Title: Broken Things
Author: Carmarthen (lacorneille@earthlink.net)
Fandom/Pairing: Notre-Dame de Paris (a.k.a. The Hunchback of Notre Dame); Dom Claude Frollo/OFC
Disclaimer: Notre-Dame de Paris and Dom Claude Frollo were
the brainchildren of Victor Hugo, who is now dead. I believe his
novels are in the public domain. Conchita is mine, but she's a plot
device, and hell, if I'm playing with other peoples' characters, other
people are welcome to play with mine. Mme. Gervais and the random filles de joie are also mine, but even more unimportant.
Rating: PG-13 for strongly implied sex.
Spoilers: None, although I suppose this might qualify as AU, since it doesn't really fit into the events of the novel as it is.
Summary: Frollo finally snaps and gets himself some paid company. It doesn't help.
Warnings: Het, OFC
Archive: My personal site (http://thewritegirls.populli.net/carmarthen); others ask.
Notes: I know I'm not the first one to do Frollo-meets-prostitute
(as far as I know, that was Lourdes in "La Fille de Joie"), but I think
my version is rather different (book Dom Claude rather than Disney
Frollo, for one) and considerably less violent. Although I just can't seem to write Dom Claude/Esmeralda and make it happy, I didn't quite see violence here. Book Dom Claude's crazy, yeah, but I don't see him getting violent so much as getting other people (Phoebus, for example) to be violent for him, at least until the end. If I ever
recover my NDDP bunnies, I might do a sequel of sorts to this, from Dom
Claude's point of view, but don't count on it.
Pomme d'Éve translates to "Apple of Eve," and it's a tavern/brothel in the original novel, I suppose corresponding to the musical's Le Val d'Amour. Pinson translates to "finch."
Conchita remained silent as the hooded man studied her. Madame Gervais was murmuring quietly to him; probably the usual words of praise for the merchandise.
She wondered at her bitterness, for she had thought herself resigned to her fate long ago. She felt one corner of her mouth curve upwards slightly at the thought. A strange trade for a woman named for the Immaculate Conception. Her pious Spanish mother would turn over in her blessed grave if she knew the trade her beloved Concepción had come to. But sweet little Concepción was dead, dead with her mother. There was only Conchita now.
Finally, the man nodded and handed Madame Gervais a small leather pouch that clinked softly. He held out his hand to Conchita, and at Madame Gervais's nod, she took it.
"Her name is Conchita," Madame Gervais said, the soft Spanish harsh in her mouth.
The man merely nodded again and led her away.
She could not imagine why he had chosen her, not when he had blonde Colette le Pinson, with her ripe figure, or pale-skinned, half-Irish Giséle of the flaming hair to choose from. Conchita was not ugly, she knew; she still had all her teeth, after all, and she kept her black hair reasonably clean. It was just that most men preferred someone rather more exotic. All the same, this one had simply taken one look and dismissed them. No, he was not the usual customer.
Outside in the street before the Pomme d'Éve, he stopped and removed a piece of black cloth from under his cloak. "Forgive me," he murmured as he blindfolded her carefully.
Conchita began to wonder whether this was wise. She supposed Madame Gervais would not sell her services to someone dangerous -- at least, not unless he had paid a lot. That was not a comforting thought.
"Come," he said.
Absently, she noticed that his voice was a harsh, but not unpleasant baritone. Despite her misgivings about the blindfold, his grip on her hand was only firm, not hard, which reassured her somewhat.
After Conchita tripped on a loose cobblestone for perhaps the fifth time, she heard him sigh in exasperation and felt his arm slide around her waist to steady her. After an interminable time of stumbling blindly through the Parisian streets, they finally came to a stop. She heard him unlock a door, and then he drew her inside and carefully led her up a very long flight of stairs.
They went through another door, and after it was shut and locked behind them, he removed her blindfold. The room was mostly dark, save for a very faint glow from a tiny aperture high in the outer wall. She could make out the dim shapes of furniture, but nothing of the man's features. He could have been any age, any appearance -- although Conchita was inclined to think him no longer young from the tone of his voice -- and he was obviously not crippled.
"Here," he said, thrusting a bundle of cloth into her hands. "Put these on." He turned his back, an oddly gallant gesture under the circumstances, and waited for her to undress and put on the multicolored rag skirt and loose blouse he had handed her.
"I'm ready," she said softly when she had finished.
He turned, and she thought she saw the flash of suddenly widened eyes. "You are Esmeralda," he said, with a queer, strangled quality to his voice.
So he was one of those. That explained everything. There were men like that sometimes, men who wanted her to be another. Sometimes it went well; he would want her to be a woman he loved or desired and could not have. Other times he wanted a woman he hated. She hoped this one would not be one of the latter.
He stood there staring at her for a long moment, although she doubted he could see her much more than she could see him.
"Dance for me," he said finally, very softly. "Dance, mon Esmeralda."
She was taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovered herself. And she danced. Conchita was Spanish-born, after all, and the dance was in her blood. The flamenco called her and though she was barefoot, the rhythm of her feet on the floorboards was enough.
She lost herself in the dance and her heart nearly stopped when he caught her around the waist, but she recovered and leaned back against him flirtatiously as she had learned. Madame Gervais paid her little, and any extra coin she could woo from a man was welcome.
He turned her to face him, his hands coming up to smooth her hair back from her face as he bent to kiss her. She found herself surprised at his clumsiness-- it was though he had never kissed a woman before -- but she sensed a pent-up passion in him like she had never before encountered. She led him subtly, teaching him with mouth and hands until he gentled.
He broke the kiss then, catching her hands and drawing her to a pallet. Some dam seemed to break in him then and his hands and mouth were everywhere, hungry and unstoppable. He seemed almost to be learning her, as if he had never had and would never again have a woman. Conchita was unsure how Esmeralda was supposed to react, but she took her cue from his odd gentleness and was willing, even eager, sliding her hands under his shirt to touch him. It was...nice, she realized with surprise. It had been so long since there had been anything but dullness or pain. Afterwards he lay spent, his head resting on her belly.
"Je t'aime, Esmeralda," he said, his voice broken. "Je t'aime."
Conchita felt the dampness of his tears on her skin and felt something very like pity rise in her. She stroked his back and murmured comforting words that meant nothing and wept for them, broken things both.
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