The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  A few days later he was back again. This time Marie was out in her garden, digging away happily and cosseting the seedlings that had sprung up over the last few weeks. Villemont rode up and dismounted outside the gate, begging Marie’s pardon for disturbing her.

  ‘No, do not think of it!’ Marie exclaimed, trying to wipe her hands on her apron.

  ‘It is only that Monsieur Dufour told me you had a particular wish for oranges some weeks ago,’ Villemont stammered bashfully. ‘I have a hothouse full of them, you see, but I use so few. I thought your family might accept a present of them.’ Marie smiled at the thought they were a present for her family and thanked him prettily.

  ‘We have not had such a treat for some time,’ she said gratefully. ‘Please, will you allow me to offer you a drink this time?’ When he appeared on the verge of refusing again, she held out her muddy hands and said, ‘Please, do not let my dishevelled state put you off. I will ask Claude to bring something out. What will you have, wine or ale?’ The prospect of seeing Claude again seemed to sway the young man and he assented to a draught of cool water from the well. Marie then went to call Claude, who came out looking unusually subdued again. When she emerged, Marie disappeared on the pretext of washing her hands, and the two young people were left in silence: the one trying to do his utmost to think of a way to dispel it, the other doing her utmost to avoid its being broken.

  ‘Thank you for laundering my kerchief,’ said Villemont desperately. ‘You did not have to do that.’

  ‘It was no trouble,’ murmured Claude and fell silent again.

  ‘I brought you some oranges,’ said Villemont, remembering the pretext for his visit. ‘Monsieur Dufour said your sister wanted some. That is, I thought you might like them too.’ He untied a bag from his horse’s saddle and held it out to Claude. She raised her eyes to him this time, looking quite delighted as she took them, then looked down again and bobbed an elegant little curtsey.

  ‘I thank you, sir,’ she said modestly.

  Villemont looked momentarily stunned by the beautiful smile she had turned on him as she took the oranges and stood staring at her for a few moments. Then it became apparent Claude was not going to say any more and, having discharged his purpose for coming, he could not seem to think of anything further to say either. With a frown of frustration, he bowed to Claude and asked her to pass on his adieus to her sister, then he remounted and rode off, looking back over his shoulder several times. After the second time, however, Claude had vanished into the house again and he would not have been able to spy her peeping through the window.

  Another week passed, and this time he happened upon her walking home from buying some cloth in the village. Although ‘happened upon’ is perhaps a misleading term to use. I believe he had, in fact, been riding back and forth for an hour across a particular section of the way between the cottage and the village in anticipation of her arrival.

  On seeing her he instantly sprang from his mount and made his way towards her, while she stopped in surprise and then ducked her head and walked determinedly on as though she thought he had mistaken her for someone else.

  ‘Mademoiselle de la Noue!’ he cried out. This time she did stop.

  ‘Vicomte!’ she responded. ‘Good day to you.’ And she swept into a curtsey far more elegant than one would have thought possible in plain homespun.

  ‘How do you do?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Very well, sir, and you?’ asked Claude, just as politely.

  ‘Yes, very well, thank you,’ he replied and I feared the conversation had come to an end. There were, indeed, several long moments of silence.

  ‘Well …’ began Claude, clearly preparing her exit. This inspired Villemont to speak.

  ‘I give a dance for the village every summer,’ he burst out, ‘and it is to be held next month. Will you come?’

  Claude looked quite startled. ‘A dance?’ she said, then remembered to be reticent. ‘I thank you, sir,’ she said demurely, ‘but I do not know if I can. My father does not go out into society much and my sister …’ She stopped, clearly trying to think of some way in which Marie might prevent her from attending.

  ‘Your sister?’ asked Villemont, in puzzlement. ‘No, she must come too. René Dufour is quite counting upon it. And it may be just what your father needs. He is too hard upon himself. Think of the good it would do him to see his daughters dancing and happy. Please, will you come?’

  ‘Well,’ said Claude uncertainly, clearly unprepared for his urging. But, confronted with the great benefits it would have for the happiness of both her sister and father, she began to be swayed. ‘I will speak to Father,’ she conceded.

  ‘Splendid!’ he cried, then he sobered and swallowed visibly. ‘And, may I ask, if it is not too presumptuous, if you come, would you be so good as to – that is, I would particularly like to dance with you. Would you dance with me?’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Claude, looking down at the ground again, her cheeks growing pink.

  ‘I am honoured,’ said Villemont, bowing low. Claude curtsied again and bid him good day, hurrying away clutching her basket. Villemont stood in the shaded lane watching her go. When she had vanished from his view, he leaped into his saddle and, to my amusement, let out a whoop and galloped off towards the village.

  The mirror now showed me Claude, almost running in her haste to be home. I watched her rush along the muddy track across the field to the cottage. Marie, who now spent almost all her daylight hours in her formative garden, also watched Claude’s hurried approach, putting down her tools and going to stand by the gate, her face showing the beginnings of alarm.

  ‘Claude!’ she cried, when her sister was only twenty yards or so from their gate. ‘Claude, what is it? What is wrong?’

  ‘Oh, Marie,’ gasped Claude, clearly distressed and out of breath, ‘Marie, what shall I do?’

  ‘What? What has happened?’ cried Marie, growing more concerned.

  ‘The Vicomte de Villemont!’ wailed Claude. ‘He is giving a dance, he wants us to go! He has asked me to dance with him!’

  Marie’s mouth dropped open. It was a few moments before she spoke. Her voice, when it came, was grown calmer and now hovered somewhere between irritation and amusement.

  ‘I can see your great calamity,’ she said wryly. ‘A handsome, rich, young nobleman of unexceptionable character has expressed a clear interest in you. We must flee the country at once.’

  ‘Marie!’ shrieked Claude. ‘I have nothing to wear!’ And she stormed past Marie into the house, pausing only long enough to wrench off her muddy boots. Marie stared after her in amazement, then raised her eyes to the sky in exasperation. She took a deep breath, and when she had composed herself she turned sharply on her heel and followed her sister inside.

  Claude was at the kitchen table, her head buried in her arms. Marie entered quietly and rinsed her hands in a bowl of water, then dried them, watching Claude’s bowed head. When she finished she went and sat on the bench next to Claude and placed her hands gently on her sister’s shoulders.

  ‘Claude,’ she murmured, ‘please forgive me. It was very wrong of me to tease you just now.’

  Claude gave a great shuddering sob and lifted her tear-stained face. Almost straight away she buried it on Marie’s shoulder and gave another sob.

  ‘Claude!’ chided Marie, starting to look worried. ‘Please, don’t cry so!’

  Claude cried into Marie’s shoulder for a few more minutes, then managed to sit up, a little quieter, and dab at her eyes.

  ‘Now,’ said Marie, firmly, ‘please, Claude, you cannot be this upset over not having a dress for the dance. We have the Beast’s finery, after all. It may not be exactly suitable, but we can alter it. What is it that troubles you, really?’

  Claude sniffed and new tears welled up.

  ‘I hardly know,’ she said unevenly. ‘It is as you say. He is kind and thoughtful, everyone speaks well of him …’ She paused uncomfortably. ‘And he is handsome enough,’ she
said defensively, ‘and most assuredly rich. Why do I feel like running away when I see him?’

  Marie frowned. ‘Do you not like him?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no! It is not that.’ She looked beseechingly at Marie.

  ‘I will never tease you about him again,’ said Marie solemnly. ‘And at your word, his name will never pass my lips in your presence again.’

  Claude relaxed a little.

  ‘I don’t ask that,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is, I do think of him sometimes. And I do think him very handsome.’ Another tear found its way past her lashes. ‘I might like him, but I’m so afraid!’ She gasped again and covered her face with her hands. Marie wrapped her arms around her sister and held her close.

  ‘Little Claude,’ she murmured. ‘My poor darling.’ After a time Claude’s shoulders stopped shaking and Marie took Claude’s hands from her face and looked directly into her eyes.

  ‘Here is what you must do,’ she said. ‘If you think it will be too difficult for you, then I will do it, if you like. At the dance – or before – you must tell him about Gilles. You must tell him you are not yet ready to lose yourself to another. You must tell him he must be patient and wait for you.’

  Claude looked up at Marie, her eyes wide and fearful.

  ‘But would that not be presumptuous?’ she stammered.

  ‘Sister,’ said Marie, more serious than ever, ‘the Vicomte is an honest man. If he has particularly asked you to dance with him, he has declared his interest. You must be honest with him. And so I counsel you, if you do not think he can win your heart, do not give him false hope. Tell him you wish only to be his friend. He is an honourable man. He cannot fault you for that.’

  The mirror grew dim at this point, then returned to reflecting the scene of my study. I was conscious of feeling a certain resentment towards the mirror. Why did I witness that scene? What lesson was I to take from it? On the one hand, Villemont’s active pursuit of Claude inspired me. It had won him a place in her thoughts, at least, if not yet her heart. But she seemed well disposed towards him and I could only think that once the doubts sown by the faithless Gilles were overcome, he would rapidly gain her heart as well.

  On the other hand, as Marie had so clearly pointed out, it was impossible for Claude to enter into another romance at this time. She was still bruised from the broken engagement and if Villemont truly wanted to win her, he would have to give her time to heal first.

  Isabeau had no heart wound I knew of, but surely the obstacle of my hideousness could only be overcome with time.

  Time. Again, time. Alone, it had been mine in abundance. Isabeau had promised me just one short year. And so many weeks had now slipped past while I stood by, pining for her from the shadows. I did not have time. When she had walked out that morning she had looked thinner than ever, and her movements were slow, as though she were in pain, or very tired. Whatever was troubling her would be the end of her. The very thought filled me with horror. And I was not the only one who loved her and would be distraught at her destruction. What of her family? Her father, surely, would die of guilt and grief.

  I vacillated for a few more days. Should I take my inspiration from Villemont, and pursue a course of action? Or should I follow Marie’s counsel and give her time? As I wavered, long rents appeared in the drapes at my bedroom windows, and whenever I sat at my desk, I had to brush it free of a scattering of mouse dirt and dead moths.

  In the end, as I said, I chose the Vicomte’s way. As for Marie’s wise words, I told myself if I truly thought that in time Isabeau might come to accept my awful countenance and my suit, then she must spend time with me. She would not grow to love me if she never saw me, never spoke to me.

  Chapter XXIV

  So, one morning, as Isabeau left her room, I waited for her by the foot of the grand staircase. I watched her descend, slowly and haltingly, so absorbed in whatever troubled her, she did not notice me until she was nearly at the bottom.

  ‘Isabeau,’ I said softly, holding her cloak out to her. She stopped in surprise, clutching the railing.

  ‘Beast!’ she gasped.

  ‘Our paths have not crossed for so long,’ I said. ‘I miss your company and your music. Will you not allow me to accompany you today? Even if only for a short while?’ But my heart shrank within me at the look on her face. It was almost as though somewhere behind her eyes she was drawing away from me, closing me out of her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Beast,’ she replied woodenly. ‘I really would prefer to be alone.’

  ‘Please?’ I begged, and I could not help the note of desperation that crept into my voice. ‘Will you not talk to me for just a few minutes? You look so ill, it pains me to see you this way. I beg you to tell me what has upset you!’

  ‘Beast,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘You will suffocate me with your solicitude. I just want some peace.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, holding out her cloak. ‘Forgive me. Perhaps later.’ She took the cloak with unwilling fingers and trudged out of the hall. I stayed until she returned, looking weary and not at all at peace. When she saw me again, however, a frown of exasperation crossed her face.

  ‘Not now, Beast,’ she snapped at me, pushing past me up the stairs. I watched her go with dismay. This was not going to be easy. But her ill looks strengthened my resolve. I would pester her to speak to me, walk with me, eat with me, something. Until there was some change to her health, until I saw her happy and hale again, or at least on her way, I would dog her footsteps like the faithful animal I was.

  So I lurked. Pacing in the entrance hall, wandering listlessly through the library, prowling down the portrait gallery. I couldn’t sit still, I had to move. But, wherever I went, I remained alert to any stirring that would signal another opportunity to speak to her.

  That afternoon she stayed in her room. I’m not sure if she slept again or not, but her door remained closed as I roved over the house, seeing new signs of decrepitude wherever I looked and trying to think of what might tempt her to become herself again. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, turning the light a deep bronze and lengthening the shadows of the yews outside, when she again emerged. From across the other side of the house I heard her door open. This time she moved quickly and her destination soon became apparent. She was going up to the attic again.

  I met her on the third floor. My heart lurched to see her, she was so clearly distraught. Her hair was disordered, her eyes red and her face streaked with tears. She had her skirts gathered up and she was almost running. When she saw me she gasped and stared at me in consternation.

  ‘Isabeau, won’t you tell me what ails you?’ I cried, stepping forward. I put a hand out towards her to stay her flight, but she brushed it away angrily.

  ‘Not now!’ she cried out. ‘I must …’ But what she must do I never knew, for she fled away from me down the corridor. I heard a distant door slam and knew she had taken the stairs up to the attic. There was nothing else to do but wait. So I sat by the bottom stair where I knew she must come down and contemplated the large holes forming in the threadbare carpet.

  By the time I heard her subdued steps upon the narrow stairs, the sun had long gone, and the crescent moon ruled alone in the sky, winking at me through the cracked window at the end of the hall. I got up stiffly from my lowly seat and went and leaned wearily on the opposite wall. Eventually the door pushed open and Isabeau emerged. She stopped again when she saw me, but the sight of me did not alarm her as it had before.

  ‘Beast …’ she said, in a broken little voice. But she stopped there and it did not seem as if she had any more to say. Slowly I straightened up and went over to her. I gently took her arm and began to bring her away. We walked in silence down the corridor.

  I took her to her rooms, but did not leave her at the door. Instead I took her into her private sitting room and sat her in an easy chair by the fire. A tray with a bowl of warm broth and some fresh bread was waiting. I placed it on her lap and hunker
ed down beside the chair.

  ‘Eat,’ I said. She looked as though she might refuse, but I said, ‘Eat!’ again, more firmly and she took up her spoon. When she had taken several mouthfuls, I had thought of what I wanted to say.

  ‘Isabeau,’ I began, ‘I don’t know what is troubling you. And I am not asking you for confidences you are not willing to give. But, please, I am your friend.’

  Isabeau put down her spoon and looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ I went on, ‘it is making you ill. You are not eating, you are not sleeping, and I have not spoken to you for two weeks together. I miss you. You can impute me with wholly selfish motives for wishing you well. I have no one else in this lonely place. But I care for you and I want to see you better for yourself.

  ‘And if you cannot exert yourself for your own sake, or for mine, think of your family. They could not bear the loss of you a second time.’ I stopped. I had reached the end of my selflessness. I really could not speak of her going home to them without sacrificing my composure.

  Perhaps it was the thought of her family, but her tears overflowed and she lowered her face to stare at the bowl on her lap.

  ‘Eat,’ I reminded her, determined to stay at least until I had seen the bowl empty. She gave a little hiccoughing sob and took up her spoon again.

  Although my heart still hurt to look upon her, I felt a little better. She was eating. And even though she had not said a word to me since she came down from the attic, her face was no longer closed to me.