It was one of Claude's least favorite festivals. The one when all the rabble poured out onto the streets of Paris, everyone seemed to forget about God who was watching and hearing what people said.

La fête des fous.

In the Palace of Justice during the mystery, in the squares, peasants and nobles mixed together for the celebration, the rich mixed with beggars who were looking for a victim for their pleas to get a couple of soldi. The archdeacon was sullen and impartial as always, his deep-set eyes were serious and thoughtful when he walked the streets of Paris.

Everywhere there was a celebration, which he could only describe in two words: chaos and blasphemy. Young schoolchildren who scurried here and there were only looking for someone to make fun of, even seminarians and nuns seemed to forget about holiness on this day when it was supposedly allowed.

On his way, Frollo was met a couple of times by some nuns who tried to casually stand in his way or pass by him so as to brush against the sleeve of his cassock. This caused a wave of disgust to rise up inside Claude and he recoiled from any contact as if from the plague.

"Wicked women..." Claude muttered under his breath while his fingers ran slightly nervously over the bald spot on the top of his head and then touched what hair he still had left.

The orchestra that accompanied the noisy procession of gypsies and other people celebrating the Feast of the Fools played somewhere in the background, causing Frollo to become irritated and increasingly tired.

The archdeacon was already thinking about returning to the safety of the gothic and cold walls of Notre Dame, where in his modest and quiet cell he could once again bury himself in the study of the scriptures or alchemy. With measured steps, the gloomy figure of Frollo in his black clerical robes walked along the Place de Greve, when suddenly his attention was attracted by something, or rather someone.

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