Belle called to them. “Lumiere! Cogsworth! Chapeau!”
Chapeau waved.
Lumiere smiled.
Cogsworth complained. “The cold is wreaking havoc on my gears,” he moaned. “Everything has seized up. I’m five minutes slow already!”
“What are you doing out here?” Belle asked.
“Come and see!” Lumiere said, pointing at the basket on the ground. Belle ran over to it and peered inside. It contained two pairs of ice skates.
“You told me you liked to skate,” the Beast said, coming up behind her.
“I do! Oh, thank you!” Belle said.
She was so touched by this unexpected thoughtfulness that she threw her arms around him. Slowly, uncertainly, as if he were afraid he might break her, the Beast put his arms around Belle and hugged her back.
Belle released him, grabbed the smaller pair of skates, and sat down in a chair. The skates were made of wood with leather straps and fitted with a sharp steel blade that curved up at the toes. Belle fastened the skates over her boots and stood up.
“The ice is as smooth as glass,” said Lumiere. “It’s a perfect surface for skating.”
“That reminds me…” said Cogsworth, stoking the fire. “Did I ever tell you about the time General Montgomery and I brought our cavalry across the frozen Saint Lawrence at the Battle of Quebec?”
Belle, smiling, rolled her eyes at Cogsworth’s stories and took that opportunity to whoosh off across the pond.
The Beast slowly minced his way out onto the ice. Once clear of the verge, he stopped—or tried to. His feet swept him swiftly forward and upward, and his body slammed down, right onto his backside. He got up, then fell again. And then again.
“Perhaps you should let me help you!” Belle called from across the pond, where she was cutting a graceful arc on the ice.
“Master, perhaps we should tie a pillow to your backside!” Cogsworth shouted fretfully from the shore.
The Beast turned and glared at him.
Belle quickly arrived and took the Beast’s paws in her mittened hands. Skating slowly backward, she coaxed him forward. Her touch calmed him, she could tell, and his desire to move toward her propelled him.
Eventually, he was sliding alongside Belle and holding her hand well past the time he needed to. Around and around they skated, talking and laughing, Belle’s cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling. The Beast forgot his apprehension toward the ice; his steps became smooth and confident. He glided farther with each one.
Winded, they stopped to enjoy the hot chocolate and beignets. Then they skated some more. Minutes became hours, and the hours soon brought dusk.
“It’s not wise to stay out much longer,” the Beast said as the setting sun poked its last bits of golden light through the trees. “We need to be back in the castle, safe and sound, before dark.”
Reluctantly, Belle and the Beast headed home, accompanied by the servants.
“I never did finish my story,” Cogsworth announced on the way. “About Montgomery and Quebec. Shall I tell it now?”
The Beast shot Belle a dire glance. Belle bit her lip. Chapeau grimaced.
“Go ahead,” said Lumiere absently. “It will make the time drag by.”
Cogsworth gave him a look. “I believe you mean speed by.”
“Do I? Er, I mean, I do!” Lumiere hastily amended.
When they finally arrived back at the castle, Mrs. Potts was at the door to greet them. She ushered them inside, where the overeager Chapeau took Belle’s cloak—before she was entirely out of it.
She spun around to free her arm and crashed into the Beast, who reached out to catch her. They both laughed, and they looked into each other’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “For a truly wonderful day.”
“Come, child,” Mrs. Potts interrupted, bustling Belle off toward the stairs. “You’ve been out in the cold air for hours! You need a hot bath to chase the chill from your bones.”
As they headed up to Belle’s room, talking a mile a minute about the day, Belle cast a glance back over her shoulder. But she was too far up the stairs to see the Beast, still standing in the foyer, as still as a statue, a wistful smile spreading across his face.
“TELL ME A STORY, BELLE!”
“Chip, you should be asleep by now,” Belle scolded, tucking the little teacup onto his shelf in the china cupboard.
It was getting late, and Mrs. Potts still had a good many chores to do. She’d asked Belle if she would put Chip to bed.
“Please tell me a story?”
Belle gave in. It was impossible to say no to that sweet little face. “All right. What kind of story?”
“No fairy tales. Something different,” said Chip. “Tell me something real. Tell me about your village. What’s it like?”
Belle cocked her head. “Villeneuve? It’s a small place. It has a square, a market, and a fountain, just like every other village. A church with a tiny collection of books. It’s quiet. But pretty,” she said, surprised to find herself praising Villeneuve—and missing it a little. When she had lived there, all she’d wanted was to get away from it. “Everyone knows everyone, which is sometimes good…and sometimes not so good,” she added with a laugh.
“What kind of people live there?” asked Chip.
“Well, there’s Pere Robert, a learned man who’s the village’s curé and its librarian. And of course there’s my father. His name is Maurice. He makes the most beautiful music boxes you’ve ever seen. He’s smart. He truly has the soul of an artist….” She smiled. “And he’s kind. So kind.” Belle’s heart knotted, as it always did when she talked about her father, or even thought of him. Tears stung behind her eyes. She had to look away for a second to collect herself.
Chip noticed her sadness. “You must miss him.”
Belle nodded. “Very much.”
“I’m sorry, Belle.”
“Me too, Chip.” Determined not to cry, she changed the subject. “There’s also a flower seller who always has the most beautiful blooms. A fishwife with a sharp tongue. A baker. A greengrocer. And…” Belle made a face. “Gaston.”
Chip giggled. “Who’s that?”
“God’s gift to women.”
“Really?”
“He certainly thinks so.”
“It doesn’t sound like you miss him very much.”
“Not at all,” Belle said. “There is someone else I miss, though—Agathe.”
“Who is she?”
“The bravest person I know.”
“What did she do?” Chip asked, wide-eyed. “Fight off robbers? Pirates?”
“I’ll tell you, and then it’s lights out. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal!” Chip said.
“We had a neighbor in Villeneuve. His name was Rémi,” Belle began. “When I was small, he lost his little boy to a terrible fever. He went crazy with grief. His hair grew long. He became thin and dirty. Pain turned his eyes dark and wild.”
“He sounds scary,” Chip said, with a shiver.
“He was,” said Belle. “He pushed everyone away, snarling if a friend or neighbor came too close. His wife left him. His parents could not get near him. One by one, the villagers turned their backs on him. Only Agathe refused to give up.”
“Who was she?”
“A beggar woman known to everyone in the village. People were in the square one day—it was a market day—talking about Rémi. Most were not saying nice things, and Agathe got fed up with them. She rarely spoke to anyone in town, but she was clear on this day.
“‘Rémi has always been kind to me,’ she said. ‘He gave me food. He offered me shelter. I will speak with him.’ But everyone begged her not to,” Belle explained.
“‘He’s too unpredictable!’ said the mayor.
“‘He’s a wild animal!’ said the baker.
“‘He’ll hurt you, foolish woman,’ said Gaston. ‘Let’s shoot him and be done.’
“And do you know what she told them?”
&nb
sp; “What?” said Chip.
“‘Love is not for cowards.’”
Chip nodded, digesting this.
“Agathe begged a bit of cheese and a loaf of bread from a shopkeeper, then walked to Rémi’s house. I followed her as far as the gate, watching as she entered his yard. The second he saw her, he rushed at her with a pitchfork. ‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of here!’ I was so scared for her.”
“What did you do?” asked Chip.
“I begged her to come back, but she paid me no attention. She went right up to Rémi and spoke softly. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could see the anger leaving Remi’s body.
“Rémi stopped dead. He threw his pitchfork to the ground. ‘My son…’ he cried. ‘My boy…my little boy! Death has taken him from me!’
“His legs gave way and he sank to the ground, helpless in his despair. Agathe sat down next to him. She gave him the bread and cheese she’d brought and made him eat them.
“‘Listen to me, Rémi,’ she said. ‘Death wins only if you let her.’
“Rémi shook his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘How can I defeat death, Agathe?’ he asked. ‘I cannot bestow life. I am not God.’
“Agathe laughed. ‘Life is fragile. Life ends. But love? Love lives forever,’ she told him.
“Rémi wept then, like a child. From that day, little by little, he returned to us. Love brought him back.”
Chip was quiet for a bit. Then he said, “You’re right, Belle. Agathe is brave.”
“Very,” Belle agreed. She leaned into the cupboard and kissed him. “And now it’s time for bed. Good night, Chip.”
She started to shut the cupboard door, but as she did, Chip piped up again. “Belle?”
“Go to sleep,” Belle scolded.
“He’s just like Rémi.”
“Who is?”
“The master. He’s the way he is because he’s hurting, too.”
Belle paused, amazed by child’s perceptiveness. “Do you want to know something, Chip?” she asked.
Chip nodded.
“You would like Agathe. Very much. And she would like you.”
Chip smiled, then closed his eyes. And Belle closed the cupboard door. She bade Mrs. Potts good night, lit a candle, and left the kitchen. She was tired after skating all day and ready for her own bed.
She walked along the main hallway to the stairs. The castle always seemed darker and more forlorn to her at this time of night. She knew that other smaller hallways branched off the main one. She’d explored some of the rooms they led to. In one sat a desk upon which lay invitations—sealed and addressed, but never sent. In another, fine silver and china were tucked away in cabinets for parties that never happened. She’d discovered the most beautiful dresses packed in trunks. A rocking horse with a little leather saddle. A small bow and quiver.
An air of ruin hung over the castle always. Tonight, though, it seemed heavier than ever.
This place could use an Agathe of its own, Belle thought.
She remembered the way Rémi had looked when Agathe approached him. She remembered his eyes, so full of pain. She’d seen the same pain in the Beast’s eyes. He was better at hiding it than Rémi had been, but in unguarded moments it surfaced.
Belle wondered if he would ever talk about it. The desire to know more about him, and to find out why she was here, was still strong inside her, but she shuddered as she recalled what had happened the last time she’d tried to find things out—the shouting and raging in the West Wing, her wild ride through the woods, the wolves.
She and the Beast had spent more time together since that terrible night. He’d given her the amazing gift of his library. They’d gone skating. They’d gotten to know each other a bit. Maybe trust each other a bit, too.
But was there enough trust for him to talk about the painful past?
Would she ever get the chance?
Belle didn’t know.
She came to the stairway that led to the upper floors of the castle and her bedroom, and as she climbed it, she wondered if she could ever be as strong as Agathe.
BELLE PUNCHED HER PILLOW.
She fluffed it, kneaded it, plumped it, and—finally—laid her head back down on it.
But it was no use. She couldn’t fall asleep again.
Sighing, she rolled onto her side. From this position, she could see the row of windows on the far wall of her room and the moon, so solitary and remote, shining in the night sky. She wondered if it felt as lonely as she did.
She knew what had caused her loneliness—telling Chip about Villeneuve. Agathe. Pere Robert.
And most of all, her beloved father, Maurice.
Belle usually did her best not to think of him. It was too painful. But tonight, no matter how hard she tried to push them away, memories of him, and of their happy life together, flooded her heart.
She cherished those memories, because in them, she and her father were together again. But they tortured her, too, for they underscored something she could barely bring herself to accept: that she would never, ever see him again.
Belle had made a deal—a dark, dreadful bargain—and now she had to keep it.
All because her father had picked a rose.
For her.
“Why didn’t I ask for a daisy? A sunflower? A carnation?” she whispered, filled with regret. “If only I had, I wouldn’t be here.”
She remembered the day she’d lost him so clearly.
He’d gone to a market in a neighboring town to sell some of the beautiful music boxes he made.
Constructed to look like castles, cathedrals, and palaces, each music box was unique and involved hours of painstaking work. She recalled the care he’d taken in gilding a miniature Versailles with a paintbrush and magnifying glass, or shaping the stained-glass windows of a tiny Notre Dame with a diamond-tipped cutter.
“What would you like me to bring you?” he’d asked Belle as he’d set off, his wagon hitched to Philippe.
“Only a rose, Papa,” she’d replied, well aware that they did not have money to spend on presents.
She’d been hanging out the wash when Philippe had returned home without the wagon—or her father.
“Take me to him,” she’d said to the horse, terrified that her father had been in an accident or been set upon by robbers.
Philippe had taken her through the woods to an ancient castle, deep within a dark forest. She’d dismounted in the castle’s keep, calling out to whoever owned it, but no one answered her. Bravely, she entered the castle and searched for her father. She finally found him—imprisoned in a tower.
“Papa!” she cried out when she saw him, thrusting her hand through the bars of his cell.
“Belle? Is that you?” he’d said, clasping it. “How did you find me? Belle, you must leave here at once. This castle is alive! Now go, before he finds you!”
Just then, the Beast appeared to Belle, shouting and raging. Belle had been frightened at first, but then she’d stood up to him and demanded that he release her father. When the Beast refused, she’d offered to take her father’s place. Maurice was clearly ill, and Belle promised him that she’d find a way to escape. But she knew that she couldn’t leave him trapped in that tower.
The Beast had granted her request, and Maurice had been released. That was the last Belle had seen of him. A hundred times a day she thought about him. Worried about him. Missed him. They’d always had each other, but he was alone now. Who would look after him? Who would make his morning coffee just the way he liked it? Who would see to it that he wore his woolen muffler when the weather turned cold?
Tears threatened again, just as they had when she’d told Chip his bedtime story.
Desperate to distract herself, Belle sat up in her bed and threw back the covers. She slid her feet into a pair of warm slippers, then shrugged into her woolen robe and walked to the windows.
Lacy swirls of frost framed the glass panes. It had snowed after she and the Beast had come in from skating,
and a thick blanket of white glittered in the moonlight. As she gazed out at the wintry night, the enormous grandfather clock downstairs began to strike the hour, its deep, doleful chime echoing throughout the castle.
“Midnight,” Belle said when it finished. “I have to get some sleep.”
She looked at her bed without much hope, though, knowing full well that she would only toss and turn if she got back in it.
Back at home, when she couldn’t sleep, her father had always made her a warm drink and let her read by candlelight until sleep stole over her.
A cup of hot milk would be just the thing, she thought. That and a good book.
She lit the candle on her bedside table by holding its wick to the glowing coals in her fireplace, then left her room, taking care to step quietly so that she wouldn’t wake anyone.
Coals were still glowing in the kitchen’s hearth, too. They threw off a welcoming warmth. A cast-iron pot containing the morning’s oatmeal had been hung over them to cook slowly overnight. A large bowl of bread dough, covered with a cloth, had been set on the wooden table to rise. Baskets of apples, pears, and quince sat next to them, ready to be made into pies and compotes.
Belle loved the coziness of the kitchen. It was her second-favorite room in the castle, after the library. Cuisinier was sound asleep and she didn’t want to wake him, so she heated milk in a small pot over the coals. Careful not to disturb Chip and Mrs. Potts, she got a mug, poured in the hot milk, and added a spoonful of honey. After she washed the pot and put it away, she made her way to the library, her mug in one hand, her candle in the other.
It was cold and dark there, but wood and kindling had been laid in the fireplace. Belle lit the kindling with her candle, and a few minutes later, she had a cheerful fire blazing. Two comfortable chairs faced each other across the hearth. A low table stood between them. It made a very inviting reading nook.
“All I need now is a book,” Belle said.
She wished she could visit Nevermore but was unsure if the book’s time followed real time. It wouldn’t do to knock on the countess’s door in the middle of the night.
Picking up her candle once more, Belle made her way down a row of bookcases—and nearly stumbled over a book that lay open on the floor. She bent down to peer at it. Fearsome Pirates of the High Seas, the title read. Perrault’s Tales of Times Past and an edition of Aesop’s Fables lay next to it.
Beauty and the Beast: Lost in a Book Page 7