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January, 1482. The orange glow illuminating the early morning sky over Paris owed nothing to the sun. In nearly every neighborhood, fires still burned and smoldered, the handiwork of Judge Claude Frollo and his men. For more than twenty years, it had been Frollo's mission to drive the gypsies from the city, and the more he killed in the process, the better. But this year, at the Feast of Fools, Frollo's hatred of the gypsies had finally turned to madness. The beautiful dancer, Esmeralda, had mocked him before the rabble, and he had sworn to bring her to justice -- his own brand of justice -- if he had to burn all of Paris to find her.Back to Clopin FanFic!Now, in the last hours of night, the streets were alive with the news that he had captured her; more than that, that he had uncovered the gypsies' secret Court of Miracles and made enough arrests to keep the rope-makers busy for weeks. There was even word that Clopin, the Gypsy King, himself, was among Frollo's prisoners. How and when he and his comrades would be executed was still a matter of conjecture, but Esmeralda's fate was already decided. Even then, a mob was gathering before the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, to see her put to the fire.
From the precincts of the University, which had been left largely unscathed, two figures hastened through the streets, heading toward the cathedral. The elder was a plump little woman of six-and-thirty; her companion was a fair girl of sixteen, notable for the blue eyepatch she wore. Madame Malle, the old matron who had let them a room, knew them as Madame Gilbert and her daughter, who had come from the country to attend the Feast of Fools and found themselves stuck when Frollo sealed the city. But, their friends would have recognized them anywhere as Madame Darbois, the tavern-keeper, and her servant, Anne.
Therese Darbois had never felt so sick or so frightened, not even when she had run away from Rouen after killing her own husband, for then, her only concern had been for herself. Now, she was on the verge of losing almost everyone and everything she had come to care for in her life, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Worst of all was the prospect of losing Him. Clopin Trouillefou had been her first friend in Paris, when she had taken charge of the Goose and Grapes ten years ago. For the past three years, he had been much more than a friend, as she had learned to trust him in the most intimate way, and revealed to him the tender, affectionate woman she kept hidden from the rest of the world. Therese was convinced that she was too sensible to die of a broken heart, but even she had to admit she would be miserable without Clopin's companionship.
And to think, he had told her not to worry, that this would all blow over in a day or two...
It had begun at mid-morning, on the day after the Feast of Fools, as Madame Darbois made her way through the streets of Paris, cloak trailing behind her, half-empty market basket bouncing against her hip, walking as quickly as a woman of her age and constitution could be expected to walk. The tales she had heard in the marketplace were not mere rumors. More than once, on her way back to the Goose and Grapes, she passed groups of soldiers, Frollo's guard, beating on doors, bullying shopkeepers, overturning carts of goods. She kept to the opposite side of the way and pretended not to see. The soldiers had not worked their way out as far as her neighborhood, and she felt safe, for the moment, when she reached her own alley. Nothing out of the ordinary here; she wondered if the neighbors had even yet heard of what was going on in the city.
She didn't take the time to go around to the kitchen, in back, but entered the tavern through the street door, locking it behind her. "Anne!"
The girl had already come from the kitchen at the sound of someone at the front door. "Madame, we've been waiting for you--"
"You won't believe what's going on!" Pushing past her, Therese dropped her basket and shrugged off her cloak. "Soldiers all over the place; they're breaking down doors. It won't take them half the day to work out this far. I've got to find Clopin -- "
Madame Darbois yelped with surprise as, in that instant, Clopin found her. Nothing so dramatic as a puff of orange smoke or the swirl of a cape; he had simply come dashing out of the kitchen just as Therese was dashing in. Staggering apart from the shock, the two of them grabbed each other's arms to steady themselves.
"You scared me to death!" Madame's thoughts were just now catching up to her, although her breath was still lagging behind. "Frollo's got troops all over the city--" she blurted.
"Esmeralda escaped the cathedral," he was talking over her. "They're hunting her down; he won't stop until he finds her, or kills enough people trying. I was about to send Anne out to find you." Clopin paused long enough to take Therese by the shoulders, then take her face in his hands to be sure he had her attention. "You have to close the tavern."
"Close it?" she recoiled from him.
"Lock the place up; take Anne and get out of here. I'll pay you for the trouble, if that's what you're worried about--"
"No, no," she shook her head, "I don't care about that. I -- It's really that serious?"
"It is very serious."
Therese had done as he asked, without question. He had feared what would happen if Frollo's men came to the house. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that Madame Darbois was a friend to the gypsies, and, although none of them had any love for Frollo's guard, some of her regular customers might have been "persuaded" to give information. Or worse, Frollo might have decided to set an example by bashing in a few heads, or torching the place with a few dozen patrons inside. However Clopin looked at it, it was safer for all concerned if Madame Darbois were simply to disappear.
She had taken next to nothing, only a change of clothes and all the money she had in the house, which had proven to be a tidy sum. She wasn't afraid for herself; she had disappeared before, she reminded him, and could do it again. Clopin had assured her that the trouble would soon be over, and things would be back to normal.
Well, Therese fretted to herself, this was hardly what she would call normal. She had no idea what she expected to find, or to do, when she reached Notre Dame, but she couldn't bear the thought of not knowing what was going on. As they neared the cathedral square, she began to realize that something had happened. There was far too much smoke and fire, far too much running and shouting for a simple public execution. She and Anne entered the square and walked straight into a riot.
The scaffold that had been erected in front of the cathedral was consumed in flames, and the blaze was raging so violently that it half-obscured the façade of the building. There were people everywhere, fighting, falling, running to help, running to escape. Their faces were those of men, women and children, soldiers, gypsies and commoners. Clutching Anne's arm, afraid of losing her, Therese choked on the terrible smoke that enveloped everything and searched desperately for someone she knew.
A woman's voice called her name twice before she could find its source: a middle-aged gypsy, her brown skin blackened with soot, kneeling over an old man on the ground. "Oudarde!" Therese exclaimed and, dragging Anne along, she ran to her. Madame Oudarde was the wife of Marin, the boatman. The old man she was tending was not a gypsy, and a sallow woman in a plain brown dress, probably the man's daughter, was kneeling beside him as well, holding his hand in both of hers. As Therese drew near, Oudarde beckoned to a pair of men, who had slung together a crude stretcher in which to carry the wounded. "He's all right," Oudarde was saying, "more shaken up than anything. Take him out of here, try to get him some fresh air." The old man's daughter squeezed Oudarde's hand and thanked her, then followed her father away.
With no hint of surprise at seeing them, Oudarde motioned for Therese and Anne to follow her. "Come help me; I need you." The edge of the square had become a sort of open-air hospital, where some of the wounded had limped or been carried to find assistance. The sights and the smells would have sickened Therese, except that she was still too stunned by the enormity of it all to notice. Blindly, she obeyed Oudarde, pressing a bloody rag into the wounds of another man on the ground.
"What happened?" Therese finally found her voice.
"They tried to burn Esmeralda, but the hunchback saved her; came down from the cathedral and snatched her away. Hold him still," she said to Anne. "He declared sanctuary, and Frollo's dogs stormed the cathedral to bring her out. The Parisians broke us out of our cages, and we all fought back."
"Have you seen Clopin?" asked Therese.
"He's fine," Oudarde answered the real question. "At least, he was when I saw him," she jerked her head tellingly toward the heart of the melee.
At that moment, a great, communal scream went up from the mob. Torrents of molten lead had begun to pour from the face of Notre Dame, herself, cascading onto the square, driving back the rioters, who fled in panic. Oudarde and her helpers put as many of their patients as could walk on their feet, and called stretchers for as many of the others as they could. Anne and Therese helped the injured limp to the safety of the neighboring streets. The smoke was not so thick here, and the people who had fled the square began to collect themselves and catch their breath, milling about in search of friends or family.
Therese had her hands full with helping Oudarde, but when she heard Marin's voice, calling his wife's name, she turned to look. The gypsy boatman was making his way toward them, dragging one leg, and leaning for support on a companion who, though sooty and sweating, seemed otherwise unharmed. Therese put her hand to her throat, almost sick with relief, when she recognized Clopin.
"It's done!" the King of the Gypsies shouted triumphantly. "Quasimodo's driven them off! They say Frollo's dead, but I wouldn't be too quick to believe it." He handed Marin to Oudarde, who sat her husband down on a stoop and bent to examine his leg. Wiping his forehead and pushing his hair back out of his eyes, Clopin grinned at Therese. "Madame, you look a sight!" When she did nothing but stare at him, he laughed and opened his arms to her. "What!? No kiss for the conquering hero?"
Therese flung herself against his chest, knocking the wind out of him as she did. He hugged her tight as she clung to him. She could feel herself shaking, and tried to stop it, but it was no use. Clopin unearthed her face from his shoulder and brushed her cheek with his thumb.
"Why, Madame, are you-- ?"
"No, I'm not, don't be silly, of course not," she choked.
Clopin held her close again and smiled as he said, "No, of course you're not."
Sun and wind dissipated the smoke, and the citizens of Paris cleared away all the traces of battle. It was generally understood that Claude Frollo had plunged from the heights of the cathedral into the raging fire and met his doom, but since no one could produce any evidence of this, the rumors of his miraculous escape were already taking form. He and his soldiers were no longer a threat to anyone, however, at least for the moment, and more and more people poured into the square as the news of the morning's events spread through Paris. When at last the doors of Notre Dame opened, and Esmeralda emerged, hand in hand with Phoebus, the ex-Captain who had defied Frollo and led the attack on his soldiers, the crowd let off a roar. The cheers died away when a third figure ventured into the sunlight. The crowd gaped with curiosity at the deformed bellringer of Notre Dame, many of them still unsure of what to make of this creature. The mob held its collective breath when one little girl ventured out of the crowd and reached up to embrace the monster, but when he smiled and hugged her gently in return, their fears were dispelled, and they welcomed him into their midst.
"Three cheers for Quasimodo!" cried Clopin, who had shinned up a post for a better view, and the crowd obliged him, Therese and Anne included. The Hero of the Battle of Notre Dame was hoisted aloft and borne off through the streets in a triumphant procession.
Taking Anne's arm, Therese stood aside and let the crowd pass, then turned her steps another way. "Come on."
"Madame!" Clopin shouted, running after them. "Where are you going? The party is this way!"
"I'm sorry, Clopin, I just want to go home."
He caught her as she turned away, and got a good grip on her shoulders. "Therese," he said solemnly, "you have no home."
"What happened?" she asked, though she hardly needed to hear the answer.
Clopin spoke as gently as he could. "It's gone, all gone, the building, half the block, burnt to the ground. There's nothing left."
It was Anne who asked, "Was anyone hurt?"
"I don't know," he admitted, "but it would be a miracle if there weren't. You were right to go, Therese," he shook her slightly, to get her attention. "You were right to close the tavern. If you'd stayed, there would only have been more people killed."
"I have to go home," she murmured again, trying to shrug him off. "I don't care if there's nothing, I have to go. Come on, Anne."
"I'll go with you," Clopin offered.
"No, don't. I'll be fine; you've got too much to do as it is." Frankly, she would have felt better with him there, but he had already seen her cry one time too many today. He let her go, reluctantly, and, taking Anne with her, Therese went home.
It was worse than nothing. The mess, the rubble, the smell, the broken outcroppings of blackened stonework -- she was glad she had refused Clopin's offer, for as soon as she saw what was left, she sat down on the first stable object she found, put her head in her hands and cried. Anne held her and cried along with her, then Therese raised her head, found a scrap of linen somewhere on her person for her eyes and nose, got up, and dusted the soot from the back of her skirt.
"Well," she sniffed, "I don't suppose there is anything left, but as long as we're here..."
Anne hung back, but Madame Darbois prowled around the edge of the ruins, looking in vain for something she could identify.
"You won't find anything," snapped a sharp little voice behind her. A stunted slip of humanity, with the face of a forty-year-old woman and the form of a ten-year-old girl stood in the street, holding a child, hardly more than an infant, in her arms. It was Lucie, the servant of Jacques Crousette, the landlord, and the child was his youngest, Daniel. "We heard you'd cleared out," said Lucie, balancing the weight of the child on her hip, not without some trouble.
"I'm sorry, Lucie -- " she gestured vaguely at the mess.
"Don't be," the tiny woman said, with a softer edge on her voice than Therese was used to hearing. "By the time they got here, they were burning everything in sight, just to prove they could, I think. You did the smart thing, no reason to be sorry for that."
"Are the Crousettes -- ?" Therese tried to ask.
"The Crousette," Lucie said, emphasizing the singular. "You're looking at him. The others are dead."
Anne put her hand to her mouth, and Therese heard her sob.
"They gave me the baby and pushed me down the stairs," Lucie was explaining. "I thought the rest were behind me, but-- " She broke off and shifted Daniel to the other hip.
"What are you going to do with him?" asked Anne, reaching out to the child.
Lucie clutched him fiercely and took a step back. "Well, I'm not going to eat him for supper, Miss!" She sighed, for the first time letting the grief show for an instant. "My brother will have room for us, though he may not know it yet. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," said Therese. "I haven't thought that far yet."
The first, obvious answer was to return to their temporary lodgings at Madame Malle's. Therese had meant to think things out and make some decisions, but the sight of a bed had suddenly made her aware of how exhausted she was, and the first thing she did was to lay down and sleep. Anne brought back some supper from a tavern down the street, and Madame Darbois consumed her share of it, enough of her usual self to give a running critique on the food as she ate it. "I suppose I had better go round to the Davids' in the morning and tell them not to bother with any more deliveries," she made her last decision of the day and went back to bed.
Giles and Maurice David were the favorite wine merchants of Madame Darbois. They were engaged in a running competition to see which could lose all his hair first, but were otherwise a fraternal version of the famous Jack Sprat and his Wife. Giles, the thin one, was the one Therese did most of her business with, mostly because he was the younger, and easier to win an argument with, of the two. When she told Giles of the fire, and informed him that there would be no need for him to make any more deliveries to the tavern, he asked her where she planned to go.
She still had no idea, and Giles David said, "You know, my brother owns a house in the Rue de Cigognes, not far from your old place; the house where Brissot, the clothier, has his shop. He always has rooms to let. Go and talk to Jean Mamiel, he keeps the house. Tell him you know us; he'll find a place for you."
Madame Darbois thanked him, and went to the house. Frollo's men had come calling here as well, judging by the broken windows of the clothier's shop, and the broken hinges on the door, but at least it had been spared the torch. Jean Mamiel was an agreeable old man, and Therese made arrangements with him for a set of apartments she and Anne could share. That afternoon, she settled her bill with Madame Malle, and they moved into their new home.
From the first day, she was aware of Maurice David coming and going often from the house, and conferring with Jean Mamiel, but she thought nothing of it until the morning, a few days after her arrival, when the carts came and began to haul off the stock of the clothier's shop.
"Has Monsieur Brissot moved out?" she asked Maurice David.
He looked at her in surprise. "Monsieur Brissot is dead. Didn't anyone tell you? He was arrested during the troubles. The first time they came here, he fed the Minister of Justice some mouthful of rubbish about the gypsies in exchange for a few silver coins, but once Frollo realized he'd been lied to, he had the little rat hauled off to the dungeons. No one knew for certain what had become of him until now, but he's gone."
"Who inherited the business?" Therese asked, more from idle curiosity than anything as she watched the carts being loaded with bolts of woolens and silks.
"No one," said Maurice David. "His stock is mine, and if it's enough to pay off what he owed me, I'll be lucky. The man was nothing but trouble. I'll have to find another tenant for the shop, as well," he grumbled.
And from above, in the heavens, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the head of Therese Darbois.
What had been the shop of Brissot the clothier now became the new tavern of Madame Darbois. Maurice David was delighted to have a tenant he could trust to pay her bills, and willingly cooperated with the alterations she asked for. The old Goose and Grapes, however hard she had worked to improve it, had always had the atmosphere of a dank cellar, but the clothier's shop, with its ground-level facade, and generous windows, at once presented an airier and more respectable appearance. What had been Brissot's stock room, at the back of the house, provided a darker, cozier environment, a little more like the old tavern her patrons were used to, and Therese, with the help of Maurice and Mamiel, worked up a plan whereby the two sections, one bright and one dark, could both be served by a central kitchen and bar.
Therese commissioned Manon Chabrol, the artist, to paint the sign for the new tavern. She had thought long and hard over a name for the place. At first, the Goose and Grapes had seemed good enough to use again, but, the more she thought about it, the more Therese came to see her new tavern as a fresh start, deserving of its own identity. At last, she had settled on The Phoenix, the mythical bird reborn from its own ashes. It was picturesque, and appropriate, and she had given Manon free reign to interpret it as she saw fit. The artist had a wonderful eye for color and detail, and Therese was eager to see the noble, flaming, winged creature that would be the emblem of her new establishment.
On a particularly pleasant morning, with the sun streaming in the freshly-washed front windows, Manon and Clopin met Therese in the tavern. Clopin was carrying a large, wooden plaque wrapped in a piece of sacking. Manon had an odd smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but Therese wrote it off as the anxiety of an artist unveiling her latest work.
"All right," Therese rubbed her hands together as Clopin propped the sign in a chair, "let's see it." Manon sidled up to her and slipped an arm around her waist. Thinking nothing of this, Therese returned the favor, and the two women stood closely side by side.
"All right, Clopin," said Manon.
With a flourish, he whipped off the sacking and cried, "Voilá!"
Therese's jaw dropped, and she felt Manon's grip on her tighten a bit. "You have got to be joking."
"Magnificent, no?" Clopin admired the painting, cozying up to Therese on the opposite side, and insinuating his arm around her as well. "Manon is very talented, don't you think?"
"Manon is very talented," Therese admitted through her teeth. "But, that is not a Phoenix."
"That" was the portrait of a woman, a plump, sweet-faced little woman, with clever eyes, and a dimpled smile, and her brown hair tucked up in a crisp, white cap. Her face was framed in curling grape vines that spelled out the legend "Chez Therese."
Clopin kissed his fingers in admiration of the likeness. "Fantastic! Incredible! Only think how it will look when it is hung over the door!"
Therese bent her head to Manon's and muttered, "He put you up to this, didn't he?"
"You know how persuasive he is," she whispered back, with a confidential smile. "Don't worry, I can still paint the Phoenix for you."
"Phoenix? Bah!" Clopin exclaimed with disgust. "Half your customers wouldn't know what a Phoenix was, Madame. They'd call it a Pheasant, or a Pigeon. But, this-- " He sighed rapturously, and drew Therese a little closer to him.
"Oh, they'll know what this is, all right," Therese grimaced, warding him off with her elbow. "This is Madame Darbois making a fool of herself, that's what this is!"
"Not at all!" said Clopin. "This isn't some ridiculous, fairy tale bird, this is the most charming hostess and the best cook in Paris! No one who knew you called the old place the Goose and Grapes, don't you know that? It was always Madame Darbois'. You deserve your likeness over the door; you've earned it."
"But, I can't put my face on the tavern! What happens when I'm gone?"
"We'll paint a patch over your eye and call it Chez Anne," groaned Clopin. "Besides, I hope you're not planning to leave us any time soon."
"Well, no, but-- "
"And Manon has painted you so beautifully, you can't disappoint her."
"I will admit, Manon, I wish the mirror flattered me so much," Therese mused, beginning to soften in spite of herself.
"You do make an interesting subject," the artist confessed. "It took me some time to get the dimples quite right, but they're not too bad, I think."
"They're perfect!" said Clopin, and squeezed Therese. "Don't you agree?"
"All right," she sighed, her own face mirroring the sign's painted smile. "It's perfect, it's lovely, I'll put it up. But if anyone laughs, I'm telling them you made me do it," she warned Clopin.
"No one will laugh," Clopin promised. "Trust me, within a week, the most popular spot in Paris will be Chez Therese!
The End!