Chapter 9: Anxieties

"Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic."

(Anaïs Nin)

She couldn't find Frollo anywhere. Not that she was looking for him. Certainly not. But without his diversion, in the form of his instruction, their debates, or their mutually growing lust, Esmeralda found herself at a distinct loss for entertainment. Initially, she tired of wandering the cathedral, beautiful though it was. The nuns gave her a wide berth, keeping their conversations amongst themselves. Monsieur Paquet and Madame Sartre were engaged in what looked to be a quiet, yet lively conversation, the blacksmith's crooked smile wide as he spoke. Esmeralda, so focused as she had been on Mademoiselle Richeliu's violet eyes as the group dined together, had written Madame Sartre off as the young girl's pious, dowdy aunt. The violet eyes were a family trait, it seemed, and Madame Sartre's gleaming eyes twinkled in mirth at whatever Paquet was relaying to her. Esmeralda smiled to herself and moved along in her wanderings around the apse.

"You almost seem at home here, despite your filthy blood."

Esmeralda turned, the smile fading quickly from her beautiful face. Baroness Favager sat alone in a pew, her back and expression rigid and unwelcoming. Esmeralda balked, her resolve faltering at the reminder of her true place in the world.

"I'm sorry for intruding."

The Baroness sighed, grumbled as she patted the pew, indicating Esmeralda should sit beside her.

"I thought you more of a spitfire than that, girl. There's no amusement in your simpering deferment to an old battleaxe in no place to judge anyone. Sit down."

Esmeralda faltered, but sat beside her.

"Is there something I can do for you, madam?"

"My Lady."

"Pardon?"

The Baroness rolled her eyes, let out a perturbed breath, and glared at Esmeralda.

"It's unimportant. I need to speak with you, gypsy. What bewitchment have you cast over the Archdeacon?"

"I am no witch. I have cast no spell over him."

"I would likely be tied to a pyre for such heresy, but obviously you aren't a witch. I'm no fool, girl. Old, perhaps, wicked, almost assuredly, but a fool, certainly not. His gaze follows you."

"It is no concern of mine if he…."

"As yours follows the Archdeacon."

"I…."

The Baroness leaned toward her, placed a wrinkled hand on her knee.

"Frollo is not a kind man, gypsy. Let us be perfectly frank on that. I cannot even say if he is a good man. He is a righteous man, or was, until he laid eyes on you."

Esmeralda, uncomfortable and confused, took the risk of placing her warm hand atop the older woman's.

"What do you mean to do by telling me this?"

Dull blue eyes met bright green orbs.

"I mean to warn you, child. Be on your guard. My Felix…the Vicomte, he is what I can manage in a companion. He…he is sufficiently diverting and kind, in his way, at least to me. That is the luxury afforded by my status and the benefit my departed husband left me. Those luxuries, coupled with my estate in the countryside, far away from the heavy gaze of this edifice's gargoyles and wrathful God, allow me to live as I see fit. Love as I see fit. There is no comparison to the heights that a lover can bring your body." She took a long, appraising look at Esmeralda. "As you are beginning to understand. You are already at a disadvantage in our world, Esmeralda, by the sin of being born a woman. To further compound it, you are of inferior birth."

"Being born a gypsy does not make me inferior to anyone!"

"Indeed, it does, in all of the ways that matter. While you may have the beauty and the capacity for intellect that someone of my birth may lack, you shall never be one of us. Don't let his lust for you, and yours for him, dull your sense. He will never be able to surmount your birth, gypsy. Not so long as you are in Paris."

Blanching, Esmeralda sat back, affronted at being read so easily. The Baroness seemed to understand this, patted the gypsy's knee as she pushed herself up from the pew, unsteady on her feet for a moment.

"Do not let a man of 'superior' birth ruin you further. Love as you see fit, gypsy, but take care that you protect yourself above all else. For all of his calculations, even our Archdeacon may not take your safety into account when enacting his…tutelage of you."

"I…I thank you for your concern."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure we will cross paths again, locked in this beautiful, infernal palace as we are. Never forget who you are, gypsy, and what you both have to lose. Weigh if this companionship is worth the risks. Should you find yourself…indisposed and in need of escape from our fair city's streets, or its fair Archdeacon, my estate is often in need of entertainments."

The older woman walked away, her glittering eyes exposing her lack of piety to anyone who would have dared to look closely. Esmeralda, shaken, but diverted, sat in the pew for a few, quiet minutes, reflecting. She needed to speak with Frollo, wanted to speak with him. Resolved, she stood. She spied Father Beaumont, ensconced in his labors with the rest of his flock, attending to their needs, both corporeal and spiritual. They took no notice of her as she quietly meandered through the stone archways. As always, Esmeralda felt like an outsider. The Baroness, now a strange ally of a sort, had gone off to whatever diversion she saw fit and Frollo was nowhere to be found. When an hour melted into two without sight of the Archdeacon, Esmeralda retreated to the bell tower. Quasimodo's company was what she first sought inside the walls of Notre Dame, was it not? And if anyone could understand her feeling of otherness, it was the bell ringer.

Quasimodo was no longer so lonely as she thought. The realization warmed her. The bell ringer was animatedly showing his miniatures to Mademoiselle Richeliu, whom he kept in rapt attention. Esmeralda noted a few apple cores discarded in a basket, a few errant pigeons pecking at what she supposed to be the remnants of a loaf of bread.

"ESMERALDA!"

Well, he was anything but subtle, Esmeralda thought with a smile as the hunchback made his way over to her, Mademoiselle Richeliu trailing closely behind him.

"Good morning, to the both of you!"

"Good afternoon, more like," Quasimodo said, with a lopsided grin and a knowing glance to Mademoiselle Richeliu. He pointed at Esmeralda, emitted a short chuckle. "Slept the day away!"

Mademoiselle Richeliu laughed, good-naturedly.

"Are you well, Mademoiselle Esmeralda? I'm sorry, I do not know how to properly address you," the young girl said, her smile warm and becoming.

"Simply 'Esmeralda,' Mademoiselle."

"Then I hope you shall call me Marie! We shall be like real friends, shall we not?"

The Baroness' words and warnings resounded within Esmeralda.

"Perhaps when it is just the three of us. I would not wish to breach the decorum so many of your familiars deem necessary."

"Oh, no one cares a fig about that!"

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow, shaking her head at the girl's innocence.

"Just the same, we shall keep our familiarity between the trio of us, shall we not? It will be a delightful secret."

Quasimodo, lost in conversation with his unseen Saints, interjected into the conversation abruptly.

"Have you seen my Mast…the Archdeacon? He is late. Not like him to be late."

A blush crept up her face, her throat suddenly dry.

"I have not," Esmeralda offered simply, moving toward the walled opening overlooking the Seine.

The grounds below were still coated in snow, though there were finally signs of life milling about. Scarce signs, she noted dejectedly. They were likely to be stranded in Notre Dame for at least another few days. Frollo previously expressed his desire to teach her, amongst his other expressed desires for her. If he was set to instruct Quasimodo, it was likely he would be arriving to the bell tower shortly. It could be beneficial for her to appear willing, Esmeralda considered. If she were truly honest with herself, a skill Esmeralda felt almost overly proficient in, she would admit that she felt a strong pull to see the Archdeacon. She drank in the beauty of the wintry landscape beneath for another moment, relishing the feeling of freedom provided by the fresh air, before she turned back to Quasimodo and Marie.

"If you have no objections, I believe I may join you for your lessons today, Quasimodo."

He clapped his large hands together, clearly pleased.

"Wonderful!"

…

He prayed. Fervently. Desperately. Prayed for guidance, for absolution, for a defense against the hellfire threatening to engulf his very soul. As always, the heavens were silent. Despite his piety, his ardent desire to remain faithful, God would not answer him. Was He even listening? Had he strayed so far from his path of righteousness that the Holy Father would not, could not, see fit to guide him to safety? In his acceptance of his role as shepherd to Quasimodo, Frollo was once assured of the absolute security of his own soul, of his position as one of the Lord's chosen few. He was certain that he had been bestowed with power on Earth, set with the task of assuring the flock assigned to his guidance obeyed the laws set by Heaven and, he had reasoned, himself as God's emissary, even if God remained as silent as the stone Saints that decorated Notre Dame. Three days of trials, from one trial, to be precise, and he had so easily fallen from grace. Frollo initially deemed the gypsy girl to be sent by the Devil himself, a reminder of the failures of Jehan, of the risks of giving into temptation, of his own failings and lusts. He could conquer this lust, could rein himself back into his normal stringent control.

A brief, fleeting thought caressed his mind, wrapped around his heart and stretched out to his loins. The gypsy was to be his. Whether this was by God's hand, his own, or the very Devil's, what did it matter? He could return to penitence later. Better to have her now while she was willing, while he was able. Perhaps he could work on reforming her, as he originally thought, could bring her into his flock and mould her into an acceptable partner. A mistress, if not a proper wife. Whatever he called her, she would be his and his alone. His to enjoy, to instruct, to discipline, to cherish. What if she wouldn't have him? His brow furrowed. Foolish thought. He held her life, the lives of her people as well, in his grasp. If she would not submit voluntarily, she would submit under duress. Frollo would bend Esmeralda to his will and, when she was safely his, he would show her his passions and make her love him as he loved her.

Frollo glared at his reflection, wan and pale, in the small mirror in his quarters. He let out a controlled, shaking breath: metered, cold. His eyes, grey and empty as he tried to quiet the myriad of anxieties coursing through his mind, blinked into focus. He righted his robes, set the chaperon atop his greyed head, and strode out of his rooms, before his resolve faltered.

He must find Esmeralda.

The bells rang, signaled Nones. God above, was he that late for his scholarly attempts to teach Quasimodo? Esmeralda would have to wait. He was the boy's only father figure, truly, barring Beaumont, he supposed. Best to attend to his duties first so that the gypsy siren could be afforded his full attention. The thought drove him toward the bell tower, past a smirking Baroness, and up the winding stairs. Unrestrained laughter reached his ears. He scowled. What could this be?