"`It keeps bread on the table, and I'll hear no more from your shrew's tongue about it!'"

The bitter words of five years past echoed in my head as I stood on display in company with a snaggle-toothed hag, a buxom wench past her prime, a sniveling doxy cast from her master's chambers to fend for herself, and a few children in tatters. Nary a night had gone when they had been passed by. Lo, for the only one overlooked was myself. Perhaps it was the air of fine breeding that was surrounded me, mayhaps reminding the men of their womenfolk, even the lecherous guards. For not a one had matched my offer, not even when I dropped my price a few sous. To be sure, I plied my wares with such a grace and finesse only a gentlewoman such as myself could pull off. Or a former gentlewoman, I should say. Now I stood with my wild Celt hair unbound, almost to my knees in its glory, brushing and washing it oft to keep the shine, and kohling my walnut-brown eyes like an Egyptian.

My father was a wild man from the farthest reaches of Erin, or so told my mother, little and dark was she like the gypsies who had banished her to the Paris streets to fend for herself. And so she always wore red, to signify that she was not an honest gypsy woman, although she had never been a gypsy in the first place, not by blood, only by adoption. Fiery like her dress was my hair at birth, and henceforth. I am a giant like that father of old, easily topping six feet, with ivory skin and his mouth, teasing and full.

"Ho, there!" Here I glanced up from my past. A man encased in shadow stood before me, only voice, no substance. "How much?"

"You must be lonely indeed, if you seek me. Look on these others," I said, gesturing to a pile of rags, which in actuality were children deprived of innocence too soon. "Are they not to your tastes?"

"No." He answered smoothly, a bit repulsed by my bluntness I think; voice kind yet tired.

"Ah, but be warned that my feet will dangle off the bed, and--"

Here, I thought I caught a brow raise, but blamed the thought on the night. "There are ways around that." A jangle of gold.

"A sou, monsieur."

"No, child, you are worth much more." He reached out his hand to me, cold, like ice. "Come." Drawing me into the accompanying shadows.

"But--sir!--I have not the proper rooms for such an endeavor!" I protested, tugging on his arm. Still he led me onwards, through the alleys, towards the Seine - and eventually to the black hulk of Notre Dame.

"Will you feed me to this monster they speak of?!" I demanded primly, horror flooding my veins and freezing me to the spot. He shot me a scornful glare, yanking me impatiently through the door, and closing it with equal fervor. In the dim candlelight of the empty church, I discovered that he was my height, not below or above like I'd feared.

Here he let go my hand to place his across my mouth, as he opened a wooden door leading to a dark stone stairway. I began the ascent, but he stopped me with his kiss. Light, only a brush across my lips, but scorching from my lips to the edges of my toes. He trailed my neck with these promises, stirring feelings I'd only heard of, dreamt of, imagined.

"Do you propose to take me here, on the stairs?" I teased, though the prospect both excited and tore at my conscience. Is it sacrilege, or, worse, blasphemy to make love in a cathedral, and Paris' most holy one, at that?

"No," he whispered huskily, nibbling on my earlobe most deliciously. "This is only the beginning. You must remain silent, my pet, lest we wake the priests." Yes, it was the beginning. The beginning of the end.

"But what of the bellringer?" I asked, morbid curiosity gripping me.

Here my customer shut the door behind us and drew me up the stairs. "He won't tell anyone. You shall see."

Many a high price a man has paid for his after-hours entertainment, but what if those used goods are, in truth, fresh? I have heard that there is none sweeter a prize to award a man than a fresh girl, untried in the ways of men. So my mother spoke often, maytimes bitterly, though she had an eternal beauty through her whole career, seemingly too young to have a child. She neither encouraged nor shielded me from this life I know I must lead, succumbing to my destiny on these filthy streets of Paris.

"Oh! Master Frollo!" A frightened, subservient voice is laid before me, as is this boy, hair as red as my own. A hunchback. A bellringer. A whore. He smiles in my direction, almost cowering at my customer's raised hand.

"Go to bed, Quasimodo. I am taking this lovely young girl you see before you on a tour of the cathedral--"

"Oh, but I can show her everything!", he bubbles, suddenly silenced by... Judge Claude Frollo, Justice of the Peace?! An even starker terror grips me. But do not pity me. It is a fille de joie's lot in life, this. A wife's duties, yet no wife in name.

"Monsieur, forget the boy, " I coo, drawing on his arm. As we walk away, I catch the boy's eye, wherein he shoots me a look of genuine thanks.

"Merci." Quasimodo mouths, and draws back into the spectre of the bells.

Only a bed stuffed with some straw and a candle add to the non-existent decor of this place, perhaps unknown even to the boy, certainly unknown to the archdeacon! And is this man the feared Claude Frollo? It does not matter. Only the here and now matters. Right now, we are the only two people in the world...

I go to him, like I know I must, like it is already written out somewhere grander than this cell in the bell tower of Notre Dame. I kiss him full on the mouth, drawing him to me, my back to the wall. I continue to kiss and caress, and can feel him hardening under my ministrations. Detail I must omit, for modesty's sake, but there was blood, I wept, and he was angry but gentle afterwards. And here my story does not end like it should, the prostitute and the customer, instead it expands into another destiny, lamentable to some, but joyful to others.

I was found in the cemetery by gypsies, an older couple, Bexhet and Mozol, a lump the size of a goose egg on my head, twin black eyes, and a fractured arm. All I remembered was Frollo being very, very angry at something... a struggle... and nothing.

Mozol and Bexhet escorted me back to my hovel, bandaged me up, and stayed with me until I regained health. A tiny slip of a woman, Mozol made up for that in spirit, and as it turned out, had known my mother when they were but girls. Bexhet was the strong, silent type, to this day I think he understood more than he let on, though he never spoke a word of French in my presence. The next month, they were gone, with only a forgotten necklace--perhaps a map?--to mark their absence.

A child was born on the very stroke of midnight eight months later, flame-haired and black eyed. Perhaps she was Bexhet's, to this day I do not know. Wary of strangers was this child of mine who never cried. Burrowing deep within my marrow,was this base-born child meant for the life she was born into, unless Fate saw it in themselves to lend a hand...

The life of a fille de joie is a hard one, your life becomes empty after a while, without meaning, without love. A life not your own. But I digress. As it stood, I named the child Mozol. Meaning "blackcurrant", it neither suited nor molded my lamb. She grew weaker with each passing day, until finally, I knew I must seek out help. And begin my search where it all began, in the belltower of Notre Dame....

"I have not seen him... in a while." Quasimodo told me, but he lied, for his eyes slid away and would not meet mine. "What's that?" He asked of my necklace.

"Oh, the gypsies who saved me--" - here guilt became written across his deformed face - "forgot it. Why?"

"Gypsies are evil. Master Frollo says so. And he also said you deserved to be left to die. Because you're a doxy. And doxies are almost as bad as gypsies."

I took my leave then, with neither reason nor excuse. Monsters are made, not bred. I saw this where I had not seen it before. He had forgotten that he owed me for saving him from his master's wrath. But he was not to blame. Poor boy, he was only a year younger than my sixteen.

I, leaving the cathedral discreetly, happened to chance upon a gypsy girl being caught by guards. She struggled madly, then stopped, a smile flitting across pretty features.

"Oh, you prefer her over me?" I demanded coyly, sauntering up to the guards.

"No, mademoiselle. We're bringing this gypsy in for questioning!"

"Hah!" I cried, throwing my hands into the air and almost unbalancing Mozol who slept in a sling under my cloak. "Go on, girl!" I cried, whipping out a finely honed daggar, another gift from Bexhet. "RUN!"

She was not one to think, I noticed, as she bounded away like a hunted doe. And I, to my folly, followed her.

After following her to the cemetery, I was awed to discover a secret passageway leading beneath Paris. I crept down the stairway and into the catacombs, sloshing through filthy water of unknown orgin and stench.

"Here, madam, take my arm as we cross this perilous pile of bones." A voice laughed, taking my arm. Suddenly, the catacomb was awash with torchlight, and skeletons! I pride myself on not screaming. "Spy! You've found your way in the Court of Miracles! Too bad you won't live to tell the tale!"

"I am no spy." I answered stiffly. "I came for--" but a gag stopped my plea, and I was bodily dragged to a bustling haven of tents and people -- this Court of Miracles!

"I am your host, King of the Gypsies!" The man who held me foremost said, roguishly handsome. He propelled me up a platform, to where a noose was hung. "Fellow Gypsies!" He called across the whole company. "Here!" He proclaimed. "A spy!" And he ungagged me.

"I am no spy! " I cried.

"Then what are you? A thief, a jester, a dancer, a tightrope walker? Speak, girl!"

"No. I am a fille de joie. A whore. And I came for help." Here I threw my cloak back and drew out my child. There was a gasp from the crowd. "Her name is Mozol and I fear she is dying. Please, take her in. I cannot care for her." A single tear, crystal clear, fell from my eye. "Please." I beseeched this King of Gypsies, the crowd. "She has so little to live for."

"She should be with her mother!", a voice called out.

I laughed, and it was bitter sounding, even to my own ears. "To grow up in the gutter? To embrace my fate, mine and my mother's? I thought that perhaps, since my mother was adopted into the tribe once, my daughter could pick up where she left off."

"Your mother?"

"Luzia. Luzia the Nubian."

But their King only shook his head sadly. "I do not remember her."

"Yes, she was banished. I know not why. Here," I pleaded, pushing tiny Mozol into his arms. "Take her." By this time I could swear everybody in the place was watching this drama unfold raptly.

"Lourdes!" A booming voice rose from the crowd, and Bexhet pushed his way through, rapidly followed by the older Mozol. "We will take her. Clopin?"

The King nodded. I hurried down the wooden stairs, and paused, bottom step. I kissed my child, for the last time, on the forehead and she watched me out of solemn eyes. "Give her my love." I said simply, and withdrew a locket from my bosom. My mother's locket. Mine. Now hers.

"I call her Mozzie for a nickname, " I offered shyly, holding her out to them. Bexhet took her gently, fatherly, and his wife kissed my cheek goodbye. I never saw any of them again. Not a one.

What is a whore? Is it a man or woman who sells their body for gold, to keep bread on the table? Is that what a whore is? Or is it someone who lets themself be used by people, like Quasimodo was? Is a girl who gives up her baby for a `better life' as horrible a doxy as the rest? Does this equal a whore?

Why do men seek out the lady of the night, the dolly-mop, the doxy, the fille de joie for their earthly pleasures, I charge you? Why is it that children must die on the street, mourned by some, forgotten by all? Have we not earned a place, too, in those grand palaces you speak of? And is it not fitting, for those such as us?

� 1998-2000 by Phoebe Kersula. Do not reprint or borrow these characters w/out explicit permission.