“Chip,” Belle said, shaking her head. Like most children, he was good at taking things out, but not so good at putting them away again.
Belle reshelved the pirate book and Perrault’s fairy tales. She was just about to put the book of fables away, too, when she paused instead, captivated by its beautiful cover. It showed a picture of a lion holding out its bloodied paw. A man stood nearby, reaching his hand out to the suffering creature.
“Androcles,” she murmured. The story of the runaway slave and the lion he helped was one of her favorite fables. Her father had often read it to her.
Her eyes roved over the picture, taking in Androcles’s brave expression and the lion’s agonized one, and as they did, Chip’s words came back to her. He’s the way he is because he’s hurting, too.
“Just like the lion,” Belle whispered. “Chip, you’re a genius.”
She stood up, excitement coursing through her. She’d just come up with a way to draw the Beast out, to get him to talk to her, maybe even answer her questions.
Sometimes words alone were not enough, because they spoke only to the head. But a story, one in which the words were strung together as beautifully as pearls on a necklace…that would speak to the heart. And if Belle could speak to the Beast’s heart, maybe she could get him to open it.
Belle carried the book back to the fireplace, intending to reread it. She had a plan now. She would find the Beast tomorrow—that would give her plenty of time to work up her nerve—and she would ask him if he’d ever heard the story of Androcles.
But as Belle neared the hearth, she saw she wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow to put her plan in action.
For the Beast was standing in the doorway in his dressing gown, a candleholder in his paw and a worried expression on his face.
“IT’S YOU, BELLE! I should’ve known,” the Beast said, the concern on his face softening into relief.
“What’s the matter?” Belle asked.
“Nothing, now,” he said. “I smelled smoke and wanted to make sure nothing was out of sorts.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get a hot drink and read.” Belle gestured at the crackling fire. “Would you like to join me?”
The Beast nodded, and they both sat down in front of the fireplace.
“I’m surprised you’re up. I thought you’d be snoring like a sailor—”
“Why, thank you.”
“—after all the skating you did today. Why can’t you sleep?”
“Something woke me. An owl, I think,” she fibbed. She didn’t want to tell him the truth. About being lonely, and missing her father.
But the Beast saw through the fib. “Belle, I know this is not what you wanted,” he said, looking down at his paws. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”
Belle put her mug down. Butterflies were fluttering in her stomach. Steeling herself for an angry reaction, she said, “Yes, there is. My life changed forever. All because of a single rose. I want you to tell me why.”
The Beast sat back in his chair. His eyes went to the fire. “Roses have thorns, and thorns leave wounds.”
He spoke the words so quietly that Belle wasn’t even sure he had meant for her to hear them. But she had, and she sensed a deep sorrow in them. It caught her completely off guard. She’d been prepared for roaring and snarling, not soft-spoken sadness.
“Wounds can heal if you pull the thorns out,” she said.
“For some, perhaps,” said the Beast.
It’s now or never, Belle thought. She plunged ahead.
“Have you ever heard the tale of Androcles and the lion?” she asked, holding up the copy of Aesop’s Fables.
The Beast shook his head. He looked cornered. “Belle, don’t,” he said.
But Belle didn’t listen. She got out of her chair, knelt by his leg, and began her tale.
“A long time ago, there was a slave named Androcles. His master was very cruel, so Androcles ran away. When night fell, he took shelter in a cave, tired and hungry. But the cave was a lion’s den, and the lion was in it. He came out of the shadows, growling and baring his teeth.”
As Belle spoke, she took one of the Beast’s paws into her hands.
“Poor Androcles!” she exclaimed. “Terrified, he cowered against a wall, certain he was about to die. But then, just as he thought all was lost…the lion held out his paw.”
Slowly, Belle uncurled the Beast’s own knotted paw.
“Androcles saw that the paw was bloody and swollen,” she said. “Shoring up his courage, he approached the lion. A thorn was stuck in the pad. Ever so gently, Androcles pulled it out. The lion was grateful and helped Androcles in turn by hunting food for him. A few days later, though, Androcles was captured. He was thrown in prison, and eventually he was made to fight wild animals in an arena for the emperor’s pleasure—”
“And one of those wild animals was the very lion Androcles had helped,” the Beast cut in, a bitter note in his voice. “The creature recognized him and lay down at Androcles’s feet. The emperor was so amazed, he granted Androcles his freedom, and they all lived happily ever after. Like people in fairy tales do. But life isn’t a fairy tale, Belle.”
“Actually, neither is the story of Androcles,” said Belle. “It’s a fable. It has a moral to it. A point. About how friends help each other.”
The Beast withdrew his paw from Belle’s hands. “And your telling it to me…does that have a point?”
“Yes, it does. You are like that lion. There’s a thorn lodged deeply in you. It pains you greatly and causes you to—”
The Beast shot to his feet so abruptly, he knocked his chair over. It hit the floor with a booming crash, making Belle flinch.
“Be careful, Belle. Not all who try to befriend lions succeed,” he said, his fur bristling.
Belle saw that she’d cut close to the bone. She sensed the Beast’s rising anger, but she didn’t back away from it. She was angry herself. She was trying so hard, and the Beast wasn’t trying at all.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, standing up. “Roar at me again? Snarl and snap, like you did when I went to the West Wing?”
“No, I’m going to leave. Because I’m finished with this discussion. Finished with silly stories and even sillier metaphors,” he said, starting toward the door.
But Belle ran ahead of him. “No more metaphors. No more symbols or similes,” she said, blocking the door. “What aren’t you telling me? I know there must be more to this curse than you or anyone will say. If I am to live out the rest of my days here, I deserve to know the truth, don’t I?”
The Beast stopped. A low growl came from his throat. It unnerved her. She’d seen his rage before. She knew it was like a living thing—a cruel, malicious demon.
Stop, a voice inside her head said. Don’t push him any further. You don’t know what he’ll do.
But Belle ignored it.
“I know about your childhood. I know about the ball and the Enchantress. I know what happened to you. But that doesn’t mean you have to live your life this way.”
The Beast’s eyes narrowed. His ears flattened against his head. “I believe I have a better question: why did your father come here? Why did you? I didn’t ask him to. I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t ask for any of this!” he shouted.
“And I did?” Belle shouted back.
The Beast clenched his paws. He looked away. “You don’t know, Belle. You don’t even know what you’re asking,” he said.
“Then tell me,” she said plaintively. “Please.”
The Beast raised his eyes to hers, and the pain Belle saw in their blue depths was so profound, it pierced her heart.
“I would tell you everything if I could, Belle,” he said brokenly. “I’d give you the answers to your questions, the keys to this cursed castle, the secrets of my heart. But I can’t. Please understand. I can’t.”
And then he was gone.
Through the doorway. Out of the library.
And Be
lle was alone.
Once again.
BELLE STARED AT THE EMPTY DOORWAY, her heart aching.
For the Beast. For herself.
She’d thought he might roar and rage, but he hadn’t, and his sadness was even worse than his anger.
With a heavy sigh, she sat back down in front of the fire.
She’d tried, again. And she’d failed, again. The Beast would not, or could not, give her the answers she wanted.
She picked up Aesop’s Fables, thinking she might as well try to read it, but soon found she had no heart for it. Her drink had grown cold. The fire was burning down. I should go back to bed, she thought.
Belle banked the fire. She would bring her mug down to the kitchen in the morning. She headed toward the window seat where she’d found Aesop’s Fables to put the book away—and that’s when she heard it: laughter, low and throaty.
It was coming from the back of the library.
From Nevermore, Belle thought.
The laughter continued, reminding Belle of the countess’s elegant mansion, the glittering ball, and the princes, maharajas, and sultans she’d danced with.
It was late, but perhaps the countess was up. That was her laughter, wasn’t it? Perhaps Belle could visit her.
She wouldn’t be alone in Nevermore. She wouldn’t be sad. There would be the countess to talk with. And Henri.
His words came back to her now. You have friends here. Remember that. I’m one of them.
Friends, Belle thought. People with whom I can share things. People who open their hearts instead of locking them away.
Belle rose and started toward the workroom, where Nevermore lay tucked away.
She would live out her days here in the Beast’s castle, which was cruel enough—with no idea why, which was even crueler.
But Nevermore could provide her with a wonderful escape from her sorrows. For a few hours, she could find distraction in its lovely pages. Solace. Comfort. For a few hours, she could forget.
Belle’s steps quickened. Her slippers scuffed softly over the library’s wooden floor.
By the time she reached the workroom door, she was running.
“BELLE, MY DARLING GIRL! You’ve come back!” the countess exclaimed, delighted.
She was sitting in an open-topped phaeton in front of her mansion. Four black stallions, snorting and pawing, were harnessed to the graceful carriage. Lamps blazed brightly on both sides of the staircase, illuminating the night.
“What perfect timing! I’m on my way to Paris, to the Palais-Royal! Join me!” she said, waving Belle over.
“Paris?” Belle echoed. “But how? This isn’t real…it’s only a story.”
“One that I’m writing it, as I told you before,” the countess said, pointing her fan at Belle. “Would you like your story to include Paris?”
Belle nodded. It was too much to hope for.
The countess smiled. “Then it will. Now climb in, my darling girl. My horses are impatient creatures.”
The Palais-Royal! Belle thought, her heart dancing. She’d heard of it. Who hadn’t? It was the most exciting place in all of Paris. Everyone who was anyone strolled its courts or sat in its cafés—writers and philosophers, professors and princesses, circus girls and opera singers.
Belle had stepped through Nevermore and into the grounds of countess’s estate only moments ago. Moonlight had illuminated the gravel drive, and as Belle had hurried up it, she’d seen that the roses dotting the estate had grown bushier in her absence, and the yew trees taller. In some places, the yews had grown together so thickly that they made solid hedges.
Mouchard opened the carriage door now. Belle skirted around one of the stone lions at the bottom of the steps, and Mouchard helped her up. After the two women shared a quick embrace, Belle sat down across from the countess, fluffing her skirts around her.
Once again, she found herself dressed perfectly for the occasion, this time in a sky-blue gown sprigged with white flowers. A length of delicate white lace was knotted around her shoulders. Her hair was gathered in a loose, cascading ponytail.
The countess herself was dressed in a gown of black sateen with an embroidered black silk wrap. Several strands of flawless black pearls circled her throat.
She’s always in black. She must be a widow, Belle thought.
“Off we go,” the countess said, rapping on the side of the carriage with her silver-topped walking stick.
Mouchard hopped up next to the driver, and the carriage rolled down the drive and out of the gates. The countess’s estate was just outside Paris, and it wasn’t long before they were in the city’s bustling heart.
Flickering streetlamps cast their glow over elegant mansions, stately townhouses, and manicured squares. Well-dressed people strolled the streets. Restaurants and cafés were lit up. Music spilled out of their doors.
Even though it was late, Paris was noisy, alive, and captivating—so much so that Belle’s frustration with the Beast, her loneliness, and her sadness, were soon forgotten.
“Paris,” the countess said dreamily. “There’s nothing like it, is there?”
“It’s breathtaking,” said Belle. “Thank you so much for bringing me here. You’re too good to me.”
Why? Belle wondered. Why is she so good to me?
She was about to ask, but before she could, the countess spoke.
“It makes me happy to make you happy, Belle,” she said. “I’m sure the Palais will be highly entertaining tonight. I’m told there’s a fire-eater newly arrived from Delhi. And a sword-swallower from Budapest. You’ll love them. Tell me, have you ever been there?”
Belle shook her head. “No, I—” she started to say. But the countess barely let her get a word in.
“No?!” she exclaimed, clutching her pearls. “My child, we must get you out more. You’re in for a treat. It used to be a king’s palace. Now it’s a pleasure garden, with theaters, shops, and cafes. Actors, acrobats, musicians—they all perform in the center courtyard. It’s spectacular! Ah, here we are now!”
Mouchard jumped down and was on the sidewalk as the carriage stopped, ready to hand the women down. The Palais, all pillars, pediments, and airy galleries, took Belle’s breath away. The countess led her through an arched entryway down a long colonnade. Belle was captivated by the beautiful boutiques that greeted them, selling everything from shoes studded with pearls, to cakes topped with gold leaf, to books sporting jeweled covers.
As they strolled, the countess leaned in close to Belle.
“Do you see that woman over there?” she whispered, nodding at a lady in a crimson dress. “She’s a wealthy widow from Vienna. Rumor has it she spies for the Austrian queen and keeps a pistol in her garter.”
Belle’s eyes shone with excitement. “Do you think we can meet her?” she asked.
“I shall arrange it,” the countess replied. She nodded at an elderly woman with a black eye patch and a monkey on her shoulder. “She’s one of the wealthiest women in France. Made her fortune smuggling rum.”
The countess led Belle to a stylish café. They were seated outside, near a row of flowering crabapple trees in giant terra-cotta pots. Candles flickered on every table.
A waiter arrived immediately, bearing porcelain cups as thin as eggshells. He poured coffee into them, then set a plate of sweets on the table. Among them were small pink tea cakes with candied rose petals on top. Marzipan hearts with sugared violets. Candied chestnuts. Cream puffs. Tiny custard tarts. Belle thought them almost too pretty to eat.
“How divine!” the countess said, her fingers hovering over the plate. “Belle, you must eat every one—to keep me from doing so.”
Belle chose a tea cake. As she popped it into her mouth, the countess said, “Is that all? You’ll waste away. Do have some more.”
The countess herself selected a tiny mille-feuille. Its brittle layers shattered as she bit into it. Licking pastry shards from her red lips, she said, “That man, there?” Her eyes darted to an elegant gentleman
wearing several large jeweled rings. “He’s an Italian count. A Borgia, my dear. Diabolically charming, but never, ever accept an invitation to dinner. And the woman next to him, the one wearing far too much rouge…”
As the countess continued to gossip, Belle listened raptly, fascinated by the exotic people all around her and the lives of intrigue and mystery they lived. The balmy night, the graceful Palais, the elegant café—they were all so lovely.
So far, Paris was everything that tiny, provincial Villeneuve was not, and Belle adored it.
“I’m having such fun chatting with you, Belle. Truly,” the countess said. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, too.”
“Enjoying myself?” said Belle, laughing. “Madame Comtesse, this is exactly what I needed.”
The countess leaned back in her chair and looked up at the night sky, smiling at the twinkling stars. “Your parents lived very near here when they were young. Did you know that?” she asked. “In a tiny garret apartment. I met them years ago. I met you, too.”
“You did? When?” asked Belle. Surely, she would recall meeting someone as grand and glamorous as the countess, but she couldn’t.
“It was a long time ago,” the countess said, training her gaze on Belle again. “You were only a baby in your mother’s arms.”
Belle looked at the countess wonderingly. “You were friends, you and my mother?” she asked.
The countess smiled. “Indeed. I am a great admirer of your father’s work, you see. And I’ve acquired many of his music boxes over the years.” The countess’s smile turned wistful. “I was with her at the very end, you know. Mine was the last face she ever saw.”
“But how…” Belle started to say.
“I had seen your father also. But we never knew each other as well,” the countess assured Belle.
“He doesn’t like to talk about her,” Belle said, dropping her gaze. She smiled sadly. “It’s always been too painful for him.”
Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book Page 8
