NOTE (As of 9/5/10): If you're re-reading this chapter and feel a little weirded out; fear not, your eyes do not deceive you! Yes, I actually sat my lazy arse down and edited this ish! I would say that this marks a new chapter in the very near future, but hopefully you guys know better than to believe me at this point.
Chapter 1: Regarding Strong Wills
The woman was in her late twenties or early thirties. Pretty enough-high cheekbones and long eyelashes, the things that make someone conventionally attractive enough, though not quite unique in any particular way. But the marks of grief and stress had imprinted themselves on her in a way that placed her in a category somewhere between unattractive and untouchable. Coarse, premature grays worked themselves into her otherwise red-gold hair, always pinned back into a conventional updo. She carried herself in a cold, rigid way, and her skin was near-colorless and almost severely smooth, as though to rid herself of the burden of expression. Nothing revealed the chaotic thing she had become deep inside, vengeful but insecure. Strange and shy.
If she had looked that way on that day, the events that followed would have, in all likelihood, never taken place.
Marcel was four years old and more rambunctious by the day, and much as she loved her son the woman had come from a long line of mothers who used nurses and governesses, and perhaps that bafflement at childhood's natural distinctions was hereditary. And so, even though she'd half-expected him to balk at an activity such as shopping, she still ended up thoroughly distressed by day's end at her son's innate ability to wriggle out of her grasp minutes after being caught.
Arianne Vasser, as the woman was known, had just about abandoned whatever pretenses of public dignity she had and broken off into a run after the child through the busy streets; some of her hair had escaped it's pins so that it fell in lopsided red, gold and just a little coarse gray waves not quite reaching her shoulders; her back had been bent for all the people she had to weave through and obstacles she'd had to pass on the busy streets; her marble-like mask had melted in concern and bemusement, with pink staining her cheeks and an overall disposition much more befitting a woman her own age.
It was enough that, when she attracted the gypsy king's attentions, she was both attractive and touchable enough that he was always able, afterward, to see past her usual demeanor, and often broke through it without much more than a cocky smirk, as though it were ridiculous of her to believe that she could ever fool him.
It was the sound of bells at midday, she thought - and the knowledge of who the bell-ringer was - that enticed him into running to the square at the cathedral. But immediately upon arrival, he fell into a trance quite familiar to the local children as he gazed at the caravan where the puppet show was being held-or rather, being closed for the day. Arianne, being of an utterly one-track mind at the moment, took the opportunity to sneak up behind him and grab a firm hold on his wrist, and then allowed the breath she'd been holding to escape in a hiss, bending over slightly due to the pain and exhaustion from straining against her corset and petticoat layers.
"What do you think you're doing?" she scolded quietly (to avoid causing any more of a scene), but the intended harsh effect was marred by the relief in her tone. "How many times do I have to tell you not to go running off on you're own when I'm - "
"Mama." Marcel pointed up at the caravan that his mother had only barely registered was there. Arianne glanced up in the direction he had gestured to - and automatically straightened as though standing at attention. The puppeteer - a Romani whom she knew only as being a gypsy figurehead (she assumed) who was vaguely but somehow inextricably involved in the events over a half-year's past - had apparently paused from closing up his show for the day to watch them (shamelessly enough), resting his elbows on the window of the caravan, his chin in his hands, grinning mischievously.
Arianne cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said coldly, making a brief bow and, hand still gripped firmly around Marcel's pudgy wrist, she started making her exit.
Marcel was the first to turn back around - and laugh delightedly - when a strangely-pitched voice called, "Wait!" Arianne followed her son's action with a roll of her eyes and a sense of tedium, anticipating that it would take a long time to shake off the gypsy (of course, it would take far longer than she'd ever have thought) and, indeed, he leapt through the window of the caravan while an apparent friend of his took his place in closing up shop. The gypsy held up a miniature version of himself on his hand, whom he was evidently speaking for.
"Monsieur, monsieur!" called the puppet to Marcel. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but would you happen to have a coin or two to spare?"
"Ah!" The gypsy feigned a disgusted expression. "You have so much to learn! We do not beg, my little friend." He bopped the doll on its head, all the while bearing an exaggeratedly sad face which clearly indicated that the punishment hurt him more than the puppet.
But, of course, the puppet persisted, and Marcel begged Arianne for money to give to it. Sighing and shooting a glare at the gypsy, she handed her son a coin, who rushed forward to hand it to the doll. In return, the comedic duo performed a small bit for a moment, and then the man put the doll away and turned his attention to Arianne, inclining his head slightly to her.
"You know, madame - "
"Madamoiselle," she corrected, a hard edge to her tone. Though as a widow she could have kept her technical title as a married woman (and she normally did), this correction was the closest thing she could come to outright vindication of this man and his people.
Sadly, he seemed oblivious. He grinned. "Madamoiselle. I scarcely recall seeing you before now. I'm sorry for keeping you; I merely meant to make introductions."
"Any lack of memory of my face is due to your own neglect. We've seen each other before." At least a hundred times; the reason she'd always assumed he was a front was because he seemed to be at the head of every gypsy attraction she saw.
She hoped that her cold tone would dissuade him from trying to make her acquaintance, but it was a vain hope. "I must have missed you," he said, and it was evident from the way he said it that he meant not to do so again.
Making a sweeping bow and removing his hat in such a dramatic way as to make Arianne wonder if he was making fun of her, he said, "My name is Clopin Trouillefou."
"Arianne Vasser." Then: 'Good day."
This time, he let them go.
On the way back to the market, where she still needed to finish buying what she required to make dinner, Arianne caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and realized that she'd been spending the day running around with approximately half of her hair still up. Though she'd given up her career of trying to be ahead of the fashion curve since marriage, what would have been a minor embarrassment for the average woman was utterly exasperating to her. Sighing, she pulled the remaining pins out with a little more violence than was necessary.
Glancing down at Marcel as she did this, she said, "I don't want you talking to that man anymore, and I don't want you going near that caravan without me."
Her son was a boy of quiet contemplation, tall for his age and of a build that could suggest a future in the solid muscularity of his father, or the spoiled chubbiness common in the males in Arianne's family. His mother was of the very secret opinion that he was the sweetest boy she had ever met, and most days she was incredibly grateful that the person she loved most had not inherited her own disposition.
However, as she paused in her grooming to watch Marcel's face crumple just a little with that expression that she just knew meant he wasn't going to protest but he was still utterly bewildered and he would be thinking - quite justifiably - that this was so unfair and that she was being prejudiced (though of course, he wouldn't be able to think of the word, specifically) and "because I said so" wasn't a real reason and it was so, so unfair.
But he didn't throw the tantrum that she wouldn't even have been able to blame him for; and at his reaffirmation of her "sweetest boy on earth" notion, she softened. "I know it's hard for you to understand, Marcel, but we don't associate with gypsies. We can't. Okay?"
She looked down at him, and he seemed relieved, as though he had just figured out that whatever problem he'd just come across could be solved easily. He looked up at her with all the optimism a person could probably contain. "It's alright, mama. You don't have to worry anymore. Judge Frollo's gone now. We don't have to be afraid of making friends with them. No one will hurt us."
His reassurance made her feel an incredible amount of guilt. She wasn't afraid of associating with gypsies because she was afraid of what small-minded people would do to her. For all intents and purposes, she was one of those small-minded people. But it was a complicated subject; too complicated to explain to her young son. Too complicated, in fact, to really explain to anyone.
She didn't respond, but Marcel's cheeks dimpled and his smile still shone like the sun.
A/N: Like in my last story, I'm having a little trouble with Clopin's dialogue, but hopefully I'll be getting the hang of that soon enough while I'm writing him. I wanna thank my couple (post edit: whole hell of a lot) of favorite-ers/watchers (post edit: and reviewers) a whole lot, 'cause for the first couple of days I was walking around in a slump because I hadn't gotten any reviews or anything (yeah, I'm pretty vain).
I don't know how much I'll be updating for the next couple of weeks due to school, but winter break's coming up soon and that should be when I have another chapter up (post edit: Ha ha), which will also be when you get some background info on Arianne. Anyway, as always, constructive criticism welcome. Thanks for everything, guys!