Phoebus marched over to Pierre, mostly ignoring the various hullaballoo going on around him since the Madame was clearly in control of the situation. "Excuse me, old friend, but Esmeralda and I need that goat to help find our other kids." 

Pierre stopped babbling for just a split second as his eyes glazed over in momentary confusion. Before he could bring himself to some sort of conclusion, a concentrated blunt pain erupted in his leg, drawing forth a startled yelp from his lips. His moment of distraction was just long enough for Djahli to break loose from his hold and run off. The poet immediately roused himself with an upset wail and reached for the goat, only to have his shoulder taken hold of by Phoebus.

"Gringoire, listen to me." The soldier turned Pierre to face him. "My kids have run off, and this establishment is [i]no place[/i] for children. If you see any of them, let one of us know. And, leave Djahli alone so he can help."

Without waiting for a response, Phoebus let him go and proceeded to push his way through the crowd toward the kitchens. Neither man noticed the red tail slip back underneath the tables.

Pierre fell into a silent stupor for a moment as he tried to process this information. Why was he confused that Phoebus and Esmeralda had other children? Why did he feel as if he didn't even know they had gotten married yet? A man of his intellect should easily be able to recall such important things as... Ah, yes, there it was. In his drunken state, it was a struggle, but he did manage to pull up an image in his memory of the blond man about to be hanged for finding the Court of Miracles, and a blurry bit where women were given the option to marry a condemned man to save his life... And the wedding! Yes, of course! Such convivitiousness! The colors, the music, the broken jar! How could he have ever forgotten that?

Pierre gave a long, sorrowful look at his empty flagon. Ah, he did enjoy his drink, but, alas, he could not afford to dull his perspicacity so severely. It would not do for a man of his mind to go about his days drowning his capacity for thought. But, he suddenly realized, he hadn't responded to his friend.

"Ah, of course! Yes, I understand." He nodded sagely, completely unaware that Phoebus had already walked away. "Why, I remember their christenings as if it were yesterday. Little-- Ehmm... Ssss.... Shhhh... [i]Cynthia[/i], yes! Little Cynthia was only five years old when she first started performing in the festivals with her mother. She must be approaching eleven, now, isn't she? Oh, how the time passes when one is distracted with revelry and insights! Such it is, that men must learn to appreciate was lies before them, before Thanatos comes to carry us away on blackened wings to a land ever-unchanging, mortals we all are..."

Meanwhile, Phoebus had made his way into the kitchen. He looked around for a moment, then caught a glimpse of movement out of his eye. He turned his head, waited, annnnnd... Ha! There! A chubby little arm in a black sleep darted out from a cupboard just long enough to snatch a tart pastry off a plate. He calmly walked across the kitchen, dodging two scullery maids as he went. The cook squared off to shoo him out of the kitchen, but she stopped and watched blankly when he held up a finger to his lips. He suddenly yanked open the cupboard and pulled a little boy out.

Barrel's skeleton pajamas bunched up around his chest as Phoebus apologized to the cook and carried him out of the kitchen. The soldier set the boy down on the ground and put on a stern expression, crossing his arms in front of his chest to complete the look. 

"Young man, you are in a significant amount of trouble."