The Maid of the Cursed Princess

With his red hair, squinting eyes, hunched back and emaciated frame, the haphazardly reassembled giant.

The man named Quasimodo for being born on the Sunday after Easter was widely regarded as an utterly grotesque sight.

What grievous sin had his parents committed for God to burden this child, whose very existence seemed to condemn him to ceaseless torment, with such a multitude of debilitating deformities?

That mystery would forever remain unsolved, for Quasimodo’s parents had abandoned him at the cathedral’s steps, leaving no means to divine the transgression that had incurred divine wrath.

All that remained was a misshapen young man doomed to endure a lifetime of ostracization for his grotesque appearance and crippled physique. It could be said Quasimodo’s life had begun under a cruel curse.

His deformities and repulsive visage led people to treat Quasimodo with utter contempt, shaping him into an equally misanthropic soul raised amidst hellish circumstance.

The sole person Quasimodo trusted and loved was his adoptive father, Archdeacon Claude Frollo, who had taken him in.

Even if Frollo’s affections had been a self-imposed penance to accrue virtue rather than genuine care, Quasimodo devoted himself wholeheartedly to his adoptive father’s commands without question.

-Brown hair, crimson eyes, about a hand-span taller than myself…

Diligently seeking the tall, beautiful woman with copper tresses and ruby eyes as instructed by the Archdeacon, Quasimodo scoured every corner of Hyperion.

Despite only receiving those vague descriptors without any additional identifying details, hampering his efforts considerably, Quasimodo persevered tirelessly in fulfilling his father’s orders without complaint.

“That woman, without a doubt.”

Thus, Quasimodo eventually located the woman the Archdeacon had described. Copper Hair, blood-red irises, a remarkably statuesque frame, and above all, breathtaking beauty.

Of all the women he had catalogued during his search across Hyperion, she most closely matched the stipulated criteria. Quasimodo was therefore convinced she was the one his father sought.

Certainly, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, but the maid was undoubtedly the closest match to the woman the Archdeacon was looking for based on Quasimodo’s observations.

Hence, Quasimodo hurried to promptly report his findings lest his father grow impatient. Despite his deformed physique, Quasimodo’s powerful stride evoked the thunderous gait of a giant or rumbling chariot.

“Kugh-!!”

“…!?”

Thus, so singlemindedly focused on delivering the joyous news that he failed to watch where he was going, it was inevitable for the oblivious Quasimodo to collide with a passerby. Except-

“What is this? Did you just crash into a carriage? To dare knock over an Orléans’ royal guard…”

That the unfortunate person happened to be a palace guard of lofty status, someone the lowborn, deformed Quasimodo could scarcely fathom defying.

“What vile creature is this? A demon? For such an abomination to freely roam these streets…”

Quasimodo couldn’t comprehend the fallen guardsman’s outraged rant, for he was deaf.

Yet even without hearing, he could discern the man’s fury from his contorted expression and the motion of reaching for his sidearm.

“I, I ap-ap-pologize, s-sir. This l-lowly one has been imp-impudent, ghkk-!!”

But his hurried prostrations for forgiveness only earned him a savage kick to the head from the enraged guard.

“A demon that speaks like a human? Just what foulness roams the streets of Hyperion?”

This grotesque giant who had humiliated him wouldn’t be forgiven. Born into one of the highest noble houses and having achieved meteoric success, the guard’s arrogance brooked no indignity.

“P-p-please, f-forgive me, I beg y-you… Forgive-“

“Silence, you hideous monster!!”

Raining kicks upon the fallen Quasimodo, the guard swatted away his grasping hands clutching at his boots.

“What is your name, wretch? Some slum urchin? Or a deformed freak who escaped the circus?”

“N-n-no more, I b-beg you, this l-lowly one has err-erred, aghh-!!! Aaghhh!!!”

“Did I not demand your name?! Speak, so I may haul you before a magistrate to determine your fate!!!”

None sought to intervene and halt the guard’s assault, partly because the attacker Phoebus de Châteaupers hailed from a renowned noble lineage, but more so because the citizens of Hyperion wished only for the grotesque Quasimodo to vanish from their sight, whether by death or flight.

Some even cheered and applauded the dashing Phoebus, jeering at the fallen Quasimodo. Not a single soul moved to shield him from the guard’s brutality.

“Enough.”

Until that moment.

Quasimodo raised his head as the savage kicking abruptly ceased, witnessing Phoebus’s booted foot suspended mid-stomp, utterly immobilized in midair.

“Wh-What is this?!”

“I hardly consider wantonly assaulting a person obstructing public thoroughfares among the virtues expected of Orléans’s royal guards.”

Click-clack, a woman in a maid’s uniform emerged from the gathered crowd.

“You wench, do you know who I am… oh…”

Yet Phoebus’s brazen words faltered upon glimpsing the woman’s face.

“…Ahem, a servant girl? Whom do you serve?”

Her tresses shone like burnished copper in the sunlight, her crimson-eyed gaze at once unsettling yet alluring.

Her appearance so perfectly aligned with Phoebus’s predilections that his fury toward the grotesque Quasimodo was instantly extinguished.

“I attend to Her Highness Princess Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

“The Princess? Then…”

Quasimodo’s deformed assailant was the furthest thing from Phoebus’s mind.

“Forgive my unsightly conduct, my lady.”

For retainers and ladies-in-waiting attending royalty were predominantly drawn from respected nobility. Hence, Phoebus’s demeanor grew increasingly deferential.

“It shall be 2 o’clock presently, but might I inquire if you can linger?”

“2 o’clock, you say? Good heavens!!”

Checking his timepiece at the maid’s words, Phoebus realized 2 o’clock – when he was due to return – was rapidly approaching, much to his horror.

“I shall be severely reprimanded again. Thank you, milady, though I wish I could offer some recompense, I am dreadfully rushed…!!”

The royal guards adhered to a strict punctuality, any guard even five seconds tardy would earn punitive drills for their entire unit.

As Phoebus hurriedly dashed toward the palace, the maid turned her gaze upon the prone Quasimodo.

“…”

Had he got caught? Quasimodo wondered with dread.

The Archdeacon had sternly cautioned him to avoid drawing any attention, and if compromised, never to divulge his name under any circumstances.

If he had indeed been exposed, what should he do? Flee? Or attempt to feign ignorance?

“Are you alright?”

Yet contrary to Quasimodo’s apprehensions, the maid’s words held no accusation demanding explanations for his earlier retreat, nor any contempt for his deformities. Only an innocuous expression of concern.

“…”

Unsurprisingly, her words fell upon deaf ears, for Quasimodo couldn’t hear.

He had been equally unable to overhear the exchange between the maid and Phoebus.

Still, Quasimodo stared blankly at the maid’s proffered hand. Though feigning nonchalance would better avoid rousing suspicion, his crooked legs refused to move.

“…Yes?”

This pure, unadulterated goodwill was an entirely novel experience.

Even his adoptive father Frollo had never regarded Quasimodo with such unconditional benevolence, motivated instead by deeply personal desires while failing to conceal his repulsed disdain.

Yet Quasimodo had loved his father nonetheless, for even feigned affection was preferable to having none at all. Without that fabricated love, his life would have ended in the basket before Notre-Dame’s steps.

But this… just what was this?

A purity Quasimodo had never once felt in his wretched existence.

From his manipulative father to those who had scorned and mocked him without such pretense-

Was naked contempt not the very norm, the essence of human nature? Then what manner of being was this woman?

“…Y-Your name, please…”

The words that slipped from Quasimodo’s stunned lips were a plea.

“…H-Here, on my p-palm, write your n-name…”

Lifting his bloodied hand like a wretched beggar desperately seeking alms, Quasimodo implored her.

“…?”

Momentarily taken aback by his uncharacteristic demeanor, the maid ultimately acquiesced, using her index finger to scrawl her name in his blood-smeared palm.

“E…s…”

Esmeralda.

“Es…meralda…”

So that is your name.

Quasimodo rose to his feet unaided, without grasping the maid’s hand.

“…Th-Thank you.”

Then, slowly backing away step by step, he promptly turned and fled the scene.

“…Hmm…”

Watching Quasimodo’s receding thumps fade into the distance, the maid Dorothy was left pondering.

“How odd, to so insistently demand my name…”

While she had provided a cursory alias on the spur of the moment due to his suspicious behavior, had it merely been an innocent misunderstanding?

If so, why had he fled in such haste?

“…He didn’t seem…”

Like a bad person.