Both Theresa and Giovanni would be in Paris for an entire year, and Cassandra wasn't sure if she was furious about it or not. On the one hand, Theresa was not a little girl anymore; she was a woman, and it was time for her to go out and see the world. Cassandra knew that she'd be safe with Giovanni. She also knew, though, that Katarina missed Giovanni terribly. It was irresponsible for him to leave her at a time like this. She would need him most to help look after the twins.
She supposed that if she was indeed angry, then her anger should be directed at Giovanni's grandmother. The woman had every right to see him, to meet him and get to know him. She'd been denied for twenty-three years. Asking him to stay in Paris for an entire year was too much, though, especially for Katarina. Besides, the old woman did not sound entirely pleasant. According to Theresa's letter, she had insulted her and forbidden her from staying in her house simply because she was a Gypsy.
Katarina let out another scream, and Cassandra squeezed her hand. Katarina looked up at her, her green eyes watering and helpless. Rosalie was standing between her feet, telling her to push. Esmerelda was fluttering around Rosalie, preparing the hot water and towels that would be needed when the babies came. Cassandra had noticed a certain distance in Esmerelda lately; Esmerelda wouldn't look her in the eye. She had no time to ponder this now, of course, but she did wonder why this sudden change had occurred.
"I see the head, keep pushing, Katarina!"
Katarina screamed, gripping Cassandra's hand tighter. "Easy now," said Cassandra, "you're doing just fine. It'll be over soon."
Katarina seemed to nod to her; she was shaking and panting. Cassandra heard the loud, piercing sound of a baby crying and felt a rush of relief. Esmerelda was cradling the baby, bathing it carefully in the warm water. Rosalie was still standing by Katarina's feet, however, waiting with her hands out. Cassandra felt her relief begin to fade. Rosalie had mentioned something about twins. It was beginning to look like her prediction was coming true. Cassandra squeezed Katarina's hand and wiped the sweat from her brow, bracing herself for another of her screams.
~xXx~
She supposed that she felt somewhat guilty for disobeying her father. She had promised that she wouldn't dance for coins, but she wasn't sure of what else to do. She and Giovanni needed food, clothing, and shelter. She only danced out of necessity, and besides, the people of Paris treated her no differently than the people of Lyon had. No one had propositioned her or made lewd remarks, not even the soldiers who occasionally passed.
Men stopped and stared at her, as she'd known they would, but she did nothing to entice them. She wore blouses with high collars and tried not to move her hips as much. Her father worried too much, that was the trouble, and she'd let him spread his worry to her.
She liked dancing. She liked the freedom that came with movement. She liked the way the bells in her sash sounded when she twirled, she liked the way the coins sounded when they hit the pavement by her feet. Dancing was a strange, hypnotic experience; she barely noticed those around her. When she danced, she felt as though the entire world had stopped moving, that she was the only person in existence. It was a strange feeling, one that she found somewhat frightening but loved and craved nonetheless.
Paris was a big, beautiful city. She had explored most of it, moving seamlessly through crowds, staring up at buildings in awe and wonder. The Notre Dame cathedral loomed at its center, towering gracefully over everyone and everything. Its bells rang throughout the day, filling the air with their music.
"Notre Dame is the safest place in Paris," Giovanni had told her. "You can go inside and claim sanctuary, and no one can hurt you."
"What's sanctuary?"
"Well, if you're being chased by guards. If they think you've done something wrong and want to arrest you, you can come to Notre Dame, and they can't. No one can arrest you when you're in Notre Dame. It's the only place where God can truly protect you."
The cathedral was gorgeous, majestic, and it made her feel small and insignificant. Light poured through the stained glass windows, creating kaleidoscopes on the floor, and paintings of angels and saints lined the walls, seRenély watching the comings and goings. The statues were the most amazing of them all; they looked so real Theresa wouldn't have been at all surprised if one started moving and talking. Paris was as beautiful as she'd remembered, and she found herself wondering why they had left in the first place. Her memory of their flight from Paris was a dim one; it had had something to do with Katarina or her mother. Theresa made a mental note to ask Giovanni about it.
"Did you miss me enough to follow me to Paris?" The voice was somewhat familiar and the tone a playful one. Theresa turned around, tightening her grip on her hat full of coins. She was stunned to see the soldier – the lewd one who'd called her a harlot – smiling at her.
"What do you want?" she asked. She stepped away from him, glancing over her shoulder. The inn where she was staying with Giovanni was just around the corner, and Notre Dame was another block or so away. She briefly wondered if she could outrun him; his armor would surely weigh him down.
He shrugged. "I thought I'd seen you around," he said, "but I wasn't sure until now."
He didn't seem particularly threatening. He obviously had no intention of arresting her. After all, she'd done nothing wrong. Still, the fact that he was just standing there talking to her like an old friend was bothering her. Soldiers were bad men, the kind of men who loved hurting others and causing bloodshed. They were greedy and licentious, and always wanted the worst things from people.
"I saw you dancing earlier," he continued, his voice nonchalant. "You dance beautifully."
She was flattered by the compliment, and this immediately disgusted her. "Thank you, I suppose."
"So, why are you in Lyon? You obviously aren't here to see me…"
"It's none of your business."
He stepped towards her, and she backed away from him. "I'm afraid it is," he said, "you see, as Lieutenant of the Guard, I have to know what's going on in Paris."
"I'm here to visit someone," she said. She took another step back, aware that it made her look afraid. She didn't care how it made her look; she was beginning to grow uncomfortable.
The soldier did not move. He seemed to sense her fear, and she found it strange that he wasn't using it to his advantage. After all, soldiers thrived on fear. They loved it. "I see. And how long will you be in Paris?"
She shrugged. "A year, maybe less."
He smiled. "I'm glad." She stared at him, not knowing what to say. Why on earth would he be glad? Why would he even care? "It means I'll get to see you more often," he continued.
"René, you aren't being paid to flirt."
René turned to the voice; Theresa could see him blushing with embarrassment. A man who could only be the Captain of the Guard stood before René. He was tall and pale, and he glanced at her briefly.
"I'm sorry, Captain," said René. "I was just…questioning…this Gypsy…"
"What for?"
"Well, it's our job to know everyone in Paris, to know their business and such – "
The Captain rolled his eyes. "You don't have to talk to Gypsies unless you're arresting them," he said, "and you know that. You'll have plenty of time to get into her skirt when you're not on the job."
Theresa glared at him. He was talking about her like she was a whore, saying filthy things about her like she wasn't even there, like she didn't matter. She turned to leave. She wanted nothing to do with either of these men. Perhaps this street was part of their route; she would have to find another place to dance in order to avoid them.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The Captain's tone was a harsh, angry one, and Theresa stopped. She turned to him slowly. He was glaring at her. He beckoned to her; clearly he was too important to actually approach her. She went to him slowly, carefully, trying not to get too close to either of them. "Prostitution is illegal," he said, "and if you were indeed trying to sell yourself to my lieutenant, I will have to arrest you."
She shook her head. "I'm not a whore," she said. She found herself wanting to slap him for even thinking such a thing.
"No," said René. "She wasn't trying to sell herself to me, Captain. I was the one who approached her – I had seen her in Lyon and wanted to say 'hello.' That's all. She didn't do anything illegal."
The Captain nodded to the hat she was clutching. "Where did you get that money?" he asked.
"I earned it."
"Doing what?"
"Dancing."
"Hm." He tilted his head, staring at her. His eyes were blue, and they felt cold and piercing. "Go on then," he said. He glanced at René. "That is, if you're certain she's done nothing illegal…"
"No, nothing at all."
The Captain shrugged. "All right then. Go."
She left. She had to force herself not to run; running would only provoke him, make him chase after her. It would also show her fear. Despite the terror that was slowly loosening its grip on her heart, she did not want these soldiers to think she was afraid. It would make her look vulnerable, weak. She was anything but weak. She was strong, and she would show them that. She walked away from them with her head held high, looking beautiful and fearless.
~xXx~
He hated to think that Katarina would have the twins while he was away. Lately, it had been the only thing he could think about, despite his best efforts to think of other things. He sat with his grandmother for an hour each day and talked with her. She told him stories about his mother, and he told her carefully edited tales about his own life. He did not particularly like lying to her, omitting certain facts, but he knew that she had a low opinion of his people and didn't want to say anything to lower it further. He told her about growing up in Paris and helping his uncle with the puppet theatre. He mentioned Pierre and Marie, but not Pierre's uncanny ability to steal. He told her how he had met Katarina, but never mentioned fleeing from her "false father."
His grandmother had gotten him a "respectable" job. Giovanni personally found carpentry no different from farming. Both jobs involved physical labor and long hours in grueling conditions. Both jobs paid adequately, though carpentry paid in coins instead of vegetables and the occasional rabbit. He saved his money, keeping it hidden under his cot. Theresa insisted on giving her earnings to him, and he felt horrible for taking money from her. He hated the fact that she'd broken her promise to her father, that she was dancing in the street for coins. Her money came in handy, though; it helped them eat and pay the rent on the cheap room.
His grandmother occasionally asked him to leave Theresa in the inn and stay with her. He politely refused, reminding her that he was in charge of looking after his cousin. She nodded, and sometimes told him that, as a Gypsy, Theresa could look after herself just fine. She refused to understand that he'd grown up with her, that he saw her as a little sister, that he loved her as one. This stung him, made him hate her, but he swallowed his anger. He could not afford to make his grandmother hate him. Everything he loved depended on her generosity.
~xXx~
"I'm surprised she didn't slap you."
"What?"
"That Gypsy girl."
"She was the one who slapped you in Lyon?"
"Yes."
Jean-Claude stared at the spot where the girl had been. She'd been strangely beautiful in a way that he couldn't put his finger on. The way she'd glared at him, her dark eyes blazing with anger, held a certain attraction. It shamed him to think her pretty. After all, he was married, and Cosette was far more beautiful than some Gypsy harlot. Cosette was sweet and pure and chaste. The Gypsy girl was anything but; he'd seen her dancing in the street, shaking her hips, inviting the men to stare at her. It was disgusting. She probably was a prostitute, and he regretted not arresting her. René had only stood up for her because he wanted to bed her, which he could probably do any time he wanted. As long as he was willing to pay her, the Gypsy girl would do whatever he wanted.
All Gypsies were like that. They lied and stole, they sold their filthy bodies in dark alleys. They danced, swaying seductively, making men stare, filling their heads with unholy thoughts. Jean-Claude could see the Gypsy girl in his mind's eye, could see her dancing. She twirled, the bells on her sash jingling, bringing his eyes to her slim hips. Her dress was red, the color of lust, and her eyes were dark and smoldering, burning into him with a passionate, consuming anger. She, like so many of her Gypsy sisters, routinely turned men's thoughts to sin and damned their souls.
Well, she could twist a weaker man's mind. René's, for example. René, who dallied with whores and bragged about it, René who told obscene jokes. René was weak. Jean-Claude was anything but. He would remain faithful to Cosette in word, thought, and deed. He would not dishonor her by fantasizing about some dirty little Gypsy. Not when Cosette was there waiting for him each night. Though they were married, though she was no longer a virgin, she had a certain, special purity to her. She was virtuous, and her virtue was beautiful. She would never stoop to shake her hips or sully her body the way that Gypsy did. In truth, the Gypsy's sinful ways should render her ugly, but the girl was an agent of the devil. Agents of the devil were always pleasing to the eye.
"Listen, she really didn't do anything wrong," said René.
"The only reason you should talk to a Gypsy is when you arrest one," said Jean-Claude. "I had better not catch you flirting her while you're on duty again."
"Of course."