Beauty and the Beast Novelization

by Disney Writers

  Copyright © 2017 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-00224-0

  disneybooks.com

  disneybooks.com/beautyandthebeast

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Epilogue

  AS ALL FAIRY TALES DO, this story begins with the simplest of words: once upon a time….But that is where our story, a different type of fairy tale, takes a turn. For this is not just the tale of a beautiful maiden and a handsome prince—although, in truth, the lady is lovely and the prince can indeed be charming. This is a tale of a beauty much deeper than that. It is the story of two people drawn together under the most interesting of circumstances, two people who learn to truly see what matters only after they meet each other and their tale—one both as old as time and as fresh as a rose—begins.

  So our story starts, once upon a time, in the hidden heart of France….

  THE PRINCE SCOWLED. HE FACED a pair of heavy gilded doors that were shut to him. From beyond, he could hear music and laughter. The party, his party, had already begun. Crystal clinked as guests toasted the night and wandered about the ornate ballroom, their eyes no doubt widening as they took in the hundreds of priceless objects that lined the walls. Beautiful vases, detailed portraits of faraway places, rich tapestries, and solid-gold serving plates were just a few of the many items. And they all paled in comparison to the beauty of the guests themselves. For the Prince did not invite just anyone to his parties. He invited only those he deemed beautiful enough to be in his presence. So they came from all over the world, each one as much on display as the inanimate objects in the room.

  Standing in front of the closed doors, the Prince barely noticed the servants as they bustled about him, nervously putting the finishing touches on his costume. His majordomo hovered nearby, pocket watch in hand. The stuffy older man hated the Prince’s utter lack of respect for time. In turn, the Prince took great pleasure in wasting the majordomo’s. A maid stood next to the Prince, a feather brush in her hand. Gingerly, she painted a white line on the young man’s face. The paint glided onto his smooth, flawless skin with ease. Finished, the maid pulled back her hand and cocked her head to the side as she took in her work.

  The mask had taken hours to paint, and it showed. It was exquisite. The Prince’s face had been transformed by the pale veil of paint. No detail had been spared, down to the faintest tracings of gold feathering and blue accents around his eyes and the dusting of rouge that sharpened his already striking cheekbones. Matching the latest fashion, two beauty marks had been perfectly placed—one beneath his right eye and one above his crimson lips. Underneath the masquerade makeup, the Prince’s blue eyes shone coolly.

  Stepping back, the maid waited as the head valet draped a long jeweled coat over the Prince’s shoulders and then carefully inspected it to make sure not one jewel was out of place. Satisfied, he nodded at the maid, who then dusted the Prince’s wig with powder. Then both bowed and waited with bated breath for the Prince to act.

  Lifting one gloved hand, the Prince gave a single haughty wave. Instantly, a footman appeared. “More light,” the Prince ordered.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the footman said, turning and reaching for the candelabrum placed nearby. He lifted it so it illuminated the Prince’s face.

  The Prince held a small mirror. It was silver, with flourishes along the back and a delicate handle. In his large hands, the mirror looked tiny and incredibly fragile. Holding it up so he could see his face, the Prince preened. He turned left, then right, then left again before looking straight on at his reflection. He nodded once, and then, as though it were only a dishrag, the Prince dropped the mirror.

  The maid, who had nearly fainted in relief at the Prince’s nod of approval, gasped as the mirror began to fall. Not even bothering to turn at the noise, the Prince had the majordomo open the doors to the ballroom. As he entered, the footman lunged forward, catching the mirror just before it hit the floor. The servants let out a collective sigh as the doors swung shut behind the Prince. For the next few hours they would be able to relax, out of sight of their cruel, spoiled, and unkind master.

  Unaware of his servants’ thoughts, or perhaps aware but unconcerned, the Prince made his way across the ballroom. It was a sea of white—per his invitation. Many of the guests were hard to distinguish, save their masks. The result was enchanting. His mouth remained pulled down, however, and his solemn expression did not indicate any pleasure at seeing such beauty in his castle. He never allowed others to see if he felt joy or pain. It afforded him a sense of mystery, which he enjoyed immensely. As he walked, he heard the whispers of young women wondering excitedly if this would be the night he singled them out for a dance. A smug smile tugged at his lips, but he tamped it down and continued on his way.

  Pushing through a circle of eligible maidens and their chaperones, the Prince arrived at his throne. It was raised above the ballroom floor, allowing him the best spot from which to view the party. Like everything else in the room, the throne was decadent in its design. A huge majestic coat of arms dominated the seat, making it clear, if it weren’t already, whose throne it was. Standing beside it, the Prince turned and stared out at the ballroom. He watched a small animated man sit at the grand harpsichord across the room. The Prince locked eyes with the man, who smiled kindly in return, flashing teeth that had seen better days. The Prince grimaced but nodded. This was, after all, the premier Italian maestro. He and his wife, the elegant operatic diva who stood beside him, were known the world over for their sound. They were, simply put, the best. Because of that, the Prince had needed to have them at his ball.

  With the Prince’s nod, the maestro began to play and the diva began to sing, her voice filling the ballroom. The Prince strode out onto the floor and started to dance. His moves were smooth and practiced, honed from years of training. Around him, ladies moved in reverse to the Prince, their dancing equally well practiced and smooth. Yet somehow they paled in comparison to him. His presence was bigger than the ballroom, his looks more beautiful, his coldness more chilling than the wind and rain that howled outside.

  The diva’s voice had just swelled to an almost painful note when, suddenly, above the music and over the wind, the Prince heard the unmistakable sound of someone knocking at the door that led out to the gardens. He lifted his hand, and the music came to an abrupt stop.

  The knock came again. For a moment, no one moved. And then all the windows blew open, followed by the door. Rain billowed into the ballroom, and a strong wind caused the candles in the sconces along the walls to flicker and go out. The ballroom was plunged into darkness, and the Prince heard his guests begin to mutter nervously. In the remaining light from the candelabra on the tables, the Prince watched with a mixture of anger and curiosity as a hooded figure entered through the open door. The stranger was hunched
over, clutching a gnarled cane with a shaking hand. The visitor moved out of the cold and into the warmth of the ballroom. As the door shut, the hooded figure sighed audibly, clearly happy to be somewhere he—or she—seemed to think was safe and inviting.

  That couldn’t have been more wrong.

  His initial shock fading, the Prince felt rage well up inside him. Grabbing a candelabrum from a nearby table, he stormed through the crowd, pushing people out of his path. By the time he arrived at the door, his face was red, despite the layers of face paint. He noticed that the uninvited guest was an old beggar woman. Hunched as she was, the Prince towered over her.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded with a snarl.

  The old woman looked up at him with hope in her eyes. Holding out a single red rose, she said in no more than a whisper, “I’m seeking shelter from the bitter storm outside.” As if on cue, the wind rose to a fever pitch, howling like a mad beast.

  The Prince remained unmoved.

  He did not care if the woman was cold and wet. She was haggard, old, and a vagrant. And worse still, she was ruining his ball. Another wave of red-hot anger washed over him as he saw the ugliness amid all the beauty he had so carefully and painstakingly created. “Get out!” he sneered, waving her away with his hand. “Get out now. You do not belong here.” He gestured around the room at the elegantly dressed guests.

  “Please,” the old woman begged. “I am only asking for shelter for one night. I will not even stay in the ballroom.”

  The Prince’s frown deepened. “Don’t you see, old woman? This is a place of beauty,” he said, his voice cold. “You are too ugly for my castle. For my world. For me.” The woman seemed to shrink as the Prince’s words tore into her, but the Prince did not appear to have any remorse. Signaling to his majordomo and the head footman, he ordered the woman escorted out.

  “You should not be deceived by appearances,” the woman said as the two servants approached. “Beauty is found within….”

  The Prince threw back his head and laughed cruelly. “Say what you will, hag. But we all know what beautiful looks like—and it is not you. Now go!”

  Turning, the Prince moved to leave. But a gasp from his guests gave him pause. As he looked over his shoulder, his eyes grew wide. Something was happening to the old woman. Her dirty cape and hood seemed to engulf her in a cocoon of sorts until she all but disappeared. Then a flash of light erupted, blinding him.

  When his vision cleared, the old beggar was gone. In her place was the most beautiful woman the Prince had ever seen. She was floating above him, emitting a dazzling golden light not unlike the sun’s. Instantly, the Prince knew exactly what she was, for he had read about such things. She was an enchantress—a woman of magic who had put him to a test.

  And he had failed.

  Falling to his knees, the Prince held up his hands. “Please,” he said, now the one to beg. “I’m sorry, Enchantress. You are welcome in my castle for as long as you like.”

  The Enchantress shook her head. She had seen enough to know that it was a hollow apology. The Prince had no kindness or love in his heart. Magic coursed through her and then washed over the Prince.

  The transformation began instantly. The Prince’s body was racked with pain. His back arched and he groaned as his body began to grow. His jewelry popped off. His clothes ripped. The surrounding guests screamed at the sight of their host and fled. The Prince reached up, trying to grasp a nearby man’s hand, but to his horror, he discovered his own hand resembled that of a monster. The man jumped away and made his escape, along with the others.

  Amid it all, the Enchantress calmly watched her punishment take effect. Soon the ballroom was empty save for the staff, the entertainers, and a lone dog that belonged to the diva. As they looked on in shock, the Prince’s transformation became complete. Where once there had towered a handsome man now cowered a hideous beast. But he was not the only one to have transformed. The rest of the castle and its inhabitants no longer looked the same. They, too, had changed….

  The days bled into years, and the Prince and his servants were forgotten by the world until, finally, the enchanted castle stood isolated and locked in perpetual winter. The Enchantress erased all memory of the castle and those who were in it, even from the minds of the people who loved them.

  But there did remain one last bit of hope: the rose she had offered the Prince was truly an enchanted rose. If the Prince could learn to love another and earn that person’s love in return by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast forever.

  BELLE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR of her cottage. Taking in the picture-perfect pastoral scene in front of her, she sighed. Morning in the small village of Villeneuve began the same way each day. At least it had for as long as Belle had lived there.

  The sun would rise slowly over the horizon, its rays turning the fields that surrounded the village more green or gold or white, depending on the season. Then the rays would move along until they touched the whitewashed sides of Belle’s cottage, which stood right on the outskirts of the village, before finally illuminating the thatched roofs of the homes and shops that made up the village itself. By the time that happened, the villagers themselves would be stirring, preparing for the day. Inside their homes, men would sit down for their morning meals while the women readied the children or finished stirring the porridge. The village would be hushed, as though still shaking off sleep.

  Then the clock on the church would strike eight.

  And just like that, the village would come alive.

  Belle had watched it happen hundreds of times. Yet this morning, like every morning, it still amazed her as she stared down at the little town, full of the same people going about their daily routines. Narrowing her warm brown eyes, she sighed at the mundanity of it all. She often wondered what it would be like to wake up differently.

  Belle shook her head. It did her no good to wonder or wish. This was life as she’d always known it, the life she had shared with her papa ever since they had moved from Paris many years earlier. It was a waste of time to dwell on the past or the what-ifs. She had things to do, errands to run, and—she looked down at the book clutched in her hand—a new adventure to find. Straightening her shoulders, Belle pulled the door closed behind her and set off into town.

  Within minutes, Belle was making her way down the cobblestoned main street. As she passed other villagers, she nodded distantly. While she had lived in the village most of her life, she still felt like a stranger there. It, like so many in the rural French countryside, was isolated and insular. Most of the people Belle passed on her way had been born there and most would spend the rest of their lives there. To them, the village was the world. And outsiders were viewed with caution.

  Belle wasn’t entirely sure that even if she had been born in the village she wouldn’t still have been treated as an outsider. She really didn’t have much in common with most of the others. And if she was being honest, she tended to enjoy reading more than idle small talk—traveling to distant lands and having wondrous adventures, even if only in the pages of her favorite books.

  Weaving her way through the street, she listened as the rest of the villagers greeted each other. She felt a pang of loneliness watching them talk to one another. They all seemed perfectly content with the monotony of their morning routines. No one seemed to share her desire for something new and exciting, for something more.

  Belle reached the baker’s stand, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. As always, the harried baker was holding a tray of freshly made baguettes and muttering to himself. “Bonjour,” Belle said. The man nodded absently.

  “One baguette…” Belle peered at the row of jars filled with rich red jam. “And this, too, s’il vous plaît,” she said, picking one up and sliding it into her apron pocket. After she’d paid and collected her goods, she moved on to complete her next errand.

  She was just about to turn a corn
er when she paused. Jean, the old potter, was standing next to his mule looking confused. The cart attached to the mule was loaded with freshly made pottery. Looking up, Jean caught Belle watching him and smiled.

  “Good morning, Belle,” he said, his voice scratchy with age. He was peering into his cart, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Good morning, Monsieur Jean,” Belle said in return. “Have you lost something again?”

  The older man nodded. “I believe I have. Problem is, I can’t remember what,” he said sadly. Then he shrugged. “Well, I’m sure it will come to me.” He turned and pulled on the mule’s reins, trying to lead the stubborn animal away. The mule was having none of it. He tried to stick his nose in Belle’s pocket, searching for the apple she had hidden there just in case she ran into Jean. Giving the creature a hard yank, Jean succeeded in drawing the mule’s attention away from Belle. But he also succeeded in knocking the cart off balance.

  Gasping, Belle reached out and grabbed one of the beautiful clay pots just before it fell. Then, satisfied nothing else would fall, she gave the mule the apple and turned to leave.

  “Where are you off to?” Jean asked.

  She looked back over her shoulder. “To return this book to Pere Robert,” she said, smiling and holding up the well-worn book. “It’s about two lovers in fair Verona—”

  “Are either of them potters?” Jean interrupted.

  Belle shook her head. “No.”

  “Sounds boring,” he said.

  Belle sighed. She wasn’t surprised by Jean’s reaction. It was the same reaction she got anytime she mentioned books. Or art. Or travel. Or Paris. Anything other than talk of the village or the villagers was met with indifference—or, worse, disdain.

  Just once, Belle thought as she patted Jean’s mule on the nose and gave the potter a wave good-bye, I’d like to meet someone who wanted to hear the story of Romeo and Juliet. Or any story, for that matter. She started to walk more quickly, more eager than ever to get to Pere Robert’s, get a new book, and return home. At least in her own cottage, she had no one to bother her or judge her. She could just get lost in her stories and imagine the world beyond the provincial town.