The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  I watched her place the letter in Isabeau’s box, then bank the fire. As she gathered her book and writing implements, my view of the parlour began to fade. At least, I thought, trying to find something to lift my spirits, Marie could not have written kinder words about me to Isabeau, or words that might better further my suit, if I had asked her.

  Chapter XXI

  When I awoke the next morning, after more sleep than I had anticipated, but less than was really pleasant, I remembered my promise to Isabeau to not miss another session in the music room with mixed relief and regret. If I had not promised her, I do not know if I could have brought myself to attend. I was not sure if she would come down, or how she would feel about playing to me this morning, so I found a seat in the room next door.

  A short time later, my heart lurched as I heard her enter the music room. There were a few more small sounds, then some moments of quiet, and then Isabeau appeared in the doorway. She looked anxious, but when she saw I was there, she managed to smile.

  ‘Beast,’ she said, ‘you did come after all.’

  ‘I did promise,’ I said, standing up, ‘but I can leave again if you wish.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said and paused, colouring slightly. ‘But I do not think I will sing today, so you may sit inside if you wish. I mean, I would be pleased if you would.’

  ‘That would give me very great pleasure,’ I said, relieved. She turned back into the music room and I followed her, seating myself near a window where I could see her clearly. She walked to the virginal, but just as she reached it, she turned back to face me.

  ‘Thank you very much for the chocolate last night,’ she said, still sounding self-conscious. ‘It was very kind, after …’ She swallowed her words, but before I could speak she ploughed ahead. ‘I regret the pain my answer must have caused you.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself,’ I answered, overwhelmingly grateful she clearly had.

  ‘I do hope you will continue to think of me as your friend,’ she said anxiously. I had the sense there was still some remaining point of concern for her she had not yet voiced.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. She was silent for another few moments, looking down at her hands, twisting her fingers together.

  ‘Beast,’ she said at last, ‘I too have no wish to make things between us uncomfortable. Yesterday I questioned you about that missing painting. I had thought I would go and look at it, but then I thought if you would rather I didn’t—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupted her and rushed on before any of my own misgivings about the portrait could assert themselves. ‘Isabeau, you should go and look at it. Then perhaps you could give me your opinion of it.’

  She looked at me as though to gauge my sincerity.

  ‘I am aware my feelings about the painting may not be entirely rational,’ I confessed.

  Isabeau smiled. ‘Fancy, a great Beast like you, afraid of a little painting,’ she said, finally seating herself at the virginal.

  ‘Oh, it’s not little,’ I replied, more pleased than I could say by her teasing. ‘It’s quite enormous.’

  ‘That will never do,’ said Isabeau, shaking her head and playing a chord. She gave me a look of mock severity. ‘I will brook no excuses.’

  She began to play in earnest and I settled into my chair to listen, happier and more at ease than I dreamed possible after the fiasco of my proposal the previous night. Isabeau played on, but after a time I noticed her playing began to slow and she adopted a more thoughtful tone. Eventually she stopped and was silent for a minute. Then she looked up at me.

  ‘If I went to look at it now,’ she asked, ‘would you come with me?’

  ‘If you wished it,’ I answered, trying to ignore an overwhelming sense of dismay. The hair at the back of my neck prickled at the thought of confronting my portrait again, with Isabeau as a witness. Viewing it was like undertaking a personal pilgrimage – intensely private and not to be embarked upon lightly. And to tell the truth, I had not anticipated seeing it again so soon. But Isabeau had asked me to go with her. Of course I would accompany her. Before she could be put off by my antipathy, I rose and went to her, offering my arm.

  ‘You will be pleased to know this attic is somewhat more accessible than the roof,’ I said to her, by way of preventing any misgivings on her part. Still, she looked at me doubtfully as though my bravado was completely transparent. ‘Although there is at least one set of very steep stairs.’

  ‘Are you—?’ she began, but I cut her off.

  ‘As you say,’ I told her, ‘it is only a painting.’

  She gave me another searching look, but then rose and took my arm. I led her through the house to the steps ascending to the attic wondering if I would indeed have the courage to go in with her.

  ‘Beast,’ Isabeau asked as we walked, ‘what sort of painting is it?’

  ‘It is a portrait like the others,’ I answered, shortly. To tell the truth I was now beginning to be apprehensive she would ask me who it was in the picture, or what his relationship was to me – or worse, she might recognise my eyes and guess the rest. I was beginning to become afraid I was too close to revealing the curse and its nature to Isabeau.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ said Isabeau wryly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said, trying to compose myself. ‘It is a portrait of a young man. But, rather than have me describe it to you, perhaps it might be best for you to wait until you see it. I did say my response to it is not entirely rational.’

  I shrugged, trying to smile. She raised her eyebrows at me, but did not ask me any further questions.

  Eventually we came to the narrow flight of stairs leading up to the attic. Isabeau peered up at them cautiously, and I asked her, ‘Will you be able to manage these?’

  ‘I should think so,’ she said, and gathered up her skirts. I watched her ascend for a moment, then took a deep breath and followed her. She waited for me inside the door of the attic room, even though she no longer needed me as a guide. We could see the painting from where we stood. Isabeau looked at me as I stood inside the door, but when I made no move to approach the painting, she left my side and went over to it by herself.

  I looked everywhere but at the portrait itself. It was quite obvious I had visited the portrait in the not-too-distant past. It was the only uncovered object in the room without a mantle of dust and a set of large footprints also tracked across the dusty floor. Isabeau noticed these upon reaching the painting and glanced back at me, but she still did not say anything. Then she turned to scrutinise the painting itself. She spent some time looking up into my painted human face. So much time, in fact, I began to wonder what she was thinking. Eventually, she bent down to examine the tiny gilded plate at the base of the frame where the words Julien Courseilles, Marquis de la Tour, were inscribed. Then she rose and came away, with a thoughtful expression on her face.

  ‘Well?’ I managed, gruffly.

  She looked up at me and shook her head. ‘I am afraid I see nothing sinister, Beast,’ she said. ‘I cannot account for your reaction.’ Then she walked ahead of me out of the attic and picked her way back down the stairs.

  As I came behind her, I was assailed by a curious mix of thoughts and emotions. Primarily I was grateful she had made no teasing remarks about him being handsome or otherwise, in comparison to my own horrid appearance. However, a strange curiosity began to assert itself. Did she find the man in the portrait handsome? What did she think of my human face? I could not bear to dwell on this question, but it lodged in my mind like a burr in my pelt. All in all, I was now so unsettled and out of sorts I made my excuses to her and turned to go.

  ‘Beast,’ she called out, as I walked away. I stopped. ‘I am sorry if that discomforted you. Do you think you can bring yourself to read to me this afternoon?’

  I got the distinct impression she was doing her best to avoid any continuation of the awkwardness that had plagued our relations of late.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, offering a short bow. ‘I would be pleased
to.’

  She smiled at me radiantly and now it was my turn to stand and watch her walk away, smitten to helpless immobility as I was.

  Chapter XXII

  Usually when we met in the library of an afternoon, I arrived some minutes before Isabeau. That afternoon, however, Isabeau was there first. She was leaning on her elbows over a desk, immersed in a large folio. There were several others spread out over the desk as well. She looked up and smiled as I entered and on approaching her I found all the books she was examining were volumes of botanical illustrations.

  ‘Ah, Beast,’ she said, straightening up, ‘you see me trying to find inspiration to fuel my new resolution.’

  Whether or not she was persisting with her efforts to avoid any further discomfort between us, I was grateful she had initiated a conversation I could join with relative ease.

  ‘Will you tell me what it is?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘Looking at all your beautiful paintings has inspired me to try my hand at drawing again, now I have the leisure.’

  ‘Again?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, a drawing master is an indispensible part of the education of all young ladies,’ said Isabeau, with a sardonic twist to her mouth. ‘Even those who haven’t the slightest inclination. I’m thinking of my sisters,’ she added. ‘They both hated it.’

  She smiled again. ‘I can’t offer you any comment on the quality of my work, but I did enjoy it. Although,’ she added somewhat quickly, ‘I have never pretended to be any good at drawing likenesses of people. I have always been happy to confine myself to studies of flowers and other things that don’t move, and won’t get offended if my pictures don’t end up looking precisely like the subject.’

  ‘I am glad of that,’ I said, a small twinge of anxiety evaporating, ‘as you would find subjects for portraits sadly lacking here. Flowers I have in abundance.’

  She laughed and indicated the folios before her.

  ‘I thought, as I also lack a drawing master, I might refer to these,’ she said, then looked at me expectantly. ‘Unless, of course, this is one of your own talents?’

  I shook my head. ‘Alas, no. I never picked up a pen to sketch in my life, even—’ I stopped abruptly. I had been about to say ‘even before I had these accursed claws’, which would of course have been disastrous. Isabeau looked at me curiously, but when I did not continue she turned back to the books.

  ‘Your library is very obliging,’ she said. ‘I had no idea where to look for these, or even if you had any such volumes. But all I had to do was voice my wish and they came flying around the corner and even thoughtfully opened themselves to the most beautiful pages.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ I answered, still distracted by my near-blunder. I heard her sigh and recalled myself. ‘What shall I read to you today?’

  ‘I found this, too,’ she said, handing me a volume bound in leather tooled with floral motifs. On inspection it appeared to be the published journal of a lady botanist, describing her ramblings over the countryside and the discoveries she had made thereon. ‘I thought it was topical, especially if I am going to begin searching your grounds for subjects. I might as well try to increase my knowledge as well as my sense of the aesthetic.’

  I went and seated myself in on a couch by the window, so the light from behind me fell upon the pages. Isabeau found an easy chair a little distance away and settled her feet on a stool that slid across the floor especially for that purpose. I began to read.

  I have to admit the journal was not the most scintillating of subject matters and I was unequal to sharing in many of the raptures expressed by the author over her discoveries of certain plants. It was no surprise to me, then, when I looked up at one point to see Isabeau, her cheek resting on her shoulder and her eyes closed. Feeling somehow easier, now I had gained this advantage over her, I smiled in amusement and continued reading, thinking of how I could tease her when she awoke.

  After perhaps half an hour, she began to stir. I waited until she yawned and opened her eyes before I closed the book and laid it aside.

  ‘Did you enjoy that, then?’ I asked archly.

  ‘Beast?’ she asked wonderingly, straightening up in her chair. There was something strange in her tone, so I rose and went over to her.

  ‘Beast?’ she asked again, shrinking into her chair.

  ‘Isabeau, is all well?’ I asked, but as I drew close, her expression changed to one of recognition and she relaxed.

  ‘Beast,’ she said, passing her hand over her eyes, ‘I must have been … the strangest dream …’ She made to rise and I offered her my arm. She put her hand in my paw and stood.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked.

  Isabeau shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I could not see you properly against the light and it seemed you had changed …’ She frowned and shook herself as though trying to dispel a lingering, unsettling vision. A little prickle of cold ran lightly over my skin, turning it to gooseflesh and lifting my fur.

  ‘Changed?’ I asked cautiously, wanting to know more but not wanting to appear too eager. To my disappointment Isabeau shook her head more firmly.

  ‘It is gone. You are here. All is well,’ she said, then she yawned. ‘I am afraid if that example is to be taken as a general indication, botanists are not the most interesting of people. You may want to make me promise not to regale you with tales of my own forays into the meadows.’

  ‘You know I listen with pleasure to anything you have to tell me,’ I said sincerely.

  Isabeau coloured slightly and looked away. ‘All you have to do now,’ she said lightly, ‘is receive my attempts at sketching with the same unstinting praise as you have received my attempts at music and you will be perfect. Indeed, as a consequence, my own opinion of myself will become so inflated that you, so good-natured as you are, will be the only being alive able to tolerate me.’

  Now it was my turn to look abashed.

  ‘I think I can safely promise you to be just as harsh a critic of your artwork as of your playing,’ I agreed.

  Thus it was on these good terms we parted. As I made my way down to the music room again the next day, as promised, I felt only the pleasantest sense of anticipation at seeing Isabeau. Isabeau, however, when she arrived, looked tired and distracted, as though she had slept badly. She did not play for long, pleading a headache as her excuse, and as she closed up her instrument she declared her intention to walk it off.

  ‘Are you are well enough to walk out by yourself?’ I pressed.

  ‘Beast, you are overanxious for my health,’ she said in a way that made me think she was trying to hold her annoyance in check. ‘If I so much as yawn you ask if I am well. I am not such a delicate flower. Until six weeks ago I had managed for a year on an average of five hours’ sleep a night and I was spending my days doing all manner of heavy work to boot. I assure you I will survive the odd sleepless night in this haven of leisure.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, bowing my head in consternation.

  Isabeau made an explosive noise and came around the virginal towards me.

  ‘Beast,’ she said sternly, her arms on her hips, ‘don’t—’ She stopped and closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. ‘I will only be cross with myself if I think I’ve gone and hurt your feelings, so please don’t take what I just said too much to heart. Friends?’ She held out her hand to me. I took it and she covered my paw with her other hand.

  ‘Good,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, I just need to clear my head.’

  I remained in the music room for a while after she left, wondering what I should do now my usual morning activity had been cut short. In the end, I did as I usually did and went to my study to see what Isabeau’s family were doing.

  Given the different nature of our lives, Isabeau’s sisters and her father naturally rose much earlier in the morning than we did in our ‘haven of leisure’. This morning the view in my mirror showed me Claude, with a basket over her arm walking about a market
that had sprung up in the main street of the village near their home. There were a number of parcels and food items already in the basket, which, by the way she kept shifting it on her arm, was heavy enough. As I watched, she concluded a transaction that ended in her becoming the owner of a large, dead goose. The proprietor of the stall expertly unhooked the cord suspending the bird from the rack above and looped it over Claude’s wrist, uttering an unkind bark of laughter when she nearly dropped it in the mud, clearly not anticipating the weight. With an expression of determined dignity, Claude left the poultry stall and hesitated before another displaying a range of dress materials. She spent a few moments browsing, but when the dead goose proved too unwieldy and any further burden untenable, she turned away and began to walk down the main street. As she left the village, I realised with some alarm she intended to walk the entire distance home with her goose and her heavy basket.

  Indeed, she had not gone far before she put her basket down on a log and changed the goose to her left wrist, the right displaying a series of painful red lines where the cord had dug into her skin. She hoisted her basket up and set off again, frowning as the goose, with its wings open, banged uncomfortably against her legs as she walked. She managed to trudge for a further few minutes before stopping once more to put the basket down again. This time she tried to fit the bird into the basket, on top of her other purchases, but the basket was already mostly full and it was an awkward fit at best. She was so involved in trying to arrange her burden so it would become manageable, she did not notice a horse and rider approaching her from the direction of the village. Just as she uttered a suppressed shriek of frustration, the gentleman pulled his mount up behind her and called out, ‘Hello, mademoiselle!’