"Now, let us discuss the passage of Matthew," Father Augustin said as he opened up the heavy, worn Bible. The boys in his class followed suit, Claude characteristically seated in front in this teaching cell inside Notre Dame. "The Lord tells us 'Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth'. We can interpret that at face-value, but what does that passage truly mean to us?"

The young tonsured boys seated began to speak up.

"That material objects are no substitute for God's love."

"If you have too much wealth, give some to charity."

It was then that Claude decided to interject. "That wealth blinds us," he uttered darkly, gray eyes glinting with a suppressed fire. "Wealth gives us power, and power can lead us away from God's grace."

The other boys eyed him haltingly, Father Augustin and fellow priest Brother Marian also giving him cautious glances. Augustin patiently replied, "A bold concept, Claude, but a tad out of the way from the passage."

"It makes perfect sense," Claude said, ignoring the unsure expressions of his classmates. "Money is the root of all evil: it makes us believe that we are untouchable by consequence. That's why the King allows activities like prostitution to remain alive, taking away what virtue we have left."

Brother Marian spoke up. "You're straying from the lesson, Frollo." He had not once lessened his suspicious examination of the Minister's son. He had made it clear to the Archdeacon that something did not sit well with him, and that he did not trust the boy as a result.

"It's right there in the Bible," Claude challenged, a storm brewing in his eyes. "It's telling us that we need to stamp out this behavior. And we should start with the noble class itself: those who stray from God's path should be punished. They should be forced to undergo brutal penance if they want to be a part of the Lord's flock."

Before his associate could chide the boy, Augustin retorted, "While it is good that you see the dangers of wealth, we cannot force people to repent for their ways. Penance must be done willingly. And remember that the Lord does not punish, Claude."

"Doesn't Isaiah write that the Lord will smite man and destroy the wicked?" the boy gravely countered. In his voice there was only the desire for revenge…punishment against sinners. "We would be doing Him a favor if we start weeding out the wicked among us. People must learn that there are consequences for their immorality—and we can accomplish that by putting the fear of God into them!"

The classroom fell silent as every pair of eyes fell on the impassioned young man now standing above them. It was as though a looming, ominous presence stood right in their midst, one as grim as the divine punishment just described by him.

Only when another young voice broke the silence could the rest of the group recompose themselves. "You're forgetting about Forgiveness."

Claude shot an exasperated glare at the other boy, as if insulted that his belief would be challenged by an inferior. "In theory," Claude snapped, not breaking from the merciless scowl etched on his face and never failing to resemble his father. "Experience will tell us that nobody truly receives "forgiveness"."

"You have a bleak, little mind," Brother Marian coldly observed, scrutinizing the boy harshly. "To not believe in forgiveness is almost as if you don't believe in Christ at all!"

"Christ was just as quick to punish," Claude noted. "Remember the vendors in the temple? And why they were there in the first place? Selling their wares—trying to acquire more wealth."

Before there could be any more exchanges of heated words, Augustin chimed in, "I think we've had enough discussions for one day, wouldn't you all agree? It's getting late and I'm positive you'd all like to get home and rest."

"Best to call it a day now," Marian agreed, maintaining his distrustful eyes on Claude.

As the boys exited the classroom, the Archdeacon studied the perpetually solemn air around the Frollo boy. Even after he put on the brown robe of a clergyman, it seemed as though Claude had was not quick to adopt the tolerance expected of him. He too began to wonder if the young man could truly emulate the spirit of the cloth through his arduous dedication...and if this were the right path for him.

X

"Thanks to your hard work, we have gathered the means to buy enough bread for those lingering around Sainte-Chappelle," Brother Marian congratulated the boys, gesturing to the cart filled with said loaves outside the cathedral. "We will go and all of you will distribute these to the less fortunate."

Collecting alms for the poor had been almost effortless, considering many Parisians had recognized the Minister of Justice's son asking for donations. Claude had returned to the church with his coin purse almost overflowing with sweet charity at the end of the day.

Now he walked through the streets of Paris with his fellow clergy-in-training, looking for those in need of sustenance, the wooden cart creaking over the cobblestones as it was pulled along beside him.

"So, Claude," a shorter boy chirped, coming the Claude's side. "You practically paid for all of that bread—how did you do it?"

"Charisma, Thomas," Claude boasted, lacing his fingers before himself. "Pure charisma."

The other boy laughed. "Did you threaten to have your father's men lock them up if they didn't hand over a few pennies?"

"Well, it doesn't hurt to know people in high places." A crooked and sardonic smile stretched over Claude's lips. For once he was thankful of his father's terrifying influence over the city. Especially if it meant it could put him ahead of his classmates in earning a higher position for church services.

"Careful, or Marian or Augustin will tell you all about the dangers of pride," Thomas said. "Remember: pride goes before the fall."

"Don't lecture me," Claude warned, flinty eyes boring dangerously into his acquaintance. "You forget who's on track to becoming an acolyte and who is not. Besides, they did not make us vow to not take some pride in our accomplishments."

Thomas scoffed at Claude's self-assured bragging, laughing and commenting, "A priest who has to praise himself has a congregation of one." Rolling his eyes, Claude gave the boy a hard shove away from him.

"Frollo!" Brother Marian warned upon seeing Claude's small act of violence against his companion. Claude offered an apologetic nod, remembering too late that even a harmless shove was considered unacceptable in their school.

The young man continued to walk through the streets silently, taking notice of the ailing beggars that lined the walls of buildings. Their faces were lined with grime, some balancing themselves with old wooden canes, limbs laced with dirty bandages, and holding out their scarred hands in hopes of kindness.

Brother Marian stopped the wooden cart, the robed teenage boys gathering around. "Any hungry soul you see, give them some bread," he instructed, gathering up loaves in his arms. "Now every one of you, take a few loaves and hand them out."

Taking some bread into his hands, Claude shuffled towards a few sickly-looking panhandlers huddled together against an alley wall. With some apprehension he approached them, and their cloudy eyes looked up at him in confusion. As they coughed violently, Claude noticed some blood dripping from the sides of their mouths, splotches adorning the tattered cloths they coughed into. Nervously holding out the bread and curling his lip at them, he muttered, "On behalf of Notre Dame."

Weakly, an ailing white-haired woman took it from him, Claude snatching his hand away as if she were a viper. Granting him a nearly toothless smile as thanks, she sent a shiver up the boy's spine. Claude whipped around and hurried away from them, eyes glancing over his shoulder at the grotesque bunch.

Remember: you're doing the Lord's work, he mechanically reminded himself, trying to regain his composure. Reaching for another loaf from the cart, he miserably thought to himself, Yet, for some reason, if man is made in God's image, why are some so unsightly to look at?

Don't think like that! Remember that charity is supposed to lighten the soul, so just grin and bear it… Claude shook his head and proceeded to find some other poor soul to feed.

Wandering through a few alleys drew him toward another misshapen figure, another drifter limply propped up against a wall. He noticed how tightly their tattered clothes were wrapped around their deteriorated frame. Their worn, old hat was pulled down and covered their eyes, as if shamefully. As he dragged his feet closer, Claude noticed a rusted little bell laying by the figure's side.

Leper, Claude deduced, his heart leaping into his throat. The hairs on his arms instantly stood up as he suddenly feared catching the dreadful disease. If Christ can heal ten of them in a day, then giving one a piece of bread should be nothing…

He cleared his throat to make himself heard, but the leper never looked up. "On behalf of Notre Dame, can I offer you this?" With the greatest reluctance, Claude inched closer with his arm stretched forth, bread in hand.

Suddenly the leper lifted his head, the sight shocking the boy tremendously. He had never seen one up close, and now he beheld the horror that incited laws preventing these souls from being seen. In a moment Claude noticed the man's dark face covered in countless growths, black eyes staring back at him emptily.

Sluggishly, the man raised two thin arms towards the outstretched dole. Claude quickly observed that a couple of digits had long fallen off his hands, unsettling him even more. In a sickeningly raspy voice, the leper croaked out as he reached for the loaf, "What's the matter? Don't like slumming it with the outcasts?"

With a wheezy laugh suddenly wrenched from the man's throat, Claude couldn't bear to sit here another second. A choked breath of revulsion escaped the boy's lips as he stumbled back some and let the loaf of bread fall from his hands. He turned on his heels and strode down the alley back toward the square, the leper's wicked laugh still ringing in his ears.

He felt he could breathe again once he regrouped with his peers, chatting away by the near empty cart. Wiping his hands on his brown robe, Claude cursed under his breath. "Disgusting," he muttered coldly as he took another piece of bread, inhaling sharply. Other boys gathering their alms heard his snide comment, casting him quizzical expressions.

Looking around the outside of Sainte-Chappelle, Claude could see many of the locals had been given their share. Waste not one want, he thought to himself, making a turn and looking for some other poor wretch to feed. Inside he prayed that the next one would be not so horrendous to look upon.

At least it's unlikely the day will get any worse…he tried to reassure himself, nervously clutching the scapular bouncing against his chest.

"Spreading the good word, Egghead?"

Sighing in annoyance, Claude turned around to see Marcel leaping down from a wall between a couple of buildings. "Nice hair, by the way."

"I don't have time to exchange childish insults, Marcel," Claude icily bit, leering at his adversary. "Can this wait until later?"

The tall gypsy boy strolled up to him with a malicious grin on his face. "What's a few words between friends?" he taunted, pushing his hand against Claude's forehead, sending him stumbling back a bit. "So, are you out gathering converts?"

"For your information, I have a job to do: distributing food to the city's poor," Claude stated, almost aloofly. Of all the things in the world right now, battling with Celeste's friend was not something he wanted to be bothered with.

"Isn't that sweet? And here I thought you didn't have a heart—just a tiny little piece of stone where your heart should be."

If it were not for the clergy's vow of peace, Claude would have charged at the curly-haired boy. And he wasn't keen on the idea of making a worse name for himself among his instructors and peers. Trying to keep his temper, he evenly said, "I have to leave."

Before Claude could sidestep him, the lanky gypsy boy quickly blocked his path. "Move aside," Claude ordered irately, lowering his brows at him.

"Now wait just a minute, Frollo. You just said you were giving food to the poor and, well…how's about throwing some of that bread my way? After all, your old man is the reason we're starving anyway—you know, fair is fair."

Do not lose your temper, he ordered himself, even though he felt his cheeks burn with anger, which could only be assuaged by putting this street urchin in his place. Holding the loaf of bread closer to his chest, Claude snapped, "We have a certain criterion for who receives alms—and thieves are not a group we consider."

"Come on, altar boy," Marcel teased, holding out his hand. "Charity, remember? Besides, just about everyone starving is a thief at the very core."

"I'm not giving you anything!" Claude firmly repeated.

The slight was not lost on Marcel, who locked his dark brown eyes on Claude. Squaring his jaw, it was evident that he would not allow such an insult to go unpunished.

When the gypsy boy attempted to snatch the food, Claude harshly pushed him back. Marcel lunged for the boy's shoulders, only for Claude to quickly kick him in the shin.

'Fair is fair'? Claude mentally repeated, disregarding his earlier thought to restrain himself. Then attempt to steal from the church and face the consequences!

Tossing the bread aside, Claude pushed him down with all his strength, Marcel grunting in pain as he hit the cobblestones. Recalling his combat training, Claude's arms swiftly locked his enemy to restrain him. Marcel, however, broke free from his grasp and regained his stance.

Claude moved with the speed of a fox as he dodged the other's blows and put up his fists, ready to stand his ground. He succeeded punching Marcel in the abdomen and sending him back and wheezing from the blow. Claude gnashed his teeth in animalistic rage and found himself blinded by the desire to see this boy suffer...

"Claude! Stop that at once!"

Without turning around, Claude found his arms locked in the hands of two other boys, dragged off his enemy before he could do any more damage. Whipping around, he paled at the sight at Brother Marian towering above him. Gripping him by the collar of his brown habit, the cleric pulled Claude away, the other boys in tow.

X

"What on earth were you thinking?!" Brother Marian bellowed as he paced before the group once they returned to Notre Dame. Father Augustin stood right beside him in contemplation, keeping his kind brown eyes set on the boy now being reprimanded. Claude sat penitently on his knees in the center of the cell designated for teaching, chided before his fellow students.

"We are opposed to this behavior—our lives are ones of peace!" Marian heatedly continued. "You took an oath to renounce violence, Claude. And you let yourself get involved in some strife while you were supposed to be distributing food!"

Keeping his gaze down, Claude could feel himself boiling with anger. From the corner of his eye, he could see the other boys whispering to each other, feeling their judgment upon him. "That gypsy was trying to take the alms by force, and I refused to let him do so," Claude explained, his lips set in a hard line and fists clenched tightly against his knees.

"Claude," Augustin interjected patiently. "You are supposed to be mastering self-control in this way of life, and if that means doing what you must to avoid such conflict, then so be it."

"We do not resort to hurting others!" the livid other priest rebuked. "I also hear that you are being, how shall I phrase this…less than amiable when giving alms."

Claude's gaze darted up towards the men, mouth hanging agape at such an accusation. No doubt his behavior and remarks had not gone unnoticed by his peers.

"I hear tell that you can be quite crass towards the afflicted," Marian recounted, tapping a finger against one of his folded arms.

"Some of those people are contagious!" Claude impulsively protested before he could stop himself. Poor choice of words, he immediately realized, cursing himself.

"'Contagious'? Have you forgotten when Christ healed the blind, or the sick, or the lame? Did He recoil from them and refuse to help them because they were 'contagious'?"

Swallowing, Claude meekly answered, "No, He did not." All he could see was the disgusting misshapen face of that leper, not feeling any sense of good will towards even the most suffering. Even now he could still hear that sharp cackle as he recoiled from the old cur.

"It's those people who need our compassion the most," Augustin pointed. "Forsaken by society, men of God are their last chance at benevolence."

"I, for one, am beginning to question your sincerity," Marian warned.

"Please!" Claude begged, locking his fingers together prayer-like. "I promise that this will never happen again!" Once again, he heard the other boys commenting in hushed voices all around him, not even caring what they had to say.

"You watch yourself, Frollo," Marian sharply reminded, pointing a bony finger at the teen. "If you cannot control that temper, or understand true compassion…then there is no place for you in these ranks."

"What Brother Marian means is that wrath has no place here," Augustin said, patting his associate on the shoulder to calm him. "It is a Deadly Sin. Keep, instead the virtue of patience, for it is one of the most sacred of virtues."

Claude attempted to hide his disdain for such reproach. What, allow a wrong to not be made right, simply because of our robes? He pondered cynically. If he had the ability, he would gladly encourage men of the Church to strike down any violators in its path.

Wanting this humiliation to be done and over with already, he simply answered his mentors, "Of course."

X

"You attacked him?" Celeste inquired, trailing after Claude as he lugged his theology books under his arm on the way out of Notre Dame.

"It was either that or let him rob me," Claude curtly answered. "And technically that bread was intended for the city's beggars—so Marcel was really attempting to steal from Notre Dame, which I for one could not allow!"

"I hate when you both fight. Was that really a good idea, given your position with the Church? I thought you were sworn against violence?" Celeste tested, taking one of his books from his hands.

"Don't you think I know that?!" he indignantly asked, whipping around and facing the gypsy girl. "Thanks to Marcel, they're keeping watch over me like some child! Do you know how humiliating that is? I did the right thing in fighting him off—preventing him from stealing. Now I must pay the price!"

"Look," she slowly began, resting a hand on his arm and trying to reason with him. "I'm not taking his side—I'm looking out for you—but if he ever does that again, just hand it over. I don't think those clerics will be too forgiving if you get in another fight."

"I know," Claude replied, huffing in annoyance. "Celeste, I already received the lecture—I don't need to hear it again!" He stomped away, the gypsy girl right on his heels.

Scoffing in dismissal of his bitter retort, she responded, "I told you, I'm just looking out for you. You wanted to do this, become a priest and all, and I don't want you to get kicked out because you blew your top and got in another fight."

"I am already walking on eggshells as it is. And if I am expelled after only a few months…I don't even want to think about that."

Even the gypsy girl had to admit that sometimes his stubbornness was exasperating at times. Offhandedly, she remarked, "Just when my parents were beginning to like you, you and Marcel decide to duke it out."

A hopeful look suddenly flashed across Claude's gloomy expression and his stomach seemed to churn, though not from pain or anger as it was so prone to doing. "Really?" he asked, brows rising. "They were?"

"They've always had their doubts about you—you being a gajo, and who your father is. I've always tried to convince them that you're not like him. It was his fault that we had to go back to the Court of Miracles and abandon our camp anyway. When I told them you were joining the Church, they thought maybe you were different."

"I am different; my father doesn't have a conscience and doesn't give a damn about your people—I do." Claude's expression fell when he figured what she was now implying. "I suppose this little fight might put a damper on their approval of me?" Slightly dejected, he pulled the hood of his robe over his head.

"Unfortunately, maybe." She cast him a sidelong glance. "They do love Marcel; they'd rather I marry him out of everyone in our caravan."

Claude blanched at the girl's mention of marriage. Not to that imbecile! He internally protested with a heavy heart. "Well," he began, attempting to keep his voice even. "You still have quite some time before settling on a match, right?"

Celeste fought back a shy smile that threatened to break over her lips. Her friend noted the flush in her dusky cheeks at his inquisition. Clutching the heavy book tighter in her hands, she playfully answered, "Are you looking to bless the ceremony?"

Claude sneered and focused his attention on the numerous outcasts that littered the alleys he passed. Hollowly, he answered, "Not ideally."

Celeste tapped her fingers against the book's surface awkwardly. "Well, you are going to be a man of the Church. And weren't you the one to say that marriage is forbidden for your kind?

Claude felt his heart sink once more, especially when he glanced down at the little brown scapular. "Yes, I did."

An uncomfortable silence pressed between the friends as they lumbered through the streets, which were quieter as the late afternoon took its effect on the city. They kept their individual attentions on the people brushing past them, unsure of what to say for once.

Trying to purge the discomfort around them, Celeste then raised, "But you're right: I still have a few more years before my parents make me settle on a husband. A lot can happen until then."

Feeling himself lighten just a bit, Claude concurred. "Indeed, it can."

X

"I trust that I can expect no other altercations from you, Claude?" Brother Marian asked, handing the young man a stack of second-hand cloaks. "After all, it would be a shame to see one of our own dismissed after such a brief endeavor."

Biting back a sarcastic quip, Claude masked his annoyance by affably answering, "No, Brother. Not today."

"Good. You know your mission today: hand out these cloaks. With a few more weeks of winter, no doubt she will hit Paris with more rain. We don't want any more souls going without warmth."

Claude looked over his shoulder around the square in front of the cathedral. Who knew how many people he was supposed to hand these cloaks to?

"Brother," Claude began, the cleric glancing back at him as he gathered more folded cloaks from the wooden cart. "If our job is to study God and His word, why are we spending the day handing these out? Paris has plenty of charitable houses, like the Hospital of Saint-Julien, Sainte-Avoie, Hotel-Dieu…why are we the ones carrying out this work?"

Marian looked at the boy in almost disbelief. "Charity is a virtue, Claude. You know, Thomas Aquinas wrote something very profound about it: charity attains God and unites us to Him. Therefore, we will assist those in need. Now go."

Turning on his heels, Claude trudged off, cloaks folded neatly in his twiggy arms.

Finding some poor souls, many were grateful to the young man. Again, Claude's stomach twisted at the sight of so many afflicted and ill-looking. While he should have been happy with lending a helping hand to Paris's suffering citizens, he evidently showed his repulsion to them: trying to prevent their hands from touching his, keeping a good distance from them, and gagging a little at the sight of pox-ridden vagrants.

"Excuse me, young man," an old beggar with one leg addressed, holding up the fabric. "Don't you have any other cloaks—everyone thinks that these are much too itchy."

Pursing his thin lips, Claude replied, "They're second-hand, so you will just have to make do with them."

"Some charity," the man criticized, sniffing the cloak. "You'd think the church would want to hand out quality alms to the destitute."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Claude swiped. With every ungrateful remark and expression, he found himself more resentful toward being saddled with these tasks. "If it does not meet your personal standards, sir, then I hope you are prepared for the last of winter's rain without it."

The crippled man and his fellow vagrants looked at this angry tonsured teen, baffled by his callous expression and damning words.

Making his way back to Notre Dame, the boy Thomas appeared at Claude's side. "I thought you said you were on thin ice since your little fight the other day," he commented, Claude casting him an impatient scowl.

"I am, and I did what I was assigned to do: hand out clothes to the poor," he rigidly answered. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"But I think speaking like that to the poor won't do well for your image, Claude," Thomas pointed out. "After all, Marian and Augustin say our hands are supposed to be open to those in need…and you're constantly snatching yours back."

"Your point?"

Thomas's brows rose before shaking his head. "Never mind. It's your funeral."

Claude abruptly stopped and faced the boy, his expression threatening. "I am not going to allow a few snags prevent me from carrying out my God-given duty. I am doing as instructed and studied everything they've thrown at me. They can't punish me for that."

The other boy quirked his lips doubtfully. "Well, they'll find something if you keep that up."

Claude fought the urge to put this smaller boy in a headlock, choosing instead to reply, "They wouldn't dare."

X

*A/N: Thanks to everyone reading. I'm determined to finish this soon and I hope you enjoy it. (Shout out to Fiddler on the Roof for the "congregation of one" quote.)

R/R!