The Beast’s Heart

by Leife Shallcross

  I could not but help utter a short bark of laughter. This was true.

  ‘The only thing I thought a little odd was …’ She stopped and thought for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know,’ she eventually said. ‘Perhaps it is just hindsight, but I did think he looked somehow familiar.’

  My eyes, I thought. You recognised my eyes.

  ‘The Beast clearly was disturbed by it though. He did not approach it with me, although it looked as though he had been there recently. He was very quiet after we visited it. He never did tell me what upset him so about it. To be honest, I put his unease down to simple jealousy.

  ‘Anyway, that night I dreamed about him – the man in the portrait. Only somehow it was my Beast as well. And I’ve been having such dreams ever since.’

  Her words struck me like a thunderbolt. I had never suspected this.

  ‘Do they bother you? The dreams?’ asked Marie. She turned around to face Isabeau, who backed away and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘At first,’ said Isabeau, and I remembered the haunted look in her eyes during that time. ‘They were very unsettling, and sometimes …’ Her voice trailed away and her cheeks grew pink. My heart all but turned a somersault. What had she been about to say?

  ‘They were never unpleasant,’ she said more firmly, recovering her composure. ‘In fact, they often repeat the most agreeable things we’ve done.’ Her eyes lit up and my heart lifted to see it. ‘We watched fireworks together – twice. I’ve dreamed about that several times.

  ‘But mostly they are almost mundane. I usually dream we are doing the same sorts of things the Beast and I usually do – playing music, walking in the garden, reading – except he wears the portrait’s face. He wears the same clothes and speaks to me with the Beast’s voice. He even says things to me the Beast has said that day.’ Her voice trailed to a halt and her eyes darkened. She lifted her eyes to meet her sister’s again.

  She shook her head. ‘All last night I dreamed of my Beast, with this man’s face, pacing through the house alone. All the rooms were dark, and he was so terribly, terribly lonely. And so sad. And all I can think of is that I have left him in such a state.’

  Marie did not say anything to this at first. In fact, her attention appeared caught by the flame of a candle she had set on the dresser to light Isabeau’s efforts with her hair. She stared at it as though it offered her some sort of revelation. My own head was reeling.

  ‘Marie?’ said Isabeau eventually.

  Marie turned back to her.

  ‘Isabeau,’ she said firmly, ‘you have promised us a week. I cannot think anything terrible will happen to your Beast in a week. Papa needs you here. Knowledge of your safety and well-being is what he needs to heal. I do not mean to upset you, but without that, I do not know if he would survive the coming winter. You must focus on Papa now.’

  Isabeau bit her lip and looked down. My gut squirmed in guilty horror.

  ‘But Isabeau,’ said Marie seriously, leaning forward and taking her sister’s hands, ‘if you truly fear for your Beast, then I believe you must keep your promise and return in a week. I warn you, Papa will never want you to return and Claude will not think twice about trying to convince you to stay an extra day, or more. And I won’t be here to help you stand firm, little sister.’

  Isabeau nodded, dismayed by her sister’s sober tone.

  I sat back in my chair, shaken. Truly, I was too overwhelmed to feel anything but numb. She said she’d dreamed of the fireworks. What else had she dreamed? Lounging in the orchard? Learning to shoot with bow and arrow? Dancing under the stars? Had she … My breath caught in my throat. Did she dream of my proposals coming from a man and not a monster?

  In the mirror, Isabeau resumed arranging Marie’s hair in silence. I could see Marie’s face in her mirror, and again she was staring at her candle.

  The bride and her sisters remained in Marie’s bedchamber until Claude started up from her chair, crying, ‘I hear them!’ and they all ran to the window. I could hear music, and the glass showed me a small procession coming over the hill towards the cottage, led by Dufour, striding along quickly and beaming like the sun. Behind him came a group of musicians, filling the air with a joyful melody. Following them came his sister and her husband, with a collection of children from the village trailing behind them. The three sisters ran down to the parlour, where their father was waiting. There was much kissing, and a little crying, and then Dufour was knocking upon the door.

  De la Noue opened it and as he drew Marie forward, the small crowd of people at the gate let out a happy cheer. Dufour stood by as Marie was escorted out by her family, blushing furiously and turning her laughing eyes back to her intended amid the cheerful chaos. The wedding party stopped at the gate where some of the children had mischievously tied a garland of ribbons across it, as though to prevent her leaving. Laughing again, Marie took a pair of scissors Claude extracted from her pocket; the ribbons were cut and the procession moved off, following the musicians back to the village.

  Now the musicians led them all, the fiddles and pipes spinning out a rousing tune that brought a spring to everyone’s step and had the children dancing about. Marie and her father followed, with Isabeau and Claude close on either side. Dufour was left to follow behind with Madame Minou and her husband.

  I observed the de la Noue family party with interest. Marie was a picture of happiness and excitement. Claude seemed in similar spirits, but her hand kept straying to her throat with a curiously nervous flutter. Eventually I spied the filigree heart hanging there upon its chain and understood. De la Noue largely looked quite satisfied, but every now and then his attention would come to rest upon his youngest child walking at his side, and the expression of contentment upon his face would slip. Isabeau seemed happy enough, but there was a wistful quality to her gaze that left me in a fever of frustrated speculation.

  At the church, the rest of the family drew back, allowing Dufour to lead Marie through the small crowd of people waiting for them, up to the church door where the priest was waiting. They stood together, holding hands as the priest said the words over them, then blessed them. There was a burst of happy noise from those who had come to see them married and a brief shower of rice and wheat as some threw handfuls of grain at the couple. Laughing, Marie waved at her father and sisters, then let Dufour lead her inside for mass.

  The church was almost full, and when Isabeau walked in behind the couple, it filled with a quiet murmuring. She glanced about shyly, aware of the wondering eyes turned her way. But then the priest entered and chivvied the stragglers into their seats and all the congregation’s attention turned to the sermon.

  Well, almost all. The Vicomte sat in his family pew at the front of the church, staring at Claude as though she alone had just walked into the church. Claude was looking demurely down at her hands. But at one point she looked up at Villemont and caught his eye, before her cheeks grew pink and she quickly looked down again.

  I threw myself back against my chair, trying to quell the rising bitterness within me. Was the whole world falling in love and finding happiness just to spite me? I glared at Isabeau and all my anger instantly evaporated in a fit of longing. She was looking at Marie, a wistful smile upon her face and her lovely eyes full of happy tears. What I would have given to have her look at me that way.

  After the service, the couple ran through a renewed rain of rice and wheat to the Crossed Keys where a feast of food and drink had been set up. The musicians established themselves by the fire and began to play as the bridal couple were given a two-handled silver cup to drink from, and then everyone cheered as they kissed over a towering pile of sweet cakes.

  It was close to midnight when the dancing finally ended and the last, most determined revellers began to drift away to their beds. Isabeau and Claude finally managed to convince de la Noue they must leave, and led him away, one on either side. The Vicomte insisted on escorting them home in his own carriage. There was little conversation to be had as they tr
otted steadily home in the moonlight. But each member of the party looked extremely satisfied and serene.

  At the gate of the cottage the Vicomte helped each member of the de la Noue family from the carriage. Somehow Claude was the last to alight, which gave him the opportunity to kiss her hand while Isabeau was busied with escorting her father through the gate. I could tell Claude blushed even in the moonlight, but she did not pull her hand away. Instead she allowed the Vicomte to retain possession of it for a few moments more while she curtsied gracefully and thanked him most prettily for his trouble.

  ‘There is never any trouble in any service I may be able to render you,’ he said before he let her go. He did not drive away until he had seen them all safely into the house and was rewarded for his patience by seeing Claude look back at him not once, but twice.

  Inside the cottage, it was plain that each of the remaining members of the de la Noue family were making directly for their beds. Isabeau, however, did not go straight to sleep. She sat on the edge of her bed in her nightclothes for some time, once more toying with the ring on her finger. She looked serious and even a little sad, and I could not prevent myself from reaching out to touch the surface of the mirror. I was then startled to see her lift the ring to her mouth and for a wild moment I thought she kissed it. But then I saw her brow was creased and her mouth set in a frown and I realised she was merely deep in thought.

  ‘Goodnight, Beast,’ I eventually heard her whisper. ‘Sleep well tonight.’ Then she climbed into her bed.

  It took her a long time to fall asleep and I watched her until she did. I stayed until the crease faded from between her brows and her breast rose and fell with the deep, even breath of slumber. I watched her until the ache in my heart became too much to bear. Then, in desperation, seeking some way to bring her closer to me that night, I went to her rooms. I stood in her sitting room, breathing the vestiges of her scent and trying to recapture some of my dearest memories of her. It was the only room in the house that did not smell of damp and dust. Here, on this carpet, she had wept as I had knelt beside her and held her in my arms. There, on that chair, she had lain while we talked in the darkness.

  It was to that chair I went and sat myself down. It could be but a poor substitute for Isabeau herself. But now, in the dark, exhausted by grief and longing and loneliness, surrounded by her fading scent and the things she had lived with while she stayed with me, I lay back in her chair and succumbed to a restless slumber.

  Chapter XXXVIII

  The first gleam of light on the eastern horizon woke me, and saw me hurrying back to my futile post before the mirror. It showed me almost the same sight as it had when I had left it: Isabeau asleep in her bed. Her beautiful honey hair was tumbled over the pillow and her cheeks were flushed. I reached out to touch the mirror, but as I stretched my paw forward, I saw how much it trembled and drew it back.

  A moment later I heard a sound as though someone standing behind me had cleared their throat. When I whipped around, breakfast was laid out upon a tray on my desk. I turned away in disgust. Nothing could compel me to eat at this moment. My stomach rebelled at the thought of food.

  I watched Isabeau until she woke. She did not sleep peacefully. Frowns tugged at the corners of her mouth and creases puckered her brow. When eventually she rolled over and opened her eyes, they were clouded with some anxiety.

  ‘Beast,’ she murmured into the morning dimness and I sat forward in the chair. Was she really calling me?

  ‘My Beast,’ she whispered again, and my heart stuttered. ‘Be well, my friend. I have not forgotten you.’

  This cast me into utter confusion. Part of my heart soared as she called me ‘My Beast’, but the other half heard ‘my friend’ and wanted to throw it back in her face. I did not want to be her friend. Could she not see she must love me as I loved her? Why did she dream of me, if she did not? All this talk of ‘friends’ and ‘friendship’, I thought bitterly, I wanted none of it. It was just a guise, a veil she drew over the feelings she harboured for me that she could not bear to acknowledge.

  I had a brief fantasy of meeting her at my gate on her return and sternly demanding she marry me or be gone. This bitter vision crumbled, of course, as I glanced again at the mirror and saw her sleepily rubbing her eyes. Then she sniffed hard, and I saw she was crying. A moment later sounds of movement came from below and Isabeau quickly wiped her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands to them hard.

  ‘Dear Beast,’ she said. Then, a wry smile twisting her lovely mouth, she muttered, ‘If you would only be well I would be satisfied.’

  Of course I felt the gentle sting of her words. I had said exactly that to her as I knelt before her on the hearth rug, the first time she had called out to me in the night. If she dreamed of me every night, then she knew of my restlessness, my grief. She must know how I had barely moved from this chair the day before, and how I had only been able to snatch some few hours of rest by sleeping in her chair last night.

  ‘Be well,’ she had said. I turned to stare at the breakfast, cooling under its silver covers on my desk. For all I was not hungry, I could not recall the last time I had eaten. I went to my chair and managed half a piece of toasted bread and some gulps of tepid tea before my throat closed over again with grief.

  I turned back to the mirror.

  Isabeau had left her room and encountered Claude on the stairs.

  ‘We will have to contrive something to eat, I suppose,’ Claude was saying resignedly. ‘Marie was such a good cook. To think we would never have known had we not come here. Even Madame Minou says she has a magical touch and that people come for miles for the dinners on the days when Marie is due to help her in the kitchen.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Isabeau said, sadly contemplating the prospect of the breakfast she now faced. ‘The food is incomparable at the Beast’s house, although I would not have Loussard hear me say so!’ Claude gave a gurgle of laughter at this. ‘I am so spoiled, I confess. Brioche and hot chocolate for breakfast every morning.’ She sighed and, quite comically, Claude sighed too.

  ‘Oh, I have not had brioche since we left Rouen!’ she said plaintively.

  At this I sat up straight, wondering if the reach of my magic was enough to grant the sisters’ wishes. I did not have long to wait, and I was not disappointed. The two young women tripped down the last of the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen.

  ‘What’s this?’ gasped Claude, walking in to find a pale blue earthenware bowl on the table, covered with a chequered red and white cloth. She lifted the cloth and looked almost afraid.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Isabeau.

  ‘Brioche!’ Claude whispered back, sounding shocked. Isabeau gave a little jump and clapped her hands.

  ‘It is a gift from my Beast, to be sure.’ She looked around at the stove. Sure enough, set upon the warmest part was a pot with a lid. Isabeau sniffed, then laughed. ‘And look!’

  ‘From the Beast?’ asked Claude anxiously.

  ‘Of course,’ said Isabeau, fetching plates and cups from the shelf. ‘Where else are you going to get fresh-baked brioche and hot chocolate from in this place?’

  Claude sat down and cautiously took one of the small, round loaves from the bowl. Isabeau deftly served her up a cup of chocolate, little curls of steam rising from the rich, brown liquid. Claude tasted them and looked impressed, but the worried frown did not leave her face.

  ‘It’s very good,’ she admitted, ‘but I think it will be best if we do not tell Papa you think they are from the Beast.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Isabeau, looking as crestfallen as I suddenly felt.

  Claude made a face. ‘He will not eat them,’ she said. ‘He hates the Beast.’

  ‘But …’ began Isabeau, but she did not finish her sentence. She pressed her lips together in an unhappy line.

  ‘He is not able to be reasonable about the Beast,’ said Claude gently. ‘He thought all this time he had sent you to a hideous death, or at best a life of unmentionable mis
ery. He has barely been able to live with himself. Marie has managed him very well, but,’ she paused, then continued in a voice grown suddenly rough, ‘I think Marie is right. He would not have lasted the winter. Indeed, now he has seen Marie safely married, knowing she and René would take care of me, I do not know whether he would have felt we needed him any more. I think he would have just sunk away in shame.’

  Isabeau had gone quite pale.

  ‘Oh God, what have I done?’ she said. ‘I never meant to hurt him so. I stayed with the Beast because he was so sad. He promised Papa I would not be hurt.’ She sank down into a heap on the table, her head buried in her arms.

  Just then the creaking of the steps was heard as de la Noue came slowly down from his room. Isabeau rose hurriedly from the table, her eyes red.

  ‘Dear God, he cannot see me like this,’ she cried and ran from the room.

  Maddeningly, my view in the glass remained of the kitchen. De la Noue was bemused by Claude’s information that Isabeau had gone for an early walk, and still more surprised by the gift of brioche and chocolate some kind soul had delivered from the village in honour of his eldest daughter’s marriage. He sat chatting pleasantly with Claude for half an hour or so about the wedding and all there was to do before they left the cottage. He appeared to think the newlyweds needed more than a week on their own before Marie’s family descended upon them, but Claude disagreed.

  ‘No, Papa, Marie cannot do without you for so long. She has said so. And recall you will be so much closer to the Vicomte. He will not have to ride out to you so often – you may call on him.’

  De la Noue gave a chuckle that turned into a cough.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, a rare twinkle in his eye. ‘And you will be wanting me to bring you with me, no doubt.’