Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “YOUR EYES ARE CLOSED?”

  “You’ve asked me five times.”

  “You can’t see anything?”

  “Not with a blindfold on.”

  Belle had been standing in front of a pair of tall, gracefully arched doors. The Beast had led her out of the kitchen, down a long corridor, and up a flight of stone steps. When they’d arrived, he’d put the candelabrum he’d been carrying down on a table next to the doors. Then he’d insisted on tying his cravat around her eyes.

  “Wait there,” he’d said when he was finished. “Don’t wander off.”

  Belle had laughed. “Wander off? Near a staircase? In a blindfold?”

  The Beast hadn’t responded. He’d been too busy fumbling with a brass key ring. Belle had heard the keys jangling.

  Why is it taking him so long to fit a key into a lock? she’d wondered. Surely he knows how to open the doors of his own castle.

  And then she’d realized why: he was nervous.

  He wants me to like the surprise, she’d thought. He wants to please me.

  The thought of the Beast wanting to please anyone was so odd, Belle had immediately dismissed it. There must be another reason. Maybe the light was bad wherever they were. Maybe he couldn’t see the keys.

  “Ah! Here we go!” the Beast had finally said.

  Belle had heard the key turn and the hinges groan. She’d felt a rush of musty air against her face as the doors swung open. She’d smelled leather. And linseed oil, a component of paints and inks.

  “This way,” the Beast had said, leading her forward. “Careful, Belle…just a little farther…stop right here!”

  Belle had tilted her head toward him, intrigued by his voice. There were things in it she hadn’t heard before: anticipation, excitement, happiness.

  “Where are we?” she’d asked, eager to know what sort of place would bring out such emotions in him.

  “Be patient. You’ll see,” he’d said. “We just need a bit of light first.”

  Belle had heard him walk back through the doorway and grab the candelabrum.

  “Are you ready?” he’d asked, by her side again.

  “I think so,” Belle had replied.

  The Beast had untied the blindfold. “All right, Belle,” he’d said. “Open your eyes.”

  Belle had, blinking.

  Her eyes had grown round. Her hands had come up to her mouth.

  In the light of the candelabrum, she’d seen them—books. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

  The Beast had brought her to his library. It was dark and dusty, in need of a good cleaning, but it was still one of the most awe-inspiring rooms she’d ever seen. The ceiling was two stories high. Tall shelves lined the walls. Wooden ladders mounted on brass rails allowed visitors access to the highest reaches. A carved marble mantel, nestled between the shelves along one wall, was flanked by two deep leather chairs.

  “Do you like the surprise, Belle?” the Beast had asked.

  “Like it?” Belle had said, a catch in her voice. “I love it.”

  Captivated by the books, Belle didn’t see the Beast smile. She didn’t see his eyes, so hidden, so haunted, fill with a pale, fragile hope.

  Belle pulled a book down from the nearest shelf and blew dust off its cover.

  The book’s binding, of fine calfskin, was as soft as a glove. Belle had opened it and had seen that its endpapers were colorfully marbled and its pages beautifully printed with a rich black ink. No wonder she’d recognized the scents of leather and linseed when she entered the room. Together, they made the beguiling perfume of a book.

  The Beast had joined her. He’d squinted at the title. “The Faerie Queene,” he’d said. “A poem written for England’s Queen Elizabeth, and one of my favorites.”

  “Mine, too!” said Belle.

  The Beast had cleared his throat. “‘For whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto an other brought….’”

  Delighted, Belle had spoken the next line. “‘For there is nothing lost…’”

  “‘That may be found, if sought,’” they’d finished, together.

  Belle’s brown eyes had shone with happiness. All her life, she’d loved books. She loved the look of them, the smell of them, the sweet weight of them in her arms. Most of all, she loved the feeling she got every time she picked one up—the feeling of holding an entire world in her hands.

  She’d put The Faerie Queene back, crossed the room to a different shelf, and pulled another book from it. “Renaissance Splendors of Venice,” she’d said, reading its title aloud.

  “Your library is extraordinary. It’s amazing. Thank you so much for bringing me here,” she’d said.

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s my favorite place in the entire castle. I come here every day. My great-great-grandfather started it,” the Beast had explained. “His most prized acquisition was an original quarto of Hamlet.”

  “Shakespeare!” Belle had exclaimed. “He’s my favorite! Do you have more of his work?” she’d asked. “The Tempest? And you know how I feel about Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Yes, of course. All of Shakespeare’s work is here. There’s also an excellent selection of poetry: Dante, Chaucer, Milton…” He’d paused. “But this is silly. Instead of me telling you what’s here, go see for yourself.”

  That was all Belle had needed to hear. In a heartbeat, she was off, bounding from bookcase to bookcase, her boots leaving prints in the dust.

  What stories this place contains! she’d thought. Stories of triumph and defeat, love and betrayal. Stories of sorrow and joy.

  There were lives between all the covers—bold, brilliant ones. There were exotic, faraway places. All she had to do was open a book to become Joan of Arc at the Siege of Orléans, Marco Polo traveling the Silk Road, or Cleopatra sailing to Tarsus to meet Mark Antony. She might be a captive, but in this room, with a book in her hand, she could be free.

  “Come here anytime, Belle. Read whatever you like. These books are yours now,” the Beast had said softly. “They’re my gift to you.”

  Belle had laughed. The Beast was joking; he had to be. This collection was incomparable. It was priceless. No one would simply give it away.

  “If I could borrow one or two?” she’d asked, looking up at a shelf.

  But she’d received no answer.

  Puzzled by the silence, Belle had turned around, and had seen that she was talking to herself.

  The Beast had gone.

  BELLE HAD STOOD THERE for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway.

  The gift the Beast had bestowed upon her was so incredibly generous, it was almost unbelievable. She felt as if the Beast, who had caused her so much sorrow, was now doing everything in his power to undo it.

  Everything, that is, except letting her go.

  “Who are you?” she’d whispered.

  Was the Beast the snarling savage who’d imprisoned her father, then herself? Was he the cultivated reader who could recite lines from a sixteenth-century poem? Was he her adversary? Her friend?

  Or was he somehow all of these things?

  As ever, Belle had only questions. Mrs. Potts had answered many of them the night Belle had fled the castle, but she’d left others unanswered, including the most important one: Why was she, Belle, here?

  Belle was certain that the answer to that question was also the key to her liberty. But until she could obtain it, books would be her escape.

  A volley of loud barks tore Belle from her thoughts of the recent past and brought her back to the present.

  Froufrou and Chip were still racing back and forth, only now Chip was now wearing a dust rag tied around his rim like a pirate’s scarf and threatening Froufrou with a keelhauling. They crashed into Belle’s mop bucket, causing it to slosh water all over the floor.

  Mrs. Potts scolded her son. “Chip, wipe that water up, please. Then find a book and a corner to read it in. Right now. Or you’re going to the kitchen to help Cuisinier prepare tonight’s dinner!” />
  “Pah! I’m not a measuring cup, Mama, I’m Captain Kidd, scourge of the high seas!” Chip retorted.

  “Scourge of high tea, perhaps,” said a voice from the doorway.

  It was the Beast. The servants all stopped what they were doing to bow or curtsy. Even Chip and Froufrou made an attempt to shape up.

  “No, no…please. Carry on,” the Beast said. “You’re doing a fine job. The library is looking so much better.”

  Belle noticed that he looked a little awkward, even a little shy. As if he were an intruder in this lively, busy place.

  As she and the others resumed their tasks, the Beast patted Froufrou, then bent down to Chip and said, “I, um…I don’t know if you’d be interested, but there’s a wonderful book on pirates in the back of the library. Right side. On the shelf below the window seat.”

  Chip’s eyes lit up. “Thank you!” he said, zooming off to find it—and forgetting to wipe up the spilled water.

  The Beast straightened, then walked through the library, paws behind his back, nodding approvingly at the work being done.

  “Lumiere,” he said, pointing at a corner. “You missed a spot.”

  “Why, thank you, master,” Lumiere said, hurrying to wipe away a bit of dust he’d overlooked.

  The Beast nodded, clearly pleased at being helpful. “Cogsworth!” he said, a few seconds later, tapping a mahogany table.

  “Master?”

  “There’s a streak of wax on this.”

  “Very good, master,” Cogsworth said between gritted teeth, as he hurried to the table with a rag.

  The Beast bounced on his heels, smiling. “Mrs. Potts!” he called out. “There’s still a spot of tarnish on that doorknob!”

  “How very kind of master to point it out,” Mrs. Potts said, steam rising from her spout.

  Belle, mopping by a bookshelf, stole a glance at the Beast. As she watched, he pushed up his sleeves, then grabbed a rag and bucket.

  Uh-oh, she thought.

  Lumiere, Cogsworth, Plumette, and Mrs. Potts all watched with trepidation as the Beast started toward a window. He dunked his rag into the water and proceeded to rub the dripping cloth over the grimy panes.

  “There! What do you think, Lumiere?” he asked a few minutes later.

  Belle bit her lip to keep from laughing. The window was twice as dirty as it had been when he started.

  “What do I think?” Lumiere said, struggling for words. “I think, master, that…that your…”

  Cogsworth raised a hand to his mouth. “Enthusiasm,” he coughed.

  “I think your enthusiasm is an example to us all!” Lumiere exclaimed, his candle flames flaring brightly.

  “Excellent!” the Beast said, beaming. “I’ll clean another one!”

  Before Lumiere could discourage him, Chip—obviously having found the pirate book—came tearing around the corner after Froufrou. “Arrr! Ye scurvy dog!” he shouted. “Time to walk the plank!”

  A small smile crossed the Beast’s face. He picked up a mop, pretended it was a sword, and brandished it at Chip. “En garde, pirate knave!”

  Chip jumped onto Froufrou’s back. “You’ll never take me alive!” he shouted.

  The Beast advanced, thrusting the mop handle at his adversaries. Froufrou growled. He crouched down, then charged.

  Feigning alarm, the Beast beat a hasty retreat. He backed up across the library’s floor, fending off the pirate marauders with his mop…and never saw the cake of soap on the floor, lying in a puddle of spilled water.

  IT HAPPENED SO FAST, Belle didn’t even have time to blink.

  The Beast’s foot came down on the cake of soap. He skidded backward, arms windmilling. His other foot hit a bucket full of dirty water and launched it into the air. He fell against a bookcase. Wood splintered. The shelves broke. Books rained down. The mop snapped. And the bucket landed, upside down, on his head.

  There were a few seconds of shocked silence. Then Belle threw her own mop down.

  “Are you all right?” she cried.

  The Beast sat up, looking this way and that, the bucket still on his head. Belle ran to him, knelt down, and pulled it off. He blinked up at her, bedraggled, shamefaced, and furious. Filthy water dripped from his fur. Without thinking, he shook himself vigorously

  Belle, still on her knees, was so close to him, that she got doused. “Oh!” she cried. “Yuck!”

  The others got wet, too. Cogsworth sputtered. Plumette shook her dripping feathers. Mrs. Potts and Chip made faces as beads of gray water rolled down their porcelain surfaces.

  And the Beast growled. It was a low, frightening sound, a harbinger of yet another angry outburst. The smiling, playful master of a few moments ago was gone. In his place was an angry, embarrassed creature, desperate to recover his dignity.

  The servants sensed the coming storm. Lumiere hurried to avert it. He cleared his throat. Water was dripping down his face. Wisps of smoke were rising from his extinguished candles. He steepled his hands together, mustered a bright smile, and said, “You are an incredible help, master. Invaluable. But I wonder if perhaps your time might be better spent studying the Roman stoics? Reacquainting yourself with the ancient Persian poets? Brushing up on the ancient Greek philosophers?”

  The Beast’s growl deepened. He opened his mouth, ready to snap at Lumiere and the others, but before he could, another sound was heard—musical and tinkling, except for the odd honk or snort.

  It was Belle. She was sitting back on her heels, her hands on her knees, laughing her head off.

  The Beast turned to her. “Stop it! Stop laughing at me!” he snapped.

  Belle recoiled, taken aback by his tone. “I’m not laughing at you,” she retorted.

  “No?” said the Beast acidly. “Well, you certainly aren’t laughing with me.”

  Belle shook her head. “You’re right, I’m not. I’d like to laugh with you, but it’s impossible unless you laugh,” she said, a hint of irritation in her own voice now.

  “This is not funny, Belle.”

  “Yes, it is. No one was hurt. We’re all fine. Look at me. My hair’s stuck to my head. I’m covered in dirty water. My clothes are wet. Everyone else looks awful, too,” she said gesturing at the servants. “And if you could’ve seen yourself, skidding across the floor—”

  She started to giggle again, but a snarl from the Beast cut her off. Belle was very close to him, only inches away. So close that he couldn’t hide his eyes from her, as he usually did. She looked into them, expecting to see anger. Instead, she saw a painful vulnerability.

  He thinks I’m being unkind, Belle thought. That I’m making fun of him.

  An image flashed into her mind of his chambers, and the destruction he’d wreaked within them. She remembered the sense of despair she’d felt in those rooms. And the story Mrs. Potts had told her about the Beast’s childhood. His wounds were still deep, still raw.

  Why do you care? a voice inside her asked. Did the Beast care when he made your father a prisoner in this castle? And then made you one?

  Belle did not answer the voice, not right away. Instead, she thought of her father.

  Once when she was little, they had gone walking in the woods. They’d come across a vixen, her leg caught in a cruel steel trap. Belle’s father had set about trying to free her, but the poor fox, mad with pain and fear, had lunged at him. Over and over again, he’d tried to help the suffering animal. And over and over again, she’d attacked him.

  “Papa, stop!” Belle had finally cried, scared for him. “She’s going to bite you!”

  “Hush, Belle,” he’d said. “The fox cannot change her nature and I cannot change mine.”

  Slowly, patiently, he’d persisted, until finally, the exhausted vixen had sunk down on the ground. He’d been able to open the trap then, and free her.

  Why do you care? the voice asked again.

  Belle answered it by reaching into her pocket. She’d stuffed a rag into it earlier, as she was gathering cleaning supplies. It was
still dry; the wetness from her clothing had not yet seeped through to it.

  She pulled it out now and started to rub at the Beast’s wet face. Her touch was gentle, yet he flinched at it as if she’d struck him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice uncertain now instead of angry.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m wiping your face.”

  “You don’t need to. It’s not necessary. I’m quite all right,” he protested. “That’s too rough. Ow. Stop. You’re pulling my fur out. Be careful! That’s my nose, you know. Ow. Ow! My ears are very tender!”

  Belle persisted, ignoring his complaints. “Better?” she asked, when she was done.

  “I suppose so. Yes. Somewhat,” the Beast replied grudgingly. “But my coat’s filthy and my shirt’s soaked. I-I shall go to my bedroom to change. And then to my study. I’ve been working on a translation of Epictetus. I must make some progress on it, you know. I can’t be expected to dillydally here all day.”

  He stood up, shook water from his paws, and walked to the doorway. He paused there for a few awkward seconds and cast a last, longing glance around the library.

  He wishes he could stay here, Belle thought. With us. He’d rather mop a dirty floor than be alone in his chambers.

  “Chapeau? Chapeau! Fetch me some clean clothes!” he bellowed.

  Belle heard the coatrack come clattering down the hall. He appeared in the doorway and did a double take at the sight of the Beast. He pressed two of his hands to his skinny chest and threw the rest of them up in the air, distraught at the sight of his master’s attire.

  “Now, now, Chapeau. You mustn’t overreact,” the Beast said. “All messes, accidents, and catastrophes are to be blithely laughed off.” He looked pointedly at Belle. “Or so I’m told.”

  Chapeau rushed the Beast out of the library and off to his chambers, and Belle and the servants were left to themselves.

  Still kneeling, Belle stuffed the damp rag into her pocket, then started to pick up the books that had fallen to the floor when the Beast crashed into the bookcase.

  “We’ll have to find some empty shelves where we can put these volumes,” she said to the servants. “Has anyone seen any?”