Or Else Let Her Be Mine And Mine Alone

I See Sparks Fly Whenever You Smile

Notre-Dame meant the world to Quasimodo, literally and figuratively. His days comprised of serving it by ringing the bells, while his nights comprised of sleeping beneath their roof, thanking god for the home he had been given. Whether it be the mellow silver bells or the menacing iron ones, it was their sound that ended the day, their sight he beheld before slumber arrived.

But tonight was different. Tonight, he didn't think of god. He didn't seek advices from the gargoyles. Tonight, for perhaps the first time in his life, his mind was too occupied to have a place for the cathedral. Instead, it was busy recreating the previous evening, charging him with fuzziness every time it did so.

It could be that she was merely caught up in the drunkenness. It could be that she had just been amused (it wasn't like he was hiding his feelings very well). It could be that he was dwelling too much on it, that she actually took him to be a fool and everything would be unchanged from tomorrow. But whatever had stirred up her behavior, he knew it wasn't repulsion.

Of course he worked on the bird sculpture before going to bed. He even went beyond what he usually did and painted it. He made its eyes large and black and its body pure white. It emptied all the chalk he possessed, but he didn't mind. Near the top of its wings he put strokes of pink and colored its beak yellow. It was a dove: lovely and innocent, only having joy to look forward to. Something like what used to come to his mind when seeing her dancing in the square. Something like her.

After the session's end, he wrapped his tools and was about to go to sleep, but not before taking another look at the window. He recalled the embarrassment in her face when he saw her. The playful way she laughed and closed the curtain.

He was basking in remembrance when he caught hold of two vases lying at the window sill. Another of his gifts that he had forgotten about.

They were two vases- one handsome and made of glass, but bearing a faded nosegay. Another, humble and made of common stone, but bearing fresh roses. When he had put them in her cell, she had taken the faded ones and pressed them to her bosom.

But tonight, he removed the glass vase. Times had changed.

--

After a long time had Esmeralda slept and woken up without a trace of dread. Whether it was due to the wine or the empty spot next to her on the bed she did not know. But the ambience of the place was doubtlessly lighter. During breakfast, bouts of pain didn't hit her. Her muscles didn't complain as much as they used to. Vexation didn't overtake her, nor did anxiety linger. It still wasn't pleasant, but it was peaceful.

She thanked a servant as he filled her cup with ale. Marie sat down beside her in a chair.

'I think that I should visit my mother,' she said, sipping the ale. 'I couldn't find time to do it yesterday. Now that I'm alone, I can spend more time with her.' Marie suggested, 'You should bring here here. I heard that some peasants got infected with the flu on that street.'

'Did they?' said Esmeralda, surprised. 'Well then, I'll certainly do that. I'll bring her with me when coming from the cathedral.'

Marie paused to think, then carefully said, 'Madame- I mean, Esmeralda, do you think that sir will like you meeting the hunchback every day?'

Esmeralda sipped the ale. 'I do not think so. But we need not worry about that; the archdeacon will return before he comes. It shall be like nothing happened.' She felt a bit of sadness saying that. She had spent one day without him, and it was probably the best one she had since meeting the captain at the inn. Soon things would be back to how they were.

But till then, each moment was to be savored.

--

At the cathedral, Esmeralda found the table readied by Quasimodo. It was already cleared and had a cloth covering it, set in place by a glass flower pot. Everything was arranged sparing the bell-ringer himself.