The face of the mirror swirled magically, and within moments, Belle’s reflection had been replaced by an image of Maurice. With growing horror, she watched her father being dragged through the village square. Terror was etched on his face and he was calling out to someone to help him.
“Papa!” she cried. “What are they doing to him?”
The Beast had hoped to make Belle happy by showing her Maurice. Her reaction was not what he had anticipated. He peered over her shoulder, and his eyes grew wide as he, too, saw what was happening to the old man. Pain for Belle, for what was happening to her father, overcame him. Then, as Belle continued to watch her father through the mirror, the Beast’s gaze shifted to the rose jar.
Another petal dropped.
Mrs. Potts’s words echoed in his head. The feeling of Belle’s hand in his burned through him. He pictured his staff, their hopeful faces as he had finally gotten dressed for the evening. Then he looked back at Belle and saw the sorrow in her eyes. He knew this was a moment of choice. But he also knew there was no choice to be made. He had to start righting the wrongdoings that he could right.
“You must go to him,” he said, trying to keep his own pain from his voice.
Belle looked up. “What did you say?” she asked, shocked.
“You are no longer a prisoner here,” he went on. “No time to waste.”
Tears of gratitude and appreciation replaced her tears of sadness as Belle looked up at the Beast. There was so much she wanted to say. So much she needed to say. But she didn’t know where to begin. She started to return the mirror, but he shook his head.
“Keep it with you,” he said, “so you will have a way to look back on me.”
“Thank you,” Belle said in a whisper. Thank you for everything, she added silently.
And then, before she could change her mind, Belle turned and ran.
THE BEAST DIDN’T GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the expectant, hopeful faces of his staff. Instead, he walked out onto the West Wing balcony, not daring to glance at the bell jar to see how many petals were left on the enchanted rose. From there, he watched Belle race off on Philippe, heard the clanging of the castle gate as it shut behind her, listened until the sound of the horse’s hooves faded into silence as it galloped through the woods. And still he did not move. Not even as the clear sky clouded over and the air grew uncomfortably chilly. He just stood there, the increasing wind whipping at his coat, his blue eyes troubled.
His last chance was gone—for good. While they might have just shared a magical evening, he knew somehow that Belle would never return.
After a while, he returned to his room, unclasping his beautiful coat and letting it fall to the ground. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of Cogsworth’s waddle.
“Well, master,” the majordomo said, his voice chipper, “I may have had my doubts, but everything is moving like clockwork.” He smiled at his own wordplay. “True love really does win the day!”
“I let her go,” the Beast said, his tone flat. What good was delaying the inevitable? It was a large castle, true, but news spread fast. It would be better just to get it out in the open and deal with the fallout.
Cogsworth’s mouth dropped open. “You…what?”
As if on cue, Lumiere and Plumette entered the room. Mrs. Potts followed on her trolley. From the looks on their faces, the Beast could tell they had heard everything.
“Master…” Lumiere said, the flames on his candles growing dim. “How could you do that?”
“I had to,” the Beast replied simply.
“But why?” Lumiere and Cogsworth asked in unison. They were both looking at the Beast with confusion. His behavior was so odd. It was as though the Beast had suddenly become a different person.
“Because he loves her,” Mrs. Potts answered for the Beast.
Everyone turned to the teapot. Her voice was soft, her eyes sad as she looked at the Beast. His shoulders slumped, but he did not deny what Mrs. Potts had said. She was right. He did love Belle.
“Then why are we not human?” Lumiere asked, still confused.
Cogsworth, unfortunately, was no longer confused. Now he was mad. “Because she doesn’t love him!” he snapped. “And now it’s too late!”
“But she might still come back…?” Plumette suggested hopefully.
The Beast shook his head. “No. I’ve set her free.” He turned his back to the staff. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do the same for all of you,” he said, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
Then, stepping out onto his balcony, he looked at the empty stable. Belle’s leading Philippe out of the stable had been the hardest thing the Beast had ever had to witness. The pain he had felt in those first few years after the Enchantress had cursed him paled in comparison to the pain he had felt as Belle urged Philippe away. He had let his heart, which had been closed for so long, open, and the result? A deeper wound than he could bear. Because he knew the memory of Belle, like the curse, would now be with him forever.
He left the balcony and began to climb the castle’s highest turret. The wind blew against him, threatening to whip him right off the stones, but still he climbed. The menacing gusts were a welcome distraction. But even that wasn’t enough to keep images of Belle from flitting across his mind. Reaching the top of the turret, he peered through the woods, hoping for one last glimpse of her. But all he saw were trees. With a groan, he collapsed to the ground. There was no denying it any longer: she was gone for good. All he had left of her, all he would ever have of her, were memories that would fade over time, leaving him alone—and a beast—forever.
Belle urged Philippe on, her heels digging into his sides. She knew the horse was fading, but she needed to get back to Villeneuve. Her father was in danger.
At first, the woods were strange to her and all she could do was hope Philippe remembered where he was going. But soon she began to recognize familiar landmarks. A patch of blueberries here, a small pond there. As the moon rose higher in the sky, she finally burst out of the woods and into the clearing at the edge of the village. She made sure her most prized possessions—the magic mirror and a small satin pouch she’d taken from the castle—were still safely in her lap.
Then, hearing a commotion near the square, Belle steered Philippe in that direction. To her surprise, a crowd had gathered around a horse-drawn wagon, which looked like a small metal prison with its steel frame and tiny barred window. She spotted Gaston and LeFou standing nearby. Gaston looked smug, as always, while LeFou looked uncomfortable. She continued to scan the scene, and then her breath caught in her throat.
Maurice was slumped inside the wagon’s cage.
As Belle watched, Pere Robert ran up to the man locking Maurice inside—Monsieur D’Arque, the head of the town asylum. “This man is hurt!” Pere Robert said. “Please! He needs a hospital, not an asylum!”
Ignoring him, D’Arque finished his task and headed up to the driver’s perch. Gaston walked over and leaned against the wagon, seeming to whisper something to Maurice.
Belle had seen enough. That wagon wasn’t going anywhere. Kicking Philippe forward, she made her way into the middle of the crowd. “Stop!” she cried.
Her voice cut through the crowd, silencing everyone instantly. The people turned in her direction, eyes wide. Her ball gown flowed around her, the gold glitter catching the moonlight and making the dress sparkle magically. She could hear the whispers of the villagers beginning like a slow wave. Some wondered where she had come from. Others wondered if it was really her. Others muttered “that dress” with envy and awe.
Ignoring them, Belle dismounted. She kept her head high, her eyes seeking support in the crowd of villagers. She didn’t find much. Most of the villagers were eyeing her with open distrust now that their initial shock had faded. Still, there were a few friendly faces. Pere Robert was standing close by, his expression bewildered and a bit defeated. And Jean the potter was there, too, though he looked puzzled and helpless,
as usual.
Pushing down the slew of unkind words she wanted to hurl at the villagers, Belle stepped in front of the wagon. “Stop this right now!” she ordered, causing the horses to startle. She ran to the back of the wagon and peered through the locked door. Her father lay on the floor, clutching his side in pain. “Open this door! He’s hurt!”
Monsieur D’Arque climbed down from his perch. As he walked toward her, Belle couldn’t help cringing. There was something dark and cruel in his eyes, and his pale skin reminded her of the monsters in some of her stories. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, miss,” he said. “But we’ll take good care of him.” While his words were meant to sound reassuring, they came across as a threat.
“My father’s not crazy!” Belle protested. She turned and looked around the crowd, hoping for help. No one stepped forward. Finally, she turned to the one man she thought might advocate for her. “Gaston…tell him!” she pleaded.
Gaston stepped out of the shadows where he had been waiting quietly. He had been worried that Belle had witnessed his part in Maurice’s incarceration. He knew that if she had, any chance of marrying her would truly be over. But luck, as usual, was with him. She seemed completely unaware. Puffing out his chest, he put on his most sympathetic expression and walked to her. “Belle, you know how loyal I am to your family,” he said, laying on the sincerity, “but your father has been making some unbelievable claims.”
“It’s true,” Jean said. “He’s been raving about a beast in a castle.”
Belle looked back and forth between the two men. That was why Maurice was being hauled off to an asylum? She nearly laughed out loud in relief. “But I have just come from the castle,” she said quickly. “There is a beast!”
Reaching out, Gaston put a hand on her shoulder. Then he gave her a condescending smile. Ever the showman, he spoke as much to the crowd as to her. “We all admire your devotion to your father,” he said, “but you’d say anything to free him. Your word is hardly proof.”
Panic gripped Belle’s heart. She needed something to show them that she wasn’t making it up. But what? In the pocket of her dress, her hand closed around the mirror. “You want proof?” she asked. She pulled out the mirror and held it up to face the villagers. “Show me the Beast!”
Once again, the mirror face swirled magically. The reflection of the village faded away and was replaced by an image of the Beast. He sat slumped against the turret wall, the picture of dejection. “There is your proof!” Belle cried. Gaston’s face grew pale with shock.
“Well, it is hard to argue with that,” LeFou said, turning to look at his friend.
“This is sorcery!” Gaston shouted, snatching the mirror from Belle’s hand. He held it up for all the villagers to see. “Look at this beast. Look at his fangs! His claws!”
The villagers craned their necks, hoping to get a better look, then recoiled when they caught sight of the Beast. Watching their reactions, Belle bit her lip nervously. She hadn’t thought things through when she pulled out the mirror. She had been so desperate to save her father that it hadn’t occurred to her what actually seeing the Beast would do to the villagers. She hadn’t thought that they would see only the Beast’s appearance, not the man inside she had grown to care for. “No!” she cried out, trying to fix the situation. “Don’t be afraid. He is gentle and kind.”
“She is clearly under a spell,” Gaston called out, shooting Belle a look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she even cared for this monster.”
Belle felt his words like a slap across the face. After all he had done, he dared call the Beast a monster? “The Beast would never hurt anyone,” she said, turning and pleading with the villagers. They looked back at her, their expressions wary, and the unease in the pit of her stomach grew. She should have known better. The villagers loved their Gaston. He was their war hero, their unofficial leader. He was their one small claim to fame. And Belle? She was an odd girl who liked to read.
As Gaston continued to rile the villagers into a frenzy against the Beast, Belle backed away. She had lost all hope of turning the tide in her favor. Catching sight of her, Gaston shouted to three of his henchmen. “We can’t have her running off to warn the Beast,” he said. “Lock her up.”
Before she could turn and run, one of the men grabbed Belle roughly by the arm. Belle kicked and shouted, but it was no use. As Gaston called for his horse, she was dragged and tossed into the wagon cell where her father was being held. Monsieur D’Arque moved to stand guard.
Throwing his leg over his big black stallion, Gaston turned once more to the villagers. Shouts of approval rang out as he lifted his hand to the night sky. “That creature will curse us all if we don’t stop him!” he hollered, riling the villagers up further. “Well, I say we kill the Beast!”
The village erupted in bloodthirsty cries as Belle watched in horror behind the iron bars. Gaston was in his element. This was what he lived for—chaos and destruction, mindless violence. The Beast wasn’t just a scary monster to him; he was an enemy, and this was battle. As Gaston led the mob from the village, he stoked their fears until they were burning as bright and hot as the torches some of the men carried. He painted a picture of a slobbering creature that lived in the dark and shadows. A beast with razor-sharp fangs and massive paws. A monster that roared and foamed. A living nightmare that needed to be destroyed. By the time the mob had disappeared into the woods, they were carrying weapons of all shapes and sizes. Some held shovels; others seized pitchforks. A few found axes and hefted them over their shoulders. And all of them—armed or not—looked ready to follow Gaston in his wild plan to kill the Beast.
Unable to do anything else, Belle stood still, her hands clutching the iron bars. The Beast, Mrs. Potts, Lumiere…everyone she had grown to love…they were in serious danger. And it was all her fault.
INSIDE THE BEAST’S CASTLE, the staff members felt as though they were already dead. Their one hope of salvation—Belle—had fled, and now the Beast was back to brooding, the rose was still wilting, and they had no chance of reversing the curse before it was too late.
As the night had grown darker, they had gathered in the foyer, taking solace in all they had left—each other. Mrs. Potts and Chip nuzzled together on the serving trolley while Plumette rested her head on Lumiere’s shoulder. His flames had grown dim and his expression was as drawn and serious as that of Cogsworth, who stood off to the side.
“He has finally learned to love,” Lumiere said sadly, gazing toward the window that looked out on the turret where the Beast sat.
“A lot of good that does us if she doesn’t love him in return,” Cogsworth pointed out. He crossed his arms and pouted.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Potts wheeled her cart closer to the grumpy clock. “No,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve had any real hope she would.”
Cogsworth opened his mouth to make a snippy retort but was stopped by Chip. The young teacup had turned toward the door and was listening intently to something. “Did you hear that, Mama? Is it her?” he asked, jumping down from the serving trolley and hopping over to the window.
The rest of the staff rushed to join Chip at the window. They strained against the windowpane, trying to hear whatever the young teacup had heard. In the distance, they saw light from torches flash through the trees.
Lumiere’s flames erupted in excitement. “Could it be?” he asked, pushing through the other staff. It was hard to see outside through the frost that covered the window. He held up a flame, warming the window until the frost melted. Then he shouted, “Sacre bleu! Invaders!”
The others peered through the cleared window. Lumiere was right. It wasn’t Belle coming through the woods, returning to the Beast. It was a mob! And from the looks of it, a very angry mob. The villagers pushed through the castle gate and made their way across the bridge up to the colonnade. Leading the charge was a tall, broad man on a black stallion. As the staff watched, he turned and addressed the mob.
“Take whatever trea
sures you want!” he cried. “But the Beast is mine!”
The staff collectively gasped in fear. What were they going to do?
Cogsworth knew exactly what he had to do. He had to warn the Beast. Leaving the others to form a small, sad barricade at the front door, Cogsworth headed to the turret. He hopped and wobbled his way up a dozen flights of stairs and down long halls before finally waddling out onto the balcony. Peering around, he tried to spot the Beast among the stone gargoyles that lined the balcony. He finally saw him perched near the far end. His head was down, his shoulders hunched.
Cogsworth cleared his throat. “Oh, pardon me, master,” he said nervously.
“Leave me in peace,” the Beast said, not bothering to look up.
“But the castle is under attack,” Cogsworth said urgently.
The Beast still did not look up, his face cloaked in darkness. When he spoke next, his voice rippled with pain. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said sadly, finally raising his head. His piercing blue eyes were stormy and full of held-back tears. “Just let them come.”
Cogsworth had had enough. Gone was the calm, patient, loyal majordomo. He had spent too many years stuck in his clock body to have his master give up now. He had watched the Beast throw away his only chance at happiness and he had silently let him. But not anymore. Now he was going to speak his mind. “Why fight?” he snapped. “Why indeed! Why do any bloody thing at all?” Finishing, Cogsworth caught his breath and waited for the Beast to say something, anything, in return. But all he did was once again lower his head.
With a sigh, Cogsworth turned and began the long walk back to the foyer. It looked like the staff members were on their own.
“I have to warn the Beast….”
Belle looked around frantically. Her hands were clenched by her sides, and her eyes were wild as she desperately searched the small space for any means of escape. There wasn’t one. The window was too tiny—and covered by bars—and the wagon had been locked from the outside.
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