|
|
by Therese
Morning in Paris, a chill in the air, pale, winter sunlight flooding the Place de Notre Dame. A man in a cloak, one among many criss-crossing the square, wove his way through the sea of citizens toward the steps of the cathedral. He was young, and broad-shouldered, and carried some long, bulky object half-muffled in his cape. His eyes were raised to the bell tower, and a broad, eager smile marked his face. His complexion, his black hair, the gold hoop in his ear, proclaimed him a gypsy, but no one troubled him, no one challenged his right to approach the great portal of Notre Dame, and seat himself on her steps. 'Hmm,' he thought to himself, with a silent laugh, 'Frollo must be dead.'Tossing back his cloak, he gently unwrapped his burden, a long, oddly-shaped viol, which he settled between his knees and quietly tuned. A few people paused and glanced at the musician, but he was too absorbed with his instrument to take notice of them. Once he had the tone of the viol adjusted to his satisfaction, he did not play, but simply sat there, cradling the instrument in his arms like a lover, his head bowed over the strings. He stayed as he was, still and peaceful, for a minute or two, until there was a shudder from the bell tower above, and the first peal of Notre Dame's great bells rolled out over the square. Raising his head, the musician listened to the first, soaring notes, then smiled, and drew his bow over the strings of his viol in answer.
The viol sang in harmony with the great bells, filling their echoes with long, curling ribbons of song. The people passing by the cathedral began to pause and listen. The young man did not see them; he saw nothing, only felt the great embrace of the bells, and the streamers of music rising from his strings. The Archdeacon, himself, came out to listen, and was moved by not only the music, but by the look of pure peace that radiated from the young man's face. There was a little rustle among the assembling crowd when a tough, wiry old Lieutenant of the Guard came clopping by on his horse, but he stopped as well, and listened without comment. The whole square stood still, until the last peal of the bells and the last trill of the viol twined themselves together and were lost in the heavens.
The musician, still absorbed in his own reverie, did not realize what an audience he had drawn until they began to applaud and create a song of their own, played by the coins they threw down on the pavement. The young man, surprised by this, though he knew he shouldn't have been, shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around his instrument before he began to gather the coins at his feet. The Lieutenant on horseback approached him, and the gypsy musician stepped protectively in front of his viol. The soldier looked down on him for a moment, but only said, "Pick that up and move on, now," and rode on.
Letting out a relieved breath, the musician finished gathering up his earnings, and rose to find the Archdeacon standing above him on the steps. "You have a great gift, my son," the clergyman smiled.
The young man came up the steps to meet him, and said, "I hope you don't mind -- I wasn't trying to beg; I didn't expect anyone to..." he indicated the handful of coins he held.
"Don't apologize," the Archdeacon beamed, and patted his shoulder. "Your music was truly that of Heaven. No one will begrudge you an earthly reward."
"Would you do something for me?" he shuffled a handful of coins into the Archdeacon's palm. "Would you give that to the bell ringer? He earned it as well as I did; I couldn't have played without his music to lead me. Give him that, with my compliments, would you?"
"Bless you, I will. You're very kind, young man."
The Archdeacon bid him good morning and retreated into the cathedral. With a sigh, pleased to be relieved of some of his burden, the young man picked up his instrument and began to walk away.
"René?" a voice stopped him. "René Trouillefou?"
He turned to see who had recognized him. A girl of sixteen or so, fair and pretty, with a hefty market basket over her arm -- it took him a moment to place her, and he doubted if he ever would have, if not for the blue patch over her eye. "You're Madame Darbois' girl, aren't you?" he said, coming back to her.
"Yes, it's Anne," she nodded. "That was beautiful."
"Thank you. You're all grown up," he observed. "The last time I saw you, you were only that high," he measured a ten year old child with his hand.
"How long have you been in Paris?" she asked.
"We came in late yesterday. I'd heard something of what happened here, after the Feast of Fools, but I had a terrible time finding Clopin. I went to Madame Darbois' tavern, looking for him, but..." He didn't need to tell her that he had found the old place gone.
Anne nodded. "We have a new place, now. Well, almost; Madame isn't quite ready to open it yet, but it's going to be much better than the old place. It's in the Rue de Cigognes; Clopin knows where it is. Come and see us; Madame would love to see you, I know."
"And we'd like to see her."
"Is the rest of the troupe with you?" asked Anne.
"Only the Trouillefou half," René smiled. "We stopped in Bordeaux for a while; that's where the Nicolets came from, you remember them. Elise has a sister there who's been having a hard time; her daughter's always been sickly, and now her husband's broken his arm... Well, Elise and her brood decided to stay on for a time and help out, while we went on to Paris. Nerine and I have been performing from there to here, just doing whatever we please. Nothing too strenuous, of course, things being what they are." He grinned proudly and lowered his voice as he explained, "We've got a baby coming. Number Two, actually. Never too many Trouillefous, we always say."
Anne congratulated him, and repeated her invitation, and the two of them took their leave of each other. The girl headed back toward the river, to cross the bridge and go home. Once on her own side of the Seine, she turned into the lane that ran by the waterside. There were enough people around that she couldn't recall afterwards why one particular man caught her eye, but there he was, skulking along, a rough sack clutched in his hands. He was coming toward her, heading toward the underside of the bridge she had just crossed, and as he passed her, she saw that the sack he carried was moving, and she heard a muffled yowl. He was three good strides past her before she realized what he was doing and turned back to follow him. In the shadow of the bridge, the man gave the sack a good swing and aimed it at the river.
Anne broke into a run and cried out, "No! Don't!"
Anne opened the kitchen door gently. No Madame. As quietly as she could, she eased herself and her market basket inside, and closed the door again behind her. Still no sign of anyone else. She had just set the basket on the table and was taking off her cloak when Madame Darbois came into the kitchen.
"Oh, you're back! I didn't hear you come in." She had an armload of empty wine jugs, and hardly looked at the girl as she set them down. "I don't suppose M. Piquet had anything you could recognize as a carrot."
"He had a few that weren't too bad," Anne replied.
Madame looked skeptical. "What do you consider 'not too bad'?" She headed over to see, but Anne plucked the basket off the table and began to carry it away.
"He didn't charge me much for them," the girl was trying to explain, "and Madame Duret had some more of that cheese you liked so much; I bought a little of that for you."
Therese wasn't listening, for, as soon as Anne had moved the basket, it had emitted a scrabbling sound, and the cloth that covered the goods inside had begun to move around in an excited manner.
"What else did you buy today?" Therese raised an eyebrow. Anne held the basket close, and tried to smile, but before she could say anything, the cloth was pushed aside from beneath, and a little, gray face, with two green eyes and a full complement of quivering whiskers, peeped out.
"A cat!" Therese put her hands on her hips. "I don't remember asking you to bring home a cat!"
For half a moment, Anne considered exclaiming something to the effect of, "My goodness, how'd that get in there?" but she was a terrible liar, and decided it would only make matters worse. Instead, she fished the cat out of the basket and cuddled her close. "Isn't she sweet? Look at her, isn't she lovely?" the girl urged. Lovely was not a word anyone would have applied to the poor feline. She was thin and mangy, and she pressed hard against Anne, shivering as her green eyes darted nervously around the room. "You know, we could use a cat, Madame. She'd keep the mice down."
"If the mice don't keep her down, first," Therese snorted. "Anne, whatever possessed you to bring that thing home?"
"Oh, Madame, I had to," Anne appealed to her. "I was walking home, coming along the river, and there was a man, with a bag..." She hugged the cat and kissed its head. "He was going to drown her! He was going to throw her in the river and drown her, I couldn't let him do that!"
"Anne," Therese sighed, "people in Paris drown cats every day..."
Anne fixed her lone eye on Therese and softly answered, "People in Paris beat little girls every day, too, but that didn't stop you from taking me in."
Therese was left speechless by this, and it took her a moment to dredge up the excuse, "But, that's different..."
"She's so sweet, she's just frightened; you'd be, too, if someone tried to drown you. Please, can't we keep her?" The poor cat was already calming down under the influence of Anne's gentle hand, and was nuzzling the girl in a way that made Therese realize that her permission mattered very little at this point.
"We can try. But I don't want her getting into everything. And she'd better do some good against the mice if she wants to earn her keep."
"Oh, she will!" Anne grinned, bouncing softly on her toes as a preventative against jumping up and down.
"Well, don't just stand there," Therese finally smiled at her. "Get her a dish of cream. And see if there's still a bit of fish left from last night. She looks as if she hasn't eaten in a week."
In the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Father David the Archdeacon counted out the coins the gypsy musician had entrusted to him, and waited for the bellringer to answer his summons. He was glad to have the opportunity for this interview, for something had been troubling him.
"You sent for me, Father?" Quasimodo shuffled hesitantly into the room.
"Yes. Yes, my son, come in. Sit down. I have something for you," he explained, as the young man eased himself onto the bench. "This," Father David offered the handful of coins, "is yours."
Quasimodo looked from the man's hand to his face in confusion. "Mine?"
"This morning, there was a young man outside the cathedral, playing the viol as you were ringing Terce. The music was remarkable, quite beautiful. Apparently, the crowd he drew thought so, too; they were very generous with him. He asked me to give you this, with his thanks. He said he could not have played without the bells to lead him."
Speechless, Quasimodo allowed the Archdeacon to take his hand and fill it with the shining coins. He had to give his head a good shake or two before his voice consented to come out. "It's so much. I can't take this, it's too much for me. Please, put it in the alms box," he tried to hand the money back.
"Are you sure, my son?" Father David seized the chance to ask the question that had been dogging him. "Did I not see you putting something in the alms box, yourself, yesterday? And the day before?"
"Yes," Quasimodo looked up at him, wondering what the question had to do with this.
"May I ask you-- Where did that money come from, that you put in the alms box? Did you find it?"
"No, Father, it was mine."
"Quasimodo," the Archdeacon folded his hands thoughtfully, "I've noticed that, for several days now, you have been coming and going more often. You are free to do so, of course; this is not a prison. But, I am concerned for your welfare. The world is still new to you, and there are many who would lead you to wickedness, if you let them. Your friend, Esmeralda-- "
"Esmeralda is not wicked, Father," the young man answered him with a suddenness that startled him.
"I do not say she is, my son. I only wonder-- Some of her friends may not be the most, ahem, upstanding citizens of Paris. That is why I wondered where you had come by the money I saw you with..."
"I earned it. Esmeralda has a friend -- a respectable lady, who has a shop," he decided this was a safer word than tavern, "and she pays me to come around and help with things. She doesn't have a manservant, only a girl, and she needs someone sometimes to do the heavy work for her. She's as good and honest as you are, sir, and so is Anne, and they've been very kind to me. I told Madame she didn't have to pay me a thing, I'd be glad to help her, but she says business is business. That's where the money came from."
After the ringing of Sext, and a hasty midday meal, Quasimodo headed for Madame Darbois', this time making a point of telling the Archdeacon where he was going and when he planned to return. The back door of the tavern was ajar when he reached it, and, with one knock to announce himself, he entered the kitchen. For a moment, he thought he must have the wrong house. There was no Madame, and no Anne, only a thin, gray streak that bolted into the pantry, and a little girl, sitting on the floor, blissfully munching on a huge chunk of cake.
The child was two or so, a brown cherub with bright, black eyes and a halo of black curls. Her immediate reaction to being confronted by a stranger (and an odd-looking one, at that) was to utter a friendly, "H'lo," and offer him a fistful of cake. Charmed by her lack of fear, Quasimodo gave her a "Hello," in return.
"Here," she waved the cake again. "'S good."
"It looks good," he assured her, "but, no thank you."
Suspecting that her mother might not be so pleased to see him, he was backing toward the door, when a merry voice called from the pantry, "Quasimodo?" This, he recognized as Anne, and, sure enough, out she came. "I thought I heard you come in. I see you've met our company," the girl laughed, hefting the cherub in her arms and getting a generous amount of cake on her apron in the process. "This," she informed the child importantly, "is Quasimodo. He's the man who rings the great big bells at the cathedral. And this," she told the bellringer, "is Faria Trouillefou."
Quasimodo recognized the surname and, recalling their conversation the other day, about "half the women in Paris," he tactfully whispered, "Clopin's?"
"Clopin's niece," Anne corrected. "She belongs to his brother, René. He's in the other room, talking to Madame."
Faria was craning to see something at Anne's feet and Anne, looking too, remarked, "So, you've decided to be friendly, after all." The gray streak he had noticed earlier had resolved itself into a tabby cat that was now staring out from under the hem of Anne's skirt. Faria demanded to be put down and, once on the floor, made an affectionate lunge for the cat, who skittered away. "Kitty! Kittykittykitty!"
"Faria, don't chase the kitty, you'll scare her." The cat made a dash for Anne and climbed up her apron. "Shhhhh..." Anne scooped up the animal and cuddled her tenderly. "It's all right, shshshsh," she whispered, soothing her.
"Kitty?" said Faria, one more time, holding up the cake as a peace offering.
"No, I think kitty's had enough cake," said Anne. Smiling at Quasimodo, she explained, "This is my little girl. She's really sweet, but she was nearly drowned this morning, and she's still nervous. She'll let you pet her if you're gentle."
The gray cat pressed tight against Anne, but, when Quasimodo carefully reached out a finger and brushed her fur, she didn't flinch. "See," Anne nodded, as he scratched lightly behind the cat's ears, "she likes you already."
"Me me me!" Faria tugged at her skirt, and Anne said, "Now, be nice with her," as she crouched down to the child. The child and the cat stared intently at each other, and Faria, guided by Anne, stroked the cat softly. "See, she'll let you play with her if you don't startle her." Faria nodded and whispered "good kitty," and Anne set them both on the floor, right back where they had started. "What do you think of Chinon?" Anne asked Quasimodo. "As a name for the cat," she explained. "It's a place we get wine from, I noticed it on one of the barrels."
He considered it and said, "If she's going to live in a tavern, I guess it would make sense to name her after a barrel of wine."
"That's what I thought. I hope she's a good mouser. Madame expects her to catch lots of mice."
The two of them watched Faria and the cat for a moment, then Quasimodo said, "Anne, may I ask you a favor?"
"Of course."
"If you ever happen to be going by the cathedral, would you mind coming up to the bell tower some time? Only for a minute. You see, I'm making a present for Madame Darbois," he lowered his voice to a noisy whisper. "For the tavern. She's been so nice to me -- you both have -- and I wanted to do something in return. I think she'll like it -- at least, I hope she will, but you know her better than I do, and I'd really like for you to see it first, and tell me if it's all right. Would you?"
"I'd love to. I can't wait to see what it is."
"It's nothing special," he warned her.
"Oh, I don't know," Anne teased him, "Esmeralda says you're quite an artist."
"She said that?"
"Mmm-hmm," Anne smiled. "She also says you can look out over all of Paris from the tower. I'd like to see that."
"Is my little Meadowlark in here?" a voice from the doorway interrupted them.
"Papa!" Faria bounced to her feet, scaring off the cat again, and ran to René, who swung his daughter up into his arms and kissed her cheek.
"I hope she didn't give you too much trouble," he said to Anne, then his eye lit on the young man standing beside her, and he gasped, "You!"
Quasimodo actually turned to see if someone had come into the kitchen behind him.
"I don't believe it!" René crowed ecstatically. "This is amazing! It is you, isn't it? Quasimodo?"
His face as red as a raw steak, Quasimodo nodded dumbly.
"Incredible!" René lunged at him and laid hold of his hand, shaking it vigorously. "This is such an honor! I've been telling Clopin I wanted to meet you, but I never expected-- Aagh!" he winced a little when Quasimodo ventured to return the handshake, and the bellringer quickly let go. "No harm done!" René assured him, flexing his fingers. "That's a powerful grip you've got, but I suppose ringing those bells all day does that to a man. You're quite a musician."
"Th-thank you, sir. You-- you're Clopin's brother, is that right?"
"That's me," he beamed. "I'm René. It really is an honor, you know," he insisted, almost attempting another handshake, but thinking better of it.
Even now that he had settled comfortably into his twenties, René Trouillefou still had the same effect on people he had always had. To look at him, with his broad shoulders and sturdy build, the fullness of his boyish face, no one would have connected him to the wiry acrobats of the Trouillefou clan. But, as soon as he said, "I'm Clopin's brother," all the familiar features, the dark, twinkling eyes, the blinding smile, the aggressive chin, leapt to the fore and it became impossible to look at him without seeing the resemblance.
"Come here," René laid hold of Quasimodo's arm. "You have to meet Nerine. Look who I found in the kitchen!" he announced, leading the party into the tap room. Madame Darbois was sitting with René's wife, and Clopin was there, as well. Clopin, in fact, must have only recently arrived, for Faria, upon seeing him, made her Papa set her down and went running across the room yelping, "Oncle! Oncle! LOOK!" Stopping short of Clopin by a few feet, she studiously put her palms flat on the floor, tucked her head under, and turned a neat little somersault, landing squarely on her bottom. Laughing at her own brilliance, she repeated, "Look!" and did another, and another, and another.
"Brava!" Clopin applauded her, laughing, as well. "Where on earth did she learn that? Not from you, I know," he teased his brother. René's history as the only Trouillefou who Could Not Tumble was legendary.
"She just picked it up," said René. "It must be in the blood."
"She's going to hurt herself," Nerine fretted, beckoning the child to her, and making a start at wiping some of the cake off her face. It would have been easier if she could have taken the girl up on her lap, but she was so close to her time, there was no room left. It was obvious that Faria was within a week or two of becoming a Big Sister.
"Oh, she'll be fine," René assured his wife. "I never hurt myself -- well, not seriously -- and she's already better than I ever was."
"I fine," Faria agreed, squirming as Maman fussed over her.
"Quasimodo," René had not forgotten him and brought him forward, "I'd like you to meet Madame Nerine Trouillefou, the finest voice in all Europe. Also the loveliest lady, but as her husband, I'm a little biased on that count."
Madame Trouillefou's complexion was half a shade darker than that of her husband and his brother, and her black hair was a lush mass of rough curls. She was not, by the common standard, pretty, and she was certainly older than René; nearly as old as Madame Darbois, he suspected. But her voluptuous figure was still charming, and she projected a warmth that made her attractive in a way that transcended mere prettiness. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she said, and truly seemed to mean it. Gypsy or no, she carried herself with a graciousness worthy of any noble lady, and Quasimodo was thoroughly impressed by her. "René told me all about this morning," she said.
Quasimodo looked inquiringly at Clopin's brother.
"Oh, you wouldn't know!" René realized. "I played a duet with you outside the cathedral this morning. It was an amazing experience; thank you," he made a slight bow.
"That was you? You were the one who left the money? Oh, sir," he almost knelt before the young man. "You shouldn't have."
"Why not? You earned it, more than I did. All I did was follow your lead. You truly are a musician, you know that," René insisted.
"Never knew you had such admirers, did you?" put in Clopin. "My brother is a splendid musician himself, so you may take his opinion as that of an expert."
"Thank you, sir," Quasimodo did not know what else to say.
The next morning, Anne went to Notre Dame. She had been inside the cathedral before, more than once, but she was not sure how to reach the tower. Any one of the priests or monks could have told her, but she was afraid they might not allow her to go up. Some furtive exploration, however, led her to a likely staircase, and, the higher she climbed, the more certain she felt that this was the way. Up and up, around and around, she followed the stone stairs, until they gave way, at last, to an open space, and the distant hint of daylight and fresh air. Up a few more wooden steps to an immense loft, littered with odd and broken pieces of the great building, itself. Quasimodo was sitting at a table, far across the room, near the great, open arches that formed the windows of his home.
"Hello!" she called. She had not meant to speak so loudly, but her voice echoed through the vast space.
"You came!" he beamed, hastening to meet her. "Come in, come in! Well, this is it," he spread his arms to indicate the whole of the loft.
"It's huge! You have all of this to yourself?"
"Yes."
"It must get lonely," said Anne.
"Oh, it's not so bad," he assured her, leading her toward the table. He confided, "I used to talk to the gargoyles all the time."
"Really?" Anne smiled at this, but not unkindly. "Did they ever talk back?"
"Sometimes," he admitted sheepishly. "It's funny, though; I hardly even think about talking to them now. I hope they're not offended."
Quasimodo truly meant this. The gargoyles had been his only companions for so many years, he had made them into friends out of necessity. But, now that he had flesh and blood friends, like Esmeralda, and like Anne, he found himself neglecting his old confidants. Master Frollo had always insisted that the gargoyles were objects made of stone, and could not hear or speak to him, and he supposed that must be true. But he still felt a little guilty about neglecting them.
They were standing by the table now, and Anne asked, "Is this what you wanted to show me?"
"Yes," he replied anxiously. "It isn't finished yet, you know."
Quasimodo was building a wooden rack that could be mounted on the wall of the tavern. It had shelves for cups, and slots for wine bottles, and, across the bottom, pegs from which tankards could be hung. It was not immense, perhaps two feet high by three wide. The best part of it, however, was the carving. Every exposed edge was being shaped into an arbor of vines and grapes, flowers and birds. He still had quite a bit to do, but the effect was already impressive.
"You carved all this yourself?" Anne breathed, running her fingers over the work. "It's beautiful."
He was delighted by her reaction to it. "And that's not the best part," he told her. "I did the top pieces first," he went to fetch them, "but they won't go on till last. You see, they go on top, at the corners, where the pegs are." Unwrapping his surprise, he explained, "This is the part I hope Madame Darbois won't mind."
In his hands, Quasimodo held two figures carved of wood, both female, each holding a tray laden with food and drink. Anne was astonished at the detail of the carving. One figure was a perfect, buxom likeness of Madame Darbois, right down to her dimples. The other was a trim, tidy girl with an eyepatch and an angelic smile. Anne would have called her own likeness too flattering, but Madame's was so stunningly accurate, she couldn't contain a delighted laugh.
"Do you think she'll mind?" he was asking.
"She'll love it! Oh, it's perfect, it looks just like her. And mine, well, it's beautiful. You really are an artist."
If Anne could have seen the look on her own shining face, she would have realized the little carving didn't do her justice. Quasimodo shook his head at her compliment and said, "You were really easy to do. Both of you. See how they go?" he showed her how the figures would fit on the top of the case, then he carefully wrapped them up again and put them away. "Would you like the rest of the tour?" he offered.
"I'd love it," she said.
The view was as breathtaking as Anne had been told, and she was awestruck at the size of the great bells. Quasimodo explained to her the mechanics of them, how the huge wheels and pulleys moved them when he pulled the ropes. They went outside, and she tried to spot the tavern, but there were too many rooftops. Anne had never realized how large the city of Paris was.
"This is wonderful," she sighed, for about the eighth time. "I think it must be better than living in a castle. Would you mind," she asked him, "if I were to come up here again some time?"
"You're always welcome here," said Quasimodo.