Beauty and the Beast Novelization

by Disney Writers

  Letting out a nervous breath, Maurice walked inside. “Forgive me,” he said as he went. “I don’t mean to intrude. I need shelter from the storm. Hello?” Tall windows let in the faint light from outside, barely illuminating the castle’s interior. Noticing a coatrack, Maurice took off his hat and coat and hung them to dry. With the cold layers gone, Maurice felt a bit better. He continued inside. Focused on what was in front of him, he didn’t notice that as soon as his back was turned, the coatrack came to life, shaking the snow off Maurice’s coat and hat like a dog shaking off the rain.

  Maurice also failed to notice a large candelabrum and ornate mantel clock sitting on a nearby table. As he passed them, the candelabrum slowly turned, watching the man.

  “What are you doing?” the clock whispered as the candelabrum craned its neck. “Stop that!”

  Instantly, the candelabrum stopped. But it was not because the mantel clock had told it to. It stopped because Maurice had heard the clock’s barely hushed whisper and spun around.

  For a tense moment, Maurice eyed the candelabrum and the clock. He approached the table on which they were placed and picked up the candelabrum. He held it up to the dim light and inspected it. He turned it upside down, then right side up. He shifted it to the left and then the right. Finally, he flicked it with his finger. Ping, ping, ping. Seemingly satisfied by the candelabrum’s “candelabrum-ness,” he put it back down on the table and moved on.

  Behind him, the candelabrum rubbed its head, ignoring the “I told you so” look the clock was shooting at it.

  Maurice continued his exploration of the castle. A grand staircase rose from the middle of the massive foyer. Almost tiptoeing—the huge empty space made Maurice feel even more like an intruder than he already had—he made his way behind the staircase. His heart beat faster when he noticed an entire wall covered in weapons of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. Whoever lived there, or had lived there, knew his armory.

  Suddenly, Maurice again heard the faint sound of music being played. He followed the soft, slow melody, passing several closed doors before coming to a pair of large gilded doors that hung open. Inside, through the thick shadows, Maurice saw a ballroom of massive proportions. The music seemed to be coming from a dusty harpsichord in the corner. But as soon as Maurice took a step forward, the sound abruptly stopped.

  “Hello?” Maurice called, peering into now silent room. Remnants of decorations, long since decayed, were strewn about, and when he squinted hard enough, Maurice could make out a hastily repaired window. But there was no sign of anyone, no musician seated on the harpsichord’s bench. Maurice shook his head, wondering if he’d imagined the music.

  Shivering, Maurice turned his back on the ballroom. In addition to the phantom music, there was something infinitely sad about the space. It was a room meant for joy and was now a room of disrepair and sadness. As he made his way back into the foyer, he couldn’t help wondering what had happened there to give the ballroom such a feeling. Perhaps he had been hearing remnants of the past. Maurice had only just shrugged off the melancholy that had descended on him when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone lunging toward him.

  Maurice recoiled in fear, his breath catching in his throat. But a moment later, he let out that breath as he realized what he had seen was simply his own reflection. A broken mirror hung on the wall. In the center was a large hole, with long shards of glass radiating from it, as though the mirror had been struck by a fist. The hole had distorted Maurice’s reflection. He stared at his face, the lines around his eyes made deeper, his nose moved from the center to the left. He raised a hand to his cheek, as if to check that it was in fact just the reflection, not an actual change in his appearance.

  As he did so, Maurice heard the sound of a fire crackling from somewhere close by. Turning, he saw an open door, through which he could make out a welcoming light. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking with a chill that had returned upon his seeing the eerie mirror. Without a second thought, he made his way into the room. To his delight, the fire he had heard was huge. It roared inside a large ornate hearth.

  “Aaah, that’s better,” Maurice said, moving in front of the flames and holding out his hands. “So much better…” When his front felt sufficiently warmed, he turned to heat his backside. His eyes widened. Off the room he was in was yet another room. And in that room was a long dining table covered in an elaborate—and decidedly delicious-smelling—feast. Maurice’s stomach growled.

  Looking to see if he had missed other guests and finding none, Maurice left the warmth of the fire to stand in front of the table. His stomach growled again. He knew he probably shouldn’t…but he couldn’t stop himself. He tore a hunk of bread off a massive loaf and then cut a healthy chunk of cheese from an even healthier wheel. “Do you mind…I’m just going to help myself…?” he called out to the unseen host of the dinner. His mouth was full, so the words came out a bit garbled. He looked down at the table, hoping to see something refreshing. His eyes landed on a delicate china teacup full of an amber liquid. He was lifting it to his mouth when…

  “Mom said I wasn’t supposed to move because it might be scary.”

  Maurice nearly dropped the cup. Had it just spoken to him?

  “Sorry.”

  Maurice yelped. Apparently, the cup—the cup made of china…the cup full of tea…the cup that was supposed to be just a cup—had spoken to him. Twice.

  In the next instant, Maurice did what any man in his position would do when confronted with a talking teacup. He turned and ran toward the front door. Grabbing his hat and coat from the coatrack, he bowed, his manners taking over despite the fear coursing through him. “Thank you,” he called out to the shadows. “Really, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality…and kindness.” Then, his duty as a gentleman done, he slipped out the door and raced into the darkness toward the stable.

  Inside one of the stalls, Philippe stood chewing a mouthful of hay. Seeing his owner tearing inside, he shifted nervously on his big feet. Throwing the reins over Philippe’s head, Maurice led him out of the stall, eager to get away from the strange castle once and for all. But as he made his way back toward the gate, Maurice’s attention was caught once more by the rose-filled colonnade. He had promised Belle a rose. For some reason, he felt it was especially important to return with the gift this time.

  Stopping, Maurice gave Philippe a reassuring pat on the neck and slipped inside the garden. Neither man nor horse noticed the dark shape that darted across the top of the colonnade as Maurice entered below. Nor did either of them notice the shape’s distinct tail or sharp claws.

  “You’re not red,” Maurice said, spotting a single perfect white rose among the hundreds of others, “but you’ll do.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small penknife. He placed the blade against the stem of the rose.

  At that exact moment, Philippe whinnied and reared. Maurice whipped his head around. Seeing nothing, he shot Philippe a questioning glance and then turned back to the rose. The blade bit into the fragile stem. With a snip, the rose fell into Maurice’s waiting hands.

  “Those are MINE!”

  The roar drowned out any other sound, including Maurice’s thudding heart and Philippe’s frantic neighs. Shaking, Maurice looked up just as a dark shape leapt down from the top of the colonnade. Maurice stumbled backward. The rose fell from his hand. His feet scrabbled for purchase on the slippery ground.

  In front of him, the shadow took shape. It was vaguely human, but as it drew closer, Maurice saw that it was actually a gigantic furry creature. It walked on its hind legs and wore a flowing cloak and blue pants, but that was where the human similarities ended.

  “You entered my home, ate my food,” the creature said, dropping to all fours and circling Maurice. Raising one clawed paw, it pointed at the fallen rose. “And this is how I am repaid.”

  Maurice once again tried to move away, but he couldn’t find his footing. Before he could even shout, the creature had grabbed him wi
th two strong arms and lifted him high off the ground. “I know how to deal with thieves,” he snarled. Then, with a growl, he turned and headed back into the castle.

  Behind him, Philippe whinnied again in terror and bolted, charging through the castle gates and out into the woods beyond.

  THE SUN HAD JUST RISEN over the horizon as Belle made her way outside to give the chickens their morning meal. The birds chirped and a gentle breeze blew across the hillside. Combined with the beautiful, cloudless blue sky, it made for a picture-perfect morning.

  And then Belle heard a familiar snort.

  Turning her head, she was surprised to see Philippe standing by the gate to his paddock. His sides were heaving and soaked with sweat. The whites of his eyes showed as he shifted nervously on his feet.

  “Philippe,” Belle said, rushing over and letting the big horse into his paddock so he could drink. She patted him gently. “What are you doing here? Where is…?” Her hand stilled. Then it began to shake as she saw the torn straps where the harness had once been attached. Her eyes grew even wider as she noticed the tattered reins. Something had happened to her father—something bad.

  Not pausing to give her actions thought, Belle threw a saddle onto Philippe’s back, tightened the girth, and put a new bridle over his head. She knew she was asking a lot of the horse, but he was the only one who knew where her father was. Mounting, she kicked the horse forward.

  Belle knew that her father had gone into the woods. That much she was sure of; it was the route he always took. But as Philippe left the familiar countryside of the village and cantered through the thickening forest, her hopes grew dimmer. This part of the forest was huge. Finding one man among all of it seemed almost impossible. “Hurry, Philippe,” she said as the horse veered around a tree that had been split in half. “Lead me to him.”

  The woods grew still thicker, the sky still darker, but Philippe plunged bravely ahead. Belle scanned the ground and sides of the small path. Suddenly, she spotted her father’s cart. It was on the ground, tipped on its side. Her father’s beautiful music boxes were strewn about, some broken beyond repair, others less damaged. But there was no sign of her father.

  Nudging Philippe with her heels, she urged him on again. The horse cantered forward, seemingly familiar with the thin and winding path. Belle could only hope that was because it was the way he and her father had gone.

  To her relief, a gate came into view a moment later. Beyond the thick iron bars, she saw a giant stone castle. Philippe whinnied. Her father had to be in there, somewhere. Belle just knew it. Quickly, she dismounted and patted Philippe. She whispered words of encouragement, leading him inside the gate, and then asked him to wait. She moved to go up the stone steps, then paused. Belle was not about to go running into the strange castle with no way to protect herself. Looking around, she spotted a thick branch that had fallen to the ground. Picking it up, she held it over her head, brandishing it like a club. Then she made her way up to the front doors.

  Belle didn’t even bother to knock. If her father was indeed inside somewhere, she didn’t want to waste any time in finding him. Pushing open the doors, she found herself inside a massive foyer. A few candles hung on the walls, barely casting enough light to illuminate the space. Squaring her shoulders, Belle took a deep breath and walked farther into the castle.

  As Belle made her way toward the grand staircase, her eyes adjusted to the dark. She heard muffled whispers, but she couldn’t see anyone. Two voices rose and fell, and then she heard one phrase uttered clear as day: “But what if she’s the one? The one who will break the spell?”

  “Who said that?” Belle asked, whipping around and peering in the direction she thought the voices had come from.

  Nothing.

  “Who’s there?”

  Still nothing.

  And then, from somewhere deep within the castle, Belle heard the unmistakable sound of someone coughing. Papa. It didn’t matter who was whispering. She just needed to find her father. Grabbing a candelabrum from a nearby table, Belle began to climb the long staircase, following it up to its very top. When she reached the end of the labyrinthine stairs, she found herself in a tower, which, she noticed with increasing dread, was used as a prison. A grated iron door stood opposite the stairs. The latticework was so thick it was impossible to see through it clearly, but she could make out the shape of someone sitting inside.

  “Papa?” Belle called out. “Is that you?”

  “Belle?” Maurice answered in a muffled voice. “How did you find me?”

  Belle raced across the dim tower and dropped to her knees in front of the door. A narrow opening allowed her just enough space to see her father. He was hunched over, his shoulders trembling. When their eyes met, she knew instantly he was not well. Setting the candelabrum down on the floor beside her, she reached through the opening. Her fingers closed around her father’s. “Oh, Papa,” she said, sadness tearing through her. “Your hands are ice. We need to get you home.”

  To her surprise, Maurice did not agree. “Belle, you must leave this place!” he said. When she ignored him and started to use the branch to hit the iron lock, he grew more and more agitated. “Stop! They’ll hear you!”

  Belle paused. “Who’s ‘they’?” she asked, cocking her head. She thought about the phantom voices she’d heard earlier. “Who did this to you?”

  “No time to explain!” her father said. “You must go!”

  Belle shook her head stubbornly. “I won’t leave you!”

  Her father stifled a groan. He had always loved his daughter’s tenacity and spirit, but for once he just wanted her to do what he said. He couldn’t stomach the idea of his sweet girl meeting the creature who had put him in that cell. “Belle, this castle is alive!” he said, trying to make her understand. “You must get away before he finds you!”

  “‘He’?” Belle repeated.

  Before Maurice could open his mouth to respond, a roar filled the tower. Belle spun around, raising her branch high in the air. But it was no use. She couldn’t see anything in the thick shadows. She could, however, hear a voice—a deep, rumbling voice that seemed to surround her, making her heart pound faster.

  “Who are you?” the voice said. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’ve come for my father,” Belle said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Release him.”

  The voice sounded closer as it hissed the next words: “Your father is a thief.”

  Belle recoiled as if she had been struck, fear turning into outrage. How dare the voice accuse her father like that? “Liar!” she shouted. Her father was a loving and kind man. He was a gentle man. He would never do anything like—

  “He stole a rose!” the voice roared.

  As Belle’s head whipped back toward her father, her brown eyes locked with his. Guilt suddenly flooded through her as the reality of what must have happened hit her. “I asked for the rose,” she said in barely a whisper.

  “Belle…” Maurice said sadly, confirming what she knew to be true. Her father had taken the rose only because it was the one thing she had asked him to bring her. It was her fault he was in that cell—her fault entirely.

  “Punish me, not him,” Belle said, tearing her eyes away from her father and speaking to the invisible source of the voice.

  “No!” Maurice shouted in anguish. “He means to keep me forever. Apparently, that’s what happens around here when you pick a flower.”

  Belle frowned. “A life sentence for a rose?” she said to the shadows, hoping her father might be wrong.

  “I received eternal damnation for one,” came the voice out of the dark. “I’m merely locking him away.” There was a pause, as though whoever the voice belonged to was distracted, thinking of some distant memory. And then the voice came again, colder than ever. “Now…do you still wish to take your father’s place?”

  Belle had had enough of talking to air. She wanted to see with whom she was bargaining for her life. “Come into the light,” she d
emanded.

  Behind her, her father murmured, “No,” and shuffled back in his cell. But the voice did not answer. Belle reached down and grabbed the candelabrum that had been sitting by her father’s cell. She lifted it. For one brief moment, the light blinded her. But when her eyes adjusted, Belle gasped.

  Standing in front of her was a huge creature unlike any Belle had ever seen. Large horns rose out of his head, and his lower jaw jutted forward. His entire body was covered in golden-brown hair and thick muscles. It was hard for Belle to tell just how big the creature’s front paws were, clenched in fists as they were, but his back paws were large and long, with sharp claws that flashed when the light hit them. The word beast flashed in her mind as she gazed at the creature. He was a thing of nightmares—the monster lurking in the fairy tales she had read as a child.

  But when Belle lifted her eyes to meet the Beast’s, she was surprised by how human they looked—and how full of pain they seemed. Blue as the morning sky, they stared back at her, haunted. She felt a strange pang of what was almost sympathy for the giant creature. And then…

  “Choose!” The Beast’s lips curled back over sharp fangs as he snarled his demand.

  All feelings but those of dread and disgust vanished. Belle looked back at her father, who pleaded with her not to do anything rash.

  “But you’ll die here,” she said, knowing all too well it was true.

  “I SAID CHOOSE!” the Beast snarled once again.

  “No, Belle,” Maurice said, trying to reason with his headstrong daughter. “I couldn’t save your mother, but I can save you. Now go!” But his words lost their power as a coughing fit overtook him. The coughs racked his already weakened body and broke Belle’s heart.

  “All right, Papa. I’ll leave,” Belle said, trying to reassure Maurice and make him stop coughing. Then she turned to the Beast. “Open the door. I need a minute alone with him.” She waited for the large creature to do something. He didn’t. “Please?” Still he ignored her request. Anger flared in her chest once more, hot and fierce. “Are you so coldhearted that you won’t allow a daughter to kiss her father good-bye? Forever can spare a minute!”