Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fine characters in Victor Hugo's book,
nor do I own any of the fine interpretations of them in Disney's film.
************************************************************************
I fly.
Or rather, I feel as though I fly. The crowd around me blends into a whirl of color and rounded blurs of faces. They are not here for my dancing. There are far better dancers than I. Gypsy dancers are a dime a dozen. To make any money being one, you must be exceptionally good or pathetically bad.
They are more interested in the fact that I am whirling about while playing a fiddle. The tune is simple enough to the trained ear, but to these uncultured Parisians the feat is masterful. Every note rings clear in my head, and I can hear nothing else. I continue my dervish-like dance about the cobblestones.
I hear the clink of coins hitting the stones and smile to myself. It's just as well. My fingers are beginning to go numb. Finally I end the show, making a grand curtsy as though it were a performance by a great master. The small crowd applauds, tossing more coins my way.
"Show your appreciation, Monsieurs and Madams!" My elder brother Ferdain calls out, not bothering to get up from his resting spot but quite willing to collect all the money. He also pronounces Monsieur wrong, and I resist the urge to laugh at him.
"I do believe you've sold your soul to the devil, Evalyne." Ferdain laughs after the crowd has gone. "A brand new city, barely hours old to us, and you've already collected breakfast for us." I smiled back at him.
True enough, we have only just arrived in Paris this morning. But of course, we had to flee somewhere from Italy. The Guards of the Pope would have had our heads if they had known how much money Ferdain had slipped from their pockets.
"Perhaps you should sell yours as well. Maybe then the devil would not stand for you being incurably lazy as I have." Ferdain rolls his eyes and yawns, scratching his stomach.
A brilliant thief my brother may be, but only when the fit is upon him. The rest of the time there is no lazier creature upon the earth. His stomach has a slight pouch, which is surprising considering how little gypsies manage to eat. His face is scruffy and barely shaven. The black hair lies in a matted curly mess atop his round head. He is a coward without a bone for hard work, but he has a noble conscience and for this I love him.
Despite the fact that I am now panting with exhaustion from winning our income.
"Well, what shall we do now, Evalyne? I don't mind telling you I'm horribly hungry." He asks me, dependant as though I were his mother rather than his younger sister.
"I don't know, Ferdain. I thought you were the one who had been to Paris before." He shrugs his shoulders.
"That was at least 9 years ago. It is as new to you as it is to me." Ferdain and I go through the same routine in every city; perform for the money, find the resident gypsies, and eventually move on once Ferdain gets us into trouble. Which he always does.
I try to pin my dark brown hair back up. It's become a wild nest of tangles from my dancing and violent playing.
Of course I am pretty. Ferdain and I would have been dead long ago had I not been.
This is nothing new among gypsies. Those women who wish to earn a coin must be. I am only one of a thousand, and it is nothing special. It comes from not having much to eat and constantly having to run from various threats.
"How much do we have then?" Ferdain groans in disgust.
"Barely enough. It looks like much more when they are all wildly tossing it at you." I place my fiddle protectively under my arm and we cross to another section of street. A group of children are focused around a cart.
Perfect. Children are always unwittingly generous with whatever coins they have on them.
I begin to play an enticing little tune. This is my talent. I am no great singer, no spectacular dancer, no wonderful acrobatic. I beguile no one with myself. Without my fiddle, the great extension of my body, I am nothing but another pretty gypsy.
Some children turn, nudging their friends and pointing at the new spectacle.
"The song will only get better if you come closer, children!" Ferdain calls out. They all instantly abandon the cart and run over. Ferdain is a child at heart and is very adept at attracting more of them.
The children begin to toss coins, and I hop over each coin, trying to avoid tripping over it. They clap in delight that I am able to do this and still continue my bright little melody, and toss more coins. Unwittingly I've created a new game.
I whirl about and the song is cut short when my fiddle knocks into a tall man standing among them.
I notice his brightly colored jester costume immediately, the gold ring hanging from his ear. Unwittingly I've stolen business from a fellow gypsy.
A few hours in a new city and already I've gotten Ferdain and myself into trouble, even without Ferdain's usual help.
The gypsy man is tall and lean, wiry, but obviously a spry acrobat. Jet black hair, straight and dark, pokes out from under his hat. Two black eyes stare at me with superiority, but there is a broad smile on his long face.
"A thief! A thief!" I hear a high little voice cry. For a moment I think it is one of the children, but suddenly I am face to face with a little puppet, carved to the likeness of the man in front of me.
"A thief?" The man says melodramatically. "Where?"
"Her! She's a horrible gypsy thief!" He tapped the puppet on the head.
"Hush, you silly Puppet. No gypsy is a thief!" He winks at me.
"Yes! She has stolen all my admirers!" The little Puppet is made to cry, and all the children crowd around, delighted.
"No thief could steal the admirers from you, Puppet, nor your gracious master, for he is the King of all Gypsies! It is merely another Gypsy spellbinder, nothing more!" He says triumphantly.
"Perhaps, little Puppet," I say, "It is neither thievery nor spells. Perhaps your master cannot keep hold of his audience." I tap the Puppet affectionately on the head.
This arrogant gypsy has a cart. He can afford the loss of a few coins to some newcomers. I always instantly justify my actions to myself, and never look back upon them.
"Evalyne-"Ferdain starts nervously.
"She is a sharp little thing, Puppet, yes?" The man says to his wooden companion. "We shall see how sharp she is when her admirers are no longer hers."
"Come children!" The man says.
"Come!" Puppet repeats.
"For I've a new story to tell you-"
"New!"
"Full of adventure, and excitement-"
"Exciting!"
"And no spellbinding fiddlers to distract you!"
"No thieves!"
The little children begin to follow. I smile. This game can be won easily. I have beaten parents, other children, wild spectacles in the street. Children's attentions can be diverted so easily.
I play them a wild tune, so loud and exciting that they cannot help but listen. They all turn back, but stay where they are, lost between the promise of a new story and this new musical gypsy. I hear a broad laugh, and watch in astonishment and the tall gypsy man begins to flip about the square. He somersaults, leaps and twists about, contorts and dances, utilizing every inch of his body and every object around him to create a dazzling show of acrobatics.
Fine. If he wishes to try and steal coins from me, I'll not let them go without a fight.
I speed up my song. He speeds up his performance.
I go faster. The man has insatiable energy. He bounds and leaps from one trick to another, grinning breathlessly at me in between.
I am flying now, my arm entirely numb, but I do not care. The man keeps the smile, though it begins to look forced. He must be getting tired.
A sudden sharp whip to my cheek sends me reeling backwards, and I hit a sour note. One of my strings has snapped. The game is over. The thin man laughs in delight, bowing grandly.
"A definite pleasure, no? To compete but to lose! Take heart, Cherie, for you have lost to the best!" I glare at him as he cartwheels out of sight.
"Evalyne, you fool!" Ferdain says, grasping my arm and pulling me away from the square. "Do you know who you nearly disgraced?"
"Certainly nothing more than another gypsy acrobat. A horribly arrogant one at that." Ferdain shakes his head sorrowfully. I'm used to my brother overreacting. This time will be no different.
"Evalyne, that was Clopin Trouillefou- the King of the Gypsies!" I laugh.
"Surely you weren't taken in by his boastful claims? And how do you know his name anyhow?"
"You remembered I visited years ago."
"You remember the King of the Gypsies, but not the layout of the streets." I say, still laughing. I no more believe that wiry acrobat King of the Gypsies any more than I think myself the Queen of France.
"Well, Ferdain, if you are so wise, maybe you can tell us where this King and his Court are?" Ferdain scratches his head for a moment.
It is hard for him to remember such things as visits to Paris. These are things he did with our father. Our father who is now dead, along with our mother. Gypsies do not last long when they are as stubborn and overzealous as our parents were.
Another would say, pity me. I say envy me, for I have survived at 19, with a lazy brother of 24 no less.
"I believe I do." He says suddenly, in surprise, as if he didn't think he would actually remember.
"Where then?" For once, Ferdain leads the way, and for once I am glad to follow.
Any gathering place of gypsies is a wonderful place to be, even if it's for as short a time as I think Ferdain and I will be here.
************************************************************************
I fly.
Or rather, I feel as though I fly. The crowd around me blends into a whirl of color and rounded blurs of faces. They are not here for my dancing. There are far better dancers than I. Gypsy dancers are a dime a dozen. To make any money being one, you must be exceptionally good or pathetically bad.
They are more interested in the fact that I am whirling about while playing a fiddle. The tune is simple enough to the trained ear, but to these uncultured Parisians the feat is masterful. Every note rings clear in my head, and I can hear nothing else. I continue my dervish-like dance about the cobblestones.
I hear the clink of coins hitting the stones and smile to myself. It's just as well. My fingers are beginning to go numb. Finally I end the show, making a grand curtsy as though it were a performance by a great master. The small crowd applauds, tossing more coins my way.
"Show your appreciation, Monsieurs and Madams!" My elder brother Ferdain calls out, not bothering to get up from his resting spot but quite willing to collect all the money. He also pronounces Monsieur wrong, and I resist the urge to laugh at him.
"I do believe you've sold your soul to the devil, Evalyne." Ferdain laughs after the crowd has gone. "A brand new city, barely hours old to us, and you've already collected breakfast for us." I smiled back at him.
True enough, we have only just arrived in Paris this morning. But of course, we had to flee somewhere from Italy. The Guards of the Pope would have had our heads if they had known how much money Ferdain had slipped from their pockets.
"Perhaps you should sell yours as well. Maybe then the devil would not stand for you being incurably lazy as I have." Ferdain rolls his eyes and yawns, scratching his stomach.
A brilliant thief my brother may be, but only when the fit is upon him. The rest of the time there is no lazier creature upon the earth. His stomach has a slight pouch, which is surprising considering how little gypsies manage to eat. His face is scruffy and barely shaven. The black hair lies in a matted curly mess atop his round head. He is a coward without a bone for hard work, but he has a noble conscience and for this I love him.
Despite the fact that I am now panting with exhaustion from winning our income.
"Well, what shall we do now, Evalyne? I don't mind telling you I'm horribly hungry." He asks me, dependant as though I were his mother rather than his younger sister.
"I don't know, Ferdain. I thought you were the one who had been to Paris before." He shrugs his shoulders.
"That was at least 9 years ago. It is as new to you as it is to me." Ferdain and I go through the same routine in every city; perform for the money, find the resident gypsies, and eventually move on once Ferdain gets us into trouble. Which he always does.
I try to pin my dark brown hair back up. It's become a wild nest of tangles from my dancing and violent playing.
Of course I am pretty. Ferdain and I would have been dead long ago had I not been.
This is nothing new among gypsies. Those women who wish to earn a coin must be. I am only one of a thousand, and it is nothing special. It comes from not having much to eat and constantly having to run from various threats.
"How much do we have then?" Ferdain groans in disgust.
"Barely enough. It looks like much more when they are all wildly tossing it at you." I place my fiddle protectively under my arm and we cross to another section of street. A group of children are focused around a cart.
Perfect. Children are always unwittingly generous with whatever coins they have on them.
I begin to play an enticing little tune. This is my talent. I am no great singer, no spectacular dancer, no wonderful acrobatic. I beguile no one with myself. Without my fiddle, the great extension of my body, I am nothing but another pretty gypsy.
Some children turn, nudging their friends and pointing at the new spectacle.
"The song will only get better if you come closer, children!" Ferdain calls out. They all instantly abandon the cart and run over. Ferdain is a child at heart and is very adept at attracting more of them.
The children begin to toss coins, and I hop over each coin, trying to avoid tripping over it. They clap in delight that I am able to do this and still continue my bright little melody, and toss more coins. Unwittingly I've created a new game.
I whirl about and the song is cut short when my fiddle knocks into a tall man standing among them.
I notice his brightly colored jester costume immediately, the gold ring hanging from his ear. Unwittingly I've stolen business from a fellow gypsy.
A few hours in a new city and already I've gotten Ferdain and myself into trouble, even without Ferdain's usual help.
The gypsy man is tall and lean, wiry, but obviously a spry acrobat. Jet black hair, straight and dark, pokes out from under his hat. Two black eyes stare at me with superiority, but there is a broad smile on his long face.
"A thief! A thief!" I hear a high little voice cry. For a moment I think it is one of the children, but suddenly I am face to face with a little puppet, carved to the likeness of the man in front of me.
"A thief?" The man says melodramatically. "Where?"
"Her! She's a horrible gypsy thief!" He tapped the puppet on the head.
"Hush, you silly Puppet. No gypsy is a thief!" He winks at me.
"Yes! She has stolen all my admirers!" The little Puppet is made to cry, and all the children crowd around, delighted.
"No thief could steal the admirers from you, Puppet, nor your gracious master, for he is the King of all Gypsies! It is merely another Gypsy spellbinder, nothing more!" He says triumphantly.
"Perhaps, little Puppet," I say, "It is neither thievery nor spells. Perhaps your master cannot keep hold of his audience." I tap the Puppet affectionately on the head.
This arrogant gypsy has a cart. He can afford the loss of a few coins to some newcomers. I always instantly justify my actions to myself, and never look back upon them.
"Evalyne-"Ferdain starts nervously.
"She is a sharp little thing, Puppet, yes?" The man says to his wooden companion. "We shall see how sharp she is when her admirers are no longer hers."
"Come children!" The man says.
"Come!" Puppet repeats.
"For I've a new story to tell you-"
"New!"
"Full of adventure, and excitement-"
"Exciting!"
"And no spellbinding fiddlers to distract you!"
"No thieves!"
The little children begin to follow. I smile. This game can be won easily. I have beaten parents, other children, wild spectacles in the street. Children's attentions can be diverted so easily.
I play them a wild tune, so loud and exciting that they cannot help but listen. They all turn back, but stay where they are, lost between the promise of a new story and this new musical gypsy. I hear a broad laugh, and watch in astonishment and the tall gypsy man begins to flip about the square. He somersaults, leaps and twists about, contorts and dances, utilizing every inch of his body and every object around him to create a dazzling show of acrobatics.
Fine. If he wishes to try and steal coins from me, I'll not let them go without a fight.
I speed up my song. He speeds up his performance.
I go faster. The man has insatiable energy. He bounds and leaps from one trick to another, grinning breathlessly at me in between.
I am flying now, my arm entirely numb, but I do not care. The man keeps the smile, though it begins to look forced. He must be getting tired.
A sudden sharp whip to my cheek sends me reeling backwards, and I hit a sour note. One of my strings has snapped. The game is over. The thin man laughs in delight, bowing grandly.
"A definite pleasure, no? To compete but to lose! Take heart, Cherie, for you have lost to the best!" I glare at him as he cartwheels out of sight.
"Evalyne, you fool!" Ferdain says, grasping my arm and pulling me away from the square. "Do you know who you nearly disgraced?"
"Certainly nothing more than another gypsy acrobat. A horribly arrogant one at that." Ferdain shakes his head sorrowfully. I'm used to my brother overreacting. This time will be no different.
"Evalyne, that was Clopin Trouillefou- the King of the Gypsies!" I laugh.
"Surely you weren't taken in by his boastful claims? And how do you know his name anyhow?"
"You remembered I visited years ago."
"You remember the King of the Gypsies, but not the layout of the streets." I say, still laughing. I no more believe that wiry acrobat King of the Gypsies any more than I think myself the Queen of France.
"Well, Ferdain, if you are so wise, maybe you can tell us where this King and his Court are?" Ferdain scratches his head for a moment.
It is hard for him to remember such things as visits to Paris. These are things he did with our father. Our father who is now dead, along with our mother. Gypsies do not last long when they are as stubborn and overzealous as our parents were.
Another would say, pity me. I say envy me, for I have survived at 19, with a lazy brother of 24 no less.
"I believe I do." He says suddenly, in surprise, as if he didn't think he would actually remember.
"Where then?" For once, Ferdain leads the way, and for once I am glad to follow.
Any gathering place of gypsies is a wonderful place to be, even if it's for as short a time as I think Ferdain and I will be here.