Chapter Text
I
I recently watched Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame (and its sequel) on streaming. I remember watching this as a kid, and Frollo obsessing over Esmeralda awoke something in me I wouldn’t understand 'til years later – I’m a girl who loves the bad-guy-gets-the-girl trope. Adult me was able to appreciate the movie all over again, even though I can acknowledge that Frollo’s behavior is toxic AF. So I decided to write this!
Disney’s Hunchback provides the main inspiration for this, but I’ve also read the book (did so a few years after watching the movie the first time) and for those who know, the ending is quite different! And Phoebus is a lot less heroic in the book than in the Disney version. Esmeralda is also not a Romani in the novel, although she was raised as one and doesn’t learn of her origin until the end of the book. Pretty wild, but I can understand why this wasn’t included in the Disney version, haha. I also watched and enjoyed the movie that had Salma Hayek as Esmeralda. So this story is a mixture of a few versions of the story (mostly the Disney version). I had that version of Frollo firmly in my mind as I wrote this. And being a judge fits him better than the more religious role he had in the novel (plus I think Frollo looks damn good in his judge robes)
Trigger warnings – None that you shouldn’t expect if you’ve read the book or seen any of the movies. Ableism, sexism, racism, religious batshittery, various abuses. I try my best to handle sensitive topics with respect and tact, but nonetheless I am aware that certain topics are going to be painful for some readers regardless, so proceed with caution.
o0o0o0o
“Choose me or the fire.” These words hung in the air as she stared up at the face of Claude Frollo, his angular features cast in sharp relief by the flicker and sway of the torchlight.
The fire seemed like the best option. She’d suffer for a bit, but then she’d be free of this despicable man for good. How easy it would be to spit upon his offer, to show him the same defiance she’d shown before.
But it was her defiance that had brought her to his attention in the first place. In standing up for Quasimodo and mocking the judge, she’d become a target. Where might she be right now, if she’d let Quasimodo be? And Phoebus? A sigh escaped her throat, and Frollo glared at her impatiently.
“If I choose you, will you spare the others?” she asked. A flicker of surprise passed over his features. “After all, I started this. Please don’t let innocent people suffer for my actions.”
“How… charitable,” Frollo replied, narrowing his eyes.
“Isn’t charity a Christian virtue?” she shot back evenly. A smirk stretched his thin lips.
“Your word, gypsy. Their safety relies on it. Swear before God you will make no attempts to escape, or use your witchcraft or other trickery.”
He wanted her word when he could so easily break it. But he was the one in power, and she was at the stake, about to be burnt, and others would burn with her. Romani. Gypsy. Despite whatever joys and freedoms she might enjoy within the Romani community, she’d learned from a young age how precarious freedom and safety could be for a marginalized group, and as a woman. Sometimes, all one could do was conform to the rules of those in power, even when they treated you like vermin. Gypsy trash. Gypsy scum.
“You have my word. As God is my witness. No tricks,” she managed to choke out, the words tasting like ash. She tried to console herself with the fact that she’d secured safety for her people, and the ones who’d tried to help her.
o0o0o0o
She looked up as she heard the key turning in the lock. The room she was in was what she’d imagined a priest or nun might live in. A narrow bed with a thin straw mattress. A small table with two stools. Stone walls and floors. A thin, narrow window high in the wall. A cross on the wall opposite the door.
“Stay here and contemplate the grace you have been given,” Frollo had said when he put her here. She’d examined the room before settling on the bed, pondering her fate. If he chose not to keep his side of the bargain, there was nothing she could do about it. Fiery defiance would do her no good. She’d inflamed him, and now she had to find a way to put out the flames.
It’d been hours now. She remained on the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor, painfully alert to his body language. Performing in the streets was a constant lesson on the importance of reading it among other things. The door slowly swung open, as if he was worried she might pounce. She kept her hands in her lap, presenting the image of a docile penitent. The door was pushed closed, but there remained a crack. The thought of shoving him aside and running out flitted through her mind, but she remained where she was.
“The gypsies are exiled from Paris. My men are marching them out. That is the one mercy I will grant them. If any of them return, they will be put to death.”
Better than dying with her on the pyre, or caged like rats. Some of them would perish, but it was better than the alternative. She nodded at him grimly.
“Quasimodo is exiled to the bell towers. Forbidden from leaving. It’s a shame to waste a good bell-ringer.”
She bit back a snort and simply gave him another nod.
“The captain… his injuries are grievous. He is under the watch of my men.”
She let out a slow exhale. “Thank you,” she forced out.
“Mmm. Gratitude is a lovely thing, is it not?” He approached her, and she could not help but tense as he sat at the foot of the bed. He did not touch her. She was well aware of what lurked under his imperious gaze. She’d spent the last few hours thinking of how she could bargain with Frollo. The things she could say to soften him… if such a thing were possible.
“Pray tell, gypsy, what made you stand up for Quasimodo during the festival?” he asked.
She thought back on that fateful day, seeing the hunchback’s distress. She didn’t have the religious devoutness Frollo did, but she remembered the lessons she’d learned about Jesus and compassion.
“It was the right thing to do. I saw a fellow person in distress. Didn’t Jesus preach mercy?”
“Gypsy, you think to lecture me on Jesus Christ?”
“When I was a child, there was a priest who came around the Court of Miracles. He wasn’t like you or much of the clergy. He spoke of Jesus and kindness. He told us various stories from the Bible. He became welcome and often shared food with us.” She smiled faintly as she thought of the soft-spoken monk who’d become almost like a brother to the Romani. Many of the Romani didn’t care for him, but tolerated his presence for the sake of their kin who did, and Father Jean touched more than one heart with his sermons.
Frollo stared at her for several moments, as if unsure what to make of her sentiment. “A priest lived among you?”
“For days or weeks at a time, yes. It went on for a few years before one day, he stopped coming. He carried a Bible with him and read us passages from it. I miss him.”
“Years ago, I heard about a priest who lived among the gypsies. His brothers warned him that the gypsies would rob or kill him. And that’s precisely what happened. Some vermin took his life when he was on a mission of mercy, disbursing alms to the poor.”
She shook her head. “If any of us had done that, there would be consequences. He offered us no harm; we had no reason to hurt him. Father Jean was respected.” She took a deep breath. “The man who killed him was not Romani. But the Romani avenged his death.”
The Judge stared at her disbelievingly.
“News of his death reached the Court of Miracles. We grieved. Our leader reached out through his network. The man who murdered Father Jean was unwise with the purse he stole. He was a soldier. He was brought to the Court of Miracles, and justice was meted out.” She stared at Frollo steadily. “Believe me or not, but I swear by God it’s true. I was only a child when he died, but I have many fond memories of him. I would not sully them with a lie.”
“Why did the Romani not come forth with this information?”
“Would they have been believed?”
Frollo tapped his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the crucifix on the wall for several moments. “What a curious coincidence,” he finally said as he focused back on her. “But it proves that I was right to offer you absolution. Father Jean planted the seeds of God’s grace in your heart. I shall help them to bloom.”
o0o0o0o
It was fortunate for her that, for all his power and pride, Frollo respected the authority of the Church. This the Archdeacon made clear in his first visit to her, and as the religious authority in this matter, it was he, not Frollo, who would oversee her absolution. She remembered his kindness from earlier, and although he was not able to offer much practical help, he still wielded a considerable amount of power against the Minister of Justice.
Frollo could hardly argue against her receiving visits from him while she was confined to the Palais of Justice.
“How is Quasimodo?” she asked.
“He is safe. He continues his duties.” The ringing she heard every day was proof enough.
“The Romani?”
“Exiled. I oversaw their safe exit out of the city and gave them my blessing.”
“Phoebus?”
“He is recuperating.”
“I carry a deep sense of guilt. If I had not provoked Frollo, none of this would have happened.”
His hand rested on her shoulder. “You stood up for justice. God rewards those with good in their heart. Sometimes the reward is a long time coming, though. Have faith, my child.”
She didn’t ask about the Court of Miracles; Frollo had already boasted about flushing out the underground hideout.
“I pray for your soul, and for Quasimodo’s, and your other friends. Frollo’s God is one of vengeance. Mine is of mercy. Let us pray.”
It was comforting to listen to the Archdeacon, so she let him clasp her hands in prayer. His hands were large and warm, but his attention was chaste, the firm but caring hand of a father or older brother guiding a younger soul in need. Which was much more than could be said about Frollo.
o0o0o0o
She had made her confession before the Archdeacon and received the rite of absolution from him. However, there was still penance to perform. Anyone could say the words, Frollo said, but one’s actions belied the weight that words carried.
It was so tempting to point out his hypocrisy. However, she knew she was at his mercy. She was no stranger to being in a precarious position, but there was nothing quite like this. In the past, there was usually at least one route of escape and friends to help her out. Now, four walls and a locked door confined her, and her friends were either in exile or kept out of reach; even the Archdeacon was kept in check by the Judge. So when he prescribed a fast, she bowed her head. Hunger was an old friend, though not one she ever wished to keep in acquaintance with.
It gnawed at her, making grumbling noises. She did not dance that day, knowing she needed to conserve her energy. She meditated and prayed, rationing the water she had.
The vespers had already rung when Frollo entered her cell with a basket hanging from one arm. She swallowed thickly before she greeted him.
“Good evening, Judge Frollo,” She watched as he set the basket on the table, his movement smooth and deliberate. Her eyes followed the basket before she returned her attention to him, knowing she would not be fed until they’d had their prayer. So she sank to her knees and recited the Lord’s Prayer as he listened. It’d been four days since she was brought here. She hated it here. The boredom. The fasting. Having to listen to Frollo. Worrying about her friends.
“How was your day?” he asked as he set out two goblets and a wooden plate, unwrapping a meat pie. It smelled fresh, and she took a slow breath.
“I prayed. I contemplated. I worried.”
He took out a knife and cut the pie into quarters before pouring wine into the small goblets. “It appears that being separated from vermin has done you good. You made your confession. You received absolution. You bear the burden of penance without complaint.”
Oh, she had so many of them. She could feel them burning on her tongue. You have nowhere to run, she reminded herself. Nowhere to hide from Frollo.
“Does that really surprise you?” she asked in a neutral voice after taking a couple of sips of the wine. A rich red. She took one of the slices of pie, bringing it to her lips and taking a small bite. The filling was still warm, with pork and chopped vegetables in a flaky crust.
“I had my hopes, but there is much in this world that disappoints me.”
“You’d be surprised, if you took the time to listen, instead of judging.” The words slipped from her mouth. Her pulse quickened. It was the closest thing she’d come to a rebuke since she was brought here. What would he do? Take away her food? Instinctively, she drew her hands closer to herself to protect her pie.
Frollo stared at her for several long moments, his angular features cast in the waning light of sunset.
“You told me that your people do not practice witchcraft. What of all this trickery on the streets of Paris, reading palms, telling fortunes, laying curses?”
“Nothing more than trickery. For fortune-telling, you take a look at the person, figure out what you can, make your prediction based on it, and throw in something they’d like to hear. Such as, if a young woman comes up, one thing to say to her is that she will marry a kind or rich man, or something like that. You get the idea. We meet lots of different people, so we see all sorts of things. Curses? Nothing more than words in the Romani tongue. Fuck off, you smell, that sort of thing. Sprinkle some herbs in a bag or say words over a trinket they bring with them.”
“Such blatant trickery instead of seeking honest work!” Well, at least he didn’t accuse her of lying. She nodded as she took another bite of her pie, considering her next words.
“Such means are resorted to when most honest work is not open to us. We go out when it’s time to farm and hire ourselves out. But landowners try to short us on what they owe us, or accuse us of thievery to get out of paying. The guilds don’t want to hire Romani. We must feed ourselves and our children by what means we can, though when it comes down to it, we really do prefer an honest transaction; it just doesn’t come up as an option all the time.”
He drank his wine as he mulled over her words. “Still, the reputation of gypsies is not ill-earned, is it?”
“There are crimes among all people, even Frenchmen. Not that I am accusing you of anything, Judge,” she quickly added. “But I’ve seen abuses from French citizens directed at Romani without provocation. I’ve experienced it myself as a child. But I don’t hate all Frenchmen for the actions of a few. There are good men of your nation, just as there are among my people.”
“Well, you’re here to make a fine example of how good a gypsy can be. Do not squander that opportunity.”
“That was delicious, thank you,” Esmeralda said when they finished the meal. She could almost swear she saw a smile tug at Frollo’s lips. She was aware of much more in the way Frollo gazed at her, but she would not put it on the table, so to speak.
“Before you leave… I need to ask… how are Phoebus and Quasimodo?”
He raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, she saw displeasure dart across his face before he schooled it into a grim set of his lips. “Phoebus’s wound has become infected. And I believe the bells tell you enough about Quasimodo.” He reached out, placing a couple of fingers under her chin when she looked down, feeling a twist in her stomach that had nothing to do with appetite.
“I suggest you focus on your own edification,” he said as he forced her gaze upward. She wanted to slap his hand away. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can pray for your friends.”
With that, he was gone.
o0o0o0o
She learned to tolerate his presence over the next few weeks. She was fed and watered, and given the means to clean herself. She was given a light gray robe to wear. Frollo asked her about what she learned from Father Jean. She’d never heard some of the stories or names Frollo mentioned, but could easily recite the tales of others.
“It seems that you’ve opened your heart to the Lord, when given the chance,” Frollo said with relief and pleasure. His approval should have made her happy, but it made her skin crawl, the condescension he had for her people.
“When you’re more occupied with feeding your children and keeping them safe, or putting some food in your belly and having a roof over your head, religious matters hold less weight in the life of a peasant. And I don’t just mean Romani. I see many commoners here in Paris living in poverty. You speak of piety or other virtues, but that doesn’t fill your stomach.” She glanced at his hands and the rings that adorned them. “You were born into a well-off family. You’ve lived a life of privilege.”
Frollo glanced down at his hands before his attention returned to her.
“We talked before about trickery and witchcraft. If we were capable of such feats as I’ve sometimes heard, we wouldn’t be scraping by. Many instances are simply about survival, even if that resorts to pretending to practice magic and telling people what they want to hear. You have an air about you that doesn’t come from mere wealth. It’s the way you walk. The way you carry yourself and speak to others. For what it’s worth, the title of Minister of Justice suits you. I remember the way you commanded your soldiers.”
A slow grin spread across his face. She had to stop herself from smiling triumphantly. “It’s as simple as that, Monsieur Frollo. Observation. Not just that of dress, but of habit. When you’re poor and have lived a hard life, observation skills can be a matter of life or death. It’s a harsh lesson to learn, one you will not find in books.”
She expected another accusation, another of his unfounded statements that he liked to hurl when he was on the defensive. God, hellfire, judgment, all that.
“This is a very different world than the one you grew up in, gypsy. You will learn the lessons I have to teach.”
o0o0o0o
A Romani – or a commoner in any part of the world – did not have much need for reading or writing. Their knowledge of the Bible came from the sermons at church and conversations with the educated members of the clergy. However, Frollo was correct about one thing: there were new lessons to be learned, and with her sharp mind, she dived into her studies. She listened attentively when Frollo went through the alphabet with her.
There was little else to do in her room, so she mulled over the things she’d learned from her lessons. On occasion, she would please Frollo enough to earn praise, though that inevitably came mixed with some sort of condescending remark.
‘I’ve never imagined a gypsy could be this intelligent.’
‘I’ve seen well-educated women, but only from noble families.’
‘It’s a blessing to see a heathen learn the ways of God so quickly.’
She chose her words carefully. Depending on what sort of mood he seemed to be in, she’d occasionally needle him about this or that religious doctrine. She wasn’t sure what she believed in. The Romani had superstitions, and some spoke of various gods or spirits. Some were open to learning about Christianity, but she’d never known any Romani who was what Frollo would consider devout. She did her best to understand what Frollo and the Archdeacon were teaching her, but sometimes it was hard to think that a God who allowed so much misery in the world was also one of love. Hellfire and salvation. Damnation and grace. Vengeance and forgiveness.
A couple of months passed. She could practically taste Frollo’s lust in the air sometimes. The way he looked at her, or spoke to her. The way he’d brush his fingers against her arm or the back of her neck. She didn’t want to imagine being here indefinitely. She danced and stretched, but the room was small enough to curtail her more dramatic dance moves.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself on stage, twirling, leaping, arching. The music. The cheers. The coins. The money she’d made dancing at the Festival of Fools would feed herself for a good while, and she’d share some of it with the neediest members of the Romani, the few who were actually blind or disabled, or simply too old to work. Then the bell-ringer of Notre Dame decided that today of all days would be his first time out of the cathedral.
Yet she could hold no anger toward the poor hunchback. It was a cruel twist of fate. She stretched her arms above her head as she slowed, her legs folding gracefully under her.
“You take to the lessons so well… yet you cling to your old, sinful ways.”
She flinched and opened her eyes, seeing him stand there at the door, peering at her through the slot. The lock was opened, and he slid into the room like a threatening shadow, his robes heavy and dark. She lifted her chin and rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders.
“Is it sinful to keep oneself in good health?” she challenged in a calm, even tone. “Dancing takes a lot of discipline, believe it or not. Stretching and practice, so that I might earn enough coins to take care of my family.”
“What family?” he shot back. She took a short breath before pressing her lips together, silently praying to God for guidance.
“Fair point, Monsieur Frollo. But it is still pleasing to do. The twirls can be quite lovely. I know you enjoyed watching me dance back then. And you did just now, didn’t you? How long were you watching before I ended my dance?”
“I will never admit to such a sinful thing.”
“You don’t have to say it out loud, then. But we are creatures of the flesh, just as God made us. Our bodies require attention and care. And Father Jean said that we should use our God-given talents to make people happy. Which is precisely what I was doing.” She stared right into his eyes. She’d seen the glimmer of pleasure and desire when she jumped into his lap at the Festival of Fools before he collected himself.
“I grew up poor. In that aspect, I am no different than the average Parisian commoner. When I danced, I made people happy. I let them forget their sorrows and ills for a time. Did you not notice it when you sat there, presiding over the event? These people suffer hardships in their lives that you have never experienced. They reach for joy wherever they can find it, and if I can give them some joy… then so be it. Do you truly hate me so much for that?”
She wondered how he might react if she reached out to touch his face. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions. Anger. Confusion. Desire. Even admiration, however begrudging it was. She watched as his hands balled into fists.
“I hate what you’ve come from,” he spat out. “I hate that you’ve proven yourself to be such a worthy student. I hate that you rouse such… lust in me,” he said, spitting out the word like it was a curse.
“I am sorry,” she replied contritely. “I never intended for there to be such… consequences to helping Quasimodo. That an act of mercy should lead to… all this.”
Frollo stared at her imperiously for several moments before his features softened almost imperceptibly. “What’s done is done. There is the future to discuss.”
She felt herself tense for a moment before forcing herself to relax.
“Your behavior has been exemplary. The Archdeacon is pleased with you. He is very invested in your welfare.”
She offered a modest smile. “I find solace in these lessons and in prayer. It is amazing how much time can be devoted to study and reflection when one is taken care of.” If Frollo was aware of the jab aimed at him, he did not show it.
“I am sure you are eager to return to the world.”
She nodded. She was rarely let out of the room. Her world these last few months had been constrained, her only escape to be found in her lessons. Ruminations of her former life were sweet but painful. She thought about her friends and fellow Romani. She thought of Phoebus, and the way he’d been willing to stand up for good, despite what it eventually cost him. And poor Quasimodo. She recalled the wooden figures he’d so lovingly carved, and the enthusiasm he’d shown when he introduced her to the bells.
“However, to simply let you loose would be an unwise thing.” Frollo steepled his fingers as he stared at her.
“You have demonstrated how well you flourish under protection and guidance. I see no reason to change that. Therefore, you will place yourself under my permanent legal protection… as my wife.”
o0o0o0o
Claude Frollo spent much time in prayer and meditation since Esmeralda agreed to absolution. He was not sure what to expect when he embarked upon this path with her. His lust continued to burn for her, but his admiration for her intelligence grew. He looked forward to his lessons with her. She was less malleable than Quasimodo, so she found ways to provoke his thought. It was refreshing in a way that meting out justice to criminals did not offer.
He carried guilt and shame over the lust that haunted his dreams and conscious thoughts. He kept it at bay with prayer and with his work, but the gypsy had burned herself into his flesh and bones bit by bit. Every gaze. Every faithful recitation. Every question. Every time she tensed or trembled when he touched her. It was a slow burn that was consuming him. His loins ached for her. The loneliness gnawed at him. When he was young, he’d had opportunities to court or arrange a marriage, but he found solace in his studies, and the lust that burned in so many young men seemed to have passed over him.
He considered that a good thing, for his hard work paid off. Over the years, he’d managed to rise through the ranks until he was the vaunted Minister of Justice. He was a faithful, pious man living a life of order and justice. He was the shepherd protecting his flock, even if some considered his ways harsh. He’d exiled the gypsies and destroyed the Court of Miracles.
And here he was, lusting like a young man over a gypsy girl even as he instructed her in the ways of God and the church. He had all sorts of lurid mental images of Esmeralda. He lay in his bed at night, losing himself in the sins of the flesh, using his hand as he thought of her, enjoying the ecstasy, only to have it be chased by the agony of shame. He wanted to hate her for rousing these thoughts. But it was impossible to hate a mind that he’d come to admire.
That led him to a startling revelation. Wasn’t it often said that God worked in mysterious ways? He’d failed to find a suitable mate in his youth, but there were plenty of older men who took young brides. And the desire a husband felt for his wife was sacred to God. It was within the holy bond of marriage that lust had its place.
She would remain under his protection, her mind nourished on materials provided by him, and his lust could be fulfilled in a way pleasing to God.
And there was nothing forbidden about a husband enjoying the sight of his wife dancing… as long as it was for his eyes only. He remembered the feel of her warm, firm body in his lap as she gyrated against him for these delicious but too fleeting moments.
These green eyes stared back at him as he made his pronouncement. He saw no need to ask or offer. What other choice did she have? She’d bound herself to him with her word when she chose him over the fire. It was a simple matter of renewing that bond before God. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty. After all, he would be giving this lovely young woman continued spiritual guidance, as well as physical protection. It was a better future than a gypsy faced on their own in this sinful world.
He smiled at her, his benevolent smile holding an underlying possessiveness and triumph to it. She would not drag him down to Hell. Instead, he would elevate her, and in turn, himself.
Finally, she spoke. “The Minister of Justice… would have me as his wife?” she asked, and he did not miss the fear in her voice even as she kept herself calm.
“There is no better option,” he reminded her evenly. “You’ve said more than once before how a life of poverty makes sin more tempting.”
She let out a low sigh, but offered no argument as she looked away.
“The life of a Parisian gentlewoman awaits you. You shall continue your lessons. You will provide me companionship when I have need of it. A life of comfort will be provided for you, and we shall see what skills you have other than dancing. See, I can be merciful.”
“When I was a girl, I never would have imagined such a life being offered me,” she admitted.
“Well, as it is said, God works in mysterious ways.”
“It would be nice if these mysterious pans didn’t involve so much suffering. I’ve seen much ugliness. I pray to God to let me understand why He allows such things to happen.”
“He tests us,” he reminded her.
“I know. I remember. It’s just…” She let out a small huff. “I’ve seen children die. I’ve seen unprovoked acts of cruelty committed against innocent people.” She took a deep breath, stretching out her hands she’d been clenching into fists. “It’s hard not to question things sometimes.”
“Mmm. Everyone has these moments. Another test of faith. You have done well so far; do not waver now. I will be here to continue your education and edification.” He reached out to touch her shoulder. She’d lost a bit of weight in here, but her flesh was still strong and warm under the linen and wool. He felt her stiffen, but she remained where she was.
He smirked to himself. He’d taught her well. Soon enough, he would be able to enjoy more of her, and there was not a thing the Archdeacon could do about it. He pulled closer to her and wrapped his other arm around her. “Of course, as a husband, there are other things I will be looking after, too,” he purred. Her hair no longer smelled of the perfume she’d worn during the Festival of Fools, but her skin still had a warm, pleasing scent to it. He felt his pulse quicken in need.
To his surprise, she pulled away from him.
“We are not married yet, monsieur.”
Impudent gypsy. He could force himself on her here, and there was nothing she could do about it. However, he straightened himself, maintaining his dignity.
“Did you ever tell other men to wait?” he asked.
“What other men?” she asked flatly as she turned to face him fully. He smirked at that.
“Am I really to believe that a young, attractive gypsy girl is not acquainted with carnal pleasures? The way you danced on stage… you ground yourself against me so shamelessly.”
She snorted at that and crossed her arms. “Flirtation does not promise consummation. Batting my eyes, wiggling around, a few kind words… It’s not much different than what I told you about fortunetelling and giving people what they want to see and hear. However, I’ve seen the trouble that certain actions lead to, so I’ve avoided them.”
“I suppose miracles really do happen,” Frollo finally said after several moments of processing this revelation. He’d accepted that an attractive young woman like La Esmeralda would have had her share of paramours. It’d be foolish to expect better from gypsy vermin. But she had her absolution, and he was willing to offer her a fresh start and show her grace when this matter was concerned.
“It’s not so much a miracle as it is… good sense. I promised myself years ago that I wouldn’t let someone have me until I was certain they would take good care of me.”
He would be the only man to have carnal knowledge of this ravishing gypsy. For a moment, he glanced to the ceiling, wondering if God had rewarded him for all his hard work and faith. It was what he deserved, after all. He’d driven the gypsies out of the city, and had gained this exquisite trophy for his labors.
“I doubt there’s a man in all the city who would offer you better care than myself,” Frollo stated with deep satisfaction.