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by Therese
The bells of Notre Dame rang Prime in the chilly, early morning air. Clopin's painted wagon was parked in his favorite spot, in the shadow of the cathedral. It was cold enough, and early enough, that no one stopped, or troubled him. The only people in the streets at this hour were there because they had to be, and they all had better things to do than watch a puppet show.Sitting crosslegged on the wagon floor, Clopin was playing tailor, stitching up the loose threads on a scowling, cloth replica of the city's late Minister of Justice. It was hardly light enough inside for him to see what he was doing, but that didn't stop him from giving the needle a sadistic twist or two as he jabbed it through the puppet.
"You," he jerked the thread tight, "have been almost more trouble to me dead than you were alive. If it were not for the gold you bring in, I believe I would drop you into a pit of real fire and be done with you." Biting off the thread with his teeth, Clopin squinted at his handiwork and, satisfied, planted the needle right between the Minister's eyes. "What do you say to that, Master Claude?"
"Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!" squeaked a falsetto voice, and Clopin's miniature, puppet lookalike lunged at the Frollo puppet and beat him over the head with a papier-mache torch.
"Ah, but think of the profit he brings us," Clopin sighed.
"Burn him!"
"I haven't drawn such crowds in years..."
"Burn him!"
"And all they want to see is the Death of Claude Frollo."
"Bu-u-u-urn him!" shrieked the puppet.
"Perhaps someday," Clopin mused, regarding the Frollo puppet thoughtfully. "But, not quite yet, I think."
Getting to his feet, Clopin tossed the Minister of Justice back into his usual bin, and glanced outside to see what sort of morning it was turning into. His attention was snagged at once by the familiar shape and gait of a woman hiking across the square with a hefty market basket on her arm. He had to whistle twice to get her attention, but, once she finally noticed him, she changed course and headed toward him.
"You're out early this morning, Madame," he greeted her.
"I have to be," Therese grumbled, squeezing herself and the basket through the door he held open for her. "This time of year, if you're not at the market by dawn, there's nothing left that's fit to eat. I hate winter. Look at that!" she drew something from the basket and waved it at him. "What do you suppose that is?"
"It would appear to be a turnip."
"That's what M. Piquet calls it, too, but I have my doubts."
Clopin's laughter bounced off the low ceiling. "Therese, I do love you."
"You do not," she answered him automatically.
"You always tell me that," he brushed her nose with his finger and pinched her chin, "but, I do! You are so charmingly predictable."
"Well, there's a compliment," she remarked.
"It's the truth!" he insisted. "If I meet you coming from the market, you wave things at me and tell me how dreadful they are. Predictable! If I show you any attention in public, you swat at me and tell me to stop it. Predictable!" Therese was shaking her head at him, but he could hear that soft, smothered chuckle dancing around in her throat as he slipped his arms around her under her cloak and nudged her back toward the wall. "But," his voice grew soft and sly, "when I show you the same attentions in some dark corner..."
"Don't you start with me," she warned, but she was giggling in a way that would have astonished anyone else.
"That's exactly what you always say," he finished, just before his mouth closed over hers.
Clopin loved women. He always had and always would. He loved them the way Therese loved food, for their infinite richness and variety. Playing favorites was a trap he refused to be drawn into, but Therese held her own special place at his banquet table. There was something particularly satisfying in prying open her crusty shell to get at the tender bits inside. That, he considered, and the fact that she was simply so much fun to tease...
"And, of course," he resumed, once his lips were far enough from hers to allow him to speak, "when I say I love you, you say--"
"You do not," she was laughing this time. "You don't, Clopin; not really," she pushed him away enough to take his face in her hands. "You don't have to; I've never expected it. I'm not saying you aren't fond of me, or that you don't enjoy my company, but you know you don't truly love me."
"Therese, you are entirely too particular about these things. Simply because my affections for you do not fit precisely into your tidy romantic ledger, you dismiss them. I do love you." He put his hand over her mouth before she could spout her usual retort. "I am not teasing you this time. And, like it or not, you love me, too."
"Phah! I don't love anyone, and you know it."
"Ah, my delectable oyster, are you certain? After all, a respectable lady would never permit a man she did not love to do this..."
Therese didn't bother to argue, but gave herself up (exactly as he could have predicted she would) to his lips until she was glowing a most contented shade of pink. At last, she sighed and, with that sweet, blooming smile that was worth all the effort it took to coax out of her, said, "You are bound and determined to make a fool of me, Clopin, but that is one pleasure I will not give you."
"Considering all the other pleasures you have given me, I think I can live without that one."
Madame Darbois had more market-vendors to torment and more games of guess-the-vegetable to play, and, with a few parting endearments, she took her leave of him. Feeling much warmer and brighter than he had before, Clopin set about opening up his theatre for the first show of the day. Already, more people were traversing the square, and those who knew him gave him a nod, or a wave, or a good morning. Half a dozen ragged children, some of his own tribe, some poor Paris urchins, assembled under his window like a flock of sparrows, and he chatted and joked with them while he worked. All the time, Clopin had an eye open for someone, and he was soon rewarded. A soldier on horseback plodded into the square, and advanced slowly toward the wagon. He seemed intent on taking up as much space, and inconveniencing as many pedestrians, as possible, and glowered at every face he saw, even those in baby bonnets or monk's hoods, as if they were the most degenerate scoundrels ever to walk the earth, and he was half inclined to arrest them on the spot. The Sergeant (for a sergeant he was) was a blocky, awkward looking chunk of a man, and it took a second glance to realize how young he was, thanks in main to the nose that had been broken more than once, and the various scars he wore as a testament to his belligerent temper.
He rode up to the wagon, and only by a quick flight to safety did the little sparrows avoid being kicked out of the way.
"Good morning, Sergeant Grosjean," Clopin beamed at him.
The Sergeant carried a weighty truncheon which played a pleasant tune for him when he thumped it against something. He tried its pitch against the window frame. "Listen to me, you insolent dog. If I see that damned Frollo thing again today, the Minister of Justice will be playing puppeteer with your head. You hear me?" He slammed the truncheon against the wagon again.
"Sergeant, look around you," Clopin suggested. "Such a pleasant morning, so many happy people going about their business. Is it really necessary of you to start a riot? That is what you are proposing, you know."
"Don't try your tricks with me, you madman."
"If I do not present them with 'Claude Frollo in Hell,' my audience will save you the trouble of hanging me. Trust me, I've tried it. If you attempt to deprive them of their little amusement -- well, we all remember what happened last week."
Grosjean scowled down at him, but the horse shuffled a bit farther away from the wagon. "We'll see if they do the same to Captain Montblanc," the Sergeant threatened.
"Oh, will you bring him around today?" Clopin smiled sweetly. "You promised to bring him last time, but I never saw him. I am so looking forward to making his acquaintance."
"He'll be here. We'll see how he likes your puppet show." With a kick and a growl and a wave of his staff at the urchins, who were still milling about, the soldier steered his horse off into the crowd.
The children jeered and waved him goodbye.
"What a charming young man," Clopin chuckled.
"I hate him." "He's mean." chirped the sparrows.
"He can't help himself," said Clopin. "Sergeant Grosjean is entrusted with keeping the peace, and he will do it if he has to break every head in Paris. I hope he does bring the Captain around today; that might turn into a better show than 'Frollo in Hell.'"
"Aw, nothing's better than ‘Frollo in Hell,'" opined one of the urchins, who began to hop about and sing, "Ohhhhh, you're going to Hell, Claude Frollo, We're saving a spot just for you, Your life was spent praying to Heaven, Now come give the Devil his due..." The other sparrows had joined in and were dancing in a circle while the little puppet Clopin directed them. And so the first crowd of the day began to assemble.
At the Palace of Justice, Sergeant Grosjean swung down from his horse and bullied his way through the front door. At the far end of the great hall, two men stood, talking. The taller man's breastplate gleamed golden in the reflected light of the fire.
"Captain!" the Sergeant shouted, his rough voice echoing off the stone walls.
The Breastplate merely looked in his direction, but the smaller man, whose trappings marked him as either a high-ranking servant or low-ranking official, scurried toward the intruder, gesturing silence with his arms and "SHHUSSSHHH!"-ing as loudly as he could.
"Don't shush me, you toad; I have business with the Captain."
"What is it, Sergeant?" Captain Guy Montblanc was roughly the same age as his predecessor, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, but there his resemblance to the deposed Sun God ended. He was a husky, lantern-jawed, barrel-chested man, and his bald head shone almost as brightly as his polished helmet. There was a downward tilt to his blue eyes that gave him an expression of mild melancholy, but there was nothing soft about his bearing, as he stood with his fists planted on either side of his belt and scowled at the interruption.
With a perfunctory salute, Grosjean announced, "He's back, Sir."
"Who is back?" sighed the Captain.
"That madman, Clopin! The one I told you about."
The Captain finally placed 'Clopin the Madman.' "The puppeteer?"
"He's making a mockery of the Minister of Justice and inciting the people to riot!"
The petty official had come scampering on the heels of the Sergeant, shushing all the way, and now exclaimed, "Heaven protect us! Captain, he can't do that! The Minister won't like it!"
"Not this Minister," Montblanc informed him. "The old one. The deceased one. Who, I gather, was not a popular figure to begin with."
"Still," fussed the official, "you had better go and do something about it--"
"You're not getting rid of me that easily, M. Bouyer." Captain Montblanc did his best impression of a stone wall, and the official wrung his hands anxiously.
"You won't get in, Captain; not this morning. You're wasting your time. I told you, if you would come back, oh, after Nones..."
Montblanc held up a hand to silence the man, and addressed Grosjean. "You're dismissed, soldier."
"But, Captain--"
"If it's that important, wait outside and I will speak to you when I'm done here. Dismissed," he repeated, sternly, and the Sergeant, grumbling, beat a retreat.
The Captain stood immovable until he and the official were once again alone, then he turned and paced to the fireplace. "Devil take it, Bouyer, you've told me that twice already. I've been here morning, noon and night; the Minister has to see me some time!"
Bouyer sniffed at this. "Judge Larrieux does not have to do anything, sir!"
"If that drunken lapdog is a Judge," growled Guy Montblanc, "I am the brute who rings the bells at Notre Dame. I will be back after Nones, as you say. See that your master is out of his bed by then."
With a clank of his sword and a flash of his armor, the Captain stalked toward the door. As he walked the length of the room, his hand closed around a trinket that hung from his belt, a simple disc, adorned with a faded image. At first glance, it might have been the medallion of some saint; the painted portrait of a girl's face, her sweet expression barely discernable, worn to little more than a few golden curls and a pair of clear, blue eyes. The soldier's rough glove touched it gently, and he muttered under his breath, "Juliette, I wish I knew what to do with these men..."
"Claude Frollo In Hell" was underway by the time Captain Montblanc and Sergeant Grosjean rode into sight of the puppet wagon. A jolly mob of thirty or so, not counting the children, were booing and jeering as the Evil Frollo waved his papier-mache torch at the Esmeralda puppet, who was tied to a stick. Montblanc stopped his horse near enough to see and hear the play, but at a distance calculated not to alarm the crowd. Grosjean would have ridden into the midst of them, but the Captain motioned sharply at him to stay back. "You brought me to see a puppet play, Sergeant," he remarked under his breath; "let me see it."
Clopin proceeded through a dramatic re-enactment of the rescue of Esmeralda, and the siege of the Cathedral, while the audience watched raptly, even though most had seen the play before, and not a few had lived through the actual events. Frollo chased Esmeralda and Quasimodo around the cathedral towers, whacking at them with his sword, until he tumbled over the side and was left dangling from a snarling Gargoyle. The puppet Gargoyle came to life, and hurled the puppet Frollo into the abyss, as a flash and a puff of red smoke obscured the stage. When the smoke cleared, the scene had changed from the facade of Notre Dame to the fiery pits of Hell, and Frollo was looking around in terror as the puppet Clopin, decked out in horns and tail, danced around him. "What is this terrible place?" the cowering Frollo whimpered, and the crowd began to clap in unison as the puppet Clopin launched into his song. "Ohhhhh, welcome to Hell, Claude Frollo! We've been waiting for you for so long. You thought you were righter than righteous, but now you've found out you were wrong! You tortured and killed honest people, you burned their poor homes to the ground, You sought a reward up in Heaven, now see the reward you have found. Ohhhh, welcome to Hell, Claude Frollo..."
The whole crowd joined in on the chorus this time, and laughed at the devils who beat and poked the hapless Judge. "You see," Grosjean turned to his Captain. "This goes on every day."
"Mmm," Montblanc nodded, and waved him to silence. A few more verses of the song, and the play came to an end. The crowd applauded as Clopin's miniature actors took their bows, and the more prosperous members of the audience chucked a few coins up onto the puppet stage. Captain Montblanc sat at attention, watching the crowd closely, but, far from picking up torches and pitchforks and marching on the Palace of Justice, they dispersed, and, with a bit of pleasant chatter, went about their business. "Well, Sergeant," the Captain noted dryly, "it would appear that we have successfully quelled your riot."
"He's a dangerous lunatic!" Grosjean insisted. "He belongs in a dungeon, not out on the streets, corrupting the people with his nonsense."
With a nod at the puppet stage, Montblanc answered, "I won't guess where the old Minister's gone to, but I've heard this same story of what he did to Paris, and to Notre Dame, from half a dozen witnesses, including the Archdeacon, himself. Shall I arrest him, too? There aren't enough cells in Paris to lock up every beggar and street performer, Sergeant, and I'm sure you can find enough murder and robbery in this city to occupy your attention."
"I'll speak to the Minister of Justice, myself," Grosjean threatened.
"You do that, Sergeant. And when you see him, give him my regards."
With a grunt, Sergeant Grosjean spurred his horse and charged off down the street, scattering people as he went. Captain Montblanc watched him go, then rode over to the Gypsy wagon. He was not surprised to find that the puppeteer had had his eye on the two of them, and now gave him a pleasant, "Good morning."
"You are Clopin?"
"And you must be Captain Montblanc. The good Sergeant has been promising to introduce us for some time now. A pleasure to meet you."
"The good Sergeant tells me that you are a dangerous character."
"Did he also tell you I am a madman? Because I speak to my little friends here as if they were alive, and I do not cower in the face of his mighty wrath?"
"Sergeant Grosjean is an officer of the law," Montblanc informed him, "and you would do well not to bait him."
"Captain," Clopin offered a conciliatory smile, "my only interest is in being allowed to go about my own business and make a little living for myself. Something the late Minister Frollo was unwilling to let me do. I don't want trouble with you, and you don't want trouble with me. Do we agree?"
"You'd have less trouble, I think, if you chose a different tale to tell."
"I wish I could," Clopin sighed. "Believe me, I would have given up on ‘Frollo In Hell' a month ago, but they won't let me! It's all anyone wishes to see. I fear the late Minister of Justice was not well-loved."
"So I've heard. I understand there was an altercation here the other day, though."
"Alterca--" Clopin pondered, then said, "Oh, this is the Sergeant speaking again, isn't it? Captain, you must be well acquainted with him by now. Well enough to know that he tends to, ahm, over-react to things. There is nothing more infuriating to him than the sight of honest citizens enjoying themselves. He interrupted my performance just as Frollo was dangling from the gargoyle and began stomping about and ordering everyone to go home. It was I who restored order; I have no desire to visit the Palace of Justice, believe me. But, it was the crowd who persuaded your Sergeant to allow me to finish the play. That, Captain, was the extent of your altercation."
Captain Montblanc observed the gypsy narrowly, and considered his words. Absently, his hand strayed to his belt, and he fingered the painted talisman again, as if he hoped to derive some knowledge from it. This did not escape Clopin's attention.
"An interesting ornament. A sweetheart of yours, no doubt?" Clopin winked.
Guy Montblanc's face flushed red. "That is not your concern." He turned away to shield the portrait from the man's leering eyes. Holding his head high, the soldier scowled at the puppeteer. "I am charged with keeping order in this city, and order I shall keep. I see no cause to arrest any man for watching a puppet show, but--"
"You had better explain that to Sergeant Grosjean, my friend," Clopin interrupted.
"Sergeant Grosjean will answer to me," the Captain said through his teeth. "But, if there is another 'altercation' here, I will be glad to introduce you to the new Minister of Justice, and you won't find him to be a lover of the theatre."
"...and you won't find him to be a lover of the theatre!" It was Clopin who intoned these ominous words, for the benefit of his friend, Madame Darbois. He had come by Chez Therese to cadge a midday meal out of her, and he was now helping her to spread a length of worn canvas along the base of one wall of the tavern's great room. "He knows what a pest Grosjean is," he went on, "that is clear, but, of course, he cannot admit that to me. The Sergeant is a Sergeant, and is therefore in the right. But, I suspect I shall not have so much trouble from him now."
"Don't count your chickens," Therese grunted, dragging the canvas into place. "Your new friend the Captain sounds all business."
"Mmm," Clopin considered, "perhaps I should introduce him to Esmeralda. Or someone like her. After all, it worked with Captain Phoebus... Ah, but no, I am too late," he recalled. "Captain Montblanc's heart is spoken for."
Therese was amused and impressed by this. "How do you always know so much about everyone?"
"It was not difficult, in this case. He carries her portrait with him. And he was suitably indignant when I asked him about it. No, I think he is not a bad fellow, for a Captain. Although," Clopin pondered, "I would like him better if I had some hold over him."
Anne came in from the kitchen, lugging a heavy pail. Seeing her, Therese said, "Put that down. Quasimodo can do that when he gets here."
"Ah, yes, how is the new help working out?" Clopin asked.
"Well enough," said Therese. "Of course, it's only been three days, but he's made himself useful. I must say, though, I hardly know what to make of him."
"I think he's nice," said Anne.
"Well, of course he's nice," admitted her mistress. "He's as polite as can be. Just not what you'd expect, that's all."
"And what did you expect, Madame?" he asked her, curious to hear her answer.
Therese turned away, a little ashamed of her thoughts. "To be honest, I expected something just this side of an animal. And don't look at me that way," she scolded, although she couldn't see his face. "That's what most people would expect, and you know it. But, frankly, he seems to have more intelligence and better manners than many a Frenchman I could name."
"Ah, that's his gypsy blood showing," grinned Clopin, and Therese rolled her eyes. There was a knock at the kitchen door, the sign that the topic of their conversation had just arrived. Anne ran to let him in, and brought him into the room.
"Good day, Madame," Quasimodo was slowly growing less timid of the little woman.
"How are you?" she nodded, without waiting for an answer. "We're all ready, I think, if you'll bring the paint in. Let's start with that wall and see how much we can do."
Quasimodo fetched the pails, and Anne arranged the brushes, but Clopin plucked at Therese's smock and drew her away. He had not come with the intention of being put to work.
With everything in order, each starting at one end and working toward the center, Quasimodo and Anne began to whitewash the back wall of the tavern. Therese and Clopin stood some distance away. His voice was audible, but not his words, as he spoke to her under his breath, but anyone in the room could have heard her answer, "Now?" with a startled half-chuckle. Their voices subsided in a flurry of whispers. Anne appeared to be utterly ignorant of the conversation, but Quasimodo could see her mouth pressed tight shut in a broad, twisted smile, as if someone had just told her a joke in the middle of a solemn mass. Her good eye was toward him, and she glanced over at him with a conspiratorial dimple in her cheek, but he didn't understand what was so funny, and turned his attention back to his painting.
"Anne," Therese said at last, "you'll have to do without me for a bit. I have some business to take care of."
"Yes, Madame," she said placidly, without turning around, but Quasimodo saw that it was all she could do to keep from bursting into giggles.
"It's very important," Therese went on, "so if anyone wants me, they'll just have to come back later. I'm not to be disturbed, do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, Madame, I understand." How on earth Anne could keep her voice so calm and look as if she were choking at the same time was beyond Quasimodo's comprehension. Madame and Clopin went out through the kitchen, and Quasimodo looked to the girl for some explanation, but she just bobbed gently on her toes and smiled. After a moment, she became aware that he was watching her, and she laughed.
"She thinks we don't know. Or, at least, she likes to pretend we don't."
"Know what?"
"Where they're going. Upstairs," Anne whispered, pointing her paintbrush at the ceiling.
"Oh," Quasimodo nodded, since this was the reaction she seemed to expect. After a minute or two of painting, he ventured, "Does Madame Darbois often do business with Clopin?"
"Often enough, I think. Although I'm not supposed to know, of course. And you mustn't say anything about it, either," she warned. "Madame would be angry. You didn't see anything." She touched a finger to her lips.
Quasimodo nodded, and turned his attention back to the wall. What had he gotten himself into? Master Frollo had always taught him that gypsies were evil; they were criminals, thieves and cut-throats. Esmeralda was not like that, of course, but Quasimodo was still not certain he trusted Clopin. It troubled him to think of what the man was plotting, of what dark business he was conducting with the tavern-keeper.
"Anne," his voice was hoarse.
"Yes?"
"They're not going to kill anyone, are they?"
"What?" she stopped painting.
"I know I'm not supposed to ask," he blurted, "but, I don't think the Archdeacon would like it if he thought I was -- well, if I had anything to do with, um, thieves, or -- or murderers."
Anne's blue eye gaped at him in confusion. "What in the world are you talking about?"
"Clopin, and Madame Darbois. Doing business."
Anne's mouth opened for a moment, then she collapsed in a fit of giggles. She could do nothing but laugh at him for a minute, and he felt like a fool, but a very puzzled one. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped, when she could speak. "It's not your fault, I'm not laughing at-- Oh!" she went off again and it took her another minute to calm down. "No," she said at last, "they're not going to kill anyone. Or rob anyone or do anything to anyone. They just wanted to be alone, that's all. They're, um," she smiled, and said, "They enjoy each other's company. You know."
"Ohhhhh." This time he understood, and he blushed redder than before.
"He doesn't often come around for that in the afternoon," Anne commented matter-of-factly. "Usually, he'll come in just as we're closing the tavern. Or else, I'll come down in the morning and Madame will be cooking breakfast for him -- 'Oh, look who's up bright and early this morning, Anne,' she'll say, as if he just walked in the door. She's so funny about it."
Quasimodo just nodded, still blushing furiously, and went back to painting. Just as the silence between them was beginning to feel lengthy, Anne said, in a gentle voice, "I'm sorry I laughed. I wasn't laughing at you, really."
"That's all right," he said.
"I was laughing at what Madame would say. I'm sure she'd rather you believed they were plotting a murder. I know she loves him, but she doesn't like anyone to see it."
He waited a bit longer before asking the next question. "But, isn't Clopin... I mean, I thought he was... I've seen him with other..."
"Other women?" Anne nodded. "He's had half the women in Paris, I think. Madame knows it; I suppose she must not mind. I'm not sure I'd like that, though," she mused. "I'd rather love someone who loved only me, and no one else. That is," her cheeks turned pink, "assuming I ever did fall in love. Or anyone fell in love with me."
"Oh, they will," Quasimodo assured her, turning his attention back to the wall. "You're pretty, you know."
He said it matter-of-factly, working away without further comment. Anne watched him for a moment, then shook her head. "You haven't really seen me." This prompted him to look at her, and, in explanation, she reached up and removed her eyepatch. With her face fully toward him, she let him see the scars she kept hidden under the blue silk. He studied the blind side of her face for a moment, then smiled at her. "It's no use, Anne. You're still pretty."
He was only being kind, she knew, but it was nice to hear, anyway, and she blushed a little as she replaced the eyepatch.