Still unable to believe what had happened, Belle stepped out from under the tree into the light emanating from the château, the better to see herself. She didn’t realize it, but she was now standing so close to the staircase that she could have reached out and touched one of the stone lions lying at its base.
A group of guests, high-spirited and laughing, walked past her. One of them, a young woman, looked her up and down. “What a gorgeous gown!” she said, hooking her arm through Belle’s. “Do tell me the name of your dressmaker!” she begged, pulling Belle up the stairs and into the foyer.
“My gown? Th-this one?” Belle stuttered, wondering how she would answer her.
Luckily, she didn’t have to. A young man came up to them and whispered something in the woman’s ear. She burst into laughter and swatted him with her fan, releasing Belle, then seemed to forget all about her as the young man led her away.
The opulent entryway was thronged with people. Music rose over their laughter. Candles flickered crazily. The scent of roses was heady. Arched doorways led off the foyer in three different directions; another sweeping staircase led to the upper levels. Belle started to panic. She didn’t know which way to go or what to do.
“Mademoiselle, may I?” said a voice.
Belle turned to her right and looked into a pair of amused gray eyes. They belonged to a young man, perhaps only a year or two older than she was. He was wearing a pale green frock coat. His thick dark hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, and a half smile played about his lips.
“It would be my sincere pleasure to escort you,” he said.
“Escort me where?” Belle asked, dazed.
“Why, to meet the countess!”
“B-but where am I?”
“At the comtesse’s summer ball. At her estate. Just outside of Paris.”
“Paris,” Belle said, not daring to believe it. “I’m in a château on the edge of Paris?”
The young man bent his head to hers. “Of course! Isn’t that what a good story does? It pulls you in and never lets you go.”
He offered Belle his arm. “The comtesse des Terres des Morts wishes to meet you,” he said. “And the countess is not one to be kept waiting.”
Belle was taken aback by the countess’s title. “Terres des Morts…” she echoed. “Land of the Dead? I’m not sure I wish to meet her!”
The young man laughed. “It’s a horrible title, I agree. It was given to an ancestor of the countess’s. After he’d won a particularly bloody battle. It is much fierce than she is, I promise you.”
Belle hesitated. “What is this place?” she asked.
“A bit of magic, like all good books,” the man replied. “An escape. A place where you can leave cares and worries behind.” He smiled. “At least for a chapter or two.” He offered her his arm.
Belle bit her lip. She cast a glance behind her. It wasn’t too late to leave. It wasn’t too late to run out of the château, down the drive, through the portal, and back to the Beast’s castle.
But there, she could only read stories. Here, it seemed, she could live one.
“I must return to the countess,” the young man said, lowering his arm. “Turn Nevermore’s pages if you wish, or close its cover. The choice is yours.”
He bowed, then turned to leave.
“Wait!” Belle cried.
He turned back to her, a questioning look on his face. Belle looked into his beautiful eyes again. They sparkled with mystery and a hint of mischief.
Paris. A grand mansion. A mysterious countess. An elegant escort, she thought.
The story was off to a tantalizing start.
“Shall we?” the young man asked.
Belle took a deep breath. “Yes,” she replied. “We shall.”
“MY NAME IS HENRI, by the way,” the young man said.
He squired her through the foyer and down a hallway filled with statues and paintings.
“Just Henri?” Belle inquired.
“You require my full title?” he asked with a roguish smile. “Very well, then. Henri, duc des Choses-Passées, at your service.”
Belle blinked. It was not every day she attended a ball, on the outskirts of Paris, on the arm of a duke.
Henri raised an eyebrow at her silence. “Ah, I’m very sorry. I’ve disappointed you. You were hoping for a prince.”
Belle recovered her voice. “I was not!” she protested.
“You were. Admit it. He would be dashing, handsome, and rich. Carrying a glass slipper, of course, and ready to marry you after a single dance.”
Belle saw that he was teasing her. “You are completely ridiculous!” she said.
Henri, grinning now, swept his hand in an arc in front of them. “Picture it!” he said. “You’d live in a sumptuous palace, where you’d be waited on hand and foot by a hundred servants. You’d eat cake for breakfast and strudel for dinner, and you’d never get out of bed. You’d have monkeys, parrots, and hedgehogs.”
“This is starting to sound tempting,” said Belle, playing along. “I do love hedgehogs.”
“You’d have beautiful little princes and princesses. Twenty of them.”
Belle’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that all?”
“Not enough? Thirty, then. You and your prince would lead marvelous lives—playing checkers, knitting socks, bestowing largesse on the peasants, ruling the world….”
“All from our bed?”
“You’d have to put wheels on it, of course.”
The image of a prince and princess ruling from a rolling bed was so absurd, Belle burst out laughing.
“You’d live happily ever after. On nothing but love and pastries. Isn’t that how these stories go?”
“These stories, yes. Not mine,” Belle said.
“No Prince Charming for you, then?” Henri asked. “No handsome knight to swoop in on a white horse and save you? I’m not surprised. I hear you’re the type of girl who does the saving herself. You saved your father from life in a prison cell at the hands of a beast.”
Belle stopped short. “How do you know that?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable. Henri was witty and fun, but he was still a stranger.
Henri didn’t answer. They’d come to a pair of open doors. Beyond them was a magnificent ballroom. An orchestra was playing. Guests were dancing a graceful minuet.
“Are you ready, Belle?” he asked.
“You know my name, too?” Belle asked apprehensively.
“The countess told me about you. She’s very interested in you.”
“She is? Why? How does she know me?”
But Henri’s gaze was directed toward the ballroom.
“Come,” he said. “It’s time.”
ON A RED DAMASK CHAIR that looked much like a throne, a woman, regal and straight-backed, was holding court.
Her raven hair was swept up and held in place with jet-black combs. A ruby choker circled her neck. A gown of black silk set off her pale skin and red lips. It was impossible to guess her age—no lines etched her face, but her eyes, as green as emeralds, were deeply wise.
Glances were traded as Henri and Belle approached her. Whispers were exchanged behind painted fans.
Henri swept a deep bow to the woman. As he straightened, he said, “Madame Comtesse, allow me to present Mademoiselle Belle from Château de la Bête. Mademoiselle, the comtesse des Terres des Morts.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Madame Comtesse,” Belle said, curtsying.
She was eager to ask the countess a thousand questions but felt it would be awkward to do so in front of so many curious onlookers.
The countess’s shrewd eyes appraised Belle. “The honor is mine, mademoiselle. I’m delighted you’ve joined us. There is much for us to talk about….”
Music started to play, cutting her off. Belle recognized the opening notes of a dance called the passacaglia.
“My favorite!” the countess exclaimed. “We shall dance first, my dear girl, and chat later when we’re both exhausted!�
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As if on cue, a tall man, his chest festooned with medals, bowed to the countess, then led her to the dance floor.
Henri, following suit, offered Belle his hand, but Belle hesitated again, stuck anew by a dizzying sense of unreality.
Henri gave her an encouraging smile. “Haven’t you always said that you want more than a provincial life? It’s not every day you find yourself in an exciting story. Make something of it, Belle.”
On the dance floor, partners were lining up across from each other, smiling and laughing. The color was high in their cheeks. The music grew louder, and more insistent. And Belle, unable to resist it, impulsively joined in.
The next few minutes sped by like a ride through the woods on a wild horse. The touch of hands and whirl of bodies, the stamp of heels on the floor—it was intoxicating. Belle’s heart beat in time to the music. She felt light and free.
When the dance ended, Belle was winded. Henri led her to the edge of the dance floor so that she could catch her breath, and there he bumped into an acquaintance of his, an actor from London.
“Edward and his troupe are in Paris for a production of Hamlet,” he explained after he introduced Edward to Belle.
“Really?” Belle said, excited to meet such a distinguished person. “I would love to see it. Hamlet’s one of Shakespeare’s best plays, I think. Better than Macbeth and Othello.”
Edward gave her a patronizing smile. “Oh? And what does a pretty girl know of Shakespeare? Let me guess….‘To be, or not to be: that is the question’?” he drawled.
Belle winced at the man’s rudeness. She’d met his kind before. Villeneuve had its share of self-important swaggerers, and she’d learned how to deal with him,
Smiling sweetly, she cleared her throat. “‘Who’s there?’” she intoned, in as deep a voice as she could muster.
Edward blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
Belle cocked her head. “Surely you recognize the play’s opening line, monsieur?” she said challengingly. “Why don’t you take the next one? And then back and forth we’ll go until one of us makes a mistake.”
Excitement rippled through crowd. “A contest!” whispered a woman. “A duel of words!” trilled another.
“Don’t be silly. I’m a trained Shakespearean, a thespian of great renown. You’ll only embarrass yourself,” said Edward scornfully.
Henri’s eyes twinkled with devilry. “Come, Belle,” he said baitingly. “Monsieur Edward, it appears, is afraid of a dare.”
Edward snorted. “That’s absurd,” he said. Then he turned to Belle. “When you lose and are crying in your handkerchief, mademoiselle, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t,” Belle promised.
Edward took a deep, theatrical breath and blew it out again. He closed his eyes, touched his fingers to his temples, and in a booming voice said, “‘Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself!’”
“‘Long live the king!’” Belle replied, grinning.
“Bernardo?”
“‘He.’”
“‘You come most carefully upon your hour.’”
“‘’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco,’” said Belle, without missing a beat.
Edward’s smug expression melted away. An anxious one took its place. The words flew fast and furious between them, each as true as a marksman’s shot. The crowd pressed in, marveling as Edward and Belle shifted from line to line, and character to character, without so much as a stumble.
Scene One gave way to Scene Two. Sweat beaded on Edward’s forehead. Color rose in Belle’s cheeks. Her grin broadened. Her heart thrilled to the competition.
Hamlet was Pere Robert’s favorite play. How many dull, rainy mornings and endless winter afternoons had the two of them spent reciting it? Sometimes Pere Robert would take the part of Hamlet, brandishing an old broom as a sword. Other times he was Gertrude with a dish rag on his head. Belle might be Ophelia one day, Laertes the next. She could recite the play in her sleep.
Scene Two shifted to Scene Three. Edward had just launched into Laertes’s lecture to Ophelia on her conduct when he flubbed a line. Belle picked it up, finished the soliloquy, and curtsied. As she rose, the crowd burst into applause.
“That, monsieur,” she said pertly, “is what a pretty girl knows about Shakespeare.”
Edward gave her a stiff bow, gracelessly conceding defeat, and turned on his heel.
Henri was instantly at Belle’s side. “Well done!” he said. “Serves him right, the pompous jerk.”
“Henri!” Belle scolded.
“Sorry, but it does! And he is!”
A jeweled maharaja approached Belle. He bowed, then asked her if she would be his partner for the next passacaglia. Belle danced with him, and kept dancing. She didn’t sit down for the next hour. Minuets, allemandes, voltas—she was in demand for them all. During the short rests between songs, she mingled with painters and professors. Laughed with philosophers. She met a Moroccan prince, an explorer from Peru, a sculptor from Vienna. The empress dowager of China invited her to the Forbidden City to visit the imperial palace.
And then, when she was finally completely out of breath, Belle felt an arm snake through hers.
“Have you worn holes in your slippers yet?” the countess asked her, her eyes bright with amusement.
Belle lifted her skirts and peered at her dancing slippers. Her big toes were poking through the delicate fabric. She dropped her skirts, blushing.
“Wonderful! That’s the proof of a good ball!” the countess declared, steering Belle toward a terrace. “Come, walk with me, child. I’m in need of fresh air.”
She was fanning herself as she spoke, and her perfume wafted around her, spicy and rich. Belle was certain she’d smelled it before, but couldn’t remember where.
A hulking servant with bright, beady eyes and a large hooked nose opened a set of French doors for them, bowing as his mistress passed. He was dressed in black livery with a ruff of white at his neck.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Belle,” the countess said as they stepped out onto the terrace. “I know that you adore books, and that you wish to travel, and”—she paused and gave Belle a searching glance—“that your present situation is rather difficult. I do hope that the evening has lightened your heart a little.”
“Pardon, my lady, but how do you know all these things?” Belle asked. “We’ve only just met.” She felt the same, sudden twinge of discomfort she’d felt with Henri, when he’d told her things about herself a stranger couldn’t possibly know.
The countess laughed. “This is Paris, child! Word travels. I know so many people, you see. I make the acquaintance of everyone, sooner or later. They all come through Nevermore.”
“But what is Nevermore? How does all…all this,” Belle gestured at the château, the guests, the twinkling lanterns, the graceful cherry trees. “How does it happen?”
The countess smiled coyly. “Why, through the magic of storytelling, of course. I’m Nevermore’s author, you see. It’s a special book. Very special. It contains many stories. But this story? Ah, Belle, this one I’m writing just for you.”
“Why?” Belle asked. “Why me?”
But the countess didn’t hear her question. She and Belle had strolled to the far edge of the terrace, and her attention had been captured by something there.
“Refreshments have been served. At last!” she said, pointing to a gorgeous display. “Let’s see what my cooks have come up with. I’m famished!”
Tempting delicacies had been set out on tables draped with white linen and garlanded with roses and lilacs. Bottles of champagne stood in sterling wine coolers. A crystal bowl contained sparkling punch. Pastries were displayed on porcelain platters, and sugared fruit tumbled from footed stands.
The countess let go of Belle’s arm. “Doesn’t it look divine?” she said. “My baker is the best in Paris. Do help yourself.”
Belle thought the macarons, arranged by color on
a silver tray, looked delicious. She chose a chocolate one, bit into it, and rolled her eyes with pleasure.
Just as she was about to reach for a second, a fearsome stag beetle landed smack in the center of them, hissing at her. Belle uttered a cry and snatched her hand away. The creature was as big as an apple, with a shiny black body, iridescent wings, and two spiky horns on its head.
Two more beetles were crawling over a raspberry tart, their spiky legs sinking into the custard filling. They’d plundered the tart of its berries and used them to spell out words on the white tablecloth. Leaning in as close as she dared, Belle read them.
THREE THINGS EATEN,
LOVE LIES BEATEN.
THREE THINGS LOST,
A DREADFUL COST.
The countess read them, too. Her eyes flashed with anger. “Filthy vermin!” she sputtered. She snapped her fan shut and tried to whack the beetles with it, but she missed and hit a stand of pastries instead. The stand went over, crashing into plates and platters. Pastries rolled off the table and splattered on the floor.
“Mouchard! Come!” the countess shouted.
The hulking servant in black immediately appeared.
“Kill them!” the countess ordered coldly. “Kill them all.”
Mouchard grabbed a silver serving spoon and hurried to comply with his mistress’s command, but the clever beetles had already crawled down the table and were heading for the garden.
As Mouchard chased them, other servants cleaned up the mess. Fresh pastries were brought out.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” the countess said. “I hope you’ll have some tart? A bit of cake?”
But Belle found that she’d lost her appetite. The insects had startled her, but worse, they’d unsettled her.
“I’ve never encountered beetles that can spell. Their message was so strange. I wonder what it means,” she said.
“Nothing. It’s gibberish,” the countess replied tersely. “A madwoman keeps them. She lives nearby. On occasion the wretched things escape.”
“A madwoman? Here?” Belle said, alarmed. “Is she part of the story?”
Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book Page 5
