Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Notre Dame de Paris ❯ Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own the novel Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo, nor do own Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame, where most of the dialogue and inspiration for this scene come from.

Midnight in Paris was usually a quiet affair. The streets once bustling with life were now almost devoid of it, the nobles having gone to their fancy bed chambers, those who did not have much shuffling off to tiny homes, the street vendors packing their wares and trekking back to their families. The children who once played in the pathways had long since been tucked into bed; they were hopefully now dreaming of the pleasant days they spent in bliss in their beautiful city. The bells of the Cathedral were the only ones who stirred, but their sibilance was welcome; the beauty of their tones a gentle snore that no one minded.

The docks of the city were silent at night, the moon casting its revealing light upon the gently lapping waves. It was what the four shrouded figures who now crowded their creaking boards had hoped for. The silent night meant a silent passage.

These were people who did not have much, indeed much less than those who would readily admit they were destitute, but their cloaks were of fine, rich wool, more likely than not procured from some noble's passing carriage. They were looked down upon by almost all the denizens of fair Paris, for their thieving ways and strange culture. But these people took only what they needed.

A tall figure in a blue cloak scanned the surrounding river for the boat which would take his companions and himself to safety. The others crowded together for warmth, but their chill had nothing to do with the breeze that passed from the water. The blue figure looked hastily from his group to the horizon, as if trying to decide which action he would rather be doing.

A frightened wail rose from the huddle, shattering the calm around the docks. The blue man looked back to them in horror as his friends chastised the smallest member of the clan, dressed in red wool.

“Shut that thing up!” A green cloaked man hissed, his accent at once denoting his ethnicity. He was a Gypsy.

Fear shone in the red-cloaked figure's eyes, making them glow eerily against her tanned skin. She reached into her cloak, stroking what appeared to be a bundle of blankets. “Hush little one,” she cooed, trying to calm the squirming mass.

The blue cloaked man breathed a sigh of relief, returning once again to his vigil. He suddenly gave a start, startling those with him. “That's them!” He breathed, relief and fear coloring his voice. Tears welled in his eyes and he hastily wiped them away, lest the others see. Freedom could finally be attained.

The boat-yes it was indeed the boat- had finally arrived to whisk the frightened exiles to safety. It slowly parted the waters, making no noise as it glided towards the band of Gypsies. A slight jingling was heard; a purple cloaked figure had stepped forward, opening a small purse of gold coins. He tiptoed to the edge of the dock, toward the figure that had now stepped off of the boat, its hand outstretched to receive its fare.

“This should be it,” he blubbered. His voice creaked with age. “This procures us safe passage from the city,” he said, more to himself than to the black figure before him. He placed the bag in the open palm.

A ghostly white hand shot out and grabbed the old man's arm. He cried out in fear, trying desperately to yank his arm back. A low burbling sound of what purported to be laughter came from the black void that was the boatman's face. The remaining Gypsies jumped back, slowly edging their way from the dock. The green cloaked man waved his arms behind him, hitting something that strangely felt like hair. Moist breath hit the back of his neck, and he heard the female Gypsy gasp in fear. He slowly turned to see the culprit. What he saw next made his blood run cold.

He could feel his veins turning to ice as he ran his eyes over the horse's shivering black muscles to the foot that hung in the stirrups. He followed the foot up to the long robes swirling gently in the night wind, his eyes lighting on the rings adorning the tapering fingers that gripped the reins. His eyes widened to the point of being comical, gawking at the cruel, handsome face whose smiling eyes belied the sternness of the expression fixed on the Gypsies.

“Judge Claude Frollo!” he gasped. The blankets wailed. The old Gypsy started to cry as a horrible realization sunk upon him. They would never leave this city alive. They were doomed.

The young Judge merely nodded at the mention of his name and maneuvered his stallion across the docks to the traitorous boatman. He plucked a few coins from the open purse and said to the boatman, “The rest is fair payment for your services, don't you think?” The boatman nodded furiously and pushed his boat away from the docks. The old man began to cry in earnest.

His crying earned him a kick in the face. “Stop blubbering, you disgusting piece of trash,” the Judge spat. The old man fell on his back, clutching his bloody mouth. Laughter could be heard; the Judge's soldiers had now joined him, and were laughing at the old man as he writhed in pain.

“Oy, look, you knocked some of his teeth out! Be careful you don't choke!” One jeered, causing the others to erupt in laughter. Frollo raised his hand and the laughter ceased. He then turned his dispassionate gaze on the remaining Gypsies.

“Bring these Gypsy vermin to the palace,” he ordered. The men encircled them, preparing to arrest the rest of the clan. A piercing cry echoed over the river.

“What was that?” A soldier asked. The red-cloaked Gypsy pressed the bundle further against her chest, trying desperately to stifle its cries.

“YOU THERE! What are you hiding?!” She had been spotted. The bundle gave another cry.

“Stolen goods no doubt,” said the Judge. “Take them from her.” His soldiers had no chance to carry out that order, for the woman suddenly took off at a high rate of speed. The Gypsies and soldiers were stunned.

“Watch them!” Frollo pointed to the remaining clan. Kicking his steed, he flew after the doomed woman, his soldiers parting in his wake.

Her feet pounded against the cold cobblestones and her heart pounded violently in her chest. She thought as though it might burst, but she didn't care.

She turned a corner too quick and fell painfully on her side. The rags let out a sharp cry of pain and she kissed them, whispering apologies. She could hear the thundering of hoofs behind her though, and sprinted toward her destination. There it was, in the distance…

The Cathedral of Notre Dame was a beautiful sight, even more so up close. And it was looking heavenly to the frantic woman who pounded on its doors, seeking a safe haven.

“Sanctuary!” she screamed, her voice rough with fright and exertion. “Please, give us sanctuary!” But it was never to be.

The horse's neigh was frightfully loud. He had found her. She darted from the steps, only to have him swoop in and grab the bundle from her arms. She screeched, grabbing back, pulling the precious rags to her chest, trying desperately to save her only treasure.

The Judge pulled back harder, causing the woman to lose her footing. She slipped, fell backwards…

Only to make a sickening crack as her head hit the steps. The woman lay still.

Frollo was breathing heavily. He had no idea what about the rags could possibly make the woman act so demented. He attributed as yet another Gypsy trait before peering at the curious bundle of rags. Then it moved.

“A baby?” He asked, stunned. Then he took a closer look at the infant. He drew in his breath sharply. “A monster!” He quickly turned his horse, searching for a place to rid himself of the creature. His eyes fell on a well and he brought his horse toward it.

“STOP!” cried the Archdeacon. The young Judge slowly turned his horse around to face the clergymen. The clergyman looked at the squirming bundle dangling from his fingers. “By God, what are you doing?”

“I'm sending this thing back to Hell where it belongs,” the Judge calmly informed him. He prepared to drop it into the well.

The Archdeacon rushed up and grabbed him by the arm. “Claude,” he asked. “What have you done?” He looked toward the fallen Gypsy. Frollo followed his gaze and became angry.

“I am innocent.” He said. “She ran. I pursued her.” The Archdeacon looked sadly at the face of his friend and then turned his head.

“You have spilt innocent blood on the steps of the Cathedral.” The clergyman's voice was low. When he felt Frollo's eyes on him he continued, “You will now add the child's death to your guilt. Do you honestly feel as though these killings are justified? You think the Cathedral will condone this?” He was angry now. “As much as you try to hide your evil from others, you will never escape from the Eyes of Notre Dame!”

Frollo gave a sharp jerk at the young man's words. He had never paid much attention to the lovely stained glass icons that adorned the windows of the Cathedral, but he felt all eyes on him now. He could feel them burning holes in his back, their critical gaze piercing his very soul.

The Judge looked frantically to his friend. “What must I do?” he asked quietly.

The clergyman laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Care for the child, and raise it as your own.” The Judge looked appalled.

“I'm to be saddled with this misshapen…!” He stopped, pondering for a moment. When he next spoke, his voice was purely wicked.

“Very well. But let him live with you in the church.”

“Here?!” Cried the young Archdeacon. “But where?”

“Anywhere.” Was the offhanded reply. The young Judge looked around the exterior of the Cathedral for a suitable living space for the child. “Ah,” he said. “How about the bell tower?”

“What?!”

“Yes. This creature must never be allowed to walk the streets. Perhaps this disgusting creature might even prove to be of use to me.” Frollo smiled. “Make friends.” He thrust the crying infant into the startled clergyman's arms. “ I'll send my soldiers over for its-” He jerked his thumb at the dead woman- “body later.” He kicked his horse into a trot.

“Wait Claude,” the clergyman said. The Judge halted his horse. “Whatever shall I name him?”

Frollo's face twisted into a cruel smile. “Name him Quasimodo. For the Sunday, you know.” He waved goodbye and set off into the night.

The clergyman looked after the departing form of his friend and resisted the urge to spit. “What an awful beast your father is,” he lamented to the snuffling infant. The bastard was right; not only did the name refer to the Sunday, it had a much crueler connotation.

Judge Claude Frollo had named the child half-formed.

The bells overhead began to ring, their melodious chimes calling in the new hour. The Archdeacon looked sadly to the heavens, crossed himself, and went inside with his tiny charge to ready the Cathedral for its first real resident.