He wished that Rosalie could read her own letters. He didn't mind reading them to her, it was no trouble. The letters were private, though, and he respected her privacy. Clopin had no desire to know what sort of feelings Rosalie and Heracles shared. Knowing made him feel dirty, for lack of a better word.
Enjolras had been one of Clopin's closest friends. He'd been dead for over ten years, and Rosalie certainly wasn't being forced to remain true to his memory. She was a grown woman, and could do what she pleased. Still, the thought of her with someone else, someone who wasn't Enjolras, made Clopin uneasy. He had the sense that whatever Rosalie and Heracles shared wasn't romantic, but that it would be. Whatever it was, it was like a flower slowly blossoming. It made him uncomfortable.
It would no doubt make Pierre and Marie uncomfortable as well. Clopin was certain that Marie had no real memories of her father, and that Pierre's were vague at best. They had never really seen their mother with a man before, and seeing her with one who clearly wasn't their father would upset them, or at the very least confuse them. Pierre no longer lived with his mother and sister, but he had noticed the letters, and had asked Clopin about them. Pierre had inherited his mother's persistence, and his incessant questions about the letters were quickly becoming irritating.
"Those letters are your mother's," he said, "they are none of your business."
"If Heracles is courting my mother, I have every right to know – "
"Then ask her yourself."
Pierre sighed. "She won't tell me."
"Because it's none of your business. She's a grown woman, she can make her own decisions."
"I know that," said Pierre. He was wringing his hands, rubbing the space where the little finger on his left hand used to be. He had no idea how lucky he was to just lose a finger instead of his entire hand; in Paris, most thieves lost their hands, and repeat offenders lost their lives. The missing finger reminded Clopin of Enjolras's death. He hoped that Pierre wouldn't share his father's fate. "It's just…Heracles will never be my father…"
"Of course he won't be," said Clopin. "He isn't trying to take his place. He likes your mother. He wants to make her happy, and that's why he writes her letters. They make her happy."
"She can't read."
"I read them to her, you know that."
"That…that's not what I meant…"
"Pierre, your mother can't stay alone forever," said Clopin. "She will always love your father, always. But, well, you know that women need certain things – "
"Yes, I know."
"Your mother needs companionship."
Pierre nodded. He was staring down at his hand now, staring at the place where his finger used to be. "I saw him yesterday, you know."
"What?"
"The guard who cut my finger off. I don't think he recognized me." Pierre let his hand fall back to his side. "Have you heard from Giovanni lately?"
"I got a letter from him about a month ago," said Clopin. "Theresa is enjoying herself. She loves Paris. Giovanni misses Katarina and the babies, of course, and he can't stand his grandmother."
~xXx~
His daily sessions with his grandmother had been growing shorter and shorter due to her quickly deteriorating health. Giovanni found that he was grateful for this; he couldn't stand the sound of her voice, or the hateful words that seemed to endlessly spew from her mouth.
"That cousin of yours," she was saying, "I saw her yesterday from my window. She was dancing in the street, just like a harlot! Thank goodness the guards chased her off. She was offending everyone, I'm sure. You really must speak with her, dear boy, at least ask her to be respectful. I know Gypsies can't change their sinful ways…"
Giovanni nodded politely, tuning her out. He knew that his grandmother hadn't seen Theresa; Theresa spent most of her time in the square near Notre Dame. His grandmother must have seen a different girl. She was an old woman, and her eyesight was poor. Besides, if Theresa had encountered any guards, she would have mentioned it to him. Giovanni glanced towards the window, wishing that his grandmother would dismiss him so he could leave. He did not feel like sitting with her and talking.
"Dear boy, tell me again about your wife, Katherine. What's her maiden name?"
"Katarina," he corrected, "her name is Katarina, and her maiden name is Phoebus. Katarina Phoebus."
His grandmother nodded. Katarina had disowned her other name, the name she'd been baptized with, 'Katarina Frollo.' Giovanni knew that she had taken on her father's last name after finally meeting him, but he could never remember what it was. He was so used to calling her 'Katarina Phoebus.'
"Strange," his grandmother was saying, "I must have had her confused with someone else."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, a long time ago, there was a judge whose daughter went missing. Her name was Katherine Frollo."
"I hadn't heard about that," he lied.
"I knew her father," continued his grandmother, "briefly, though, mind you. Not personally. He was a good man, Claude Frollo, very kind." This sounded nothing like the man who had thrown him into a prison cell and relentlessly pursued Katarina. "He was murdered, you know, by Gypsies."
"Did they ever catch who did it?" Giovanni wished that he could tell her that she was wrong, that Gypsies had not murdered Claude Frollo. She'd throw a fit if she'd known that Phoebus had been the one to kill him.
"No, unfortunately. You know how crafty Gypsies are, dear boy. They killed Claude and his younger brother, and they got away with it!"
"That's…that's a shame," said Giovanni.
"Yes it is, dear boy, yes it is."
~xXx~
"That's wonderful news! Why on earth didn't you tell me sooner?"
Jean-Claude shrugged. "Because you would've made a joke about it."
"Oh come on," said René. "What would I have said? That I always knew you and Cosette would be bringing stern, solemn little babies into the world?" Jean-Claude groaned and rubbed his forehead, but René only smirked. "Well, I think a congratulatory drink is in order after we finish our shift."
"All right, but I can't stay out long. I promised Cosette I'd be home in time for supper."
"Has she got you on a leash, too?"
Jean-Claude glared at him. "I happen to love and respect her, and I promise to be home for supper. I certainly won't break my word to go out drinking with you."
"I'm sorry," said René. "I'll buy you a beer later, and then you can leave the tavern."
He found himself wondering why Jean-Claude hadn't told him about Cosette's pregnancy sooner. She was already four months along; in another five, Jean-Claude would be a proud father. They sat down in the tavern, and René signaled for the bartender to bring them two mugs of ale. "To you and Cosette," he said, "and your future bloodline."
"May it never thin."
They drank. René noticed that Jean-Claude drank his ale quickly, but he did not comment on it. After all, Jean-Claude wanted to get home to Cosette, and René couldn't really blame him. He supposed that if he had a wife as pretty as Cosette, he'd want to get home to her too. If he had a wife as pretty as Theresa, though, he'd never go out. He was thinking about her even as Jean-Claude left, thanking him for the drink hurriedly. René ordered another drink, staring into the mug and imagining Theresa dancing in the swirling foam.
He was startled to see her enter the tavern, and she looked equally stunned to see him sitting there at the bar. She took a few steps forward, hesitating; he could tell she was debating whether or not to turn and leave. He smiled at her, beckoning to her. She moved toward him, glancing over at the bartender as she did so.
"What brings you here?" he asked.
"I'm renting a room upstairs," she said. She did not look at him but instead waved to the bartender. He approached her, pulling a key from his apron. He handed it to her, and she thanked him.
"Perhaps you'd like to stay and have a drink with me?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No."
"Oh come on," he said, "I'll pay for it." She stared at him, biting her lower lip as if trying to decide. "Just sit with me for a few minutes," he said, "I won't bite, I promise."
"All right," she said, sitting down on the stool next to him. She crossed her legs, sitting rigidly, keeping a large gap between the two of them. He did not move to close it. She would leave the minute she felt uncomfortable, and then he'd never get a smile out of her.
"What would you like?"
"Tea."
He nodded to the bartender, who immediately busied himself with the hot water. He poured tea for Theresa, and she thanked him. She held the cup up to her face, inhaling the sweet smell from the tea. "You know, I didn't mean to frighten you yesterday."
"You didn't."
"But you ran away."
"It was raining."
"Do you always run in the rain?"
She looked at him, sipping her tea. She was not glaring darkly at him, shooting invisible daggers from her eyes, but she was not smiling either. He could sense the smile lurking beneath her lips, though, struggling to show itself. Why wouldn't she smile for him? "I didn't want to get wet," she said, "and besides, you were about to leave anyway."
"Yes, but I'd wanted to say a proper goodbye to you."
"Oh." She sipped her tea again. "I'm sorry."
"You have my forgiveness." She smiled at him. Her smile was a small, shy one, but it was a smile nonetheless. "You look so pretty when you smile."
"I should go." She set the teacup down; it was still full. He was tempted to reach for her, to take hold of her hand. Her cheeks were flushed; was she blushing?
"You're not done with your tea."
"I'm not thirsty," she said quickly. "Thank you, though."
He finished his beer. "Well, if you must go, I won't hold it against you. Goodnight, Theresa."
"Goodnight." She left quickly, her head held high. He watched her, digging into his coin pouch to pay the bartender. He glanced down at the still-full teacup, then picked it up and drank. This was the cup she had touched, the tea that had kissed her lips. He let the liquid slide down his throat even though it burned. Drinking her tea was probably as close as he would ever get to touching her.
~xXx~
The Gypsy girl – the one who danced with the bells on her sash, the one René was always shamelessly ogling – was outside the tavern when he left. She was on the other side of the door, reaching for the handle when he opened it, nearly hitting her in the face. She managed to jump back in time. She glared at him, and he found himself apologizing even though there was really no need to. She'd probably be safer from René's advances with a smashed face anyway.
Jean-Claude hurried away from her; he didn't find the thought amusing. He glanced over his shoulder, watching as she slipped into the tavern, her hips swaying in the dimming light. She had invaded his thoughts lately, and he hated himself for thinking about her. He was a married man. He had sworn to remain true to Cosette, and thinking about the Gypsy girl broke that vow. Perhaps it was because the Gypsy girl was so vastly different from his Cosette. The Gypsy girl was wanton and seductive, her dark eyes blazed as she shook her hips, inviting men to stare at her. She let her skirt swirl around her legs, she wore blouses that left her shoulders bare. Cosette would never do such things. Cosette, who never left the house without a shawl, who did not twirl and shake her hips and practically beg men to stare at her – Cosette was the woman he loved, not the Gypsy girl.
Still, he found himself thinking about the Gypsy girl, imagining what it would be like to touch her. With Cosette he was always gentle; he made love to her with tenderness. It was what she wanted, what she deserved. The Gypsy girl did not deserve love or tenderness, and she would not want it either. She would let him treat her roughly, would let him grope at her and pull her hair. Her eyes would burn and she would moan, and she would let him treat her like the whore that she was. The thoughts frightened him, made him hate himself. If Cosette knew, dear God, the sheer filth of his thoughts would kill her.
Jean-Claude was so lost in thought he hardly noticed when he bumped into the tall blonde man. It wasn't until the man apologized that Jean-Claude recognized him, and he felt his stomach clench. Katarina's husband was standing before him, staring at him blankly. He was dirty, and carried carpenters' tools slung over his shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Jean-Claude.
"Excuse me?"
"If Katarina sent you here to beg for money, you can forget about it," said Jean-Claude. He felt anger and hate rising up within him, and he cursed himself for seeking out his mother and sister. They had probably heard of his marriage to Cosette, had probably known that he'd finally inherited his late father's money. They probably wanted some, if not all, of it. They were Gypsies; greedy, dishonest Gypsies.
"No," said Giovanni. "I'm not here for your money."
"Then why are you here?"
"That's none of your business."
"As Captain of the Guard, it is my business," said Jean-Claude, "now tell me why you are here or I'll have you arrested."
"I'm here to visit someone," said Giovanni. He was glaring now, his blue eyes full of anger.
"Who?"
"My grandmother, if you must know."
"And where's Katarina?"
"She's in Lyon," said Giovanni. "She couldn't travel with the babies."
"You just left her?"
Giovanni squirmed uncomfortably. "I was told I could make some money here," he said.
"You aren't getting any from me – "
"I don't want your money," said Giovanni, spitting the words out. They were filled with the same hate and bitterness that lurked in his blue eyes. "I wouldn't want it even if you offered it to me."
He left, shoving past Jean-Claude as he headed in the direction of the tavern. Jean-Claude watched him go. He was tempted to go after him; after all, he could not let a Gypsy talk to him with such impudence. He was tired, though, and had promised Cosette he'd hurry home. He found that he missed her now, longed to be in her arms. He continued walking towards the house where she waited for him, bracing himself against the cold night air.
~xXx~
"Where've you been these last few nights?"
Quasimodo shrugged. He'd been avoiding Heracles for exactly this reason; Heracles would wonder where he'd been. He wasn't ashamed of being with Frieda. He wished he could tell the whole world that he loved her. She'd asked him not to tell her brother, Hans, and Quasimodo supposed that this was a good idea. He did not want any awkwardness or unpleasantness between himself and Hans. It would complicate things, and would strain the beautiful feeling that he shared with Frieda.
The nights he'd spent with her had been amazing and bizarre. Making love was so unlike anything he'd ever done before. It was beautiful and strange and terrifying at the same time. Frieda had moaned, crying out in German; she'd guided his hands, letting him touch her. Her body was Heaven in every sense of the word. The freckles on her skin were like stars, her shining red curls like a halo, her lips like salvation. They'd sat there afterwards, holding each other, panting. He'd known at that moment that she loved him and that he loved her back.
"Oh, just around." Quasimodo had never been a convincing liar. He knew that Heracles would see through the lie immediately, but he found himself hoping that Heracles wouldn't be curious enough to pursue the truth.
"Come on now, you haven't been with the rest of the roustabouts," said Heracles, grinning at him, "who's the lucky lady?"
Quasimodo sighed. Heracles would only continue to pester him if he didn't tell. "Listen, you can't tell a soul," he said, "especially not Hans."
Heracles's eyes widened. "Is it Frieda?"
"Yes."
Heracles laughed, and Quasimodo felt himself blushing. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or angry. Why on earth was Heracles laughing at him? Frieda was beautiful and wonderful and kind, and she loved him. What did Heracles have to laugh about? "You're secret's safe with me," he said.
Quasimodo glared at him. "You don't have to laugh."
"Look, I didn't mean it like that – "
"Oh yes, I know, it's hilarious. The hunchback falls for the legless woman – freaks all stick together, right?"
"No! No, it isn't that at all!" Heracles looked genuinely hurt, and Quasimodo wondered if he'd gone too far.
"Then what is it?"
"It's Hans," said Heracles, "you have nothing to worry about, you know. Hans would love to have you for a brother-in-law – "
"Oh, listen, Frieda and I aren't – I mean, we haven't discussed – well, Frieda asked me not to tell Hans…"
"He is a bit too protective of her," said Heracles. "You've heard him. It's always 'Frieda, use the cart I made you,' 'Frieda, you should be resting.' But he likes you well enough, and it isn't just because you earn him money." He hefted one of his great weights, balancing it on his shoulder. "He knows you're a good man. Any woman would be lucky to have you."
"Talking about yourself again, Heracles?" Quasimodo turned around. Frieda was coming towards them, smiling. He hoped that she hadn't overheard their entire conversation.
"No," said Heracles. He reached down, picking up another weight. "I was talking about your lover here."
Quasimodo felt his face grow warm and knew that it was crimson. He glanced at Frieda, hoping she wouldn't be furious with him. She looked up at him, still smiling wryly, and tugged on his pant leg. He picked her up, and she put her arms around his neck. "Well, if you told Heracles, then the whole circus will know in five minutes," she said, kissing his cheek. "He's a terrible gossip."
"That's not true!"
"Oh, don't deny it, Heracles," laughed Frieda. "You love to talk about other people almost as much as you love to talk about yourself."
Heracles set the weights down. "I suppose you're right," he said, smiling. He stretched his arms, then lifted the weights again, balancing one on each shoulder. He turned, moving carefully towards the main tent. "I'll see you two later," he called, "oh, and Quasimodo – don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Frieda was laughing again, and though he loved hearing her laugh, Quasimodo still felt the embarrassment and wished he could stop blushing. If Frieda wasn't embarrassed, then he shouldn't be either. He looked at her, smiling, and kissed her forehead.