Tupen does little but eat, sleep, and brood as the coach wobbles and rocks. A few times, Quasimodo tries to engage him in polite conversation to pass the time, but the aristocrat's firm lips only mouth terse insults and ill regards. The Hunchback would much rather ride up front by the kindly Cyrano, but he has his orders.
Tupen is a man to be watched, not trusted. Should he attempt to break and run, you are to envision his head as the tower of Notre Dame and see to it that his bells are sufficiently rung.
The first day's travel is uneventful, but the second brings cause for alarm. The coach comes to a stop, and Quasimodo sticks his head out the window. The summer air is cool, and the day's light is easy on his good eye. Blocking the road, a company of armed riders stand in check to a troop of Napoleonic soldiers. The backs of the riders face the coach, so he is only able to read the lips of the troop's captain.
“You are all en route to Le Havre? State your business there.”
There is a pause as one of the riders responds.
The captain looks grim and says, “You are the third band of riders to pass us since we received our order to depart that city. Why are so many men headed there upon our leaving? It is as if all the dregs of France knew Le Havre would soon be evacuated. Tell me, what awaits you there?”
There is another pause as the leader of the riders responds, and the captain's face reddens with anger. The captain opens his mouth to speak, but his attention is suddenly drawn to the coach. Cyrano has descended from the driver's seat and makes his way between the two companies while talking and waving his hands.
“Would that I could hear what they speak of,” Quasimodo thinks.
After a few minutes, the two companies allow one another to pass—the soldiers toward Paris, the mysterious riders toward Le Havre. Cyrano returns to the coach and enters it.
“It is as I feared,” he begins, speaking more to Quasimodo than Tupen. “Some unnamed assembly of brigands and ruffians congregates in Le Havre as I speak. Napoleon has ordered his troops to evacuate, as per the ladynapper’s demands. But he has also ordered an evacuation of the citizens, leaving the town all but empty. Many strange ships have been seen approaching the town's harbor. It would seem that the Man in the Iron Mask has an army at his disposal. How or why they unite under his unseen banner, I cannot say.” He tweaks his mustache and eyes Tupen. “We reach Le Havre on the morrow's evening. Now is your last chance to tell us any information you've been holding back.”
Tupen only scowls.
“Very well,” Cyrano says with a ceremonious clap.
Quasimodo meekly raises his heavy hand. “How many ruffians?”
Cyrano strokes his chin in thought. “Hmm. I estimate a few hundred and growing. Tis little matter; I once killed one hundred men in an alley fight. And you, brave Quasimodo, did you not defend your lady from a greater number when they revoked her sanctuary and came to claim her?”
Quasimodo frowns as the memory of that empty victory floods his heart with grief.
“I…I had the high church tower to help me. I only dropped rocks, oil, and molten metal on those evil men. Notre Dame made me larger than all of them. But now, I have no great church to fight atop, no heavy rocks or molten metal to pitch, no more lady to defend.” Tears spill from the Hunchback’s mismatched eyes. “I am not only a half-formed man, but a broken man.”
Cyrano places a brotherly hand atop the Hunchback's massive shoulder. “You are a Broken Bard,” he corrects. “Just as I am, no better or worse. We have both been denied beauty in our mortal forms and in the desires of our loves. Even Erik, as deranged as he may be, is one with our pain and ever-unquenchable longing for beauty. It is the denial of beauty that gives us the greater admiration for it. Though I may never have the hand of she-whom-I-adore, there is still beauty in this world worth defending.” He lets out a bravado laugh. “Why, if this iron masked scoundrel were to plod upon a fresh lily, much less the wife of the First Consul, I would still have him answer for undoing such a perfect formation.”
Tupen scoffs, crosses his arms, and goes back to his brooding. Cyrano ignores him.
Quasimodo smiles and wipes his piggish nose. “Would that…we…were a perfect formation.”
Cyrano smiles. “Together, we are.”
Somewhere, not too far away, the Phantom smiles in agreement.