Gypsy Eye, Wolf Eye
by 2AddersFanged

3

When one sets out upon an evil path, one should go the whole way.
—Claude Frollo
Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo

Everything went as planned. Frollo was pleased at how easily he was able to execute the early stages of his plot. But when he returned to Esmeralda’s house at sunset, his heart began to beat so violently he worried that the gypsies in the camp would hear it. His knees were weak, not as a result of his medication, for he had become accustomed to its effects; the idea of seeing Esmeralda alone in her cottage, unconscious and vulnerable, made him dizzy.

As he approached, her house was shadowed, and seemed to loom over him in the fading light. He crept toward the back door trying to step silently on the twigs underfoot. He had to remember to breathe. He could hear the laughter of gypsies in the camp; it sounded very close by. He pulled a poniard from his waistcoat and bent towards the doorknob, slipped the point of the knife into the space between the lock and the doorjamb. Turning the knob and working the blade up, he heard a metallic click, a victorious sound. He pushed the door open quickly, fearing that if he hesitated, he would never enter.

The room was unlit; in the gloaming light he perceived only a partly-filled cup next to the wine jug on Esmeralda’s table. Frollo whirled around the room and caught sight of something on a makeshift bed in the corner. It was she. He stood there, no longer breathing, listening for sounds of movement. His heart beat so loudly he was sure it would awaken her. Suddenly his plan seemed impossibly daunting to him. Swaying, he forced himself to pad over to her. She lay on her side towards him; most of her face was covered with her black hair; she was clothed in her street-dancer’s garb, full green skirt, sequined bodice, kid slippers on her tiny feet. She seemed unconscious, but to make sure, he touched her shoulder. The skin was warm, and he trembled. He shook her; there was no movement at all from the gypsy girl.

Frollo turned, picked up the wine jug and cup. He took them outside, walked a number of paces into the woods, dug up some leaves, poured the poisoned wine onto the ground, and then moved the leaves back over the spot with his foot. He wiped off the jug and cup, and returned them to their proper places in the cottage. He pulled the thick sack from his waist bag, punched a few holes in the top with his poniard. He moved over to Esmeralda, lifted her delicate feet and slipped them into the bag. He pulled the bag up over her face and fastened it, then bent down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her. With one arm holding Esmeralda, he smoothed the bed with his other hand, to make it appear as if no one had lain there. He looked around the room to see the place with new eyes. Did it appear as if Esmeralda had not been there this afternoon? He decided he was ready. He slipped out the door and locked it behind him. Esmeralda was so light she hardly needed to be held in place. He felt a surge of masculine power; she was light as a prayer book. How was it that such a tiny creature could dominate his being so completely? The nearby laughter came again, and Frollo disappeared into the woods.

Walking at a casual pace and keeping his head up, Frollo crossed the Paris streets. He was intensely aware of all movement around him, and made sure that his hood concealed his features. His hand clasped Esmeralda high on the back of her thighs. He felt madness churning within him. His breath came faster as he approached Notre Dame; no one had seen him. He entered the passageway leading to the back staircase of the cathedral.

He unlocked the large wooden door of his study and pushed it open. He had lit several candles before he left. The flickering light seemed unfamiliar, lent the study the austere, voluptuous air of an odalisque’s chamber. Frollo placed Esmeralda on a couch by the far wall. He unfastened the top of the sack and pulled it off her body. He then rushed to the door and locked it. He slipped the key into his shoe.

He stared at her, stroking his brow. He paced in front of the couch. It would be hours before she awoke. He was shaking.

He pulled a blanket from a large trunk. His legs were heavy as he crossed the room. He bent over and spread the blanket on top of her; he placed a pillow under her head. He knelt down beside her. He had rarely seen her face so close. Her eyelashes cast feathery shadows on her cheek; her mouth was pouted slightly. He trailed his hand over the top layer of her hair; it felt like fur.

“Gypsy girl,” he said.

Frollo sat back on his heels and raised his head to the ceiling. It seemed very far away. He sighed, and his eyes closed. He swayed back and forth, listening in his head to music, to the song she always sang.