Beast

by Lisa Jensen

  I begin to be alarmed that I can’t reach Beast. Surely Rose has not come back? And no sooner does this thought occur to me than an image begins to form in the looking glass on the wall opposite the stairway. Two women. Rose’s sisters, Blanche and Violette; I recognize the dissatisfied whine in their voices even before their images take shape.

  “Our little sister parades about like a queen in her silken finery,” says the younger, Violette, with a pout. She sits primping at a dressing table, an array of jewels sparkling before her. Jewels that must have come from Beast’s box. “I shall be glad when she goes home to her monster.”

  “Only an addlepated goose would say such a thing,” observes Blanche. She stands behind her sister, adjusting a headdress top-heavy with ruffs and pointed peaks in the glass.

  Violette turns to stare up at her, her fisted little face full of reproach. “Surely you don’t want her to stay?”

  “Only think,” says her elder sister. “If she keeps her bargain and goes back to her château, these are the last of the monster’s riches we shall ever see.” She sweeps a hand toward the baubles spread across the dressing table, and Violette casts them a wistful, covetous glance.

  “But . . . what can we do about it?” Violette whimpers.

  Blanche throws her veil behind her back, places her hands on Violette’s shoulders, and bends forward to address her in the glass. “Rose told us she promised to return to her monster in a fortnight. She insists he will die without her. If we keep her here past that time, perhaps he will die. And his lovely château will stand empty.”

  Violette nods slowly, although her face remains scrunched up in bafflement.

  “We have seen only one box of his riches,” Blanche goes on. “Think what wealth and jewels and finery he will leave behind unprotected in his château? No one ever goes there. We’ll be the only ones who know. All his treasure could be ours!”

  “But what if he isn’t dead?” worries Violette. “What shall we do? How will we know?”

  “We shall take our brothers with us,” says Blanche. She has obviously thought the whole thing out. “And they shall bring their swords! If we find the monster still alive, they shall cut off its head and bring it home for a trophy! No one could begrudge them slaying the monster who imprisoned their sister. And only think”— and here, her expression goes sly, still regarding her sister in the glass —“think of Rose’s face when we bring home the head of her monster, and the château is no longer hers to command. That will put an end to her fancy airs!”

  A vague eagerness dawns in Violette’s empty blue eyes, but it turns just as quickly to alarm.

  “But . . . Rose says the place is bewitched,” she whispers.

  “Oh, pooh! Rose’s head is full of fairy stories!” scoffs Blanche. “The chevalier is too ugly to be seen; he lives in seclusion with all his finery, and Rose conjures up a monster in a magical château out of dreams and fancy! I promise you, whatever fairies haunt the place, his treasure is real enough. The fairies don’t need it. It shall be ours, if we but play our hand wisely.”

  “What must we do?” says Violette.

  “We must beg Rose to stay with us.”

  “Oh, but I can’t!” cries Violette.

  “We must show her we are too heartbroken to let her go again,” Blanche insists.

  “She will never believe it,” says Violette.

  “We shall be very convincing.” From the folds of her full skirt, Blanche produces something small and round and yellow, and places it on the dressing table.

  Violette frowns. “What is that?”

  “It’s an onion, you goose!”

  “What am I to do with it?” whines Violette.

  Blanche produces a small paring knife and slices the onion open, right on the dressing table. Milky juice forms on each cut surface, and Violette shrinks back, wrinkling her nose.

  “It smells vile!”

  “Breathe in,” Blanche instructs her. She grasps her sister by the scruff of the neck and holds a juicy onion half up to her nose. Violette’s mouth puckers. She scrunches up her eyes, but they are already turning red with tears. Blanche releases her sister, holds the onion under her own nose, and inhales deeply. The noses of both women are running, and their eyes are gushing tears in no time.

  “It’s horrible! I can’t see!” sobs Violette.

  “Just follow me,” Blanche says, sniffling and pulling her sister to her feet. “We’ll find her straightaway. Just look at the state we’re in! Rose will never have the heart to leave us!”

  Their images dissolve, and I am alone again, perched on the railing. I’m glad to think that Rose is less likely than ever to come back, but I ought to warn Beast about her scheming sisters.

  Where is he?

  At last, a tread upon the stair. Beast’s shaggy head moves cautiously into view at the bend of the stairwell on the first-floor landing below me. He peers up hopefully but comes no farther when he sees me here. His expression seems to fall a little.

  Beast! Where have you been?

  “I’ve been trying to free you.” He sighs heavily. “Spells. Prayers. Incantations. Obviously, I’m not very good at it.” He shakes his head sadly. “I swear to you, Lucie, had I the power to restore even a fraction of all that’s been taken from you, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But my efforts come to nothing; here you are still.”

  Where else should I be?

  “In your human skin!” Beast exclaims. “At home with your mother. With your friends.”

  I haven’t any friends! I haven’t anywhere else to go.

  Beast looks stricken, his eyes teeming with feeling. “But you will, Lucie, I know you will, and a life of your own, as soon as you are free of this place.”

  The finality of his words, his demeanor, chills me. What do you mean? What are you trying to do?

  Beast lifts his muzzle, an aching determination in his eyes. “I could not simply disappear without a word of farewell. That would be cruelty worthy of Jean-Loup, and cowardly besides. And you deserve so much more! I want you to know how much you’ve meant to me. Sharing your thoughts and dreams with me. Showing me your . . . friendship . . . all this time.” And he shakes his shaggy head, with a small smile. “I hope you will think well of me.” He starts to turn away.

  Beast! You must stop this talk! Please, don’t leave me!

  That stops him. He turns back, stung. “I would never do anything to hurt you, Lucie! But it’s clear to me that you can never be free as long as Jean-Loup . . . exists. Somewhere.”

  Jean-Loup? What has he to do with anything?

  “You were enchanted in the moment he was enchanted. Your sole purpose now is to prevent his release. So long as Jean-Loup exists, so you must exist, too, in your current form. But there will be no further need of your enchantment when Jean-Loup is gone. Your purpose will be fulfilled.” Beast shakes his head. “It’s the only thing I have not yet tried.”

  Suddenly, with an awful shock, I realize what he means to do. The guilt in his eyes, just before he glances away, confirms it. He’ll destroy Jean-Loup by destroying himself!

  Beast, no!

  “It’s the only way! Jean-Loup festers inside me like a wasting disease. Who knows by what future spell or witchery he might be transformed out of this body, as I was transformed out of his? I could never bear to be the agent of his return. I’m the only one who can stop him. It’s the only way to free you.”

  No! Not like this! We will find some other way —

  “There is no other way!” Beast is shaking his head, holding up a paw as if to stop my protest; I see how it trembles. “Please, let me do this one last thing for you, to give you back one thing that Jean-Loup stole from you. Your freedom is all that matters.”

  But what will I do without you?

  “You are strong, Lucie. You survived Jean-Loup. And you will survive this.”

  Beast! Wait!

  But he turns and clops again down the stairs, despite my pleading.

  I am frantic! A
ll this time, I’ve been so intent on thwarting Jean-Loup, but it’s Beast who has suffered so much humiliation, Beast who pays the penalty, Beast who will die! Suppose Rose’s sisters and brothers find their way back here, like a plague of invading rats, and find Beast dead. I imagine Beast’s mighty head, dripping blood, on the point of a sword, carried away in triumph to decorate the battlements of some gaudy palace that Rose’s family buys with Beast’s treasure.

  How can I lose Beast after all we have been through together? He is the only one who knows me for who I am, my only friend. How can I let such a noble soul die for my sake?

  His hoofbeats have stopped echoing down the stairwell and across the marble floor below. The silence is overwhelming. I can’t tell where he went, nor how he means to do it. Cursing my useless immobility, I try to call out to him, over and over again, but he no longer responds. I am fearfully alone. Desperate to control the chaos inside me, I shut out every other thought but one: Where is Beast?

  It seems to take an eternity, but at last, another hazy image begins to assemble itself in the mirror opposite the stairwell. First I see Beast’s shaggy mane and horned head and a swirl of burgundy and gold as he draws his cloak around himself in a bed of mossy green. He must be out in his rose garden; fading red petals dapple the moss. He settles farther back, closes his eyes, and sighs deeply under his beloved roses.

  More of the image resolves. He is stretched out at full length, breathing in the fragrance of his roses that he has always found so soothing. The perfume of roses gives him courage, he told me once. Slowly, he slips one paw out from within his cloak, and something catches the sunlight: a small bottle full of dark purple liquid.

  Madame Montant’s drops! We found this bottle the day we toured the old servants’ quarters so long ago! The housekeeper took drops to help her sleep, but what if someone drank the whole bottle at once? Would their sleep be permanent?

  Beast! No!

  He does not respond, but he has not yet unstoppered the bottle, either. He still grasps it in his paw as he draws another deep breath.

  “Farewell, Lucie,” he whispers.

  Beast! Don’t do this!

  But my pleading is useless; my thoughts have no effect, and there’s so little time! It may be too late already; he may raise the bottle to his lips in the next heartbeat! I cannot lose Beast! I can’t let him die for my sake!

  I have no power to stop him. But someone else might.

  Rose, I command from within the depths of my own desperation. Beast is dying, and only you can save him. Come back, Rose. You are my only hope!

  Can she still hear me?

  Hurry, Rose! Beast needs you! Don’t let him do this! Please, Rose! Save him!

  I swear I can feel my heart pounding in my throat, blood thundering in my ears — savage, stubborn life such as I’ve not felt in months. I’m in darkness, and I feel myself falling. My eyes fly open — my eyes!— and I see the lower stairs racing up to meet me as I teeter on the railing. My hands — human hands — lunge for the railing, and I push myself back from the open stairwell and collapse on the carpeted floor behind the balustrades.

  My legs are all askew beneath my plain grey frock. I try to pull them up under me, but they’re too awkward to manage after so long. Finally I grip the balustrades with both hands and haul myself up. I’m not yet standing; I’m leaning all my weight on the railing, but random points of feeling are beginning to return to my legs. Pain first, the ache of disuse, and then the sharp pinpricks of returning life.

  Is it Beast’s death that’s released me as he hoped? No, it can’t be true, not yet! I never made such a bargain. There must be more time!

  I creep unsteadily to the corner newel-post, struggle down the stairs to the first landing on jellylike legs, and half tumble down the rest, sprawling at last out into the entry hall. I crawl across the cold marble tiles to the glass panels overlooking the rose garden, but the rosebushes have grown so thickly together and are so dense with blooms, I can’t see anything beyond the first rows nearest the house. I pull myself up by the window frame, trying to rub more life back into my legs. Where can he be?

  My legs bearing me up at last, I stagger out the grand double doors and out onto the colonnaded porch. I steady myself by one column, then let myself down by holding on to the ceremonial urns that decorate each step. I manage to cross the gravel courtyard at the foot of the steps under my own power, but still too slowly! I hobble to the end of the first row of bushes and crunch around to the open space between this row and the next. But there is no Beast. At the end of that row, I come around to the next, struggling to see or hear anything as I hurry from bush to bush.

  When at last I spy a solid shape and a glimpse of burgundy two rows ahead, I rush to the end of the row and double back. And there he lies, on an expanse of mossy green halfway down the next row, near enough to the drive that the high central vault of roses bloom almost directly over his head. The sun sparkles turquoise on the water of the moat, out beyond the gilded gate, and the swans can be heard softly nattering in the distance. It’s a lovely spot, a tranquil, peaceful place to die.

  “Beast!”

  It is my voice, my own human voice. But even as I push myself forward, a shadow falls across Beast, a shadow thrown by nothing that I can see. Then Rose is suddenly standing at his side, blocking my path to the place where he lies. She’s dressed in one of the fine gowns he gave her; it dazzles in the sunlight. She wasn’t there a second before. She’s appeared out of the very air and rushes to Beast, flinging aside something that sparkles momentarily in the sunlight. I recognize the magic ring by the red ribbon trailing behind it as it disappears in the gravel.

  But I am still several bushes away from them. Rose! Stop him! I plead with all my heart, my newly beating heart; it’s still more natural to call out to her this way than to trust my rusty voice. Throw that bottle away!

  Rose falls to her knees beside Beast, snatches the bottle out of Beast’s paw, and hurls it away. From here, I can’t tell how much liquid flies out, if any does. “Sir Beast!” she cries, shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. “It’s me, Rose!”

  Beast lets out a bark of surprise. “Rose?” He sounds confused.

  “Sir Beast! I’ve come back to you!” She grasps his paw in both her hands. “I never thought you would truly die without me!”

  “Rose . . . what?”

  “Oh, Sir Beast, do not die! I’m sorry I was delayed, but I promise I will never leave you again!” Her voice is earnest, full of feeling. “I will do anything you wish, but you must get well! Oh, stay with me, Sir Beast, and I . . . I will be your wife!”

  I’m so stunned, I trip over my feet at the nearest bush; Beast’s startled cry, “No!” fades to a groan as I half fall to my knees, staring out between the branches. Rose is so caught up in the moment, she’s begun to sob, bowing her head over Beast’s paw. So she doesn’t notice how Beast’s mane is shortening; his horns disappear, his muzzle flattens, and the whiskers and tawny fur vanish from his face.

  Beast is gone. Jean-Loup reclines in his place!

  No! I want to scream, but I’ve lost my voice as this nightmare vision unfolds before me. Not Jean-Loup! The chevalier, in all his cold glamour, peers intently up at the girl who is still bent over his hand, softly sobbing, “I’m Rose! I’m here!”

  But only when she realizes the hairy paw she’s been clutching has become smooth human flesh between her hands does Rose open her own eyes and see the transformation.

  “Oh!” Rose drops his hand and sits back on her knees, flustered.

  Jean-Loup scrambles to sit up. “Please, please . . . do not fear me.”

  “But . . . but . . .” She stares into his face. “But . . . where is Sir Beast?”

  “Beast,” echoes Jean-Loup; he sounds puzzled but recovers himself swiftly.

  “Beast is gone,” he says more decisively. “But I am here.” He rises to his knees before her.

  Rose remains where she is, staring at his face, bewildered
and awestruck, then dares to let her gaze slide over the rest of him. His shirt and his breeches have adjusted to his human body again and fit him beautifully; their dishevelment gives him the air of a rakish young knight at the end of a quest. “I know you,” she whispers at last. “You’re the man in the portrait. I dreamed of you,” she breathes, eyes wide with awe.

  “Jean-Loup Christian Henri LeNoir, Chevalier de Beaumont.” He smiles at her again, pretending to doff a hat in the air. “At your service, mademoiselle. And . . . and you must have known me as Beast!”

  He does not seem to remember the time when Beast was here, but he’s trying to piece it together.

  Rose’s hands flutter in astonishment. “But . . . how is it possible?”

  Jean-Loup shakes back his russet hair the way he used to do. “An evil witch cast a spell on me,” he tells her solemnly. He remembers that much, although I’m angered at his slander of Mère Sophie. “I was to pine away all the rest of my days as a hideous beast unless a virtuous maiden might consent to marry me.” He smiles at her, ardent, triumphant. “And you have — Rose.” He pronounces her name with some hesitation; he may have only just heard it on her lips, but he understands what has happened. “You have set me free!”

  Now it is he who grasps one of her white hands in both of his. He lowers his lips to her delicate skin, then slowly lifts his handsome face to gaze at her again, still cradling her hand in both of his.

  “Are you very disappointed, my dear?” he murmurs.

  Yes! Rose, tell him, my thoughts erupt from where I stand; speech still feels strange to me. Send him away! He’s not half the man Beast was!

  But Rose no longer responds to my thoughts, dazzled as she is by the chevalier’s handsome face and the touch of his perfect mouth. She stretches out her other hand to him and dares to caress a lock of his hair. Her trembling fingertips trail gently down his cheek. “I . . . shall bear it.” She smiles.

  Jean-Loup bows his head again and presses her hand fiercely to his mouth. “Then everything in Château Beaumont, including myself, belongs to you,” he declares, his gaze rising to hers again. “If you still consent to be my wife.”