| Marguerite
By Audrey.K Dusk in Paris. The setting sun cast shadows on the city as night replaced day. Stars glimmered as a crescent moon smiled down at the city. Standing out against the starlit sky was the shillouette of the most holiest building. The great Notre Dame Cathedral. Our Lady was what the parisians called her. Like the mother of the city she loomed overhead, watching over the citizens of Paris from every brick, arch and statue. Within the thick walls of Notre Dame, the moonlight filtered through her many stained glass windows. The haunting hymns echoed around the nave. By the warm glow of a candle, a young woman sat reading a book from the cathedral�s library. Her eyes wandered slowly over the yellowed pages. Suddenly the echo of footsteps sounded from the other end of the nave. Closing the book the girl looked up to see the archbishop walking towards her. Clad in a saintly white cassock, his face was calm and cordial. �Yes Uncle Jean?� The young woman said. �You have finished you�re chores, Marguerite?� He asked softly. Marguerite nodded. Her kindly uncle gave her a warm smile. �Well its getting late. You should get to bed. I�ll see you in the morning.� From the day she could remember, Jean Paul Babrac had been her only family. An orphan since infancy, Marguerite�s uncle was the last of her line. Jean Paul took great pride in his niece and brought her up with care. Now his dear Marguerite was a fair young woman of 18 years. Silky black hair hung down her shoulders in tumbled waves. With skin like fresh milk and eyes of pale blue, she was a great beauty. Upon reaching her cloister, Marguerite shed her day clothes and clad herself in a nightgown. Soon, she drifted off into sleep. Only to have a dream drift into her subconscious. Marguerite saw herself as a young child. Standing in the choir, she sang like a little angel. Discreetly her eyes glanced up to see an odd figure watching her. His body distorted in such a way that a hump rose from his back. Such a perplexing figure living in the cathedral astonished her. Yet she never paid the enigmatic being any mind. Even when she had nothing to occupy her time, the disfigured child never piqued her curiosity. Until that very next day. The balconies of Notre Dame were Marguerite�s favorite spots. Looking out at the vast city, she felt higher than the king himself. Taking out a small book she began to read quietly to herself. �That's wonderful reading.� Looking round, her eyes beheld the child in her dream. Only to her happy surprise, the child was now a man. Deformed he was. But the hunchback was far from ugly. A lustrous crop of fiery red hair that looked so soft, it silently beckoned Marguerite to stroke it. One eye was like that of any man�s. The left was half buried under an egg-like growth. Yet life still shined through it. If a nose could be called unfortunate, than this nose would be just that. Large and upturned, it looked as though somebody had smashed it in. The mouth beheld thin lips with jutting, malformed teeth. The man would have been a giant were not his back so crooked. With big, sinewy arms and muscular legs, he made young Marguerite flush. Finding her tongue at last, the young woman managed to thank her odd visitor. �You read very well� he said. �I�m still learning my letters� �I can teach you if you wish� smiled Marguerite. The young man was startled at the offer. Charitable kindness was a new experience to him. �Y-you will?� he asked, stumbling over his speech. Marguerite nodded. Graciously the young man thanked the girl. He wished a thousand times for the nerve to kiss her hand. But he dare not. The man could not bear to see the young lady disgusted by him. �I�d better go. My uncle will be wondering where I disappeared to. I�ll be back tomorrow with some books.� With that, Marguerite pocketed her tome and left. �Wait� he called �I didn't catch you�re name?� �I�m Marguerite Babrac. What�s your name?� There was a slight pause before the strange man confessed his identity. �Quasimodo.� Through out her day, Marguerite could not stop thinking about the mysterious hunchback. Even as she went about her chores, Quasimodo�s face remained with her. He filled her with a strange happiness. A sweet, unknown elation that had been buried within her subconscious. Now it was released. A giddy pleasure forced a happy smile to grace her cheek. There was something about Quasimodo that appealed Marguerite. He held a charming, childlike innocence that beguiled the young woman greatly. With her chores completed, Marguerite ventured down to the cathedral library. Dark and laced with cobwebs, ancient tomes occupied every nook and cranny. Some old enough to have survived the incinerated Alexandrian Libraries. Marguerite felt lucky to be surrounded by the old volumes. Only Royalty and nobility could afford to keep them. Even with the invention of Guetenberg�s press, books were still precious. Searching the oaken stacks, Marguerite hunted for a book that would be easy to read. Finding one, she read the title to herself. It was her favorite story. �The Odyssey� This will be perfect, Marguerite thought to herself. That afternoon Marguerite marched happily up to the belltower. Full of confidence she clutched the large, leather-bound book to her chest. Upon reaching the balcony, the airy breeze cooled her face. She found Quasimodo perched on the balcony, faithfully awaiting her arrival. A happy smile brightened his deformed face. Sitting next to him she opened the book and began to read. Quasimodo listened intently. He watched and listened with great attention. But it was not the text he was watching. His eyes were glued to Marguerite. Her angelic voice sent shivers up his spine. When she looked at him, there was not a bit of horror in her eyes. Within moments both had lost interest in the story and were locked in the embrace of conversation. Quasimodo relished in discussion. For so long he had no one to talk to. Discounting the stone gargoyles and statues. Suddenly he felt the young woman�s hand on his sinewy arm. Quasimodo�s muscles tensed. His heart raced at the feeling of a tender, dainty appendage against his skin. He fought the urge to inch away. So long had a fair lady been close to him. He almost felt pain in her presence. A pain that Marguerite would see his ugliness and be horrified. So horrified that she would never wish to see him again. Suddenly her eyes met his. She looked into them intently, searching his very soul. At once Marguerite saw the pain. All the terror and humiliation poor Quasimodo had been subjected to. Such a vision almost brought her to tears. Slowly and gently she moved towards him. Her face very close to his. Marguerite�s hands inched up his arms towards his uneven shoulders. �Forgive me Mademoiselle Babrac, but you�re uncle wishes to see you.� Nodding to the monk�s request, Marguerite reluctantly left Quasimodo. Promising she would return tomorrow. That night was particularly cold. Rain plummeted down in a deluge as wind howled in icy gusts. Marguerite huddled under her layers of blankets as the dying fire glowed. Cold air escaped through the window, keeping her from drifting off to sleep. No matter what position she lay. Gathering a quilt from the closet, Marguerite draped it around her shoulders. Perhaps a little walk around the cathedral would bring sleep to her. Leaving her cloister, Marguerite walked along the vast floors of the nave. The stone tiles were bone-chilling cold. Every step felt as though she were walking on ice. Silently she cursed herself for not wearing shoes. Suddenly a burning curiosity simmered within her. Marguerite simply had to check on Quasimodo. Forgetting the calming quietude of the nave, Marguerite ventured up the belltower stairs. It was pitch black as she felt her way along the stone walls. The higher she went, the colder it got. It pained her to place her feet on the freezing stones. Marguerite clutched the quilt around her shoulders. Her teeth chattering. Finally she reached the belltower. High in the rafters, pigeons huddled to keep warm. Quasimodo lay huddled under meager excuses for blankets. His crooked teeth chattered as he slept. Gently Marguerite lay a hand on his arm. Never had she felt a more ghastly texture than cold flesh. Disregarding her own comfort, she draped the warm quilt over Quasimodo�s malformed body. She would have stayed to see him through the night, but goose flesh spoke for her. Weeks flew by like dead leaves caught in an updraft. Whenever her uncle didn't require her assistance, Marguerite retreated to the belltower. Clutching the hem of her dress she would gallop up the winding stairs. A smile forcing its way onto Marguerite's face. She felt her heart flutter as Quasimodo welcomed her. The bells, like cymbals of God, hung from wooden beams. Any vibration created in the domes permeated the tower in a mellow hum. Pidgoens flew through the bells. They�re coos melding with them as though they were one. Marguerite followed Quasimodo through every nook of the tower. He aquatinted her with the gargoyles, the statues and even the bells themselves. �You are so lucky� Marguerite sighed. �I only live in cloister. Every day it feels like its getting smaller.� �You know... You can always come up and visit me� the hunchback said softly. As always, young Marguerite responded to Quasimodo�s kindness with a warm smile. But there was something different in his voice. A slight hoarseness distorted his words. When he breathed, there came unsettling wheezes from his chest. �Are you alright?� Marguerite inquired. �I�m okay. Just a cold. Its just not going away as quickly as I hoped.� Marguerite nodded deep with concern. But she couldn't keep the twinge of fear from her mind. The very fear that caused her to wash her hands three times a day and never handle anything dirty. Marguerite had met the enemy and it was disease. The invisible army could whipe out whole cities and never be seen by the human eye. A memory of the great plague materialized in her mind like a ghost. Her childhood spent in isolation as the screams of victims echoed all around her. She was never allowed to leave her room for the duration of the epidemic. It was during this time her companionship for the tome was formed. When her uncle couldn�t comfort her, Marguerite sought solace in the many books Notre Dame had to offer. Every letter and illustration eased her shattered nerves. Stories deafened her to the heart wrenching bellows of the dying. Chronicles of learning distracted her from the fetid bodies as they were dragged off to the cemetery. Her worry for Quasimodo was at its peak. Marguerite could never bear it if her friend became ill. But if this happened, even her books wouldn't console her. Darkness in Paris. A waxing moon wrought eerie shadows along the alleyways. Not a breath of wind blew through the city, but the air was chilly. Even the nighttime mist seemed to freeze. Quasimodo lay huddled in bed, shivering in his sleep. Snoring quietly, he felt a strange constriction in his lungs. His breathing became more and more laborious as he tossed and turned. Every so often a thunderous cough would escape his heaving lungs. Morning came slow for the people of Paris. The bells were silent. Their melodious voices did not sing out to the masses. Marguerite slept peacefully under her layers of quilts and sheets. Ironically, Quasimodo�s musical absence did not cause her any alarm. Her day continued predictably as ever. Assisting the members of the church with any task needed to be taken. This included anything from cleaning the cloisters to helping the nuns in the Hotel Deau hospital next door. It was during her infirmary duties when the spark of worry was fanned. The bells still remained mute. Hastily she excused herself and ran as fast as her feet could carry her. Marguerite dashed through the nave and up to the tower. Her face was kissed with perspiration. Heaving for breath she searched for Quasimodo. �Quasi... For-the-love-of-god NO!!!� A solitary trickled down Marguerite�s cheek. Her worst fear had come true. The invisible enemy had obtained another victim. Quasimodo lay in bed, gasping and wheezing for breath. Nausea had siphoned the strength from his once strong body. Painfully he averted his bloodshot eyes to the pretty visage of Marguerite. Those solemn eyes once again made the young woman want to weep. Pleading and beseeching, they cried out for help. �Have no fear Quasimodo. This evil shall not claim you!� Completely forgetting her chores, Marguerite devoted her entire day tending to Quasimodo�s needs. Flipping through the few medical tomes available in the library, she felt a great sense of relief. What was infesting Quasimodo was not the great plague. But it was indeed something life-threatening. The dormant cold had given birth to bronchitis. What followed were vain attempts to obtain medical help. First Marguerite sought out the local infirmary. Unfortunately their medicine consisted only of blood letting and leeches. Marguerite discounted if the ideas would work for Quasimodo. Sure they were in her books, but the reader of tomes questioned their reliability. And despite her hours of service, the Hotel Deau offered nothing more than the fanatical ravings of zealous nuns. Never had Marguerite felt such aggravation. Sitting on the cathedral steps she buried her face in her knees. Tears streamed from her eyes as her shoulders shook with sobs. She wanted to do everything in her power to cure her dear one. But she didn't know how. Finally rational thinking took the place of despair. �If those nuns cant help. I�ll make them!� Like a tiger in a cage, Marguerite paced around the receiving room of the Hotel Deau. Explaining the situation to the head nurse. �I need the best help you can provide! My books tell of alternative treatments that may work� Marguerite stated. The nurse cast the young woman a hardened glance. �I commend your ability to decipher letters. But I believe there is one book you have failed to consult.� The nun handed her a small, leather bound prayer book. Marguerite never felt more astonished or angry. This was not the time for prayers and she knew it. �I have read this tome several times. But we need to try something other than God.� �Do not blaspheme, Miss Babrac!� the Sister heaved. �The Lord shall always help us. � What occurred next was a full scale argument between the reader and the nun. Anger bubbled under Marguerite's skin. Several times she felt the nun could have used a sound smack. �YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE. YOU�LL NEVER KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE!!!� She cried. �You don't know what its like to have evil kill everyone who loves you. To have it hunt you down like an animal. And just when you finally think you�re safe, it claims another. I know this, Sister! That evil killed my parents!� The nun gasped. Marguerite was never supposed to know what became of her mother and father. �Your uncle finally told you, didn't he?� said the nun solemnly. �Yes... Yes he has� Marguerite admitted, feeling extremely guilty. Shooing the nurse aside, Marguerite dashed to a cabinet piled high with bizarre remedies. �Sister, what have you for lung ailments?� Marguerite stated urgently. The nurse went to a wooden box and brought out a vial of clear liquid. �This is a new serum. Its said to rid such discomforts. But I�m not so- �I�ll take it!� Racing through the nave Marguerite scampered up the tower stairs. Climbing higher and higher, she felt a dramatic temperature drop. Her once moist breath was reduced to mist. The climate of the tower was determining whether Quasimodo would get better or worse. Upon reaching the north bellfry, the hunchback lay sprawled out in bed gasping for air. His malformed face was pale and spattered with perspiration. Gently Marguerite knelt down by his side and stroked his brow. She wanted to embrace him. To take him in her arms and warm his twisted body. Such a longing caused her quivering pain. Taking a wooden spoon from her pocket, Marguerite poured the vial�s contense into the earthenware utensil. Feebly Quasimodo lifted his head and downed the serum. Overcome with exhaustion he flopped onto his pillow like a ragdoll. Even under his quilts he shivered in the damp chilly air. It was more than certain that Quasimodo needed to be taken out of the bellfry until he returned to normal health. And Marguerite knew exactly who could help. �Have you lost you�re bearings? Do you know what your uncle will do to you?!? Worst... do you have any idea what he�ll do to me?!?� A young monk paced around the cloister. His cassock swaying about his ankles. �You owe me one, Bartolomy. Perhaps you should recall the time when you snuck out after dark and I stood up for you? Well I�m calling in a favor!� Marguerite demanded. Bartolomy sighed impatiently. �Alright Margie, what do you need?� Quickly Marguerite lead Bartolomy and twelve other monks up the infamous belltower stairs. �Dear God, its freezing up here. What do you need us for again?� A rather daft monk asked for the hundredth time. The other brothers didn�t spare the dignity of answering him. �Alright boys, we�re here� Marguerite announced. Opening the door to the north tower she lead the army of monks to Quasimodo�s bed. �What I called you all up here is that I need help getting Quasimodo out out of the tower. He doesn't have the strength to move much.� With the greatest of exertion, the monks hoisted the hunchback out of bed. His limbs dangling just inches from the ground. A pair of monks supported his ankles, while another holy twosome propped up his waist. Two other monks braced his shoulders and finally one more supported his head. Quasimodo turned and looked into Marguerite's trusting eyes. A twinge of fear edged into the ill bellringer�s expression. For the first time, he feared his possible death. Marguerite clutched her dear friend�s hand. Hot tears ran down her cheeks but she uttered not a sob. Weakly Quasimodo drew his hand from Marguerite's and dabbed her tearstained face. As ailing as he was, Quasimodo could not bear to see her cry. �Alright, set him down here� Marguerite commanded. After an argenous journey from the tower to the Hotel Deau, the monks set Quasimodo down on a cot. �Thankyou for your help Bartolomy. I couldn't have done it without you� Marguerite acknowledged. Bidding goodbye to the party of monks she turned her full attention to the hunchback. She could hold back no longer. Weeks of hidden admiration for Quasimodo was released all at once. Getting down on her knees Marguerite gently wrapped her arms around the ill man. To her grateful surprise, Quasimodo�s strong arms coiled around her. Hugging her to his heaving chest. For that moment, they were one. Not wanting to part for anything. �Miss Babrac, there is somebody who would like to see you.� A nurse�s voice sounded from behind. Reluctantly Marguerite released herself from Quasimodo�s embrace. �There is doctor visiting from England. He would like to take a look at you�re bellringer friend� the nurse said. Stepping aside there stood a tall, broad shouldered man of forty. �May I introduce Dr. James Putney� After offering the young woman an ernest bow, Dr. Putney turned his full attention to Quasimodo. With a scrutinous eye, he looked over every inch of the hunchback. Removing his nightshirt, James was shocked to see the hump that grew from Quasimodo�s spine. Nevertheless he continued. Placing his ear against his chest, Putney listened to the bellringer�s heartbeat and breathing. A hollow, rattling sound vibrated in the depths of Quasimodo�s lungs. The telltale sign of bronchitis. �Well you were true in you�re diagnosis, Miss Babrac. I�m afraid bronchitis is the culprit. Probably caused by a lingering cold. He�ll need to stay here until he�s over it.� From that moment onward, night and day seemed to have melded together. For both the ill and the well alike. Marguerite would not leave Quasimodo�s side. Even when her uncle was called in for persuasion, the young woman flatly refused to be kept away. In the midst of the confusion, Marguerite failed to take in account her own health. While tending to Quasimodo, she fell into a deep sleep. Her head and arms resting on his gasping chest. �C-could I ask you to move? I�m sorry... B-but I cant breathe� Quasimodo choked weakly. Immediately Marguerite removed herself from the position. Her eyes reddened from lack of sleep. Gently the hunchback reached up to touch the young woman�s face. Yet there was no weakness in this action. His sinewy hand traveled up her waxen cheek. Marguerite yielded to Quasimodo�s touch. Tenderly she lay kisses on his thick fingers as she stroked his hand. The girl could hold back no longer. Her arms snaked around his neck as she embraced his disfigured body. The hunchback embraced Marguerite in his powerful but gentle arms. Little by little, his strength was returning. �I�ve waited so long for this.� Apollo�s fiery sphere rose slowly in the cold sky. Its warm rays spilling into the Hotel Deau. Marguerite�s eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing in the blaring light. Her arms laced around Quasimodo�s arm. His breathing was not as laborious and the color had returned to his cheek. Suddenly a lazy yawn broke the silence as the hunchback pulled himself from sleep. �Good morning� he said softly, returning his arms around Marguerite. She looked lovingly into Quasimodo�s eyes. Such a night! By the rules of the church, it was an experience no daughter of the cathedral should have felt. �How are you feeling?� she asked. �I feel wonderful� Marguerite lay a tiny kiss on the tip of his deformed nose. �You were the child in my dreams. Now that child has become a man. And what a man he is!� Quasimodo sighed with utter happiness. For the first time in weeks he could breathe easily. That afternoon Dr. Putney had returned. He wanted to check up on Quasimodo�s condition. It was a rarity for somebody to survive such an illness without complications. When the prestigious doctor heard of Quasimodo�s recovery, he rushed right over. He had the hunchback sit up in bed and pressed his ear against his chest. To Putney�s diagnostic ear, the rattling in his lungs had disappeared. �Well I�d say you�re feeling better. You�re lungs have cleared up. If you want my opinion, I�d say you�ve recovered.� A broad grin brightend Marguerite's face. Her elation was like a great stabbing pain that had just been relieved. The evil that had haunted her life did not claim another. Instantly Quasimodo and Marguerite embraced. Breathing in eachother�s scents. Not caring an atom if they were seen or not. From that moment onward there was never a more loving couple than Quasimodo and his Marguerite. Back to Fanfic Back to Index |