The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  ‘For now it is summer, I simply cannot use them all,’ he insisted, handing it to her as she blushed.

  I am happy to say there was no want of conversation on this occasion and it was only as they were drawing close to the hill over which the cottage lay, when the Vicomte suddenly said, ‘Stay! I had forgotten!’

  ‘What?’ asked Claude, her face glowing and a curl of hair, dislodged during her walk, lying most becomingly across her cheek.

  ‘I meant to ask – that is, I do not know if you overheard me mention to your father I wished to consult with him on a matter of business?’ Henri asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Claude.

  ‘I had a man who managed certain interests for me,’ Henri explained. ‘One Monsieur Beuatin. However, he sadly passed away some weeks ago and I was wondering if your father might favour me with some advice?’

  Claude opened her eyes wide in surprise. ‘I do not know,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I mean, I am sure—’ She stopped.

  Henri looked at her, his face also uncertain. ‘I confess,’ he said tentatively, ‘I made some enquiries as to his reputation and I am assured your father can provide me with the counsel I need. I must tell you I heard nothing but good about him.’

  Claude’s face brightened at this reassurance.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She dropped her eyes to the ground. ‘I understand our current straightened circumstances are as a result of Father insisting on meeting his commitments.’

  Henri nodded sympathetically, a warm light in his eyes.

  ‘Do you think it would be convenient,’ he said, ‘if I were to call on Monsieur de la Noue tomorrow? At about ten o’clock, perhaps?’

  ‘I do not believe he has any engagements,’ answered Claude. ‘If by some chance he does, I can leave word at the Crossed Keys.’

  Henri nodded. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ he said, bowing elegantly. Claude gave him her hand and dropped a neat little curtsey, and they parted. This time Claude did not seem to mind when he stayed to watch her over the hill, or, indeed, that he was able to witness the several shy glances she cast over her shoulder at him as she went.

  Claude did not tell her father about the Vicomte’s request to meet with him when she arrived home. Rather, she waited until the evening when Marie returned, driven home by René Dufour. The moment she heard the wheels of Dufour’s cart she ran out to the gate, and after waiting decorously until her sister’s goodbyes were done, she hurriedly explained the Vicomte’s request, before the two of them reached the front door. Marie halted on the path and turned to Claude.

  ‘Indeed?’ she asked in some surprise. ‘This may be just what he needs!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Claude, ‘but will he consent to it? I think it a perfectly wonderful idea myself, but Papa’s confidence is so shattered.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie thoughtfully, her face grave. She stood in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Oh, do say you can think of a way to manage him,’ pleaded Claude fretfully.

  ‘I think I may have a way,’ said Marie slowly. She gave Claude a sharp look. ‘Can you bear the indignity of my mentioning the Vicomte’s interest in you to Papa?’

  Claude bit her lip, but nodded.

  ‘Then leave it to me,’ said Marie, more firmly now. ‘And I suppose,’ she added, adopting a resigned demeanour, ‘I will have to concoct some sort of delicacy fit for offering to his Excellency by way of refreshment.’

  ‘Oh, I was so hoping you would agree to that,’ confessed Claude, as the two of them went arm in arm into the house.

  The next day the Vicomte de Villemont arrived faithfully at the de la Noues’ cottage. This time, however, instead of having to wait for a glimpse of Claude, it was she who came out to greet him and open the little wicket gate.

  ‘Vicomte,’ she said shyly as he dismounted and led his horse through into their small front yard. He bowed, and she curtsied, and then they stood there for a moment, he looking delighted, she looking charming. It took a moment for Villemont to realise he was staring, at which point he recovered himself and looked about for somewhere to tie up his horse. This done, he followed Claude into the cottage.

  The Vicomte was a tall man and had to stoop a little to enter the doorway into the de la Noues’ parlour, which lent his demeanour something more than his usual air of self-effacement. But Monsieur de la Noue, who appeared to be thoroughly overcome at the thought of the Vicomte coming to wait upon him, was so deferential in his welcome, it fell to Villemont to take charge of the pleasantries, otherwise the conversation would have stalled entirely.

  Once her father and Villemont had shaken hands, Claude very prettily asked if she could fetch them some refreshment. It looked as though Villemont might decline on account of it being any trouble whatsoever, but Monsieur de la Noue at last seemed to recall what it meant to be a host.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said firmly to Claude. ‘That would be kind. Sir, what will you have? Wine or ale?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Vicomte, caught between not wanting to draw unnecessarily on his host’s scant resources and not wanting to offend.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion,’ said Claude, ‘Madame Minou’s brother has been so kind as to stock our cellar with a dozen or so bottles from his own vineyard. It is very good wine.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Villemont, looking pleased. ‘Well, that would be lovely, thank you.’

  With Claude absent, the two men spoke briefly about mundane things such as the warming summer and Villemont’s own local farming concerns. Then Claude returned with the wine and some slices of cake she pressed upon the Vicomte.

  ‘You must, for it is made with your own oranges,’ she said, smiling. Of course, Henri accepted and was even happy to own it very good cake indeed. When Claude had left the room again, Monsieur de la Noue bid Villemont to a seat.

  ‘You said you wished to consult with me on some matter?’ he asked uncertainly. The Vicomte was silent for a few moments as he finished his mouthful, then he cleared his throat.

  ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I have a business proposition to make to you.’

  Monsieur de la Noue’s look of curiosity and concern gave way to one of surprise.

  ‘I have recently had the misfortune to lose an old friend who I was in the habit of going to for business advice of a certain nature,’ the Vicomte continued. ‘His son has now taken over his legal practice, and is very capable in his way, but himself owns he does not have the depth of experience his father had in these matters. The advice I require relates to investments I have abroad, and I understand you have considerable experience in these matters.’

  Monsieur de la Noue, who had been staring at Villemont incredulously, was overcome by a fit of coughing. He turned away for a moment, until he was able to catch his breath.

  ‘Vicomte,’ said Monsieur de la Noue when he was able to speak at last, clearly trying to keep the bitterness from his voice, ‘I thank you for your compassion towards a man in my reduced circumstances, but you can see for yourself what all my experience and knowledge has brought me to.’

  ‘Sir,’ countered Villemont, ‘I understood your misfortunes were largely of a nature that was beyond your own control.’

  ‘Again, I thank you,’ said Monsieur de la Noue, ‘and I can honestly say that was the case. However, I do not hold myself blameless.’ He coughed again and took a drink from the cup Claude had poured for him.

  ‘Here is my proposal,’ said Villemont, leaning forward in his chair, an expression of the utmost seriousness on his face. ‘Will you come and consult with me, Tuesday next, and give me your advice? I will then consult with Monsieur Beautin before I decide to take it. If I take it and it proves good, I will then pay you at your terms. Then we may discuss doing business again. Will you agree to that?’ He rose and approached Monsieur de la Noue, holding out his hand.

  ‘I will agree,’ said Monsieur de la Noue, also rising and still looking faintly bewildered, ‘with one addition. You only pay my terms if you find them fa
ir and reasonable.’

  ‘I am confident of finding them so,’ said Villemont, grasping Monsieur de la Noue’s hand and shaking it firmly.

  I did not see the following meeting between Villemont and Isabeau’s father, as it occurred in the afternoon, and as usual I was occupied with reading to Isabeau. But it seemed each of them was pleased with the outcome, for, not a fortnight later, Monsieur de la Noue was again called to attend the Vicomte. And a week later he was summoned a third time. After that, Isabeau’s father and Villemont must have come to some arrangement, for every Tuesday morning, promptly at ten, a carriage would arrive at the de la Noues’ door and Monsieur de la Noue would enter it and leave the cottage to go and meet with Villemont.

  This new enterprise was treated with some suppressed joy by his daughters, who – in his absence – danced for joy in their kitchen the day the carriage first arrived to collect him. When he returned from that meeting carrying a purse full of the Vicomte’s gold, Marie had to take herself off to her bedroom, she was so overcome with tears of joy.

  And so the summer passed away in a sort of happy dream. Isabeau and I were on the best of terms and, discounting any concern for Isabeau herself, her sisters were each in a fair way to finding their own personal fulfilment. Even her father seemed better placed to regain his shattered confidence than ever before. But the year marched on and all too soon the days began to grow shorter and the flowers in my summer gardens began to fade. At the same time, my autumn grove, which had become a verdant, shaded shelter from the summer heat, began to show hints of gold and vermillion once more.

  I had never felt the turn of the season to be less welcome than it was that year. There was nothing that served as such a sharp reminder that my time with Isabeau was coming to an end, as the reversion of my magical summer paradise to the natural cycle of the seasons. Autumn was here. Winter was on its way.

  Chapter XXX

  It was no easy task to contain the desperation that surged in my heart each time Isabeau cast down her eyes and told me ‘No’, she could not be my wife. I tried very hard not to let my sadness colour my demeanour towards her. But then something occurred that, ironically enough, resulted in somewhat lowered spirits for us both. I say it was ironic, for this event, of itself, was reason for much joy for Isabeau’s family and anyone that loved them.

  The day on which it occurred began to sour early. After Isabeau played to me in the music room, she left for her walk. But she returned early, on account of the weather, which that morning was cold and grey. The heavy clouds were as good as their promise and sent down a chill shower Isabeau was forced to escape by running back indoors with her shawl over her head. So I did not get to see her pass under my window as usual. It made me realise I had been neglecting the enchantments controlling the climate in my gardens. But, even as I tried to send the shower away, I found this part of the magic had grown vague and elusive. Eventually I gave up in irritation.

  The summer marquee had been taken down some weeks earlier and while we still went to the orchard some afternoons to sit and read under trees heavy with apples, today was so dreary there was no question of conducting our usual afternoon activities anywhere but the library. However, when I went to meet her there, instead of finding her busy with arranging leaves and flowers for drawing, I found her standing by the window, looking pensively out at the far-off treetops of the forest, visible over the hedge. She did not hear me come in and it was not until I came to stand beside her that she noticed I was there. Many of the forest trees were already in the full panoply of autumn splendour; some, indeed, were already starting to lose their topmost leaves. Most of the green now to be seen on the other side of my hedge was that of the evergreen trees. Tall, sombre spikes that would provide the only hint of colour out there once the snows fell.

  For a moment, as I looked at Isabeau staring out at the trees, I thought perhaps the advancing of the season was as little welcome to her as it was to me. Then she turned and saw me and a shadow of such guilty sorrow passed across her face, I realised she must have been thinking of her family and how long it was since she had seen them. And perhaps counting how many weeks it would be until she could be with them once more.

  She didn’t draw that day, but chose to curl up in a chair close by as I read to her. After a while, I looked up to see her staring at me, her chin in her hand. She smiled as my eyes met hers, as though she had been waiting for me to pause, so I laid the book aside.

  ‘This is very pleasant, Beast, is it not?’ she asked a little wistfully.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied.

  ‘So why is it I am so grey and out of sorts today?’ she asked.

  ‘The weather?’ I suggested.

  She sighed. ‘Is it always so temperamental here, in autumn?’ she asked. ‘Last year at the cottage the weather was quite glorious, I remember. It grew cold, but the sun was still warm.’

  ‘I hardly know,’ I confessed. ‘I have not had a true autumn here for so long. Parts of my gardens have lived in autumn the year around, but I wouldn’t think the weather they experienced was necessarily representative of the natural climate here.’

  Isabeau frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that’s true. The gardens were quite different when I came here. Why did you change them?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. ‘They have themselves slipped back into the natural way of things.’

  ‘Now why would they do that?’ Isabeau mused.

  Because you came, I wanted to say, but my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth.

  ‘Do you not like them this way?’ I asked after a moment, trying to direct the conversation to subjects I could actually discuss. Isabeau looked thoughtful again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I think I do. The strangeness of it all was very pretty when I arrived. But I think I am more comfortable with gardens that flower and fruit and change in the more ordinary way.’

  ‘Well, there you have it,’ I said. ‘If that is what you prefer, then of course my gardens will have changed to accommodate you.’

  ‘I see,’ said Isabeau, sinking back into her chair. It seemed for a moment she was about to ask me something else, but she remained silent.

  Perhaps, I thought, she was going to ask if I will rearrange things when she is gone.

  We met again at the usual time for dinner. This time, however, when the meal ended, her eyes were brighter than usual and I saw her blink several times. Could she be crying? I wondered. I forbore to press my blighted suit and humbly asked if she would favour me with her company in the library instead. But this time, she declined.

  ‘I am sorry, Beast,’ she said, ‘but I have something of a headache tonight. Would you mind very much if I went straight to bed?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said gallantly. ‘May I walk you to the stairs?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and put her slender hand confidently upon my hairy, black paw. I stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her ascend, then wandered despondently to my study.

  I had not looked in upon Isabeau’s family at this time of day for many weeks now, but it was an attractive proposition compared to the alternative of sitting and contemplating my solitude for the remainder of the evening.

  I pushed aside the drape covering the mirror and was greeted with the sight of Isabeau’s family sitting down at their kitchen table, having just finished their dinner. René Dufour was again there as their guest.

  ‘That was excellent,’ said Dufour seriously. ‘I never eat so well as when I come here.’

  Marie laughed. ‘Do not let your sister hear you say such things!’ she warned, but her face was pink and she looked well pleased with his compliment.

  ‘She has said herself her cooking is not equal to yours,’ said Dufour, smiling at Marie.

  ‘Oh, stop!’ she said, blushing even more. ‘Will you gentlemen take your ease in the parlour?’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Monsieur de la Noue, rising slowly.


  ‘Will there be mulled wine?’ asked Dufour, a twinkle in his eye.

  Marie rolled her eyes at him and Claude hid a small, satisfied smile behind her hand.

  ‘I only ask because it is grown so cold now!’ cried Dufour in defence. Then he turned his knowing smile on Claude.

  ‘And if I am not mistaken, those are the Vicomte’s oranges there, on the sill, and I know what wizardry your sister can do with those, mademoiselle.’

  There was indeed a bowl on the sill with three oranges in it. I smiled to myself. At this season Villemont could hardly still be using the excuse his poor trees were groaning under the weight of excess fruit he could not use.

  ‘The same wizardry she can turn upon an entire barrelful of apples, I suppose,’ returned Claude. And now it was Dufour’s turn to look abashed and I saw a bowl on the table brimming with crisp, red apples, and beside it a dish containing the remains of a pie.

  ‘Go and sit,’ said Marie, flapping her hands. ‘I will bring the wine.’

  Dufour and Isabeau’s father retired to the parlour, while Marie and Claude cleared the kitchen, each pair talking together with the ease of familiarity. Eventually Marie went in with the wine to set it to warm by the fire, and Claude soon followed. I noticed another chair had been added to the scanty collection of parlour furniture, which meant Marie could now eschew the stool and sit by Dufour in relative comfort. Claude still elected to take her seat by the window where the lamp was, so she could do her needlework.

  They sat and talked and drank Marie’s wine when it was ready, until at last Dufour rose from his chair, saying he had to go. Claude and Monsieur de la Noue said their goodbyes there in the parlour, but Marie went to hold the lamp while Dufour readied his cart.

  Just before he climbed up on to the driver’s bench, he turned to Marie, his face resolute.