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Part One
The sun was setting on the fourth day of the infant year 1476, and the tavern known as the Goose and Grapes was crowded with patrons. Therese Darbois, the tavern keeper, was exaggerating only slightly when she said she made half her profit for the year during the week leading up to the Feast of Fools. Not only were her regular customers feeling festive and free with their money, but there were travelers from all over France pouring in for the annual festival, and they always arrived hungry and thirsty. Madame Darbois was smart enough to invest some of her profits in hiring a little extra help, and there were several girls from the neighborhood, some fair, in starched white aprons, some dusky, in gold-hemmed skirts, weaving among the tables with platters of food and tankards of wine and beer. The littlest of these waitresses was a regular fixture at the Goose and Grapes, a blue-eyed child of ten or so, neatly dressed in a blue and gray striped frock and ruffled apron. She would have appeared perfectly ordinary, if not for the dainty, blue silk patch resting where her right eye should have been.
The street door opened and a small band of gypsy wayfarers came in from the cold, rubbing their hands to warm them, and laughing among themselves. They numbered two men, two women, and one child, and they huddled inside the door for a moment, looking for somewhere to sit down. There was one little table, cramped into a dark corner, which had not yet been claimed, and the younger of the two men pointed his companions toward it, while he headed toward the bar.
"Madame Darbois?" he addressed the plump, little woman who was filling mugs from a cask of ale.
"Yes?" Therese glanced over her shoulder.
"I'm looking for--"
The unfortunate gypsy was standing right beside a table where seven or eight young rascals, alleged students from the University, were gambling at cards, and a lucky turn had prompted the lot of them to let off a roar that drowned out his words.
"I can't hear you!" pantomimed Therese. "Just a minute! Anne!" she beckoned to the one-eyed girl and passed two mugs of ale over the bar to her. "Take these to Monsieur Marin and his friend, and tell them their supper will be out in a few minutes." The racket had subsided a little by this time and she addressed the young man again. "I'm sorry, what did you want?"
"I'm looking for Clopin Trouillefou!" He still had to raise his voice to be heard.
"Now, there's a surprise," Therese remarked dryly. More often than not, whenever strange gypsies came into the tavern, their first words were, "I'm looking for Clopin Trouillefou." "You'll find him over there, near the fire," she pointed.
"Thank you, Madame," he nodded, and began to work his way through the maze of tables. Therese watched him go, curious to see what he wanted. Before the young man had covered half the distance to the fireside, Clopin looked up and saw him coming. His narrow face breaking into a grin, the Gypsy King leapt from his chair and closed the remaining distance between himself and his visitor in two bounds. With an exclamation Therese could not make out, Clopin threw his arms around the younger man, who returned the favor, and the two of them embraced and pounded each other's backs. Clopin took the young man by the shoulders, held him at arms' length for a moment, ruffled his black hair, then hugged him again. After a brief conversation and a little more back pounding, Clopin threw one arm around his visitor's shoulders and dragged him back to the bar.
"Madame! Madame!" he was shouting at Therese. "Come here! Come out from there!" he motioned her out from behind the bar. "Do you know who this is? Come here!" he seized her by the hand as she came out in the open, and drew her close. "Therese Darbois, this," he pounded the back of the young man one more time, "is my brother, René."
Of course it was! Therese could have smacked her own head. She would never have thought of it, seeing the young man alone, but seeing him beside Clopin, the resemblance was unmistakable. There were the same bright, black eyes and sleek, black hair, the same blindingly white smile, the same proud carriage. Even René's chin and nose, though less extreme, were the muted shadows of his brother's. Aside from the difference in their ages (René might have been as much as ten years younger), the main distinction between them was in their physiques. Although of a reasonable height, René was still a tad shorter than Clopin, but he made up the deficit in the breadth of his shoulders. Where Clopin was thin and wiry, constructed mainly of arms and legs, René was of a more athletic build. Even without knowing the Trouillefou family history, Therese would have pegged him as a tumbler and acrobat just from the looks of him.
"I hope you're hungry," Clopin addressed his brother, "for Madame Darbois is the best cook in all of Paris."
"Your brother is too full of flattery, sir," Therese informed René, turning a proud shade of pink.
"Oh, I hope not," René beamed charmingly at her, "because I'm famished! I think we all are. I brought some friends with me," he answered Clopin's curious glance.
"Friends?" Clopin looked surprised, but not unpleasantly so. "What friends are these?"
"My troupe," René smiled modestly. "Well, I shouldn't say mine -- our troupe. Come and meet them. You, too, Madame, if you please. We'll be performing at the Feast of Fools," he explained, leading them across the room. "If the Master of Ceremonies will allow it." This was punctuated by a wink at Clopin. "Here we are!" There was a shuffling of chairs as the people around the table welcomed them.
The other man did not look like a gypsy, with his ruddy complexion and golden-brown hair, but his clothes, and the earring he wore, marked him as one. "This," said René, "is Constantin Nicolet, and his wife, Marie-Elise." Mme. Nicolet was a slim, handsome, black-haired woman, about Clopin's age. "And their daughter, Lilias," a ten-year-old copy of her mother. "And this lady," he took the hand of the younger woman, who was sitting at his elbow, "is Nerine L'Oiseau." René bent to kiss the hand of the dusky, voluptuous gypsy, who, Therese noticed, had her eyes fixed on Clopin's. "This," he addressed the table, "is our charming hostess, Madame Darbois, and this" with an immense grin, "is my famous brother, Clopin."
"A pleasure," said Clopin, who was returning Nerine L'Oiseau's gaze with interest -- and not the sort of interest with which Therese usually saw him look at a member of the fair sex.
René had noticed it too, and said, with a nervous smile, "I think you already know Nerine, Clopin."
Giving her name a sarcastic twist, Clopin replied, "Yes, Mademoiselle L'Oiseau and I are already acquainted."
"Hello, Clopin," she addressed him pleasantly, but there was no mistaking the uneasiness in her posture and expression.
He bared his teeth a little too much as he answered, "Welcome home, Nerine."
One of Therese's extra helpers, a flaxen-haired maiden of sixteen or so, had overheard the introductions while serving the next table, and now pushed her way into the circle. "Are you the Nerine L'Oiseau?" she gasped.
The woman smiled modestly as René said, "She certainly is."
"Oh, would you sing for us? Please?" begged the girl, hands clasped over her breast. "Just one song. Oh, don't say no!" she was almost jumping up and down when Nerine raised a hand as if to demur. "Jeannette," Therese tugged at the girl's elbow, "she's here for dinner, not to entertain you."
"Oh, but Madame, just one song, that's not too much to ask. Is it?" she looked to René for support.
"You're very kind, Mademoiselle," he tried to placate her, "but we've been traveling all day..."
"One song, nothing more," insisted Jeannette, appealing again to Nerine. "Don't listen to him, say you'll do it. My friend, Miguel -- MIGUEL!" she cried over the din of the tavern, beckoning to someone a few tables away. "Miguel plays the Spanish guitar, he could play for you, he knows all sorts of songs. NO, NO, BRING THE GUITAR!" she shouted at him again as he started over, empty-handed, not knowing what she wanted.
"That's enough, Jeannette," Therese finally dragged her back by the apron strings. "I'm not paying you to stand around and bother my customers."
"Señorita?" Miguel joined them, guitar in hand, and looked inquiringly around the circle.
"Go back to your dinner, señor," Therese patted his shoulder.
"No, no," Jeannette caught his arm and held him. "Miguel, this is Nerine L'Oiseau, the famous Gypsy Nightingale. She's going to sing a song for us, and I want you to play for her. He plays beautifully," she assured Nerine. "What would you like to sing?"
"Truly, Mademoiselle," René interceded again, "it breaks my heart to disappoint you, but..."
"Never mind, René." With a patient smile, Nerine got up from her chair, and spoke to Jeannette. "What would you like to hear?"
Jeannette hadn't thought this far ahead, and she was struck dumb for a moment. "Ahh... I don't know. Something soulful," she knew that much. "Something to make us cry. I heard you once made Judge Claude Frollo cry, is that true? What did you sing for him?"
"Oh," Nerine shook her head, embarrassed by this, "I don't remember. That was a long time ago. Do you know ‘La Complainte de Mirette'?" she asked Miguel, and he nodded. "Do you know that one?" she asked Jeannette.
"Oh, yes, it's one of my favorites! QUIET! QUIET, EVERYONE!" Jeannette tried to hush the surrounding tables while Nerine and Miguel conferred over the pitch of the song. "The Gypsy Nightingale is going to sing for us!" A few of the patrons immediately nearby paused and turned to see what was going on, but the farther reaches of the room remained as noisy as before.
René tested the sturdiness of the chair, and helped Nerine up to stand on it. Resting against the edge of the table, Miguel strummed his instrument, and Nerine began to sing, softly at first, as her voice found union with the notes of the guitar, then more strongly as their melodies twined together. "La Complainte de Mirette" was the song of a maiden, praying for the safety of her lover, who has gone to war, and lamenting the loneliness she feels without him. Therese had heard the song sung before, but never so hauntingly as this. Warm, and rich, and sweet, the voice of Nerine L'Oiseau cast its spell across the tavern and, slowly, the talk and laughter of the patrons fell back and surrendered to its magic. By the time the singer reached the end of her song, hers was the only voice in the room, and when she had sung the last note, and the last chord of the guitar had faded beneath it, there was a moment of silence and then the tavern erupted in applause.
With a smile that shone with surprise and delight at the reception she had received, the singer took her bows, then reached for René's hand and stepped down. He caught her in his arms and kissed her cheek, then Jeannette, tears streaming blissfully down her face, shoved him aside and hugged Nerine in gratitude. Miguel, still clutching his guitar, fell dramatically to his knees and kissed the singer's hand. Nerine was laughing merrily at the attention, and she looked to the Nicolets, who were also applauding her vigorously. "Constantin!" she appealed to the ruddy man, as the rowdy students near the bar began hurling coins at her. He waved her off and shook his head, but his wife pushed at him, and René seconded the motion.
"Ladies and Gentleman," René stepped up on the chair and raised his voice, "do you want to hear more?"
The answer was a resounding yes.
"Then allow us to present the Paris debut of the finest baritone in all of France, Monsieur Constantin Nicolet!" M. Nicolet rose to the applause of the room and took René's place on the chair. René conferred briefly with Miguel, and when the Spaniard nodded and handed him the guitar, René motioned to Marie-Elise to come forward. "Please welcome Madame Nicolet, a most accomplished musician, who will play for us, as well."
René stepped back and sat down beside Nerine, while the handsome gypsy woman acquainted herself with the guitar and launched into the lively tune of "Poor Farmer Thomas." Everyone knew this song, and a rhythmic clapping started up around the room as Constantin Nicolet took up the tale of Farmer Thomas, who loses all his possessions, his horse, his dog, and eventually his wife to a cunning neighbor. Therese, hoping she hadn't left anything important on the fire in the kitchen, stayed and tapped her toes with the rest of them. Constantin Nicolet was not only a fine singer, with an appealing voice, he was an actor, as well, and he had the whole room laughing with his performance. Between the verses, his wife played intricate changes on the tune, and a few of the tavern's patrons even tried to get up and dance between the tables. At last, Poor Farmer Thomas was left with nothing, and Constantin and Marie-Elise became the objects of the crowd's approval.
Therese edged over to René and patted his shoulder. "If you do half as well at the Feast of Fools, you'll make a fortune!"
It was not until she was on her way to the kitchen to fetch them some dinner that Therese looked around and realized that Clopin had disappeared.