runaways but as to the appearance of the figure, that he had been quite literally in the dark.

To call her a beauty would have been a terrible understatement. Frollo had seen every manner of gypsy or heathen polluting Paris with their devious ways and yet, he never once caught wind of such ravishing ebony locks, emerald eyes that pierced through one's defences and a delicious ripeness to their opulent silhouette. He caught himself staring and lifted his chin a little higher, though his eye roved almost helplessly along the collar of her off-shoulder blouse. Temptress.

Whoever she was, she was afraid as they all were. Her eyes however, belied more than terror. There was a visible element of shock as well as confusion. It brought him a twisted sense of amusement and he bundled Gabriel's bridle in his palms, fingering them as he spoke.

"You are lucky, gypsy that in the statutes of law in Paris, there is no real penalty against lingering after hours lest one is heavily intoxicated or plotting to create a public disturbance. You certainly appear sharp-eyed; one must be when one wishes to be a charming little spy. And I doubt you could create much trouble all my yourself with that goat of yours. Hence, I speak briefly and expect you conform immediately for I am tired: return to whence you came from."

Esmeralda knew she was staring; one did not simply stare at Judge Claude Frollo as if he were a sacred piece of artwork, meant to be gawked at. She was bewildered beyond belief. This could not be the same man who earlier proved he was made of substance outside of granite and cowhide. His lips were set so firm, they could have been fashioned out of marble. His eyes seared her skin as if he brushed a candle over it. What had her people done to deserve such an unfeeling reception?

"I will leave, your Honour, I assure you. I just…" Dare she? The words clung helplessly to the springboard that was her dawdling tongue. An eyebrow hitched upon the judge's countenance. Lord, it was far too long and eventful a night for games.

"Just what? Be brief about it, gypsy."

"I just cannot believe that you could be kind." Her mouth shut the moment the words exeunt, her lips pursed. If Frollo was offended in any way by her aphorism, he did not show it, choosing instead to keep returning her steady gaze. Spurred by his silence, she continued.

"The people of Paris fear you, the speak of your ruthlessness, of your dark figure, how you could break a criminal in seconds and how you are the most powerful person in all of Paris, save for the King. They hardly speak of benevolence, of virtue, of charity, of the service you render them and yet tonight, tonight you were kind and no one was there to see it." Frollo remained tight-lipped. His hands however had ceased. Esmeralda, emboldened by her words, inched a little closer.

"I saw you smile. Laugh. Comfort tearful children. Actions I never knew were possible in someone with as black a disposition as you had. You are capable of being kind." A pause, her hands at her side, the nails digging into her palms as her eyes beseeched him. "Why then do you refuse to show it?"

The intolerable silence dragged on for what felt like an eternity and Esmeralda was certain she may have just reserved herself a special cell in the gallows when Frollo finally responded:

"Charity is not charity when one does it for show. If you are quite finished in your wild ramblings, gypsy girl, I suggest you make yourself scarce before I decide you should join that worthless scum in the dungeons too." Tugging at Gabriel's bridle, he commandeered the stallion to completely sidestep the young firebrand, narrowly missing stomping upon Djali's tail much to the kid's shock and irritation.

Esmeralda watched his retreating figure and, burning from the shame and indignity of being dismissed by a man she thought she understood a little better than others, shouted after him.

"What makes you so fearful of being kind, Judge Frollo!" As before, a rarity in itself, rarer than the jewels of Pizarro, Frollo stopped in his movements but this time, he did not turn to dignify the passionate little tart with his face. A face, whose brow was furrowing over. His fingers tightened upon the bridle.

"Go. Home. Now." Those three lethal words left hanging in the air like the knife that would sever the gypsy's foolhardy head that she so deliberately lay upon the chopping block, Frollo hurried Gabriel along as a dull ache started up in his chest.

Damned witch. I had better not see her face again. Regardless, as the minister tore through the Parisian streets, the features of her stunning face, bathed in pained confusion, etched itself, embossed itself upon his mind.

Left alone – spared – in the square before Notre Dame, Esmeralda's shoulders heaved, rising and falling as she tried to control the emotions threatening to erupt within her. Spinning, she gazed up to the images of the saints adorning the church and clasped her hands in front of her.

"He speaks to you all, all the time. You would know best what sort of man he is. Because now, and I don't even know if you can hear me but, I am beginning to question all I know about him, all I am meant to believe about him. Please, give me guidance."

Her head bowed, her prayers left in an ambivalent wake, Esmeralda whispered to Djali to follow her as the gypsy girl departed for her home, to fall into a slumber haunted by the resonant echoes of a soothing baritone and the upturned smile of a stern, prejudiced and self-righteous judge.

A/N: And end scene! This ended up way longer than it should be! It has been a while since I wrote anything and now the words can't stop coming out of me. This will be, I have decided, the first in a series of stories which will be related to the previous one. I am considering about eight more stories at the moment. I do hope you find my portrayal of Frollo and Esmeralda appropriate. Please take care out there in the pandemic! Adieu for now!