STILL 1506…

"Can I help you, Sister?"

He was skeptical about the woman at his door, but he let her into his house anyway. She wore a nun's habit. There was something vaguely familiar about her; he had probably seen her in or around Notre Dame. There was still an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he did his best to brush it aside. She was probably collecting for charity. He led her to the sitting room and motioned for her to sit down. She thanked him and sat in a stiff wooden chair by the fireplace.

"Are you collecting for charity?"

She shook her head. "No, sir," she said. "I've come to ask you a favor."

"What can I do to help the church?"

"It's actually a personal favor, Captain." She paused, obviously waiting for him to ask another question. He stared at her, scrutinizing her and trying to figure out what she could possibly want from him. Finally, she stood up. "We were never properly introduced," she said, "but you know my younger brother, Réne Thénardier."

Réne had once told him about his older sister; from what Jean-Claude could remember, he'd described her as uptight and self-righteous. Réne had never once mentioned that she was a nun. She did bear a certain resemblance to him. They both had the same blue eyes. Jean-Claude shifted and folded his arms across his chest.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"My mother is very ill," she said. There was some hesitation in her voice, but she appeared calm and collected enough. If he was making her uncomfortable, she was hiding it exceedingly well. "She wishes to see Réne one last time before she dies."

"Are you aware of the crime your brother committed?" he asked. He could not believe that she was asking him to let Réne return to Paris. The mere thought of it angered and sickened him. "Are you aware of its severity?"

"I am." Her voice was clear and confident, but her eyes shifted uncomfortably. "On behalf of Réne, I am asking your forgiveness."

For a moment, he was speechless. Her boldness was startling. "Excuse me?"

"Please, sir, I am asking you to forgive my brother. He was not in his right mind when he acted – "

"No," said Jean-Claude abruptly. The nun fell silent instantly. "That witch murdered my unborn son, and when she fled justice, Réne aided her. He helped a murderess! There is no forgiveness for him."

"I know you are a man of God," said the nun. She stepped towards him and took hold of his hands, which startled him. "God shows mercy and forgives those who repent."

"I am not God," said Jean-Claude. He could feel his anger rising. How dare this woman come to him and try to justify Réne's actions? How dare she imply that Réne should be forgiven? He pulled away from her. "I should have had your brother executed for his crime. I showed extreme leniency in letting him live."

"I am grateful, sir, truly I am." The nun wrung her hands, but she did not reach for him again, "my mother is dying, and she has done you no wrong. Please, let her see her son."

"She's free to go to him," said Jean-Claude. "No one is forcing her to remain here."

"She is too ill to travel."

"I am sorry for your mother, but if René sets one foot in Paris, I will make sure he dies for his crime."

She was quiet for a very long time. "Thank you for your time, sir," she said, nodding to him. "There is nothing that I can do to change your mind?"

"No."

She nodded again. "God be with you, Captain."

"And you as well, Sister."

He showed her out.

~xXx~

"He says it's for our safety," said Theresa. Her voice was strained. She wrung her hands nervously. "I don't want to go, but…well, I'm sure it won't be so bad…"

"If you don't want to go – "

She shook her head. "It's something I have to do, Papa." She smiled; it was a forced, unhappy smile. "Besides, it won't be so bad. Marseille isn't so far away. I can't stay in one place forever."

"Theresa, you don't look happy about it," he said.

"Well, I will miss you and Mama," she said. "And I'm a bit nervous."

"I shouldn't have let you go to Paris last year." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he regretted speaking almost instantly. Theresa sighed and went over to the hearth. She began fiddling with the kettle, adjusting it over the flame.

Clopin thought about the scars on her shoulder and leg. He thought about the dangerous man who had very nearly killed her. He thought about his own stupidity; he shouldn't have let her go. Paris was dangerous. No one knew that more than he did. Paris had been his home for most of his life, and all of his memories were negative ones. After the Court of Miracles had been seized, after Esmerelda's abduction, Paris had transformed into a prison. Escaping it had not been easy; Clopin should not have allowed Theresa to return to it. She was young and naïve, she was pretty and provocative without intending to be. She was not meant to live in a place corrupted by the so-called righteous.

"I'm sorry," he said. Theresa turned to him. She was holding two mugs. She handed one to him and sat down again.

"I'm not a child anymore," she said. "You can't protect me from everything."

"That's true," he said. "You're married now. René can protect you."

Theresa nodded. "Marseille won't be so bad," she said. "René says it's close by. I can write you letters, and we can arrange visits."

He still couldn't help worrying about the whole thing. René and Theresa had been married for a little less than a year, but Clopin still wasn't sure as to whether or not he liked him. He didn't like the fact that René had won Theresa's heart so easily; it made him nervous. Theresa seemed happy enough to be with him. She had never complained. He wasn't a bad husband; he had a steady job which provided Theresa with a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

~xXx~

"Pierre, why don't you go with Erik and help him?"

He was tired and his arms were sore from pitching the tent, but he knew better than to complain about it to Frieda. He picked up a hatchet and followed Erik into the woods. Pierre hated the woods and secretly feared that he'd get lost in them. He had been lost in the woods once for four terrifying days when he was younger, and though he now marked the trees he passed with his hatchet, he kept glancing over his shoulder and shuddering as the circus slowly faded from sight.

"We shouldn't go so far," he called.

Erik turned to him. He stared at him blankly, then blinked and kept walking. Pierre rolled his eyes; he'd forgotten that Erik didn't speak any French. He followed him, still careful to mark the passing trees. He finally caught up to Erik. Erik was by a large tree, hacking at one of the thick, low-hanging branches. Pierre watched him for a moment, then turned away and proceeded to break the branches off of another tree.

Erik was handsome. He was nowhere near as handsome as Giovanni, but he was tall and muscular and had similar blonde hair and blue eyes. Pierre began stacking the fallen branches in a pile; out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Erik had taken his shirt off. Despite the shade from the trees, the air was still hot and humid, as though the earth didn't quite realize that it was autumn.

Erik was saying something to him, and Pierre turned to face him. He was holding a canteen, offering it to Pierre. "Thank you," said Pierre, taking the canteen and drinking. Erik continued talking, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Pierre couldn't understand him. The language was thick and guttural, harsh-sounding, but at times musical. Pierre sat down beside his pile of sticks, and was surprised when Erik came and sat beside him. He handed Erik the canteen.

"Wie heißt du?" Erik took the canteen and pointed to Pierre.

Pierre shook his head. "I can't speak German."

"Wie heißt du?" Erik repeated himself and continued pointing. He bit his lip in frustration, then pointed to himself. "Erik," he said, jabbing his chest with his finger. "Erik." He pointed to Pierre again.

"Oh! I'm Pierre." Pierre pointed to himself, feeling somewhat silly.

"Pierre," mimicked Erik. "Pierre." He stretched the word out as if he was exploring it. He smiled, looking satisfied. He took another swallow of water from the canteen. He tilted his head, staring hard at Pierre, then pointed at the earring in his left ear and said something else in German.

Pierre touched the earring, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He'd had it for as long as he could remember, had never taken it out. He wasn't even sure if it could come out. He shook his head again and shrugged. "I can't understand you." Erik continued to point at the earring. "It's an earring," said Pierre finally, not knowing what else to say. He wished that Erik would stop pointing at him.

Erik shook his head and bit his lip again, this time tapping his finger against it as if he was struggling with something. "Gypsy?" he said finally.

Pierre nodded, once again pointing to himself. "Yes," he said. "I'm a Gypsy." Erik nodded, then picked up his hatchet and stood up. Pierre watched him for a moment as he went over to a tree and began cutting one of the branches.