He could always tell when Esmerelda was unhappy, and her unhappiness always spread to him. She did not want to discuss it, and he knew better than to pressure her. He sat beside her, stroking her hair and letting her lean against him. He liked sitting outside with her, staring aimlessly at the horizon. It was calm and peaceful.
"I love you, Phoebus," she said. "I love you so much."
"I love you, too."
She sighed. "My son was here yesterday."
Giovanni had told him about Jean-Claude Frollo's visit, and Phoebus still didn't know how he felt about it. He did not know Jean-Claude, had never laid eyes on the boy, but Esmerelda had assured him that Jean-Claude bore too strong a resemblance to his father. According to Katarina, Jean-Claude had the same personality traits as his late father, and this bothered Phoebus. Claude Frollo had destroyed countless lives; Phoebus hoped that his son wouldn't.
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to know why I left him in Paris, of course."
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth. I told him what his father did to me, how I couldn't bear to look at him because of it. He didn't believe me."
Phoebus nodded. He watch Esmerelda from now on, guard her, make sure that Jean-Claude didn't go anywhere near her. He'd kill the boy if he had to; he'd never do it in front of Esmerelda, nor would he tell her. But if the boy died and she never knew about it, surely it wouldn't matter much. Phoebus could always hide the body in the woods. It would never be found.
"Katarina says she saw him leave Lyon this morning," said Esmerelda, as if she'd read his mind. "I don't think he'll come back. He's made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with me."
"I take it you want nothing to do with him."
She nodded. "I know it's horrible for a mother to hate her only son, but…"
"You have every right to hate him. After what his father put you through, you have every right."
Esmerelda snuggled closer to him. She looked up at him, her green eyes shining in the sunlight. "I love you so much, Phoebus."
~xXx~
"Fine. I'll forgive you if you stop apologizing, and if you never speak about Cosette that way again."
"All right," said Rene. "I'm glad we can put this unpleasantness behind us."
He knew that he had gone too far when he'd made the joke about Cosette, comparing her to a sheathe for Jean-Claude's sword, but he hadn't thought that Jean-Claude would get so angry. True, it had been a lewd joke, but there had been a certain cleverness to it; after all, Jean-Claude was a soldier and familiar with all sorts of swords and sheathes. Rene was relieved that Jean-Claude was talking to him again. The trek from Lyon to Paris was not a long one, but it went by much faster when there was someone to converse with.
"I think Lyon's changed me," he said.
"How's that?"
"Not only did I apologize to you, but I found that Gypsy girl and apologized to her yesterday."
"Did she slap you again?" Jean-Claude's tone was serious, but Rene could see the corner of his mouth turning upward into a smile.
"No."
"Did she…sheathe your sword?"
"No. She told me I was rude."
Jean-Claude laughed. "She was right."
"There's no need to rub it in." Rene let his thoughts wander back to the pretty Gypsy girl. She had told him that her name was Theresa, but she could have been lying. Theresa was a pretty enough name for her, though. He thought of her dancing, twirling in the street, the bells on her sash jingling as she moved. Her hips had swayed seductively, almost commanding him to stare at her. She'd been so graceful, so pretty; he was now thoroughly ashamed that he'd even thought her a harlot. The term seemed to cheapen her, to insult her dance.
"Why did you apologize to her?" asked Jean-Claude.
Rene shrugged. "No reason," he said.
"With you, there's always a reason," said Jean-Claude. "You probably thought you could get into her skirt if you acted the gentleman."
"Well, either way, I failed to bed her."
"That's what I like about you, Rene. You're honest when it comes to failure. A lesser man would have lied."
"A lesser man wouldn't have apologized to her."
~xXx~
She could not put it off any longer. She saw Heracles sitting outside of her home, and she knew that she would have to speak with him. Rosalie took a deep breath, and went over to him. He smiled and stood up when he saw her approach.
"Hello."
"Hello." She stared at him, wondering what he thought of her, what he remembered from the night before. "Thank you for taking care of me last night."
He shrugged. "It was nothing."
"I don't normally drink so much," she said, "it was irresponsible of me."
"It's happened to me at least a hundred times," he said, "though no one could ever lift me to carry me home."
Rosalie shifted. She was still carrying the potatoes that Anja's husband had given her. She had no real idea what she would do with them. She supposed that she should cook them and eat them. There were so many; they'd last her the rest of the week, she was certain. She balanced the sack against her hip. "Look, I'd like to make you dinner," she said, "would you run into my house and fetch a pan for me?"
"Of course. Mother always said not to turn down a free meal."
She headed towards the back of her shack and set the potatoes on the ground. She bent over the small fire pit she'd dug, piling fresh sticks into it. She lit the fire. She pulled her knife from her skirt and began peeling the potatoes, tossing the peels into the flames as they grew. She heard Heracles approach and saw him sit beside her out of the corner of her eye.
"If you're going to cook for me, I should at least help you."
He picked up a potato, drawing his own knife and peeling it. She took the pan from him and began cutting her potato, arranging the pieces in the pan. "I…I don't really remember what happened last night," she said. "Can…can you tell me what happened?"
"We were at the bonfire, and you had had quite a bit to drink." He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "So I took you home and put you to bed."
"But why were you there when I woke up?"
"You asked me to stay. You said something about having nightmares – " he wouldn't look at her as he spoke, instead keeping his eyes glued to the potato he was peeling. Despite his careful gaze, he managed to cut his thumb. He swore, jerking his wounded hand back.
"Heracles, what did I really say?"
"You told me about the soldiers and what they did to you," he said, "and you asked me to stay and wake you if you had a nightmare."
She felt stupid and helpless and took the half-peeled potato from him. She finished peeling it, slicing it up and placing it in the pan with the other potato. She held the pan over the flames, watching as the potatoes began to cook. He probably thought she was weak. He probably pitied her. He probably thought that she needed him to help her feel secure, to assure her that no one would ever hurt her again.
"Rosalie," he said, "I don't know how to say this." He took a deep breath. "I care about you, and I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy. I'll do anything I can to make you happy."
"Please, I don't need you to pity me – "
"I don't. I mean, I feel terrible for what happened to you, but…but I also admire you." She stared at him, unaware that she had tilted the pan and that a piece of potato had fallen onto the fire. "I know so many women who would just…just…rather die than keep living – if they'd been through what you had, I mean. But you're different. You…you're strong, and you survived."
She gripped the pan, pulling it away from the fire to check the potatoes. They looked burnt. "I couldn't die," she said, "Pierre and Marie needed me." She used her knife to spear one of the potatoes and picked it up to examine it. "I don't feel very strong."
"I'd like to help you be strong. I think I can, but only if you'll let me."
Rosalie ate the piece of potato. It was burnt and tasted like ashes. She forced herself to swallow it and placed the pan on the ground beside her. She thought of Esmerelda, how strong she had seemed earlier in the day. If Esmerelda could be strong, why couldn't she? Did Esmerelda need someone to help her? Well, she had Phoebus and Katarina; they kept her strong. Who did she really have? She had Pierre and Marie, but it seemed different. She couldn't tell them what had happened to her. She couldn't inflict her pain upon them.
She looked at Heracles. He picked up a piece of potato, ignoring how hot it was, and ate it. She watched as he chewed; he was trying desperately not to gag as he swallowed the burnt potato. Would he be strong enough to take her pain away from her?
"This needs salt," he said.
"It tastes terrible." She took his hand. She was momentarily surprised at how large it was. She let him slide his fingers between hers, and she moved closer to him, leaning against his shoulder. "You're a good friend, Heracles," she said.