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by Therese
"I think you have to tell her."That had been Quasimodo's advice, and Anne knew he was right. She had known before she had ever gone to him that she had to tell Madame about Captain Montblanc, and his sister, and the baby girl left at Notre Dame... Then, why was she so afraid? Not because she feared Madame's anger. Madame Darbois was, by her own admission, "cranky," and Anne had seen her snappish and out of sorts often enough, but Madame had never been cruel, and had never taken things out on her. No, her true fear was that Madame wouldn't care; that she might even be glad to think that Anne had a real family, so she wouldn't have to be responsible for her any more. For, even after eight years in the tavern, Anne was still not exactly certain what her relationship with the tavern-keeper was.
"I am not your friend, and I am not your mother." That was the law Madame Darbois had laid down to her on the day she took her in, and she had never spoken a word to suggest that it had changed. Anne had never had a mother, or anything close to one, so she knew she might be wrong about how things were between mothers and their children, but no one had ever shown her the sort of kindness or taken the sort of interest in her that Madame Darbois did, right from the start. Madame had insisted that Anne wait a few days before starting work in the tavern, to recover from the loss of her eye and build up her strength. Madame had given her, under the guise of "a little supper," or "a bite to eat," meals that had seemed to the little girl like feasts fit for a royal banquet. And Anne had never forgotten the first time she had removed her cap in Madame's presence. It had been on her first full day in the lodgings over the Goose and Grapes, and Madame had been heating water and laying out towels in preparation for giving Anne the unheard of luxury of a bath. Madame had gaped at her and exclaimed, "What on earth happened to your hair!" For, on the day Anne came to live in the tavern, her light hair had been cropped so close that it was hardly more than a layer of down.
"I cut it," the little child confessed meekly.
"Whatever possessed you to do that?" clucked Madame.
"I did it so she couldn't pick me up that way," Anne explained, "but it only made her angry." 'She' was Madame Gruyere, Anne's former mistress.
"Good heavens," Madame had murmured, shaking her head. "Well, no one here is going to pick you up by your hair, so you can grow it back now."
And that was how they had started. Madame Darbois had always expected her to pull her weight, to be well-behaved and responsible, and in return she had worked her fairly and fed and paid her generously. That was how things stood in the tavern. But, upstairs, in the lodgings they shared, Anne had soon felt an unspoken affection developing between them. Early on, Madame had asked her if she could read, and was not surprised when she said no. Her lessons had begun at once, just as Anne had described them to Quasimodo, with Madame's culinary alphabet. On Sundays, when the tavern was closed, Madame would sit with her and patiently show her how to make the letters, and explain to her how she kept the accounts for the tavern. Sunday evenings were quiet time, when Madame would sit in her big chair by the fire, and Anne would sit on the hearth rug, and they would talk. At those times, whatever they were to each other, it was something warmer and more comfortable than mistress and servant.
In the time between the burning of the old Goose and Grapes and the opening of Chez Therese, every night had been Sunday night, idling away the evening by the fire. Therese worried that she was getting quite spoiled with so much time to herself. Next week, she thought, it will all be back to normal. Cooking all day, working till all hours, the people, the noise -- the tavern-keeper sighed and thought, 'How I've missed it!'
When Therese came upstairs at dusk, she found Anne sitting on the hearth rug playing with the cat. The girl had made a toy mouse from a bit of wool, and had tied it to the end of a string. Even with her current worries, Anne found herself laughing at the cat. "Get it! Get it, Chinon! Get the mouse!" she coached, drawing the toy across the floor for the cat to chase. "Good girl!" she exclaimed whenever the cat pounced. "Get the mouse!"
"How are the lessons coming?" Therese smiled, bending down and holding out her hand to the cat. Chinon was still wary of anyone but Anne, but Therese waited patiently until the cat eventually crept near enough to allow her to scratch her ears.
"She's getting better," Anne said.
"Well, if she isn't the best mouser in Paris, it won't be for lack of an education," Therese chuckled.
Anne played with the cat while Therese went to take off her shoes, and her apron, and make herself comfortable. In a few minutes, she came back into the room and settled down in her big, cushioned chair in front of the hearth.
"We have got to get the tavern opened next week," she groaned, stretching her feet, "before I get any lazier."
Anne let Chinon keep the mouse when she caught it this time, and got to her feet. "Madame?"
"Mmm?"
"I have something to tell you."
Therese did not say 'It's about time,' but instead, simply answered, "Yes?"
Anne drew up her own chair and sat down. The most important thing, she knew, was to stay calm, and sensible, and not break down. Madame would not approve of that. Folding her hands tightly in her lap, Anne began.
"I never told you what Captain Montblanc wanted yesterday." There was no point in dragging it out. "He wanted to know about my family, and where I came from. He thinks I may be his niece."
Therese, who had been patiently watching the fire while she listened, suddenly turned to face the girl. "He thinks what?" She had been expecting the eventual confession of the Captain's romantic attentions, or, perhaps, that he had been pumping Anne for information on the neighborhood scoundrels. The truth was something that had never even thought of entering her mind. "Where in the world did this come from?"
"He says I look like his sister. He thought so the moment he saw me. She ran away to Paris, you see, and had a baby. She died here, and her little girl was left as a foundling at Notre Dame." Anne waited a bit for Madame to say something, but she had turned her face toward the fire again, and was silent. "You know," Anne went on, "I've always been told I was found at Notre Dame. And I'm the right age."
"Oh, good heavens!" Therese blurted. "How many babies do you think are left there every year? Hundreds, probably. And hundreds of blonde, blue-eyed girls in Paris, and I'll bet half of them would remind Captain Montblanc of his sister if he saw them."
"You don't believe him?" Anne asked, hesitantly.
"How can he possibly know?" Therese challenged. "He can't! He can say, oh, here's a little foundling girl who might be my sister's child, but he can not possibly know for certain. What does he want from you?"
"Nothing."
"Trust me," Therese chewed her lip, "he wants something. Be sure you find out what it is before you go running off with him."
"He has not asked me to run off with him," Anne protested. "He hasn't asked me for anything. I think he only wants to know -- to convince himself," she chose the words Madame would accept, "that I'm part of his family. He feels responsible for what happened to his sister, because he was away with the army when all of this happened, and he wasn't there to help her when she needed him. He only wants to put things right."
They both fell silent again. Chinon, tiring of the toy mouse, leapt into Anne's lap and curled up, purring. Anne stroked the cat until the cat's calmness had calmed her down, as well, and then she said, "I'm not going to run off." When Madame made no reply to this, she pressed on. "I'm curious, too, though. I've never had the least idea of where I came from, or who my mother and father were. I never thought I'd know anything about them, but now -- You're right, I can't be certain, but this is the first time I've had even a chance of finding out who I might be." Anne sighed. "I know you think it's silly, but in a way, I want to believe him. Just to believe something."
"You're not silly." Therese's voice was low, and steady. "I can't blame you. You deserve a proper family." She looked at the girl, and Anne tried to read her still expression, with little luck. "He's a very fine man, your Captain. He might not like to see you working in a tavern."
Anne reached out and laid her hand on Madame's arm. "I'm not going to run out on you, I promise."
Finally allowing herself a rueful smile, Therese answered, "Never make a promise, Anne; they're too hard to keep. Besides," she patted the girl's hand, "he might set you up in a fine house, find you a rich husband..." Anne shook her head, but Therese said, "Don't be too quick to say no. God knows," she sighed, "there are better lives than this."
Quiet settled over them again. After a while, Madame began to talk idly about what was left to do before the opening of the new tavern, and Anne knew the subject of Captain Montblanc was closed.
When she retired to bed that night, she felt no wiser than she had that morning. "She can't really want me to go," Anne fretted to herself. As she sat down on the bed, she picked up something resting against the pillow, and folded it in her arms. It was a toy, a stuffed sheep, covered in fleece. It had survived much wear, and several mendings, and it was the one personal possession Anne had taken with her when they had fled the Goose and Grapes. She had found the sheep on her bed one night, years and years ago, when she had been with Madame Darbois for only a few weeks. Anne had been having nightmares about her old life, and her old mistress, and Madame Darbois had explained of the sheep, "It will help you sleep. I had one like it when I was a girl, and it always worked for me." She had been right; the nightmares did start fading after that -- although, looking back, Anne suspected now that it had less to do with the sheep than with the feeling she had had, for the first time in her life, that someone was there to take care of her.
It had been a long time since she had slept with the old sheep, but, tonight, she curled up with it and whispered again, "I can't believe she truly wants me to go."
In the morning, Madame bustled about as if nothing had happened. Anne left early to go to market. Madame Darbois did not ask where else she was going, and Anne didn't say.
It was mid-morning when Clopin turned up at the tavern. Therese was the only one there, but he was still surprised when she came straight for him and, with a heart-felt, "I'm glad you're here," threw her arms around him. Delighted, he embraced her and claimed a kiss, and answered, "I'm glad you're here, too. I heard a marvelous story this morning," he informed her. "Guess who is hard at work today, mucking out the stables of the Paris Guard?"
"Who?" Therese replied, with less enthusiasm than Clopin would have liked.
"The Mighty Sergeant Grosjean!" he cackled. "Or, rather, ex-Sergeant, if all I've heard is true. Esmeralda told me about her little adventure with him. I must say, I am starting to admire this Captain Montblanc."
Therese groaned at the mention of the name.
"What's the matter?" he bent down to peer into her eyes. "Is the good Captain making trouble for you?"
"You will not believe what has happened," she warned him, removing herself a little distance from him, but allowing his arms to remain around her. "Your friend, Captain Montblanc, has taken into his head the ridiculous notion that he is Anne's long-lost uncle."
Clopin studied her carefully and echoed, "Anne's uncle?"
"Oh, for pity's sake, don't ask me to explain it! His sweet little sister got herself pregnant and now he's convinced Anne is the baby she left behind."
Clopin's eyes narrowed. "Captain Montblanc of the Paris Guard believes that our little Anne is his darling sister's child?" he asked for confirmation.
"Yes. Yes yes yes!" Therese snapped, pulling away from him and pacing to the bar.
A wheezing snicker developed deep in his throat and burst out of his mouth as a triumphant cackle. "Ha-ha! Therese, my delectable hedgehog, come and kiss me!" When she simply stared at him, he exulted, "We've won! Don't you see, we've got him! Captain or no, he'll hardly burn down his darling niece's home. Or trouble her kindly mistress, or arrest her dear friends -- Ha! We have him exactly where we want him!"
"What is wrong with you?" Therese gasped, furious at this display. "Don't you understand? Anne won't protect you; Anne won't be here. I'm losing her, Clopin; he's going to take her away from me -- "
Her anger made him sober in an instant. "What has he said? What has he done?"
"Nothing, yet, she says," Therese admitted. "But, he won't let her stay in a place like this..."
"He can't remove her by force," Clopin pointed out, but Therese wasn't listening.
"Where has he been for the past sixteen years?" she railed. "For the past eight? How can he walk in here now and say 'oh, by the way, I'm your family'? It isn't right! God cannot take this child from me," she slammed her fist on the bar. "God owes me this child!"
In that moment, it struck Clopin that Therese had just thrown open to him one more, unknown story from her past, but he let it go, for now, and pulled her to him. She was not crying, but she dropped her head against his chest and he rubbed her back until her breathing had slowed to a normal pace.
"Anne's a grown girl," he pointed out to her. "The truth is, she's old enough to have a husband and a baby of her own. No one can take her from you if she doesn't want to go."
"I know," Therese sighed. "I know. Maybe that's what I'm afraid of."
"She has spoken to you about all of this?" he drew her face up where he could see her.
"Yes. She -- she's curious. She says she won't leave, but she wants to know if he's telling the truth. I don't blame her. I can't blame her, Clopin. Think of what he could do for her. Why should she stay here?"
"Because this is her home. Because you are her mother."
"I am not her mother," Therese shook her head.
"So you think," he smiled gently at her. "No matter what you say, and no matter what she calls you, you are her mother, as certainly as if you had given birth to her."
Anne's market basket was empty. She had walked the stalls and considered the vegetables and cheeses and hams but nothing looked good to her. Not big enough, not fresh enough, you call that an onion…? "I sound just like Madame," she observed to herself, choking down a laugh that nearly made her cry. Giving up on the market, she had walked to the Place de Notre Dame. She might have stopped to speak with Clopin if she'd seen him, but neither he nor his puppet wagon were in the square. Her feet had been trying all morning to pull her in the direction of the Palace of Justice, and she finally gave in to them. She had no intention of going inside, but thought she might find Captain Montblanc patrolling in the vicinity. Anne had thought of him constantly since their meeting. Madame didn't trust him, but Anne thought him honest. There was no way to know the truth, but clearly, he believed she was his sister's child. Just as clearly, he desperately wanted her to believe it, too, but he had been as gentle and patient with her as he could be when they had talked together in the tavern. Anxious as she was, Anne did want to see him and talk with him again, but he was not to be seen. If the old Lieutenant had been there, the one who had arrested Sergeant Grosjean, she might have asked him where the Captain was, but she didn't feel like talking to anyone else. While she was still wandering within sight of the Palace, the bells of Notre Dame began to toll, and Anne stopped in her tracks and looked back at the Cathedral towers rising behind her. All her life, she'd heard the great bells, but now she could not listen without envisioning Quasimodo, high in his lofty home, going about his daily tasks. "The bells do not ring themselves, you know." – she'd heard Clopin the Puppeteer speak those words so many times, but they had never really sunk in until she had seen the bells, herself, and made a friend of the bellringer. Turning her back on the Palace of Justice, Anne walked to Notre Dame. Not to bother Quasimodo, although she was sure he would have listened kindly to her and offered whatever help he could give – but no earthly soul could answer Anne's questions, or tell her what was in her heart. That was why she was going to the Cathedral.
As she passed by the empty Foundlings' Bed, Anne paused to lay her hand on it. "Hundreds of babies left there every year," Madame's voice spoke the words in her head. And hundreds of girls like Juliette Montblanc, thought Anne, dying in poverty, or living in disgrace -- how many such women had she rubbed shoulders with in the dank alleys of Paris, and been thankful that their lives were not her own. Anne said a prayer for the foundlings, and for those who had left them, and went inside.
Madame Darbois did not go to church, but she had never discouraged Anne from doing so. "Don't you believe in God?" the little girl had asked her mistress once, on one of their Sunday evenings by the fire. "Oh, I believe in God," Madame had answered. "I'm just not certain He believes in me any more." Madame was always full of cryptic remarks and unanswered questions; Anne had learned that, if she did not want to tell you something, there was nothing you could do to pry it out of her, and had respected her privacy. The only conversation they had ever had about Madame's marriage had been a long time ago, as well, when Anne had asked if she'd been sad when her husband died. Madame had said no, and young Anne, drawing on her own stock of experience, had gently asked, "Did he beat you?" Madame had given her a sad look, and stroked her hair, before she answered, "No, Anne. But there are ways to hurt someone without ever laying a hand on them." The tavern-keeper wasn't all secrets, though; she liked to tell stories about her Papa, even if she always ended them with a sorry chuckle and the comment, "Heaven only knows what he'd say if he could see me now." And she had answered Anne, when asked, about her mother, who had been so sick, and her brother, who had died so young, but they were not topics she had ever spoken of on her own.
Anne was turning over a few of these thoughts in her mind as she sought out a quiet spot to pray, and think. She thought about Captain Montblanc, and his pretty sister, and the baby left at Notre Dame. She thought through her own history, the vague memories of a spoiled child called Marie-Louise, the still-sharp memories of the cruel Madame Gruyere, and the endless, undefined years spent between them in the Foundlings' Hospital. And she thought again of Madame the Tavern-Keeper, who had seemed hardly to notice her, until the day she had suddenly taken her away from Madame Gruyere. Then came her eight years at the Goose and Grapes, serving and cleaning, learning to read and write and keep the accounts, and the triumphs of being entrusted with going to market alone, and being declared by Madame, "not at all a bad cook." The noise and the bustle, the hard work, the late nights, the tears at losing the old Goose and Grapes, and the labor of starting all over again…
The clank of metal caught her ear, and Anne looked up. Captain Montblanc was in the cathedral. She spotted him before he noticed her; he was just getting to his feet, and she suspected he'd come in for the same reason she had. She stood still, and waited for his eyes to find her. When they did, he examined her as if uncertain whether or not to approach. She offered him a hesitant smile of recognition, and he immediately came toward her.
"Good morning, Anne," he greeted her with a respectful tilt of his head.
"Good morning, sir."
"I'm glad to see you," said the Captain. "I was planning to call at your house, today. I was hoping we could talk again."
Glad she had caught him before he turned up at the tavern, Anne suggested, "We can talk here."
Montblanc nodded his agreement to this, but said, "Perhaps we should step outside, though. I'd rather not disturb anyone," he indicated the other, kneeling shadows scattered around them. He extended a gloved hand. "Shall we?"
Anne was struck by a strange, irrational rush of thoughts involving Esmeralda, and soldiers, and arrests, and sanctuary, and, suddenly afraid to leave the building with him, she blurted, "No." As he withdrew his hand with an expression of hurt, she felt a twinge of guilt at her mistrust, and said, "I know a place in here where we can talk. Come with me." And she led him up the stairs to the bell tower.
Captain Montblanc did not ask where they were going, although he looked as if he would have liked to. She hoped Quasimodo wouldn't mind. "This is the way to the tower?" the Captain finally guessed, as he followed her up the stairs.
"Quasimodo?" Anne called, as she reached the wooden steps to the loft. "Are you here?"
"Anne!" he called back, in a cheerful voice. "Come in! I was just working on – " He stopped in his tracks when he saw the soldier. Montblanc met his suspicious look and acknowledged it with a hitch of his chin. Quasimodo went to the girl's side and touched her hand, not taking his eyes off the Captain. In a quiet voice, he asked, "Anne, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she assured him, taking hold of the hand he had offered. "Captain Montblanc and I have some things to talk about, and we needed someplace quiet. I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not," he answered, his voice still low and solemn, and his eye still on the soldier. "You're welcome here."
Anne squeezed his hand and looked past him to the table, where he'd been seated when they arrived. "Oh, have you been working on the -- ?"
"It's not finished," he blurted, letting go of her to scuttle back to the table and throw a cloth over the cabinet he was carving for the tavern. "Don't look at it."
"We won't," she assured him, knowing this was directed at Montblanc. "We won't disturb anything. We could go outside, if you'd rather," she offered, and turned to the Captain. "Quasimodo has the best view in Paris, it's quite remarkable…"
"No!" the bellringer objected to this and shook his head at Anne. "It's too dangerous."
‘Too dangerous for you to go out there with someone I don't trust,' Anne interpreted his look.
"Here," Quasimodo spoke softly again, as if to make amends for his brusqueness. "You can sit here." He found a corner for them, and made a hurried attempt to render it more hospitable. Anne thanked him as she took the stool he offered. Captain Montblanc had a wary eye on the cast-off gargoyles who seemed to be keeping watch on him, but sat down, as well. "I – I have things to do," Quasimodo excused himself, rather awkwardly as he backed toward the stairs. "But, I won't be far," he said this to Anne. "Call out if you need me."
She nodded, and he disappeared from view.
Montblanc watched him go. "He thinks of you as a friend, I see."
"We are friends," said Anne.
"You have a kind heart, Anne, to take an interest in him."
"It's not kindness," she corrected him swiftly, with the trace of a frown. "I like him. If anyone has a kind heart, he does. He's a musician with the bells. And he's clever as can be; I wish he'd shown you what he's making. I think," she ventured, "that you are a little -- condescending toward him, sir. You wouldn't be, if you knew him."
"I'm certain you're right, Anne," he answered, in a tone that said he wasn't certain at all, but didn't want to discuss it. "That isn't why I wanted to talk to you."
"I know," Anne's eye sought out the portrait of Juliette that hung from his belt. "I've been thinking a lot about what you told me."
"So have I," he said. "That's why I came here this morning."
"Me, too," Anne smiled a little.
"Anne," Captain Montblanc sat forward, with his elbows on his knees, folding and unfolding his large hands as if he couldn't decide whether to chance offering them to her. "The truth is -- I don't know for certain who you are. You could be Juliette's child, it all fits, there's nothing to disprove it -- but neither one of us can really know for certain. What I do know," he sat up, "is that you are a friendless young orphan, and that I would like to be of some help to you."
Anne blinked at him. "It's kind of you to offer, sir, but I'm hardly friendless."
"I'm not speaking of the bellringer," he smiled at her. "I mean -- you could use a friend to -- to help you along in life."
"I have those, too," she insisted. "I'm the Assistant Tavern-Keeper of Chez Therese, the finest establishment in all Paris -- at least it will be, once we get it opened."
"Anne," he sighed, and shook his head affectionately at her ignorance, "you don't understand me. You've been a servant so long, you don't see that you could have another life, a better life. I can give you that. I can set you up in a house, with a proper companion. Hire a teacher for you, if you like."
"To teach me what?"
"To read and write, perhaps? To do needlework? Would you like that?"
"I can read and write quite well already," she informed him, a bit wounded, though she knew most servant girls, as he considered her, couldn't, and there was no reason he would have known otherwise. "Madame taught me; I help her keep the accounts. And I'm a better seamstress than she is; she hates to sew," Anne was smiling in spite of herself at the thought of how Madame would fuss and grumble over the simplest bit of mending. "I'm not a bad cook, either," she added, proudly.
Montblanc, too, seemed to be smiling in spite of himself at her bright expression, but again he said, "Anne, you're a charming young lady. You shouldn't have to work in a tavern. You shouldn't have to work anywhere."
"But, I like it -- "
"Only because you don't know anything else," he argued. "What sort of life can you have there, among such -- ?"
"Captain Montblanc," she stood up, feeling that sudden rush of alarm again, "I am not leaving the tavern."
"Anne, think of what you're saying…" he held out his hands to her, trying to calm her, but she shied from him.
"No. I won't leave her. Not after all we've been through, after all she's done for me…"
"It's good of you to be concerned for your mistress," he spoke soothingly, still trying to quell her fears. "I don't want to hurt her, either. I'll pay her whatever she asks for you, enough to hire two or three girls to take your place."
Anne's voice was soft, but strong, and her blue eye was shining bright. "Madame Darbois is not just my mistress. You have no idea what she's been to me these eight years…"
"Anne," he sighed, unable to persuade her but unable yet to stop trying, "she is not your mother."
"I know that. But…" from her heart, Anne gave the only explanation she could. "I love her."