Or Else Let Her Be Mine And Mine Alone

The Lioness

On a Sunday night in 1462, a foundling lay on the steps of Notre-Dame, hungry and abandoned. Forsaken by his parents who were too ashamed to have produced a monster, rejected by society which would've gladly preferred to slaughter him on the square, or hand him over to the gypsies who were notorious for consuming children. In such a circumstance, Monseigneur Claude Frollo had taken him in. As the infant grew into a child and later into a young man, it was Frollo who stood by his guard, he who had protected him from the outside world, appointed him as bell-ringer and taught him to read and write. But he hadn't taught the wastrel how to read his master's true feelings.

Quasimodo paced about the tower, dithering, his mind conflicted. The scene that repeatedly flashed was of Esmeralda, his Esmeralda, standing shattered, voice breaking, arms hugging herself. The way she jerked away at his touch. That look in her eyes when they opened... disturbingly devoid of the innocence and contagious joy she once had while dancing. The question plagued him- what on earth could've made her so frightened? He didn't know what. But he did know who. And he wished the answer was anyone except who it was.

At his worst, his master used to humiliate, slap or thrash him. Simply imagining him doing it to Esmeralda made him instantaneously want to forget the image. No, Frollo would never do that. Not to her. It must be something else.

'You must remember that she is like a mother to you. You must think of her as such...The sin of lechery is a grave one. And I doubt if you are even capable of touching her without giving her some disease.'

Frollo had always warned him against having impure thoughts and had likely figured out the nature of his feelings for Esmeralda. To accuse Quasimodo of that was understandable, even...correct. But to accuse him of lechery was too much. He hadn't met her for months at that time. Why then was his master so afraid of him touching her?

The next memory was that night at the sanctuary cell. It had been too dark for his one eye to see properly, but it was time for her to sleep. Frollo had broken into her room, and she was screaming. Resolved to protect her, Quasimodo hadn't thought twice before pulling her assailant from the bed. Pulling her assailant from the bed. Pulling her half-naked assailant from her bed.

His palm smeared over his face. His master may not have taught him much on the subject of copulation, but the religious books he had made him read, had. He could remember them speaking about the heinous act of forcing one's licentious intentions on somebody, the accounts of women scarred for life after such an ordeal, and of hefty repercussions to be given to the criminal.

With urgency he replayed all the conversations he had with Frollo in the past months. Did his routinely unreadable visage ever display signs of malice? Could his master, forever so dutiful to God and religion, be capable of something so ugly, so far from holy? His heart said a firm no.

But then Quasimodo realized, and it crushed him to do so, that even if there had been clues, he wouldn't have seen them. For there was nothing to compare them to. Esmeralda had been surprised at things about his life that he considered normal. The two people who were compassionate towards him were totally different in their compassion, and he couldn't say which was right.

Dusk arrived but there was no sign of her. Forlorn and wearied, the bell-ringer neared the staircase leading to the church. Out of an impulse he walked down. It was pointless and unreasonable; surely, she wouldn't be there. But like we said, love is seldom as strong as it is when unreasonable.

And by some miracle of the Holy Mother, a honeylike voice chanted in intervals.

'...While meditating on these mysteries, of the most holy rosary of the blessed Mary, we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise, through the same Christ our lord.'