The cathedral was heavily guarded from all sides. Giovanni had kept his distance when he'd circled the cathedral, taking care to stay in the shadows so that no one would see him. There was no way he could get in, and no way Theresa could get out. There were fewer guards at the rear of the cathedral. Giovanni was fairly certain that he could get past them if they weren't so heavily armed. A sword and armor was no match for one man with a knife, though, and he couldn't afford to die trying to enter Notre Dame.
He could not relax, not with Theresa being held hostage. He couldn't think of anything else to do. He certainly didn't have enough money to bribe one of the guards, and he doubted that he could buy their loyalty anyway. He'd seen the way they looked at Jean-Claude, the way they'd been so eager to obey his every command. Jean-Claude held power, and those who disobeyed him were subject to his wrath.
Jean-Claude believed that the accident in the marketplace had been caused by witchcraft. Maybe Giovanni could convince him that it hadn't been Theresa's doing. Maybe he could shift the blame onto someone else. It was wrong, oh, he knew it was wrong to point at someone else and accuse her the crime. Still, as long as Theresa wasn't the one to burn at the stake, as long as she was released and allowed to go back home…Giovanni wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to Theresa. Would he be able to if he allowed someone else to die in her place, though?
Giovanni wondered if it was he who should die in her stead. He could go to Jean-Claude and confess to everything, say that he had cast the spell. He found the thought repulsive; Jean-Claude would not show him any mercy simply because he was married to Katarina. No, Jean-Claude would have him executed, and then what would become of Katarina? Who would look after her and the babies? What of the twins? Could he really die never knowing them?
He brushed the thoughts away, watching as three guards entered the cathedral. He had noticed that guards would enter the cathedral every few hours, probably to make sure that Theresa was still in there. He hated thinking of them in there with her. He hated to think that they would taunt her and leer at her, that they'd make crude comments or try to entice her to leave the safety of the church. Theresa was a smart girl, she knew better than to leave Notre Dame. In fact, she'd been incredibly smart to run to it in the first place. Still, she was alone in the church, and she was also young and vulnerable. Giovanni bit his lip, watching as the great door slammed shut behind the three guards.
~xXx~
They would reach Lyon in a few days, and Heracles felt sure that the excitement would kill him. He couldn't wait to see Rosalie. He hoped she'd gotten his letters; true, she couldn't read, but she'd assured him that Clopin would read them to her. He wished she'd been able to write back, though with the circus constantly moving, it would have been impossible for him to receive a letter. He could be content knowing that she got his letters and that she enjoyed them, that they made her happy.
He had offered to stay behind, and she'd declined, as she always did. He'd asked her to come with him, and this she'd also declined, claiming that she needed to stay behind and look after Marie. Marie was a grown woman, she didn't need looking after, but Heracles hadn't argued. If Rosalie didn't want to leave the place she'd called home for the past ten years, he wouldn't pressure her or force her.
He wondered briefly if Marie was still seeing the Russian boy. He had been more than disturbed when he'd seen them together, though he was fairly certain that it had been worse for Quasimodo. He'd never seen Quasimodo so angry before, the way he'd grabbed the boy and slammed him into the tree, shouting at him. He sometimes wondered if he should have told Rosalie about Marie and the boy. Rosalie worried enough, though; she had her own pain to deal with, and besides, the boy hadn't been hurting Marie. Marie had been willing, had given her consent, and it seemed that the boy had been treating her tenderly.
The last time he'd seen Rosalie, she'd held his hand. She'd leaned against him and held his hand. They had stared out at the sky, watching the sun sink slowly beneath the horizon, and it had been nice to hold her hand. He'd wanted more, naturally; he'd wanted to hold her and kiss her, to stroke her hair. Perhaps some day she'd let him. For now, he was more than content to hold her hand.
"Why so silent, Heracles? Cat got your tongue?"
He glanced down at Frieda and smiled. These days, she was rarely away from Quasimodo. They made a good match; she was quick and clever and loud, he mild-mannered and creative. Quasimodo looked at her with love in his eyes, as though he adored her, and Heracles remembered once feeling that way about Frieda. Oh, it had been a long time ago, and while he'd loved her very much, he didn't particularly enjoy making love to her. She was so small, he was terrified he'd hurt her, and he hated the way she used to scratch him, digging her nails into his chest and shoulders. Frieda was his friend, not his lover, and he was glad she felt the same way.
"Just thinking," he said, "just lost in thought."
"Thoughts about Rosalie?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Heracles, you think of no one else," she laughed, tossing her flame-red curls. He stooped and picked her up, balancing her on his shoulder as he continued working.
"What can I say? I'm in love. Surely you know what that's like…"
"That I do, but can you tell me why Dierk and the twins know about it too?"
"I didn't tell a soul," said Heracles, "perhaps if you want to keep it a secret, you should stop kissing him in front of everyone."
Frieda laughed again. "Ah, put me down! I've got work to do, so I'll leave you to your thoughts."
He set her down and watched as she waddled away, letting his thoughts drift back to Rosalie, wondering if he'd get to hold her hand again.
~xXx~
She was beginning to hate the cathedral, at least during the day. Parishioners stopped and stared at her, glaring and shaking their heads in disapproval and disgust. She'd overheard at least five different people telling the priests that they should just throw her out, and this terrified her. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to keep living in the cathedral either. Was she doomed to spend her entire life within its walls?
Theresa had explored every inch of the cathedral, searching for places to hide. Lately soldiers had come into the cathedral. They marched through it, searching for her, claiming that they were making sure she hadn't escaped. As if she could ever escape! She'd considered hiding in the bell tower, but the bell ringer's gaze made her uncomfortable. He was a big, burly man, and he looked at her as though he could see through her clothes. The bell tower was completely empty except for him, and she had no desire to be alone with him.
She heard the door slam and looked up, hoping to see René. She found that she looked forward to his visits, and not just because he brought her food. She liked talking to him. She liked sitting on the floor with him. They took turns talking; she hadn't run out of stories to tell him, but he seemed disinterested in them. He preferred to hear her talk about her own life, and she told him about her family and friends.
She was stunned to see that René was not alone, but accompanied by two other soldiers. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, as though he'd rather be alone. She noticed that he was holding a small sack, and her stomach rumbled. She stepped out of her hiding place, staring at the soldiers.
"It seems the witch has stopped hiding from us," said one of the soldiers.
"Perhaps she'd like to surrender," said another one. He held out his hand mockingly, and she found herself stepping away from him. "Come now, little witch, surely you'd like to at least repent for what you've done?"
She swallowed, glancing at René. He would not meet her eye and looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He was her friend. Why on earth wasn't he standing up for her? "I haven't done anything," she said.
"That's a lie!"
"Well, what else would you expect from a Gypsy?"
"Come on," said René suddenly, "she's still in here, so we can go now."
The other guards looked at him. "We're in no hurry," said one of them, "and besides, we knew she'd still be here."
"She can't go anywhere."
"We're being paid to make sure she stays put, not to create a disturbance in the house of God," said René angrily. Theresa looked around. Several parishioners were staring at them, watching to see if the soldiers would arrest her. He pointed towards the door. "Come on."
The other guards were grumbling as they obeyed him, reluctantly turning and heading towards the door. René paused before following them, looking at her. She was stunned to see the hurt in his eyes; he looked ashamed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and following the other guards. He moved quickly, and Theresa almost didn't see him drop the small sack of food into a church pew. She went to the pew slowly, tiptoeing and trying to remain silent. She picked up the bag and opened it.
The bag contained bread, cheese, an apple, and a small bottle of milk. Theresa stared at the bottle of milk. Milk was expensive, it was almost a luxury. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had it, and she'd spent the majority of her life near farms. Milk was one thing that the farmers had never been willing to share. She glanced back at René in time to see the door close behind him.
She darted back to the alcove by the statue of the Virgin Mary. She sat, leaning against the wall, staring at the bottle of milk. She opened it and took a small sip. Why on earth would René spend this kind of money on her? Wine was cheaper, water was practically free. Did the milk mean that he liked her? Did it mean that he wanted something more than conversation? She drank the milk slowly, nibbling at the bread in between sips.
~xXx~
In his last letter, Heracles had mentioned passing back through France, and Rosalie wondered how soon he would reach Lyon. She found herself staring anxiously out at the road, wanting to see the circus caravans approaching. She couldn't say why, exactly, she wanted to see Heracles so badly. She supposed she'd grown fond of him. She'd always liked talking to him, listening as he told her of his travels. Her life felt ordinary and mundane compared with his, but he still sat and insisted she tell him everything that had happened to her.
She kept his letters folded in her pockets. She couldn't read them, but she would take them out and look at them every now and again, running her fingertips over the small black letters. She imagined him writing, his head bent in concentration. There were certain words that she could identify – her name and his, mostly. She liked to see her name written down; she imagined him writing it, moving the pen and ink slowly and carefully across the paper as he spelled her name. His letters all began the same way – Dearest Rosalie – and ended similarly, Love always, Heracles.
She knew that Clopin didn't like reading the letters, that they made him uncomfortable. He felt as though he was invading her privacy. She didn't mind terribly. There wasn't anything incredibly personal in the letters, nothing lewd or obscene either. Still, Cassandra was busy with the children, Martine and Jacques-Clopin, plus Dante, Musetta, and the twins. Katarina was in poor health; she tired easily and got headaches frequently. Rosalie had assumed that the symptoms were only in her mind, that they existed because she missed Giovanni.
She found herself missing Heracles. Part of her didn't want to see him; he would only leave her again. She wondered if she should accompany him, or ask him to stay. He loved to travel, loved the life that came with the circus and the open road. She did not want to take it away from him. Still, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave her life behind. She would miss Pierre and Marie, and they would miss her as well. She still felt the need to look after Marie. The girl was twenty, and Rosalie knew in the back of her mind that Marie could care for herself. Still, Marie was deaf, and she needed her mother. She did not have a regular trade; she often watched the rich woman's children in exchange for coins or vegetables, but that wasn't enough to live on. And she'd been hanging around Dmitri more than ever. Rosalie had seen them holding hands on more than one occasion, and this bothered her to no end. Dmitri was a nice boy, but Marie deserved better. She wondered how Marie could understand Dmitri; the boy spoke broken French, and his voice trailed off into Russian when he became confused or agitated.
Rosalie glanced over at Marie now. She was sitting with the rich woman's three children; they were playing some sort of game with little wooden dolls. Dmitri was sitting beside her, watching her with the children. One of the children handed him a doll, and he took it, moving it and making it dance with one of the other dolls. He said something to Marie, and she giggled behind her hand. She took the doll from Dmitri, her fingertips purposely brushing against his hand, and he smiled at her.
~xXx~
"She's very pretty. Pity she's a witch."
They were talking about Theresa, and it made his skin crawl. René tried desperately to ignore them; if he attempted to defend her, they'd only laugh at him, or worse, suspect him of helping her. Lately Jean-Claude had noticed him leaving the cathedral, had demanded to know why he'd been in there in the first place. René had lied to him, of course, had told him that he'd merely been checking the cathedral to make sure Theresa hadn't escaped. Now Jean-Claude sent men into the church every few hours.
"I wonder if Jean-Claude will let us help interrogate her."
"I'll bet she's far prettier when she cries."
The thought chilled René despite the day's oppressive heat. The very idea of Theresa locked in a dungeon horrified him. He knew that Jean-Claude would not be merciful, that he would use the most brutal methods he could think of to obtain a confession. He wouldn't care if it was a false confession or not. René could see it happening in his mind's eye and struggled to push the thoughts away. He saw Theresa strapped to the rack, saw Jean-Claude twisting the handle that made the machine work, heard Theresa screaming for mercy.
"Do you think he'll let us have a go at her before he executes her?"
"No, but we wouldn't have to tell him, would we?"
They were both laughing, and René wanted to strike them, to hurl them to the ground and smash their faces against the pavement until their blood ran into the gutters.
"Isn't it illegal to execute a virgin?"
"Ha, as if she is one!"
René had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at them. How they could even think of Theresa like his baffled him. They had no right to talk about her like this, like she was nothing but a whore, like she deserved to be tortured, raped, and executed for a crime she didn't commit. René doubted that there even was a crime. Cosette had miscarried. It was something that happened, just a horrid part of nature. What if it had been Theresa who'd miscarried, would anyone cry witchcraft? No. They'd probably blame Theresa for her own miscarriage, and only because she was a Gypsy.
René knew that she didn't like it in the cathedral, but it was the safest place for her. As long as she stayed within its walls, she'd be free from harm. He could still sneak in with food for her; he was fairly certain she'd seen him drop the sack full of bread and cheese into an empty church pew. Perhaps in time Jean-Claude would realize he was making a mistake, and he would let Theresa go.
He stood by the rear door, leaning against it, waiting for time to pass. Once he was relieved of his duty, he could go into the cathedral and see Theresa. He found himself desperately wishing that he could talk to her; standing guard was, and always had been, mindless and boring. He found himself thinking about Theresa, carrying on elaborate conversations with her in his head. He remembered her laugh, the way she covered her mouth with her hands, smiling at him beneath her fingertips. He loved seeing her smile.
~xXx~
He had noticed a difference in René. He didn't laugh and joke as much as he once had; he'd become dry and humorless, almost overnight. Jean-Claude wondered if it had anything to do with the Gypsy in the cathedral. He'd seen René talking with her, had asked him about it. René had lied to him, of course, claiming that he'd been questioning the girl. The girl didn't need to be questioned! Her guilt was plain to see, and the minute she set foot outside of the cathedral, Jean-Claude could get a confession out of her. He was fairly certain that showing her the rack would be enough to make her talk, but he knew he wouldn't stop at that. The rack, the boot, the scavenger's daughter – they all waited in the dungeons for her, and they would all be stained with her blood by the time he was through with her.
The girl had been in the cathedral for exactly three days. Hunger should have driven her from its safety by this point. Jean-Claude knew that the priests and parishioners weren't feeding her; it was clear that all the parishioners hated her, that they thought she was a witch. Perhaps someone else was. Perhaps she was bribing someone in to bringing her food. Jean-Claude was certain that she had no money, but knowing her kind, she wouldn't use it as a bribe anyway. No, she was probably whoring herself out in exchange for something to eat, undermining the justice that he was striving for.
It barely mattered. She was bound to try to leave sooner or later, and he would be waiting for her when she did. As for whoever was helping her, she'd give him up once she was properly introduced to the rack. As much as Jean-Claude hated the idea that one of his own soldiers was betraying him, as much as it sickened him, he vowed to execute whoever it was without mercy.
He watched the cathedral now, thinking of Cosette, desperately hoping that executing this witch would undo her pain. Cosette, who was beautiful and virtuous, did not deserve to suffer so. Jean-Claude knew it was blasphemy to blame God, to hate Him, but He had allowed Cosette to suffer. Jean-Claude now swore that Cosette would be avenged, and that the filthy Gypsy witch who'd hurt her so would die screaming in endless agony. Though God had allowed Cosette to suffer, He would not allow the Gypsy any respite; she would be cast into the darkest pits of Hell for her crime. Jean-Claude supposed that the thought comforted him, if only a little.
He entered the cathedral as the guards changed shifts. He slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dimness quickly. He did not see the Gypsy girl right away, but he did see René. René was moving through the cathedral quickly, as if he had a definite purpose, and Jean-Claude followed him. He lingered a few paces behind René, staying in the shadows, watching as René approached the Gypsy girl.
She turned to him. She did not look completely trusting, but there was a certain easiness in her eyes when she looked at him. He was saying something to her that Jean-Claude could not hear, but it hardly looked like he was questioning or interrogating her. It looked for all the world like he was flirting with her. Had René been bringing her food? Was René the one who had betrayed him, had betrayed Cosette as well? Jean-Claude watched, too stunned to move, and felt hate and anger rising up within him.