‘Afraid?’ she asked. ‘No, I don’t believe I am. I don’t think I could play music with you by if I were still afraid.’ She hesitated, then said with more confidence, ‘No, Beast, you’ve given me nothing to fear at all.’
‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly. ‘You do not still resent the manner in which you came here? I am deeply sorry for it.’ The words caught in my throat and were difficult to get out. She turned to look up at me and gave me another thoughtful stare.
‘I would very much like my father to hear you say that one day,’ she said. ‘I have given that matter much thought. No, I do not resent it any more. Desperate men do desperate things.’
I looked at her closely to see if this was her redress for almost referring to me as a beast, but she was caught up in her train of thought and quite unconscious of the words she had used.
‘Take my father for example,’ she continued. ‘It was desperation that made him leave us to undertake such a journey at the beginning of winter. It was desperation that made him try to return in midwinter, and again to try to travel through your forest. It was desperation to save my father that made me come to this place. In your long solitude I do not doubt you had grown somewhat desperate.’
This exchange formed the basis of my reflections for the remainder of the day. Of course, I found her utterly charming. Her slip of the tongue – or near slip – placing me among the beasts of the forest fell away into insignificance beside the fact that for the most part she spoke to me as though I were a man. Besides, I chided myself, I had asked her to call me ‘Beast’.
As evening began to fall, I took myself for a walk through the portrait gallery, now largely restored to its former glory. I had not been in this place above three times since my return from the forest. One reason was that a portrait of me had once hung at the far end, and even though it had been consigned to a dim, dark attic room where I did not have to look upon it, even the blank wall on which it had been displayed recalled a painful comparison between my appearance then and now.
My other reason for rarely visiting the gallery was that the pictures of so many family members, so still and mute and entirely gone from me, made me feel my loneliness intensely. In particular, the portrait of my grandmother never failed to make my heart ache. Just like on that first day after my return from the forest, there were always fresh flowers in the vase beneath it and a candle burning in a glass beside them. Though I visited it but rarely, and had not consciously placed the flowers there, I was glad of the tribute, for her memory deserved much more than I could ever offer. It had always been difficult to stand beneath that kindly, painted gaze when I knew how her heart would break to see what I had become.
Now, with Isabeau in the house, the passing of all I could claim blood ties with stung a little less and I felt more able to gaze upon my ancestors and lost cousins. Indeed, that evening I believe I was seeking some sense of my place within their ranks, as Isabeau held her place in the hearts of her sisters and father, even in her absence.
My hope of finding such welcome was so strong that, as I pushed open the doors to reveal the long, stately room, I fancied I heard a low, tender whispering, as of the murmured conversation between two intimates. There was no one there, of course, but a sudden draught shook the flowers beneath my grandmother’s portrait, scattering rose petals and dried leaves across the floor and gusting past me in a summer-scented breath.
I did not find what I looked for that evening. There were so many faces, and so many of them handsome and beautiful, and noble and proud. In the end the thought of my own nightmare visage depressed me and I was weighed down by a sense I was committing sacrilege in thinking to place myself among them. Even when I thought back to the life I had lived before the curse, I recognised how little I measured up to most of those who had gone before me.
I shuddered again at the echoes that came back to me down the years. Voices of people trying to gain my favour or pleading for my compassion. My heart curled up in shame when I thought of how rarely I had ever truly bestowed either.
There was, of course, one among my ancestors who represented the very nadir of human baseness. I dearly hoped I was a better man than him. But then … I looked down at my beastly paws. No Fairy had ever appeared to curse him. I fought the sudden swell of anger rising in my throat. He was gone. I was the only remnant of him on this Earth. There was not even a portrait of him in the gallery. I had destroyed that painting many years ago.
My perusal of the gallery eventually brought me to stand in front of that blank, staring wall with its strangely prominent hook – a large, sturdy thing that looked as though it could only be removed if the wall was first demolished. As I stood there, I had a sudden urge to confront my portrait again. It was so strong, I instantly turned my footsteps towards the attic room where it now stood.
There was a staircase behind a door on the third floor – a small, dark door so slight I could not easily fit my bulk through the frame, or ascend the cramped, wooden stairs with any comfort. There were no elegant candelabra here, either. A few single candles in tarnished, sparsely spaced sconces lit my way.
As I climbed the steep, crooked stairs, I could hear my heart pounding as frantically as it had when I first met Isabeau. It was a similar fear that set my pulse racing: the fear of confronting someone, or something, that could pronounce me as being less than human. I remembered the face in my portrait as cold, proud and disdainful. No doubt my memory was coloured by the bitterness of envy, but now I wanted to challenge that arrogant visage. To stand before it and, despite all appearances to the contrary, declare myself to be the better person.
At last I stood on the bare, dusty floorboards of the attic. Gazing about myself, I was visited by a renewed sense of how derelict my home had been when I first returned from the forest. All around me were stacked broken and forgotten objects, many showing signs of the ravages of time. Drifts of leaves had gathered here and there, and cobwebs veiled the exposed rafters. The occasional missing tile in the roof let in shafts of light from the three-quarter moon, now directly overhead and impossibly bright.
I made my way through this strange landscape, searching. I had no idea where it might have been placed. I had not gone far, however, before I stepped upon something that crunched faintly beneath the sole of my boot. I looked down and saw the desiccated remains of an ancient mouse. When I looked up, I saw the painting. Taller than I, in its heavy, gilded frame; draped in a cover and leaning against a far wall. The encroaching shafts of moonlight lit the pale sheet and turned all the surrounding jumble into shadows. I stood, barely breathing, and stared at the anonymous white shape. Then the dust sheet twitched and slowly slid to the ground. I found myself looking again at the likeness taken of me when I was a young man.
For all my nervous anticipation, the experience was quite different to what I had expected. The silver light leached the picture of all colour, lending it a serious, tragic air, absent in daylight. The arrogant expression became haunted; the proud, cold features pinched and desperate. I was shocked. Although I thought I had grown used to my beastly countenance, I confess the face I saw in my portrait that night was the face I still somehow expected to see whenever I glimpsed a reflection of myself.
Chapter XI
I went back to my study and ate a late, lonely meal in front of the fire. Seeing my portrait again had stirred up complicated feelings in my breast and I found myself wanting a distraction. Naturally, my thoughts turned to Isabeau’s family. As my empty plates were whisked into thin air, I hesitantly went over to the mirror and pulled the drapes aside. I did not know if I would find any of them still awake, as it was now growing late.
The glass cleared and showed me the kitchen. As I feared, all was dark; the only light in the room came from the fire. I could see Marie’s book on the edge of the scrubbed table. A few loose sheets of paper had been placed inside the front cover and I remembered she had said she was going to spend today at the inn. I was about to redraw the drapes to cover the glas
s, when the room grew lighter. A moment later Marie walked in carrying a candle. She was treading quietly, as though she did not want to wake her father and sister, and she was wearing a nightgown with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was also carrying a bundle of paper, pen and ink. She set the candle down on the end of the table closest to the fire and sat down herself and began to write. Her lips did not move, but as I watched, I could hear her voice as though she was speaking.
‘Dearest Isabeau,’ she began, ‘I am writing to you because I feel that one day, when you return to us, you will like to know how it was for us from the very beginning. You may be worried we cannot do for ourselves all you did, and I want to reassure you we have rallied ourselves tolerably well.’ Here she paused and rested the pen against her lips for a moment. Then she began again.
‘Of course, I have to believe you will return. Papa is very bitter and holds no hope, but the Beast has sent us such fine, thoughtful gifts, I cannot think he is so terrible. I imagine you living in luxury, with all the jewels and fine dresses Claude could desire, and a vast library of interesting texts to keep you busy.
‘I must be honest and say that at first we did not do so well. Claude fancied the kitchen could be her kingdom, and I took on the responsibility of the remainder of the house. We were both as miserable as it is possible to be, although I will allow Claude was slightly more so, on account of her burned fingers. This unfortunate arrangement lasted only five days before we could tolerate it no longer. We gratefully agreed to exchange our chores and for some reason are the happier for it. Claude seems to think that by zealous dusting and scrubbing she can transform our poor, bare parlour into something like the grandeur of the salon in our old house. She has announced her intention to turn some of the plain linen gifted to us by your Beast into very fine furnishings.
‘I, on the other hand, have spent an entirely profitable day with Madame Minou, learning the rudiments of household cooking. To think, I, who have spent so many hours studying poetry and the works of Greek philosophers, am now applying myself to measures of beans and goose fat. I will not say I did not utter a sigh now and then, but I confess it was better than lying in that uncomfortable bed staring at that dreary ceiling.
‘Madame Minou was kind enough to give me an old pot to take away – filled with the stew that was the fruit of my first day’s labour! You cannot imagine my triumph, walking home from the Crossed Keys, carrying a great sooty cauldron full of beans and vegetables. It is nothing like arguing about philosophy in an elegant salon, but I do not care how much my friends might laugh to see me, for there is something deeply satisfying in doing something as useful as feeding one’s family. Papa and Claude were good enough to declare it delicious, and Claude even ate the whole bowl! I am returning tomorrow on Madame Minou’s promise that she will teach me how to bake bread. I am told there is a knack to it.
‘Claude tells me Papa has spent the day banging away on the roof with the tools sent to him by the Beast. She was terrified he would fall and be killed. However, on my return this evening Papa was very satisfied with himself, and less inclined to be gloomy than he has been. I hope this is a trend that will continue.
‘My last bit of … well, I don’t know whether it is really news, but it was very pleasant so I will tell you about it. I have made a new friend. You see? I am at last following your advice to try to settle into our new life and make this village home. Do you recall René Dufour, Madame Minou’s youngest brother? I am sure we have encountered him once or twice before. He has a farm to the north of the village. Apparently he visits Madame Minou once a week to supply her meat. He came today, while I was there, and we fell to talking. He is very kind and chivalrous, and when I told him of my hopes to start a garden in the spring, he said he would loan Father some tools to help me get started. He also had much useful advice on when to begin digging and when to plant, and what to plant where. I tried to write down as much of it as I could. It will be interesting to see if I, a privileged city lady who had not so much as seen a lump of dirt until six months ago, will be able to conjure up a productive garden from the patch of wilderness outside our door. Perhaps the Beast was kind enough to send me magic seeds I cannot kill.
‘Despite my misgivings, I admit I am eager for the spring to come so I might try my hand at growing things. Claude is already so immersed in the principal of her new chores – ridding the house of dirt – she cannot see what is so appealing about dirt that I must go and dig in it. And I have been very severely warned against bringing any of it back into the house.
‘In any case, my day was long, and I am very tired. So I must go to my bed now. But I will seal this up and keep it safe against your return, for I feel it in my heart that we will see each other again.’
So saying, Marie signed the letter and folded it, then stopped to press tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand. She gathered her things and went into the little bare room they called their parlour. The casket with Isabeau’s name on it had been placed on the mantelpiece. Taking a deep breath, Marie lifted it down and opened it. It was empty. She stood looking into it for a moment, then placed the letter inside, and returned the box to its place. Then she turned away towards the staircase.
The mirror began to grow dim again and I stepped back, pulling the drapes to. I returned to my chair by the fire, where a glass of wine awaited me. Marie’s letter filled me with a tremulous anticipation. Dare I hope the de la Noue family fortunes were at last turning?
As I sat musing on Marie’s letter and her family’s mysterious past, I noticed something. Isabeau usually spent the evenings in her rooms, but tonight she was wandering around my house. She did not seem to be coming to see me. She was moving slowly, hesitating at each new turn. Perhaps, I thought, she is just curious to see what this place is like at night. It was so obviously deeply steeped in magic that, for all she knew, some magical transformation may occur at midnight.
My own curiosity was too strong to resist. When the candles in the hall flared into light as I left my study, I muttered an order to quench them and made my way in darkness. What does she make of my house? I wondered.
As I drew closer to her, I realised she must now be in the portrait gallery I had myself visited only that evening. I entered an anteroom leading to one end of the gallery and saw only a dim light through the other door. Like the hall behind me, the gallery was dark and no candles sprung into luminescence to light her way as she stole down the room. Hoping she would not see me in the darkness, I positioned myself where I could watch her.
She was perhaps halfway down the gallery, carrying a branch of candles that shed a nimbus of light directly around her. She stood, candles raised, intently observing the portrait before her. I think it may have been one of my great grandmothers. I was rather too entranced by her to take much notice of the picture she looked at. She had obviously readied herself for bed before deciding on her night-time tour of the house, as she was wearing her nightgown and a robe, and her beautiful hair was loose, falling down her back and over her shoulders in long tumbled curls. I found myself holding my breath.
After a minute or two she moved on to the next portrait and so proceeded down the gallery, taking time to scrutinise each painting. She had started at the end with the oldest works and was slowly but surely progressing towards the blank wall where my portrait had once hung. A strange anxiety began pressing on me and I nervously looked from her to the empty wall.
As I have said, there were no accidents in this house. The invisible attendants were well able to keep things immaculate. Yet, at the far end of the gallery, the shutters to one of the tall windows had come slightly ajar, admitting a ray of moonlight through the gap. The moon was setting lower in the sky now and the silvery swathe struck across the gallery, and illuminated the bare wall with its naked hook. As I stared, it became apparent the space had caught Isabeau’s attention too. She walked straight past the last few paintings towards it. The moonlight was so bright that, from where I stood, I could see t
he large rectangular shadow my portrait had left on the wall.
She stood for a long time in front of the wall, her brow creased in a puzzled frown. Eventually a clock in a nearby room rang out a late hour – I didn’t count the chimes – and recalled her from her reverie. She shivered, pulling her robe close around herself, and left the gallery in the direction of her chambers. I too went to my bed, and all that night I dreamed I was the haunted young man in my portrait, winding soft curls of honey hair around my human fingers.
Chapter XII
The next morning, Isabeau did not appear downstairs at the usual time. After waiting for her in the music room for an hour or more, I grew worried. Eventually I summoned the courage to go and knock on her bedroom door.
‘Isabeau,’ I called through the door, ‘are you well?’
After a few moments and a flurry of soft sounds, the door opened partway and revealed Isabeau, wrapped in a dressing gown. She looked tired, and her eyes were a little red, but she appeared otherwise whole and hale.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘did I wake you?’
‘No, I was awake,’ said Isabeau, stifling a yawn. She hesitated and did not meet my eyes. ‘I stayed up longer than usual last night and slept late. I did not think I would be very good company this morning, so I dawdled. I can dress now and come down, if you like.’
‘No, no,’ I said quickly, stepping back from her door. ‘I was only concerned when you didn’t come down. Please, take your time. There is no need to dress if you would rather stay in.’ I bowed and meant to go, but she stepped forward and laid her hand on my sleeve.
‘No, I think I will come down,’ she said. ‘I feel like a walk. Would you like to come? Perhaps we could try to find the rabbits again.’
I looked at her closely. Despite the tiredness in her face, there was a lightness to her voice.
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