He knew that the letter wouldn't reach his uncle right away. It would take a week, minimum. Still, he had no other options. He couldn't very well leave Theresa and go to Lyon to fetch help; that would only take longer. He honestly didn't know if his aunt and uncle even could help, but they had every right to know what was happening.
Giovanni waited at the crossroads for well over an hour. He knew that the foreman would not be happy, that he would probably be fired, but he didn't care. Work was not important, had never been. Theresa and her safety was what mattered the most. Once she was safe and sound, they would leave Paris and never look back.
He was more than relieved when a merchant came by with a wagon full of goods. The merchant was on his way to Lyon, and he agreed to take Giovanni's letter and deliver it. Giovanni watched as he rode out of sight, wishing that he could feel a bit more relieved.
~xXx~
They were moving through France, heading back towards Lyon, and Quasimodo found that he wasn't sure how he felt. The idea of seeing Esmerelda again was discomforting. What if he saw her and fell in love with her again? What if this happened and then Frieda found out? She'd be furious and crushed, and Quasimodo couldn't bear the thought of hurting her like that. She was so sweet and kind; she would never hurt him.
"I'm not sure if I want to go back through Lyon," he said.
"Well, Heracles is looking forward to it," said Frieda.
"He just wants to see Rosalie again."
"Yes, but he misses everyone else, too. Surely you miss them?"
"Well, yes, I do…it's just…I don't know…"
"Is it Esmerelda?"
Quasimodo had never mentioned Esmerelda to Frieda, and he stared at her now. She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a familiar-looking pouch on a string. Quasimodo had stopped carrying the little carving of Esmerelda everywhere with him. He stared at it, wondering how Frieda had gotten hold of it.
"It's a lovely figurine," she said, opening the pouch and pulling out the little wooden figure. "It does look just like her."
"It – it was a long time ago, Frieda," he said quickly, "and nothing ever happened between us – she loves Phoebus, always has – "
"Quasimodo, I don't care," she said. She put the figure down on the table and took hold of his hands. "I know you used to love her, but I don't care."
"You…you don't?"
She shook her head. "I've been in love before," she said. "I used to love Heracles."
"What?" The idea of Frieda with Heracles, the idea of him touching her and kissing her, made Quasimodo even more uncomfortable. Heracles, who was tall and handsome and claimed to have been with half the women in Europe – Heracles wasn't someone Frieda would want. He was too cocky, too full of himself. How could she have fallen for someone like that?
"It didn't work out," she said, as if reading his mind, "and even though I lost a lover, I gained a good friend." She touched Quasimodo's face, and he felt himself leaning into her hand despite his disgust. "You're different, Quasimodo. You're…you're both a lover and a friend."
"I am?"
She nodded. "And I hope that I'm the same to you."
"You are," he said, touching her hand. He lifted her with his free hand, scooping her up into his arms. He barely noticed when she dropped the little figure of Esmerelda. "Frieda, you mean everything to me."
She kissed him. "I love you."
"I love you too."
~xXx~
He did not want to leave Cosette alone, but he had no other options. True, the cathedral was heavily guarded, but he wanted to be the one to arrest the Gypsy witch. He wanted to be the one to fasten the shackles to her narrow wrists, to drag her into a dungeon and hurl her to the ground. He wanted to be the one to interrogate her, to make her confess to her crimes. He would make her scream as much as Cosette had when she'd lost the baby.
Cosette was standing at her wardrobe, her back to him as she fastened the buttons on her dress. Jean-Claude watched her. Her fingers were thin and delicate, working the buttons with ease. He pulled on his uniform and went to her, placing his hands on her waist as he'd done so many times before. She turned to him; she had washed the tearstains from her face. For a moment, it felt like an ordinary day.
"I love you," he said, stroking her hair, letting his fingertips trail along her cheek. He thought of their wedding night, of the way he'd held her and kissed her. God, it had been so beautiful. Could that beauty ever be regained? Had the baby's death forever marred it?
"And I you," she said, turning and kissing his hand.
He let go of her reluctantly. He did not want to leave her side, not even for an instant, but he knew that he couldn't be in two places at once. He would go to Notre Dame and he would wait for the Gypsy witch to leave. He would arrest her, and her execution would undo the curse she'd cast. Once she was dead, the beautiful, loving feeling that he and Cosette shared could be regained.
~xXx~
She did not remember falling asleep, but the sound of footsteps on the floor woke her. Theresa sat up, rubbing her eyes, looking around groggily. For a brief instant, she had forgotten where she was, and she wondered why she was not in her bed at the inn. She looked up at the statue that towered over her; Virgin Mary, holding the baby Jesus in her arms, stared down at her calmly. Theresa stared up at the statue, suddenly remembering where she was and why she was there.
"Hello."
She turned, startled by the voice. René was standing before her, glancing nervously over his shoulder, as though he was about to do something wrong. Theresa scrambled to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "What do you want?" she asked. A sharp, stabbing pain flared up in her throat. She remembered that she'd spent most of the previous night crying, and now wondered if her sobs were the cause of the pain.
René held out his hand. He was holding an orange. Her stomach rumbled, and the incessant hunger she'd felt since the previous night came back almost instantly. Theresa grabbed the orange, tearing at the peel with her nails. She bit into it, attacking it ravenously. The juice was smearing her hands, dribbling down her chin and onto her blouse, but she didn't care. The orange tasted so wonderful, so amazing.
"You can't tell anyone about this," said René.
Theresa stared at him, suddenly realizing what he had done. He had given her food even though it was forbidden. He would want something in return; he was a soldier, after all. Soldiers always wanted one thing from women, and they would do anything to get it. He knew that she had no money. She hadn't thought to grab the little purple hat full of coins when she'd fled the marketplace. It would not even be in the marketplace. Someone had undoubtedly picked it up. She had nothing to give him, and he knew this.
She glanced down at her wrists now, noticing the way her bracelets glinted in the light. She had always been told that they were made of real gold, and surely her parents wouldn't lie about this. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken them off. She pulled at one, wincing as it scraped her hand. She held it out, offering it to René. "Here," she said. "I don't have any money, but it's made of real gold – "
"No, I can't – "
"I'm not giving myself to you," she said. "If – if that's what you want, then get out of here and take your food with you."
"No, no, of course not! I'd never – "
"Then what do you want?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"Why would you bring me food, when you know you aren't supposed to, if you don't want something in return?"
"Well, I suppose there is one thing I'd like…" She couldn't bring herself to reply. She'd already eaten half of the orange. He knew this, of course, and would use it to get what he wanted from her. He had practically bought her for half of an orange. Theresa glared at him, struggling not to cry. "I'd like your companionship, I suppose."
She shook her head. "No," she said. "No. I will never – "
"That isn't what I meant!" he said, stepping away from her. "That isn't what I meant at all! I want to talk to you, that's all."
She stared at him, then at the remnants of the orange she held in her hand. "You'll come by and give me food if I talk to you?"
"Yes."
"About what?"
He shrugged. "Anything," he said, "you said your father was a storyteller, surely you must know some of his stories…"
"I know them all."
René smiled at her, then sat down. "I have an hour," he said, motioning for her to sit across from him. She sat, sliding back, keeping her distance from him. "And I have another orange." He reached into his satchel and pulled out an orange and a peach. Theresa found herself staring longingly at the fruit and felt ashamed. Still, if he only wanted a story in exchange for the food…that wasn't an unreasonable request. She could tell a story or two, and she certainly was hungry.
"All right," she said. "Once upon a time…"
~xXx~
Esmerelda had been avoiding her; she was very certain of this, and wondered what she'd done to warrant this treatment. Cassandra wracked her brain. She had never insulted Esmerelda, had never even thought anything bad about her. Esmerelda, after all, had selflessly saved her virtue and her life. It was not an event that Cassandra would ever forget, and she was eternally grateful to her.
She found herself wondering if this was the cause of Esmerelda's bitter silence. She had never mentioned it to Esmerelda, had never really thanked her. She had always avoided the subject. The men were all dead, the nightmare was over, everyone could lead a normal, happy life. Still, Cassandra knew that she was the reason Esmerelda had had to endure thirteen years of being married to Claude Frollo.
"Esmerelda?"
Esmerelda glanced at her, but did not look her in the eye. "Hello," she said. "Is there something you want?" Her voice was smooth and even, emotionless.
"I…never mind…it's nothing…" There was something clearly wrong, and Cassandra suddenly didn't want to get to the bottom of it. She did not want to dredge up the past, did not want to relive it, and she knew that Esmerelda felt the same way. She turned to go. She felt stupid for coming to Esmerelda in the first place.
"Cassandra, wait." She turned around, surprised that Esmerelda was actually looking at her. Her gaze made her intensely uncomfortable. "I…I know that you were the girl they brought in…"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry for what happened – "
"Listen, it isn't your fault," said Esmerelda. "He…he would have killed everyone in that dungeon – "
"But – "
"I…why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Cassandra shrugged. "I thought you knew," she said, "I just…I didn't want to…I didn't want to bring it up…"
"Well, I understand that." Esmerelda stared at her. She smiled, "Clopin married you. You've very lucky."
"Why?" Cassandra had noticed the sudden shift in Esmerelda's tone and found bitterness rising up within her.
"Well, I mean, he's a good man…it was sweet of him to marry you – "
"You think he married me because he pitied me?" Cassandra found herself shouting, but she didn't care. She didn't care if the entire world heard her or if it offended Esmerelda. "He married me out of love!"
"I – I didn't mean – "
"No one would talk to me after it happened! No one would even look at me! Do you know what they said about me? 'Damaged goods,' that's what they said! As if my virtue was the only thing that mattered!"
"Cassandra, please, I didn't mean it like that – "
"You were there! You saw what happened and what didn't happen! You…you of all people…" She noticed the tears in Esmerelda's eyes and let her voice trail off. Angry as she was, she did not want to inflict pain upon someone who had already suffered so much. She knew that stirring up the past would only hurt the both of them.
"I'm sorry," said Esmerelda. "That isn't what I meant at all." She sighed. "Clopin is a good man. He…he's my best friend, he's like a brother to me. I just never thought he'd marry. He always said marriage was too ordinary, you know? He always said, 'what's the point of an ordinary life? What's the point of a life without adventure?' I suppose you changed his mind."
Cassandra laughed. "He really used to say that?"
Esmerelda nodded. "I wish I'd been there for your wedding. Tell me, was he nervous?"
"I suppose so," said Cassandra, "but you know what really terrified him? Getting my father's consent!" Esmerelda laughed, tossing her thick black hair. "And after he'd asked my father, my brothers came by and told him that if his intentions weren't pure, they'd kill him."
"Oh stop! They didn't!"
Cassandra nodded. "They did." Clopin had been roughly the same age as her oldest brother, Barnabas; Clopin, however, had a slender, almost stringy build, while her brothers had large, thick, muscular bodies. Their protectiveness had always irritated her to a certain extent, but it was their way of showing their love for her. After marrying Clopin, they had become less protective, interfering less and less with her. She supposed that Clopin had taken their place as her protector.
Esmerelda laughed even harder. "It's a wonder they didn't scare him away."
Cassandra could remember the exact moment Clopin had proposed to her, and it always embarrassed her to a certain extent. It had not been a romantic, thoughtful moment. It had happened in his caravan; she remembered kissing him, pressing her lips against his and closing her eyes as he took her in his arms. She remembered wanting him, the feeling of lust rising up inside of her, threatening to consume them both. She remembered his hands on her breasts, his lips against her neck, she remembered grabbing at his belt buckle, fumbling with it, remembered him suddenly pushing her hands away, looking at her. This isn't right…I should marry you first. His eyes had been full of an earnestness she'd never seen in anyone before, and she'd suddenly known that he loved her as much as she loved him.
~xXx~
Standing outside of the cathedral, guarding it, was extremely boring, and René found his thoughts wandering to Theresa. She certainly didn't seem like a witch. She had a certain sweetness to her, as though she'd never hurt anyone or anything. He was starting to wonder if Jean-Claude had made a mistake in accusing her. Perhaps she hadn't been the one to cause the miscarriage. Perhaps it had been someone else. The marketplace had been full of Gypsies; perhaps one of them had cast the spell and framed Theresa. She certainly didn't seem guilty. She looked so small and helpless; if she'd been the one to do it, wouldn't she be proud of herself? And if she had done it, surely the sheer darkness of the deed would prevent her from even looking at a church, let alone hiding in one.
She'd been so nervous, so frightened, standing across from him, watching him as she devoured the orange. She'd eaten it quickly, sloppily, like an animal. For an instant she'd been feral and wild, like a trapped cat. He remembered the stark fear in her eyes when he'd asked for something in return. She'd had every right to be afraid, he now realized. She'd probably been told all sorts of horror stories about soldiers, that they were cruel and ruthless, that they were all rapists. She had probably thought he would force himself on her, that he'd demand her body as payment for a piece of fruit.
The thought sickened and offended him. True, he was a soldier, and there was a certain ruthlessness to him; he showed no mercy on the battlefield. Still, to think that he would molest her in a church of all places, that he would use her hunger to blackmail her, the thought was base and perverse, and he found himself hating her for thinking it. He didn't want her to starve, did that make him a bad person? True, he was disobeying a direct order (Jean-Claude could cry treason and have him executed), but he couldn't bear the thought of her starving to death for something she had nothing to do with.
René had enjoyed talking to Theresa. She became more animated when she told stories, moving her hands and giving different voices to her characters. Her stories were unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Talking animals, brave little peasants, fearsome monsters, and beautiful princesses spewed forth from her mouth. He was amazed that her father had created all the stories himself.
"It's much better when I use puppets," she said.
"Puppets?"
She nodded. "My father's got a hundred marionettes at least," she said, "he always uses them when he tells a story."
René could imagine her thin fingers expertly manipulating the strings, making the puppet dance through the air. He found himself wondering what it would be like to hold her hand, to run his fingertips over hers. She'd smiled at him, laughed while she'd talked; she'd looked so happy. He liked seeing her when she was happy, he liked the idea that he could make her happy. He wondered now when Jean-Claude would show up. Perhaps he could convince him that he'd made a mistake. Surely someone else had caused Cosette's miscarriage, and they couldn't apprehend the guilty party if they were still focused on Theresa.