Chapter Six

Et Donc Il Commence

(And So It Begins)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation.

Author's Note: I apologize for having posted the wrong chapter for Chapter Four. I was editing the format of each chapter and must have clicked on the wrong one when I decided to replace chapter four. Thankfully, the correct version was still saved on Thank you, Sweet Valentine, for pointing that out to me. Anyways, onto the story…

"Where have you been?"

Jeta sighed as she pressed her body against the wooden door to her room, letting it close under her slight weight. She had been hoping to sneak back into the safe house without Patrick noticing she was missing, but it was obviously a failure. Who was she kidding? Patrick had always known her every move even after all of her extensive training. Turning to face the inevitable, Jeta wiped her face of all emotion.

"Just out for a walk. Why?"

Trying to put on her most genuine smile, Jeta shrugged off her traveling cloak, placing it on its hook near the door, and turned back to Patrick, his face set in stone, a grimace across his features.

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" Jeta's smile faltered and she began to twist her fingers, pulling at the digits, while she began to bite her lip. Patrick remained silent, knowing that she was trying to soften him up and he would have none of it. They were supposed to be partners.

"Indeed," Patrick stated, rising from the chair he had been seated in, cracking his knuckles as he walked closer to her. Stopping in front of her, Jeta lowered her eyes, realizing she was about to get an earful. "You are."

Jeta shook her head and brushed past Patrick, rubbing her temples as she sat down in the chair he had just occupied. "Let's get this over with."

Patrick clenched his fists together, forcing himself not to get angry at the young woman in front of him. It was not her fault that she was so headstrong and independent as he had instilled such traits into her. But there was a fine line between stubbornness and stupidity and Jeta had passed over into the latter when she left that evening without him.

"I have nothing to say to you, Jeta."

Her head shot up at these words. Nothing to say? That is ridiculous. Since she had first been found and entered this profession, Patrick had been more than a source of love and warmth; he was her teacher and mentor. Jeta's mouth opened and closed several times before it finally stayed shut and she began to twist her fingers again.

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to repeat myself? I have nothing to say to you. You're eighteen now. You don't need an old man to follow you around."

Patrick turned his back to her, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He had sat in her room since she left, planning out exactly what he was going to say. As soon as he saw Jeta, Patrick knew that if she had not learned her lesson by now that she was not going to learn it from him. His instincts about this job were already starting to come true and it had only been a day. They had always been partners. Always. Maybe she really was old enough to be on her own; after all, all students left their mentors eventually. Shaking his head, Patrick banned such thoughts from his mind, not wanting to think of his partner, his daughter, leaving him.

Jeta looked at Patrick a few moments, confusion clearly defined in every feature of her face, not that he could see this with his back to her. Patrick had always offered his opinion to Jeta, whether she wanted to hear it or not. This sudden change in attitude startled her and Jeta was beginning to wonder if Patrick was more upset with their current job than he was letting on. Her temper instantly flared as this thought passed through her mind and a scowl appeared on her face, her lips dangerously thin. Biting her tongue, Jeta kept her cheek in check enough to not tear into Patrick when she responded.

"Oh," was all Jeta could say as she brushed past him, Patrick looking up as she moved by him. "In that case, monsieur, perhaps you will let me sleep as I have much to do in the morning."

Without waiting for a response from Patrick, she opened the door, a hand extending out into the hallway. Patrick's eyes, so filled with concern only moments ago, suddenly narrowed as he made his way to the entranceway. Pausing at the frame, he leaned down to Jeta, her body not shifting at his closeness.

"You better watch yourself, mademoiselle. I'm your only friend here."

Jeta stiffened at his words. She turned to say something, her mouth opened and the words on the tip of her tongue, but Patrick had already left, halfway down the hall by the time she had even reacted. Sighing, Jeta closed her door and went to bed, her thoughts plaguing her sleep.

It was several more days before either of them saw each other again. Patrick spent the majority of his time fretting over the situation and trying to work out his frustration in the sparring ring located in the exercise room of the safe house. Most nights, being one of the oldest in his profession, he returned to his room to simply soak away the aches and bruises. Many times he found himself standing outside of Jeta's door, his fist ready to knock, but he stopped himself. Although it was a joint commission, Jeta had taken this on as her own job and he knew she needed to figure this one out for herself. He just hoped that their relationship would survive what was sure to be a many difficult months. Patrick kept telling himself that Jeta would come around eventually, that all she needed was time.

Jeta, in the meantime, began to prepare her guise of a gypsy. The day after her fight with Patrick, she had gone out into the rural area surrounding Paris and purchased a small cart where she could sell her wares. For the longest time, Jeta had drawn, painted, sculpted, and did anything else artistic that she could lay her hands on. Patrick had only encouraged this in her, saying that she needed to learn the deftness with her fingers; she soon found out, however, that he viewed it as a way to keep her human as well as a release from their stressful occupation. When she was younger, each work of art was presented to the Irishman in hopes of gaining his approval. When she turned thirteen, she started to show less and less to her surrogate father until one day they stopped entirely. Now, her work would be on display and, if anyone was interested, sold. Jeta knew it was a small sacrifice for a larger goal, but she was still quite attached to many of her images. In addition, she had put together a small wardrobe of clothing that would allow her to fit in more easily with the tribe she was going to submerge herself into. It had taken many painstaking hours as sewing was not her forte, but Patrick's, and she was still refusing to talk to him.

It was a little over two weeks later, when there was a knock at her door. Jeta was already awake and dressed when Patrick opened the door cautiously at her calling, no expression on his face. He had finally given into his desire to see her, to make sure that she was okay, even though she had shown no signs of wanting to see him. Her mouth instantly opened to say something to the man before her.

"Patrick, I…"

Patrick raised a hand to stop the flow of words that were about to spill from her mouth.

"Don't worry about it, iníon. I have already forgotten about it."

Nodding, knowing that arguing further would only cause them to go around in circles, Jeta wrapped a cloak tight around her, trying to hide the colorful dress she was wearing. It had been ten years since she last wore anything resembling the traditional garb of her heritage. The outfit consisted of an off-white loose shirt with sleeves that came to her elbows and hung off her shoulders, a vibrant blue skirt and teal sash, and a black corset. She wore nothing on her feet and her usual red feather earring was replaced with a single gold hoop. Patrick also noted that the material was slightly worn and that she must have created the attire out of clothes she already had in her closet. Jeta had caught Patrick processing her appearance and her eyebrow was raised in a questioning manner.

"Yes, athair?" she asked, opening the cloak for him to gain a better view.

"Nothing, I just haven't seen you wear something like that since..." Patrick's voice stopped there and he coughed, turning to make his way down the hall. They had never talked about that day and this moment was certainly not the time or place to open up that discussion. "We should get going."

The pair made their way up the winding staircase of the safe house and out the front door. A comfortable silence had settled between the two; they had not enjoyed such a thing in a number of days and Jeta was highly grateful for Patrick's presence. The area where the dilapidated building was located was not home to many people, the neighborhood being mostly deserted besides the homeless and the drunks. However, as soon as they reached slightly more populated areas, Jeta disappeared off to his right, making her way to a painted cart in an adjacent alleyway.

Patrick did not stop as his partner left, acting as if she had suddenly not disappeared from his side. Continuing down the stone pathways, Patrick let his mind blank out, but his attention never leaving the many shadows and hiding places along the path. He did not want to think about the situation between him and Jeta, but he was not stupid enough to forget his training which dictated that he keep his eyes open for any hostile persons. Thankfully, he was met with no scuffles between the safe house and the Palace of Justice, a miracle as the Parisian police loved to push around foreigners such as himself.

Dressed again as a farmer from the outskirts of the city, Patrick waited to be brought to the Minister's office. When he was finally brought in, Minister Frollo was already sitting behind his desk, his hands folded on the tabletop surface, his back stick straight against his chair. Patrick plopped himself unceremoniously in front of the Minister and waited to be addressed. He could tell by the way that Frollo's lip curled in distaste that he had highly offended the man and Patrick just did not care at this point.

"Welcome back to my office, Monsieur…"

"Foighne. No monsieur."

"Ah. Indeed."

Frollo was being to get frustrated with the assassin's lack of a last name or respectful title. Taking in a deep breath, Frollo got up and locked the singular door to his office. Turning back to Foighne, he paused to study the man from behind. Something had changed since the two had last spoken and the Minister was worried that this could affect their agreement.

"I trust things are going well between you and your partner," Frollo stated quietly, returning to his desk. Looking up, he noted a hard glare in the man's eyes.

"Yes," Patrick paused. "Redima is starting today on her undercover work."

"That is excellent."

Claude smiled pleasantly and relaxed into his chair. "Are you able to reveal what the details are of your plan?"

"We usually do not meet with our employers again after setting up the target, Minister; however, your letter to me sounded quite urgent." Patrick looked up at the Minister whose smile had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "Next time, do not send a low-level soldier out to find me. I nearly killed the man for his foolishness."

The Minister frowned. Who was this man to tell him what to do? "I shall keep that in mind."

"The details of the betrayal are not that important," Patrick looked up at Frollo, an eyebrow quirked. "But, if you want them, I could divulge a certain amount of unimportant information for a small amount of money."

"You dare to ask me for more money?"

Minister Frollo was beside himself in rage. Had he not treated them with more respect than they deserved? Had he not already promised them an absurd amount for an easy target? As he stood, body shaking in indignation, Patrick raised his hand calmly before responding.

"You must understand, Minister. What you ask is outside of our protocol. I need some… incentive, if you will… to reveal such information.

Seething, Claude returned to his desk, sitting down rigidly and opening a side drawer with more force than he had intended, noting that slight twitch in the assassin's eye at the loud clatter. Taking out a small change purse, the Minister threw the velvet bag at the infuriating redhead in front of him. Catch the purse deftly in his fingers, Patrick weighed the amount in his hand before pocketing it.

"Redima is disguising herself as a gypsy…"

Frollo interrupted Patrick here, frustrated. "Information you have already told me."

Frollo was growing impatient and he could tell by the silent glare coming from Patrick that his patience was also close to its end.

"Indeed, Minister. However, I will tell you a bit more if you would not interrupt me." Patrick waited and when the Minister waved a hand, he continued. "She will remain in this guise for the remainder of our time here. Treat her as you would any of the others. Her cart is set up in the plaza near the Pont des Arts. It is an artist's cart, selling paintings, sculptures, things of that nature. She will, as previously decided, carry out a betrayal as well as what you paying for."

Patrick stopped talking, played with his goatee for a moment and then stood up.

"If there is anything else I feel like is necessary for you to know, Minister, I will of course inform you. If you wish for me to contact you, have your captain wear this bracelet." Walking over, Patrick placed a simple bracelet on the Minister's desk. It was a silver chain with a small red cross hanging from it. "I will come in as soon as I possibly can to answer whatever questions you may have. May I leave?"

Patrick was itching to leave, something in the back of his mind telling him that he should not be here, starting to think that he should have just ignored the message from the soldier . Whether or not the Minister agreed to release him, he would walk out the door, agreement or not. The more time spent in this city, the more Patrick was growing nervous. As his jaw began to tense, waiting for a response from the Minister, Claude waved him off in dismissal. Nodding curtly, Patrick left, anxiety spreading throughout his entire body. He needed to see Jeta.

As Claude watched the tense Irishman leave, the wheels began to turn in his shrewd mind. The moment the door was closed, he turned to the large window behind his desk and looked to the Pont des Arts. The man was not lying as he could clearly see a brightly painted cart set up near the bridge and a petite young woman moving about. He also noted with disgust that there was a growing crowd of Parisians gathering around the site. Several minutes later there was a short knock at his door.

"Enter."

Not bothering to turn around, Frollo listened as Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers entered his office, closing the door with an intrusive bang before walking towards the desk, pausing a few feet away in his military position of attention. Claude let the captain sweat a few more minutes, letting him go over in his mind why he could have been called before the Minister. Slowly, he turned to face Phoebus who was clearly nervous about the meeting.

"Minister Frollo."

Phoebus bowed in respect and waited for the Minister to acknowledge him.

"Captain de Chateaupers." Claude paused and watched as the captain returned to his original position of attention. With a smile, the Minister gestured for the other man to join him at the window. "Come and look at this, Captain."

"Certainly, sir."

Making his way over, Phoebus paused at the window, glancing at the Minister before turning to look out at Paris. He scanned the scene for anything out of the usual, but nothing seemed to pop out. A few more tense moments passed before Phoebus dared to say another word.

"Minister, may I ask what we are looking at?"

A hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose, Claude answered. "Look at the Pont des Arts. What do you see, Captain?"

Turning back to the window, Phoebus searched the city for the bridge the Minister had pointed out. When he found it, Phoebus responded.

"A gypsy cart, sir." Phoebus stopped but continued at the glare coming from the Minister. "I can't see what wares they are selling, but their business appears to be doing good as there is a crowd forming. I believe it is a female gypsy, sir." Pausing again, Phoebus leaned in closer to the glass and squinted. "Is that the… outsider… we hired, sir?"

"Very good, Captain. I want you to watch her."

"Sir?"

Phoebus was confused. The Minister had hired these assassins to kill the gypsy king and his son yet if that was the woman, Redima, what was she doing dressed up like one? There was something the Minister was not telling him and Phoebus was growing more and more weary of where this was headed.

"These people are not to be trusted. They live without morals and only care who pays them the most. This female, I want you to watch her and treat her as you would any of the other gypsy vermin. No special treatment."

"Yes, sir." Phoebus paused again before turning to the Minister. "May I ask a question, Minister?"

Claude waved a hand, giving him permission to speak.

"If you hired this woman, why is she dressed like a gypsy?"

Claude looked away from the mirror and to the captain, a sadistic smile on his face. "Do not worry yourself with the details, Captain, but know that she does this out of my orders."

Nodding, Phoebus turned his gaze back to the young woman who was now bartering with a Parisian male, what appeared to be a painted pot in her hand.

"Just remember, Captain, no special treatment."

Author's Note: And so ends Chapter Six. I promise that there will be some Clopin in the upcoming chapter as well as a bit more excitement. Please, if you like this story, review. I love to hear that others are enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. )

Monsieur (French): respectful title for a man, regardless of marital status
Mademoiselle (French): title for an unmarried woman
Iníon (Irish): daughter
Athair (Irish): father
Foighne (Irish): patience
Redima (Spanish): redeem