Author's Note: This is a melodramatic romp using variations on Victor Hugo’s characters from his novel “Notre Dame de Paris”.

I’ve always wondered what would have happened to Archdeacon Claude Frollo had Esmeralda been more like that other famous gypsy in literature, Carmen ( from Prosper Merimee’s novella of the same name, and Bizet’s subsequent opera). Carmen was savvy, sensual, and very bold. While it certainly would have been advantageous to Frollo’s sanity to fall in love with a braver, less conventional woman, in other ways he would have been in a lot more trouble had his little Esmeralda been like the formidable Carmen.

This story presents what might have happened if Esmeralda had actually “grown a pair” and behaved in a clever, self-preserving manner. Frollo also acts on his own here, out of the bounds of Victor Hugo’s classic. It’s not my intention to reproduce the characters exactly as they appear in the novel (which I greatly admire). This is an exercise for my own amusement, and hopefully yours.

The title of the story is an old Andalusian saying.

The story is rated R for adult content, some violence, and situations that may be disturbing to some readers.

Gypsy Eye, Wolf Eye
by 2AddersFanged

1

I should have thought the mountains would
be shaken in their foundations on the day
when a woman would repulse such a love.
—Claude Frollo
Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo

Claude Frollo looked at himself in a mirror. He studied his high cheekbones, firm mouth, sharp little teeth, and dark eyes. Was he ugly? She had told him so. Esmeralda, the woman who tormented his dreams and his waking thoughts, had told him, fearsome priest, that she found him ugly. She, in her turn, had fallen under the spell of a fatuous, soulless, military fool; a fool with clear blue eyes and blond hair.

Frollo smiled ruefully. He had weapons of persuasion in his bedchamber and study, the whips and ropes he used—alas, unsuccessfully—to drive away his obsession and his growing anger at the God who paraded the gypsy girl before him; he could, perhaps, use those weapons on her. The notion of applying his whip to her slender frame, to punish her for dominating his mind, heart, loins, was a tiny balm to his pride. He imagined the wounds his whip would make on her body. He tried to picture himself laughing, but instead saw himself kneeling over her prone figure, licking the blood off her back.

And it was still only morning on this, his 92nd day in hell. That many days before, he had first been scorched by the dancing vision outside his window. Before that, he had been free. But freedom no longer interested Claude Frollo. He wanted to be wholly bound to the gypsy girl; he wanted to bathe her, to dress her. He wanted her to belong to him as he already belonged to her, as he had never, he now realized, belonged to God.

He stepped out into the cold passage that led away from his bedchamber. Claude was a learned man, educated, among other things, in philosophy and the dark arts of alchemy. Could he not—if he were to be secretive, and utilize the knowledge granted him as Archdeacon—lure Esmeralda to his study for one night? Once he had her, he could make certain she did not escape. Of course, he could no longer rely on Quasimodo’s help; the poor creature was besotted with the gypsy girl. Quasimodo, amazingly, would probably no longer allow Frollo to approach her.

He’d have to gag her, of course. The sound of her voice alone mastered him; she could manipulate him if she were allowed to speak. Claude Frollo knew how cunning gypsies could be. He was thankful that Esmeralda was rather naïve; otherwise she could have made him her slave long ago. He shuddered to think of the degradations Esmeralda could subject him to, should she turn the slightest amount of curiosity towards him. She could own him—his learning, his God, his soul— with a word or a touch.

His rapid footsteps slowed in the echoing corridor. The idea of being touched by Esmeralda made Claude Frollo go cold and hot. Sometimes he imagined her standing in front of him, reaching out to stroke his face, his lips, down his chest, slightly lower still, making him grasp her hand for fear he would drown, or die. He’d try to say her name, could only gasp, but he wouldn’t let go of her hand. These thoughts always made him groan, made electricity trail down his skin. He would feel his soul giving way, opening up to her.

On one particular evening, he had tormented himself all night with images of the gypsy girl teasing him, running her fingers over his cheek and under his chin, laughing at his reactions, caressing his neck and shoulders with her lips, circling the tip of her tongue around his inner ear. Frollo cried out his love for her. In desperation, he threw himself out of bed and into his study, flung anything he could find—books, bottles—against the walls. He dressed and went into the Paris night to find her. Her little cottage stood empty and dark; for hours he crouched below the window, his foot bleeding. When she didn’t arrive, he skulked back to the cathedral, wishing harm upon everyone he passed.