Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Maurice turned. His eyes found hers, but they didn’t widen with surprise or delight. They were merely polite, the look in them inquiring. As if he didn’t recognize her.

  Had she changed so much in the time they’d been apart?

  Perhaps it’s the fine gown, the fancy bonnet, she thought frantically. Nevermore had once again transformed her clothing, though the crystal heart the Beast had given her still hung from her neck.

  “Papa, it’s me…Belle,” she cried, tearing her fancy hat off.

  Maurice blinked at her. “Belle?” he said softly. “Can it be?”

  “Papa. Oh, Papa,” she cried, her voice catching.

  Her father’s eyes filled with joy. His lips curved into a smile.

  “Belle,” he said, his voice breaking. “My child, my darling, darling child. It’s you.”

  FORGETTING THAT SHE WAS at the countess’s estate, with beautiful strangers all around her, Belle ran to her father and threw herself, sobbing, into his arms.

  Maurice held her tightly, stroking her hair, soothing her with soft words, just as he had when she was tiny.

  “Shh, Belle, shh. It’s all right. Come, child, let me look at you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “I thought I would never see you again. Never. And here you are…standing right in front of me!”

  His happiness made Belle happy. The hitching in her chest subsided. She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her tears away. He was real.

  “I’ve missed you so much, my beautiful girl. How it gladdens my heart to see you,” Maurice continued, still holding on to her. “How did you get here? Did you escape from that wicked beast?”

  Belle realized that the last time her father had seen her, she’d been inside a prison cell at the Beast’s castle—the same one he’d been in until she’d taken his place.

  “I wasn’t in that cell very long,” she explained. “Lumiere, the Beast’s footman, let me out. I live in the castle now, Papa, and am treated well. I have friends there—”

  Maurice’s face darkened. “Friends?” he said. “At that godforsaken place? You have jailers, Belle. You have dangerous objects—”

  Dangerous? Belle thought. Mrs. Potts? Plumette?

  “I know they may not have seemed this way to you, but they’re very nice, Papa!” she interjected. “In fact, I’ve grown extremely fond of a little teacup named Chip, and—”

  But her father wasn’t listening. “You have a creature that dresses like a man but behaves like an animal, one who lashes out at everything and everyone,” he continued. “Do not believe for a second that he, or anyone associated with him, is your friend!”

  Belle wondered at her father’s sharp words. He had always been an open-minded man, always willing to hear other points of view even when they were contrary to his own.

  “The Beast was fearsome at first, yes,” she said. “But he is surprising me more the more time I am with him. I think he may even be genuinely kind.”

  Maurice dismissed her words. “He has frightened the wits out of you, Belle. That much is plain to see,” he said. “You speak well of him from fear, my child—thinking that if you do not, it will go all the worse for you.”

  Belle, who only moments ago had been angry at the Beast for imprisoning first her father and then herself, now felt herself bound to defend him. The dizzying shift of emotion confused her.

  Belle’s head said that to do such a thing was madness; that it made no sense. But her heart saw more than her head did, and it spoke with a deeper logic.

  “Papa, do you remember Androcles?”

  “Yes, of course. Our…uh, our neighbor.”

  “Our neighbor?” Belle repeated, blinking at him.

  The countess was right. He had aged. The shock of finding himself imprisoned in the Beast’s castle, and then losing his only child, had addled him.

  “No, Papa,” she said gently. “Androcles from Aesop’s Fables! You used to read it to me every night.”

  “Of course, of course,” Maurice quickly said.

  “The Beast is like the lion, with a thorn lodged deeply in him,” Belle said.

  Maurice’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “You’ve seen this thorn, then?”

  “The thorn is in his heart, Papa. Something terrible has befallen him.”

  But Maurice was in not in a charitable frame of mind. “Why are we spending our time talking about the Beast? I don’t care about him. All I care about is you,” he said. “How did you get here, Belle? When did you meet the countess?”

  Belle explained how she’d found her way to Nevermore.

  “An enchanted book, you say?” Maurice asked, when she’d finished.

  “Yes. The countess put it where I would find it. She discovered what happened to us, Papa. She wants to help us. Because she knew my mother and was fond of her. She told me so.”

  Maurice’s truculent expression melted. His eyes became soft and wistful, as they always did at the mention of his wife.

  “That sounds like the countess. She’s a kind soul. She always has been,” Maurice said. “Here, at her home, I can pick a rose for my daughter without getting myself locked up,” he said, as he turned and plucked a white bloom for Belle.

  Belle took the rose from him. As she did, though, she saw a dark streak on its petals.

  “Papa, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed, taking his hand. “You must’ve pricked yourself on a thorn.”

  “It’s nothing,” Maurice said, but droplets of blood, so dark they looked almost black, were falling onto the ground.

  Belle was still clutching her handkerchief. “Here,” she said. “This will stop it.”

  As she wrapped the cloth around his thumb and knotted it, she noticed that his hands were icy. “You’re so cold!” she said, trying to chafe some warmth into them.

  His cold hands, his stiff movements, the fact that he’d forgotten who Androcles was—these things troubled Belle greatly.

  “Are you looking after yourself, Papa?” she asked fretfully. “Are you taking your cod-liver oil? You’re not leaving the windows open at night, are you? You know how drafty the house gets….”

  “I’m fine, Belle,” he said reassuringly. “It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t want you to go back to the Beast’s castle. There must be some way to keep you here.”

  “Mademoiselle Belle!” said a voice. “Is that you?”

  It was Henri. He was striding toward them with a spring in his step and a smile on his handsome face.

  “WHAT A PLEASURE IT IS to see you again!” Henri exclaimed, bowing to Belle.

  “Likewise,” said Belle, happy to see him. “Henri, I’d like you to meet my father, Maurice. Papa, this is my friend, Henri, duc des Choses-Passées.”

  “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” Henri said, bowing again.

  “The honor, young man, is all mine,” replied Maurice.

  “The countess speaks so highly of your work,” Henri continued. “Indeed, she takes every opportunity to show it to me. She’s trying to make me jealous, and she’s succeeding. I hope that I, too, may acquire one of your music boxes.”

  Belle saw that there was a smile on her father’s face now. He was glowing from the compliment. She silently thanked Henri for it.

  “Maurice! I see you’ve met the duc des Choses-Passées!” trilled the countess as she walked over to them.

  Maurice pulled himself up to his full height as the countess approached. “I have! What a delightful fellow!” he said.

  “You’ve made a mistake inviting me here today, Madame Comtesse,” Henri said mischievously. “I’ve already told Monsieur Maurice that the next music box he makes is mine.”

  “Ungrateful wretch!” scolded the countess, swatting Henri with her fan. “Come,” she said, taking Maurice’s arm. “Let’s walk back to the gazebo. Mouchard will bring us refreshments. And Maurice, I will do my best to change your mind about who should buy your next music box.” She cupped her hand to her mouth and loudly whispered, “I’ll pay
twice what you’re asking!”

  “Not fair!” Henri protested.

  “Dear boy, all’s fair in love, war, and the acquisition of music boxes,” said the countess with a wink.

  Henri smiled. He offered Belle his arm. “One thing you must learn about our dear countess,” he said. “She really hates to lose.”

  “MY WORD, BUT IT’S WARM TODAY,” Maurice said, fanning himself.

  “Have another drink of your lemonade, Papa,” Belle said, refreshing his glass from a pitcher on the table. Then she fluffed the pillow behind his back. She hadn’t been able to stop fussing over him—asking him constantly if he was comfortable enough, cool enough, if he was thirsty or hungry.

  “You’re too good to me, Belle,” he said now, reaching for her hand.

  “Nonsense, Papa.”

  They were sitting in the countess’s shady gazebo, whiling away the hours. It was already past noon. Maurice had his sketch pad on his lap. The countess was fanning herself. Henri was reading aloud from a book of Shakespearean sonnets.

  “‘Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.’”

  The gazebo was situated next to a burbling stream, at the edge of the countess’s cherry orchard. Mouchard, alert for any stray beetles or spiders, was prowling around it, pumping insect spray over every flower, bush, and shrub.

  “Mouchard! Leave off that and fetch some sandwiches,” the countess ordered.

  Henri snapped his book shut. “Capital idea, Madame Comtesse,” he said. “All that reading has made me hungry. Shall we have some cherries, too?”

  “You’re a dear, Monsieur Henri. But what will you put them in?”

  “Take my hat,” said Maurice, not bothering to look up from his sketch pad. He absentmindedly picked up the countess’s, which was on a chair next to him, and held it out to Henri.

  “My dear sir, the countess will string me up alive if I put cherries in that,” Henri said, nodding at the black silk confection.

  Maurice looked up. He peered at the object in his hand. “My word. Where did this come from? Where’s my hat?”

  “You’re still wearing it, Papa,” said Belle fondly.

  She removed his broad-brimmed straw hat and kissed the top of his head. Maurice smiled and kept on sketching.

  “Belle, do you fancy a stroll?” Henri asked.

  “Thank you, Henri, but I think I’ll stay here,” Belle replied.

  “Don’t be silly, child. Go and stretch your legs. I’ll be fine,” Maurice said.

  “Do, Belle,” the countess quickly said. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “If you’re sure…” Belle said to her father.

  Maurice said he was, and Belle and Henri set off for the cherry orchard. Henri was oddly quiet as they strolled. Belle noticed and asked him why.

  “Ah, Belle. You know me too well. If I’ve been quiet, it’s because I’m trying to figure out how to say what I have to say,” he explained, giving her a vexed smile.

  Belle glanced at him from under her hat brim. “What do you mean?”

  “I…I’ve been called home. To my duchy in the north. There are problems on my estate. A blight’s destroying my crops. I need to find a way to stop it, or there will be no harvest this year. And then my farmers, and their animals, will go hungry.”

  “Henri, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear it. When do you have to leave?” Belle asked.

  “This afternoon,” he replied.

  Belle’s face fell. “So soon?”

  Henri nodded. He stopped, and Belle did, too. They were standing at the edge of the orchard.

  “Belle…” He took her hand in his, glancing down. “May I ask something of you?”

  “Anything, Henri.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes full of feeling. “Your friendship means a great deal to me. I’ve never met anyone as caring as you are. Anyone I can talk to so freely. Might I have a keepsake from you? Something to remind me of you while I’m gone?”

  “Of course, Henri,” Belle said.

  She looked down at herself. Her plain blue dress had once again been transformed to a lovely gown when she had entered Nevermore; her boots had become silk shoes, and a pretty hat graced her head. But she could hardly give Henri a shoe or a hat.

  “But I don’t have anything to give you,” she said, dismayed.

  Henri’s eyes fell on the delicate hollow under her throat and on the necklace she was wearing. “You have our hearts, Belle—mine and the countess’s and everyone else’s in Nevermore. Might I be so bold as to ask for yours?”

  Belle hesitated. The necklace was a gift from the Beast. It had belonged to his mother, and Belle didn’t want to give it away. Even though it was only glass, it was priceless, as were all things that had once been loved.

  “I’ll keep it safe and return it to you when I return to you,” Henri pressed.

  “I can’t,” Belle said. “It was a gift from…from a…”

  What? Belle wondered. What is the Beast to me? I wanted him to be my friend. At times, I thought he wanted me for a friend, too. But I was wrong.

  “Someone who means something to you?” Henri offered.

  “Yes,” Belle said, knowing she would have to be satisfied with that. Now and forevermore.

  “I understand,” said Henri. But his face fell at her reluctance. He quickly smiled, trying to cover his disappointment, but Belle couldn’t bear his unhappiness.

  “I wish I had something else,” she said, thrusting her hands into her pockets.

  She felt a lump in her right one and reached inside it. Her fingers curled around the small silver scissors the madwoman had given her. She’d forgotten all about them. She considered giving them to Henri, but decided scissors would be a strange keepsake.

  Her other hand closed on coins—the ones she’d tried to give to Monsieur Truqué at the Palais-Royal.

  “A sou?” she offered. “It’s a bit odd, I know, but it was actually a keepsake for me—a memory of my home and my father.”

  “That would be perfect,” said Henri, brightening. “It’s so small, I can carry it with me wherever I go.”

  “Here you are,” Belle said, handing him the coin.

  “Thank you, Belle. Thank you so much,” said Henri.

  He took the coin.

  And put it in his pocket.

  And that was when the cracks appeared.

  Down both sides of his perfect, handsome, smiling face.

  BELLE STARED IN SHOCK.

  “Henri? What’s wrong? Your—your face…” she stammered.

  The cracks around his mouth had deepened into grooves.

  Belle reached out to touch him. As she did, his jaw dropped open.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, his jaw clacking up and down. “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Belle screamed and backed away. Henri walked toward her, his steps jerky and unnatural.

  “My lady! Papa!” she shouted. “Come quick! There’s something wrong with Henri!”

  At the sound of Belle’s cry, the countess rose from her chair and stepped down from the gazebo, her black skirts rustling.

  Her guests stopped dead wherever they were—in the trees, by the stream, on the lawns.

  A loud crash coming from the gazebo made Belle scream again. She turned around, terrified now. A fig tree in a terracotta pot had toppled over. Except, Belle now saw, it wasn’t a fig tree at all. It was only a painted wooden cutout propped up by a stand.

  B
elle pressed her hands to her eyes. “What’s happening?” she asked tearfully.

  “Darling girl, what’s wrong?”

  Belle lowered her hands. It was the countess. Thank goodness. She clutched her arm.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. Look at Henri. Look at the others.” Her voice was shaking. “We have to leave, my lady. Now. Nevermore…it’s not what it seems. It’s falling apart. We have to get my father and go back to the real world.”

  The countess patted Belle’s hand. “I’m sorry, my dear, truly I am. But there is no way back. Not for you.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Belle, bewildered.

  The countess smiled. “Why, you’ve eaten three things, haven’t you?”

  “I-I have?” Belle said, trying desperately to remember exactly what she’d eaten and what it might have to do with what was happening.

  “The macaron at the ball…” the countess prompted.

  “The tea cake at the Palais-Royal,” Belle whispered.

  “What was the third?” the countess said, tapping her chin. “Ah! I remember now! A pear!”

  Panic gripped Belle. The countess was her friend, wasn’t she? Then why was she trying to trap her?

  “You’ve also left three things,” the countess said. “When you take things and leave things in Nevermore, you become bound to it.”

  “But I didn’t leave three things,” Belle said adamantly.

  Henri lurched forward. His painted face was as pale as a clown’s. His teeth were bits of white porcelain. His beautiful jacket was garish and patched. Belle saw now that the charming, witty man whom she’d thought was her friend was nothing but a fairground puppet.

  He held up the copper sou she’d given him. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said, wagging a wooden finger.

  Belle felt sick.

  Terror threatened to overwhelm her. She fought it down, refusing to give in to it. She knew she had to keep her head.

  “That’s one thing,” she told the countess. “You said three things.”

  “True,” said the countess. “This is another.”

  She lifted her arm and showed Belle the bracelet she was wearing. It was made from strands of hair—brown hair. The strands had been braided together, wound around the countess’s wrist several times, and fastened with a gold clasp.