The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  I recognised him as the Vicomte de Villemont. Claude started upright and spun around, shading her eyes against the sparkling morning sunshine.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’ she stuttered, clearly feeling herself to be at a disadvantage. The man sat looking at her for a few moments, then recollected himself and dismounted. Claude took a step back, realising who he was.

  ‘Excuse me, Vicomte,’ she said sounding mortified and dropped an elegant curtsey. Villemont seemed to be embarrassed and momentarily at a loss for something to say. Claude stood with her head respectfully bowed, and in the end I think it might have been a sort of desperation to make her look at him that spurred him on to speak.

  ‘Ah, you don’t know me,’ he started awkwardly, ‘that is, we have not met, but I believe I was introduced to your sister the other day. You are Mademoiselle Claude de la Noue?’

  ‘Yes, Vicomte,’ murmured Claude, not looking up.

  ‘Please, allow me to introduce myself, I am Henri Desmarteaux, Vicomte de Villemont. I … ah …’ he trailed off, staring at her hopelessly. She still had not looked up.

  ‘It is an honour, Vicomte,’ said Claude demurely.

  ‘Have you been at the markets?’ he asked after a pause, his expression changing to reflect a level of mortification as he saw what an artless question it was. As Claude opened her mouth to answer he ploughed on. ‘I ask, mademoiselle, because I, ah, observe you are somewhat overburdened. I would be pleased to offer you any assistance I may.’ Now he was becoming a little more sure of himself.

  Claude looked up at him in dismay.

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ she said, apparently trying to keep the goose off the ground with one hand and smooth her hair with the other. ‘Please do not trouble yourself.’

  ‘But I insist,’ he said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice again. ‘Please, let me at least take the bird from you, I can easily tie it to my saddle.’

  ‘No, really, sir,’ said Claude firmly, giving him a polite, but resolute smile. ‘I am sure your path lies not at all close to my own. I assure you I will manage.’ At this she bent down to pick up her basket again. This spurred Villemont into his own resolution.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he cried, ‘I absolutely insist.’ And he bent forward and lifted the goose off her wrist. Evidently he, too, was surprised by its weight, but he went around to the other side of his horse and tied the bird on. He stepped back and viewed the opened wings with some consternation, and conducted a brief search of his pockets and saddlebags for something, and pulled out a linen kerchief. This proved inadequate to the task, however, only making it part of the way about the goose. He stood looking about himself for a few moments more, then struck by inspiration, removed the garter tied just below his right knee, knotted it together with the kerchief and strapped the bird’s wings closed. On seeing this, Claude’s face broke into a delighted smile, which caused a similar, if not greater reaction in the young man. I had to chuckle. If he had been merely interested before, I was sure he was lost to her now. He ducked back around under the nose of his horse, but by this time Claude had schooled her face into a cooler, more detached expression and she stood demurely looking down again, her basket over her arm. Nevertheless, this seemed to be enough for the Vicomte for now.

  ‘There,’ he said, still sounding delighted, plucking the basket away from her before she could object. ‘Much better.’ He gathered the reins of his horse in his spare hand and they walked on, the basket and a foot or two of space between them. Claude folded her hands in front of her and continued to look modestly at the road beneath her feet.

  After a few moments of silence, Villemont, unwilling to lose what he had gained, cleared his throat and said, ‘Do you usually come to the markets?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Claude, looking up at him briefly, ‘usually my sister comes. But today she had some work she needed to do in her garden and I was hoping to buy some fabric for a dress, but …’ She mentioned the fabric wistfully, but then seemed to decide, in spite of his obvious interest, the Vicomte could not possibly be concerned with such things. I observed, however, Villemont was suddenly paying attention to the worn state of Claude’s clothing. Claude remained supremely impervious to the scrutiny.

  ‘And where are you riding to today, sir?’ asked Claude innocently.

  Villemont flushed a dark red and I apprehended the object of this little jaunt must have been to see if he might encounter her coming to or from the markets.

  ‘Oh, I just thought to take the air,’ he stammered. ‘It’s such a fine day, isn’t it? Spring so nearly here.’

  Claude continued on her way serenely, oblivious to his discomfort.

  They continued in this manner, with Villemont trying to pique Claude’s interest and engage her in conversation, while Claude maintained her untouched, but extremely interesting, politeness, until they reached the small rise over which I knew the cottage lay. At this point Claude stopped and simply refused to let Villemont escort her any further, stating she had already taken him far too far out of his way. He argued with her as gallantly as he could, but she remained steadfast. Eventually he was resigned to watching her struggle up and over the hill, stopping at the rise for a brief curtsey, while he chewed his lip in a mixture of frustration and exaltation. Finally, when at last her head, with its honey hair so similar to Isabeau’s, dipped below the hilltop, he remounted his horse and turned to leave. At this point he realised his garter was still wrapped around the goose. For a few moments he sat, apparently considering whether or not he should retrieve it, but eventually he decided against it and turned his horse and rode slowly away.

  That evening, Marie wrote the following letter to Isabeau:

  ‘My dearest Isabeau, I know this is my second letter in a very few days, but today something occurred that I may not discuss with anyone else, and it is so very interesting I could not help but unburden myself to you. But, before I go on, having piqued your curiosity unpardonably I’m sure, I must tell you the suspicions I will now relate may be completely unfounded, the product only of a fond sister’s mind.

  ‘Do you remember in my last letter, I told you of the Vicomte de Villemont and how I thought Claude found him handsome? Well, I will now relate to you some other circumstances, most likely quite trivial and innocent. Sadly, however, I cannot help my mischievous mind drawing them together in a more significant relationship.

  ‘Today Claude went to the markets to buy a few things, but I had particularly requested she purchase some kind of bird I might roast for Papa (his appetite has been a little wanting of late and I thought a roast bird might tempt him more than salt pork, but you are not to concern yourself). She came home with the most enormous, fat goose, which was amusing in itself as I had been expecting a duck or chicken, perhaps. However, the most interesting thing was its wings were bound to its body (to prevent them dragging in the dirt and to make it easier to carry) by an elegant kerchief of the snowiest linen imaginable and a silken garter. The story was not easily extracted from our sister, as to how the bird came to be tied up so handsomely, but eventually I managed to elicit the following information: the Vicomte de Villemont happened upon our sister struggling home from the market with a heavy and unwieldy bird and was overcome with compassion. He then insisted upon tying it up with his own kerchief and, when that proved insufficient (it is a very fat goose), his garter as well. He then determined it was far too heavy a burden for poor Claude and escorted her most of the way home, carrying the goose! (You will acknowledge my heroic effort to refrain from embroidering this tale with all the romantic language it deserves.)

  ‘In a separate, unrelated and completely unremarkable incident, I’m sure, I will only tell you that this afternoon Claude was heard humming. I note this for two reasons, the first being I have not heard her do this since the serious consequences of the state of Papa’s financial affairs became known to us. The second reason it was interesting to me, which again may be put down to an overactive imagination, is, as I recall, Claud
e used to most frequently hum when she was thinking of a certain undeserving individual, either having recently spent time with him or in anticipation of doing so. At this time I cannot believe she is either thinking of Monsieur le Rat or, even if she were, the thoughts would induce her to resume humming. So my poor susceptible brain is reduced to making up my own reasons for her musical behaviour and I confess I cannot help but link it to the incident of the Handsome Young Vicomte and the Heavy Goose.

  ‘My last trivial and probably insignificant observation for the day is, this evening after our meal, when we were all sitting comfortably in the parlour, Claude, who had been humming again while doing her needlepoint, was heard to say what a fine thing for our evenings it would be if she once more had our old virginal at her disposal. Again, I am sure it is nothing and I am jumping to unsupportable conclusions, however, it seemed to only confirm my suppositions from earlier in the day. I confess while I cannot think of any truly rational reason for him riding in this direction, I am now in hourly expectation of an impromptu visit from the Vicomte on the basis “he was just riding past”.

  ‘Dear Isabeau, I can see you shaking your head in patient amusement, and I am well aware of the irony of this. I can remember doing such to you when you brought me your fantasies of Claude’s wedding. In any case, I have revealed to you the direction of my wild imaginings, so now I can be calm and go to my bed.

  ‘Au revoir, my beloved sister!’

  As was usual, I tried to follow Marie’s example. However, my own retirement that evening was not to be accomplished in such a pleasant reverie as hers. Rather, I went to bed in a somewhat fretful mood. I had not seen Isabeau again that day. She had spent the morning as promised, walking over the castle grounds. At lunchtime she had then gone back to her rooms and had not left them again. I had waited hopelessly in the library, looking over some rough sketches of flowers and leaves she had left on her desk, but she had not come. When the sun dropped below the dark of the forest, I had dined alone in my study, then spent the early evening taking my discontent out on the straw-stuffed leather targets in my fencing gallery. Marie’s thoughts on Claude’s possible feelings for the Vicomte were the only glimmer of satisfying interest I had all day and they only put my own sad prospects into sharp, unflattering relief.

  Chapter XXIII

  If I was worried that evening, by the next I was beside myself and by the end of the week I was completely despondent. After that day, my only conversation with Isabeau was the following morning. Again I took myself faithfully to the music room and awaited her there. When she did come, she was very late and she did not stay and play.

  I was anxiously pacing in the adjoining room when I heard her soft step and spun around to see her. If she had looked tired the day before, today she looked grey. There were distinct shadows under her eyes and even her beautiful hair was less brilliant. She was hunched beneath a large shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders and clasped against her chest like an old woman. Most worrying, however, was the strange light burning in her eyes.

  ‘Beast, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she said in a thin, hushed voice.

  ‘Isabeau …’ I started, then stopped, thinking of her earlier rebuke. She was quite clearly unwell, however. I pushed aside my hesitation with an impatient gesture. ‘Isabeau, you are ill. What ails you?’ I strode forward and, taking her arm, propelled her into a chair.

  ‘Beast,’ she said almost sulkily, ‘please don’t.’

  ‘Isabeau, this is not simply gallant solicitude. You look ill,’ I said. ‘Have you seen yourself in the glass?’ She stared at me somewhat reproachfully.

  ‘There is no glass in my room,’ she said. ‘I did not think there were any in the house.’

  I blinked. ‘No,’ I said guiltily, ‘of course not.’

  ‘Beast, really,’ she said, laying her hand on my arm, ‘please do not concern yourself. I may look ill – I’m sure I do, but I assure you I am not. It is simply that I have barely slept these last two nights. My dreams have been so odd …’ She paused, presumably lost in thoughts of these dreams. I searched her face for some clue as to their nature, but found none.

  ‘They are so real …’ she said quietly, almost as though she had forgotten I was there, ‘then I wake and …’ She paused again and pressed the fingertips of one hand to her temple. ‘When I wake I cannot fall back to sleep for thinking on them. I …’ She seemed to remember me at this point and stopped, colouring slightly. Then she gave me a wan smile, as though trying to dispel my concern. ‘So you see,’ she said lightly, ‘no illness, just phantoms in the night. I will go for another walk and try again to rest this afternoon.’

  I tried to curb my questions, for she clearly did not want to discuss the content of her dreams, but my curiosity was inflamed. Naturally my mind recalled the vivid dream I myself had dreamed the night her father stayed. What manner of dreams were keeping my Isabeau awake?

  ‘Would you like some company on your walk?’ I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

  ‘No, thank you, Beast,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘Forgive me, but I would like to be alone.’

  Instinctively I felt solitude was not the answer to what ailed her. But how could I protest, given my own interest in her choosing company? So I stood, silent, and watched her go.

  The next day she did not emerge from her room until well after mid-morning. She did not seek me out at my sad, self-imposed station near the music room, where I noticed cobwebs gathering in the corners of the room. Instead she went, of all places, to visit my portrait. This time she spent almost an hour with it. Strange as this was, even stranger was the fact she visited it again, the next evening, and again in the small, dark hours of the next night. That time I woke in my bed to the sensation of her moving about the house, and if her journey afforded her any further rest that night, I lay awake and wondering in my own bed until dawn.

  There followed two very bleak weeks indeed, where I might have been living with a ghost. There were days when the only evidence I had of her continuing presence in the house was her footsteps in the film of dust beginning to thicken upon the polished floorboards of the hallways. She had left her room only a few times, either in the very early morning to go walking outside, or at other points to visit my portrait again and again. Her early morning sojourns woke me – as did her midnight jaunts – and several times I stood at my window to observe her slight form, wrapped and clenched against the early chill, make its solitary way across the misty lawns and disappear among the yews.

  She passed close by me several times in the house, too. For it soon became apparent that, when she left her room, if she was not going outside she was going up to the attic. Thus it became easy for me to place myself somewhere along her route so I might have a glimpse of her as she went. The candles lighting my hallways began to burn low and then go out. In the dim, flickering light, she never saw me, even when she passed by quite close.

  I even went so far as to make my own way up to the portrait after she had gone away, to see if I could discern for myself what fascination it could possibly hold for her. That it had something to do with her dreams, I doubted not, but exactly what was the constant blank all my ponderings led me to.

  When I went to see it, her visits had made a clear trail in the dust and debris on the attic floor. The floor directly in front of the painting was also bare, so it was obvious she had several times stood very close to it. The dust sheet was now entirely pulled clear of the frame and a trunk had been dragged across to provide a convenient seat for its solitary audience. I stood where she had stood, looking into the face of the man I had once been, and wondered with a curiosity as bright and sharp as a knife wound, what she saw and what she thought of when she looked.

  Did she look with the eyes of a lover? Did she touch the curls around his face, imagining what they might feel like in life under her white fingers? Did she ache for those blue eyes to shift their distant gaze and see her before them? Did she, in short, harbo
ur all the feelings about this painting that I held in my own great breast for her? And if she did, what could that possibly mean for my suit, in this giant, fanged and furred body I now inhabited?

  Or did she look with the eyes of a judge? Were the dreams that stole her sleep and her peace a catalogue of my father’s sins? Did she avoid me because she had heard the Fairy cry out against me and understood the warning my beastly form represented?

  These were all questions I could not answer myself. But even though I had no right to ask her to satisfy my curiosity, it remained that whatever it was that plagued her dreams and sent her into the attic to pace before my portrait, was also stealing away her health. Every day she grew a little greyer, a little more shadowy.

  In the end it was the Vicomte de Villemont who inspired me to act. I had a lot of sympathy for that young man. Although he was trying much harder to gain his lady’s attention than I, and reasonably stood a greater chance of succeeding, Claude was proving as elusive to him as Isabeau was to me. After what Marie christened the Incident of the Handsome Young Vicomte and the Heavy Goose, he returned two days later to reclaim his belongings. Both sisters and their father were home, although Claude appeared to grow shy on Villemont’s entering through their gate and did not come out to greet him. Isabeau’s father’s reaction was one of mortification over not being able to receive the Vicomte as his rank deserved. Marie, however, welcomed him politely and cordially and invited him in for a cool drink. I thought she kept her countenance very well considering her predictions in her last letter to Isabeau. Villemont declined the offer and explained the reason for his visit.

  ‘Of course,’ said Marie smoothly. ‘Claude washed them herself and put them by to return to you. I shall ask her to bring them out.’ And she went back inside to summon Claude. Claude declared herself to be far too busy to come out to give them to the Vicomte herself, but Marie scolded her into compliance. Once again in his presence, however, the normally chatty and teasing Claude became silent and demure, offering the folded kerchief and garter back to the Vicomte with downcast eyes, only glancing up once, quickly, before looking down again. Villemont was, by all appearances, enchanted and frustrated in equal part. When she disappeared inside again he looked wistfully after her, as though wishing he had accepted the offer of a cool drink in the de la Noues’ kitchen after all, even though it was hardly a fit place for a Vicomte.