Beauty and the Beast Novelization

by Disney Writers

  Absorbed in thoughts of what new bookish delights might be awaiting her at Pere Robert’s, Belle didn’t even notice the attention she was getting. Nor did she pay any mind to the barely concealed comments her presence sparked. She had heard them all before. It was not the first time she had passed by the school and heard the young boys call her strange. The washerwomen, their hands pruned and covered in suds, also loved to whisper among themselves whenever they saw Belle. “Funny girl,” they would say. “Doesn’t fit in” was another favorite. To the gossipy women, this was the worst offense of all. It never occurred to them that Belle chose not to be part of the crowd.

  Finally, Belle arrived at her destination—the vestry of the church. Pushing open the doors, she breathed a sigh of relief as the quiet and serenity of the building enveloped her. The hubbub and noise of outside faded away, and for the first time that morning, Belle felt at peace. Hearing her enter, a kind man in a long black robe looked up from his book. The man was tall and slender, with warm eyes that crinkled as he smiled at Belle.

  “Good morning, Belle,” Pere Robert greeted her. “So where did you run off to this week?”

  Belle smiled in return. The well-read priest was one of two people in the entire village Belle felt she could talk to. The other person was her father. “Two cities in Northern Italy,” she answered, her tone growing animated. She held out the book, as if showing Pere Robert would somehow help bring the story fully to life. “You should have seen it. The castles. The art. There was even a masquerade ball.”

  Reaching out, Pere Robert took the book gingerly from Belle. He nodded as she continued to tell him the story of Romeo and Juliet as though he had never heard it before, even though they both knew he had read the story at least a dozen times himself. It was just part of their ritual. When she was done, Belle took a deep satisfied breath. “Have you got any new places to go?” she asked hopefully. She turned and her eyes lingered on the town’s library.

  Calling it a library was an exaggeration, to say the least. A few dozen books lined two small dusty bookshelves. Scanning the shelves now, Belle saw the same well-worn spines and faded titles. It was rare for anything to be added to the inventory.

  “I’m afraid not,” he replied. Despite the fact that she had anticipated this, Belle’s eyes showed her disappointment. “But you may reread any of the old ones that you’d like,” he added kindly.

  Belle nodded and moved in front of the shelves. Her fingers brushed the familiar books, most of which she had read at least two times. Still, she knew better than to complain. Picking one up, she smiled back at the older man. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Your library makes our small corner of the world almost feel big.”

  Book in hand, Belle left the vestry and made her way back out onto the village’s main street. Opening to the first page, she planted her nose firmly in the book and blocked out everything else. She ducked under the cheese vendor carrying his tray of goods and swooped out of the way of the two florists, their arms loaded with huge bouquets, all the while never losing her spot on the page.

  While she had been disappointed not to find anything new, this book was one of her favorites. It had everything a good story should have—far-off places, a charming prince, a strong heroine who discovered love…but not right away, of course.

  CLANG! CLANG!

  Startled by the loud noise, Belle finally tore herself from the book. Looking up, she saw that the noise was coming from Agathe. If the town thought Belle was odd, they considered the older woman an outcast. She had no home or family and spent her days begging for spare change and food. Looking past the dirt that covered her cheeks and the rags she wore, Belle had always had a soft spot for Agathe. She felt Agathe deserved as much care and respect as anyone else, and hated to see other villagers ignore Agathe, or—worse—mock her among themselves. Whenever she saw Agathe, Belle tried to give her a little something.

  “Good morning, Agathe,” she said now, smiling gently. “I have no money. But here…” She reached into her bag, pulled out the baguette she had picked up especially for the older woman, and handed it over.

  Agathe smiled gratefully. Then her smile turned playful. “No jam?” Anticipating the response, Belle already had her hand in her pocket and produced the jar of jam. “Bless you,” Agathe said. Lowering her head, she ripped a chunk off the baguette, Belle’s presence instantly forgotten.

  Belle smiled. She felt, in some strange way, a kinship with the woman. Agathe simply wanted to have food and be left alone. Belle was the same way with her books. As lonely as she could be at times, she couldn’t stand unwanted attention—hated it, in fact.

  GASTON LOVED ATTENTION. HE LIVED for it, in fact. Ever since he had been a small boy, he had sought out ways to make himself the center of attention. He walked before anyone else his age. He talked first, and as he got older, he grew taller and more handsome than anyone else. With his dark hair, piercing eyes, and broad shoulders, he was indeed good-looking. The girls loved him; the boys worshiped him. And Gaston? He soaked up the attention and reveled in it.

  But there was a limit to just how much attention Gaston could get growing up in a small village. And it had irked him. Then, to his great delight, France had gotten involved in the war. Gaston had seen the war not as an opportunity to defend his country but as a chance to wear a dashing uniform and woo the ladies, which he had done, with gusto, when he became a certified war hero—twelve years ago.

  Gaston still wore his uniform.

  And he still believed himself the most handsome and manliest man in the entire village.

  Now he sat astride his large black stallion, staring down at his village from the promontory that overlooked it. His chest bulged beneath a dazzling gold breastplate. The muscles on his arms rippled as he pulled back on the horse’s reins, making the animal dance nervously. Strapped to his saddle were his trusty musket and the spoils of his hunt. As usual, he’d had a successful afternoon in the woods.

  “You didn’t miss a shot, Gaston,” said the man beside him.

  If Gaston was a lion of a man, which many a person had called him over the years, the man beside him was a house cat. LeFou was everything Gaston was not. Where Gaston was tall and muscled, LeFou was short and soft. Where Gaston was all smooth, practiced moves and well-rehearsed lines, LeFou was stumbling incoherent babble. And where Gaston was known and worshiped by all, LeFou was barely a footnote in the eyes of the villagers. Still, Gaston had a soft spot for the little guy—mostly because LeFou was his biggest fan.

  “You’re the greatest hunter in the village,” LeFou went on. Gaston shot him a look and he quickly corrected himself. “I mean…the world.”

  Gaston puffed out his already puffed-out chest even more and raised his chin in the air, as though posing for an unseen artist. “Thank you, LeFou,” he said. He looked down at what LeFou had “caught”—a handful of vegetables—and raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t do too badly yourself,” he added insincerely.

  “One of these days I’m going to learn to shoot like you,” LeFou said, oblivious to Gaston’s mockery. “And talk like you. And be tall and handsome like you.”

  “Come now, old friend,” Gaston said, pretending not to love every compliment. “Reflected glory is just as good as the real thing.”

  LeFou cocked his head, confused. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw Gaston sit up straighter in his saddle. The dark-haired man’s eyes narrowed, as if he were a wolf spotting his prey. Following Gaston’s gaze, LeFou saw what had caught his friend’s attention. Below, Belle was making her way through the village square. Her bright blue dress was flattering against her rich auburn hair. Even from such a distance, LeFou could see that her cheeks were flushed becomingly.

  “Look at her, LeFou,” Gaston went on. “My future wife. Belle is the most beautiful girl in the village. That makes her the best.”

  “But she’s so well read, and you’re so…” LeFou caught himself. He had almost just done the one thing he prided
himself on never doing—offending Gaston. Quickly, before Gaston could wonder about the hesitation, he finished his sentence. “Athletically inclined.”

  Gaston nodded. “I know,” he agreed. “Belle can be as argumentative as she is beautiful.”

  “Exactly!” LeFou said, happy to see his friend talking with some sense. “Who needs her? You’ve got us! Le Duo!” He threw out the nickname almost hopefully. When they had first returned home from the war—because of course LeFou had gone with his pal to fight—the little man had tried in vain to get the village to call the pair Le Duo. But it had never stuck. It was usually Gaston and “the other one.” Or more often than not, just Gaston.

  Absorbed in himself, Gaston barely registered the neediness in his friend’s voice. “Ever since the war, I’ve been missing something,” he said, still looking at Belle. “And she’s the only girl I’ve met who gives that sense of…” Gaston stumbled, trying to find the right words.

  “Je ne sais quoi?” LeFou finished for him.

  Gaston turned and looked at him, confusion on his face. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “I just know that from the moment I saw her, I knew I would marry Belle. And I don’t want to stand here any longer, wasting time.” Kicking his horse into a gallop, he headed toward the village, the picture of a hero returning from war. Behind him, LeFou spurred his pony’s sides. The furry animal pinned back its ears and broke right into…a slow trot.

  Belle heard the sound of hoofbeats moments before the horses burst through the village gates. In truth, one burst through; the other sort of meandered. Instantly, Belle recognized the large black stallion and the man astride its back. It was Gaston. Behind him, his ever-present sidekick, LeFou, was struggling to keep up on his shaggy pony. She stifled a groan and quickly ducked behind the cheese seller, hoping Gaston would not notice her.

  She’d had one too many run-ins with the war hero. Every time, it went the same way. Gaston would preen like a peacock while he boasted of his latest hunt or told her a tale from his glory days in the war. Belle would try not to roll her eyes. The villagers—especially the female ones—would swoon and whisper how lucky Belle was, and ultimately, Belle would walk away feeling the need to bathe. She knew that Gaston was considered by many—well, all if she was being honest—to be quite the catch. But she just couldn’t stand the man. There was something beastly about him.

  Like now, she thought as she peeked out from behind the fromagerie. Gaston was clutching flowers in his hand and scanning the crowd like a wild animal. Belle groaned as his eyes locked on hers and he began to push through the villagers to get to her. She turned and hurried off in the opposite direction, hoping the other villagers would distract him.

  Unbeknownst to Belle, just as Gaston was about to reach her, Agathe stepped in front of him, her cup raised. Gaston looked down at the homeless woman and his lips curled. Then he saw the shiny metal cup. “Thank you, hag,” he said, grabbing it out of her hands and turning it upside down. Coins spilled to the ground as Gaston checked out his reflection in the bottom of the mug. Satisfied with what he saw, he shoved the cup back at Agathe and moved past her.

  “Good morning, Belle,” he said, running to come to a stop in front of her. She took a step backward. “Wonderful book you have there.”

  Belle raised an eyebrow. “You’ve read it?”

  “I did a lot of things in the army,” he answered vaguely.

  Belle swallowed a laugh. It had taken him less than a minute to bring up the army. Must be a record, she thought.

  With a flourish, Gaston presented the flowers. “For your dinner table,” he explained. “Shall I join you tonight?”

  “Sorry,” Belle said hastily, shaking her head. She inched around him, looking for the quickest escape route. “Not tonight.”

  “Busy?” Gaston asked.

  “No,” Belle said, and then before Gaston could reply or process her refusal, she was ducking back out into the street. Behind her, she heard Gaston twisting her words for the audience of villagers who had stopped to watch the pair. It was clear that the hunter had interpreted her no as part of a game of hard to get.

  She didn’t care what Gaston said or how he made himself feel better. She knew the truth: Gaston, despite his massive physical size, was no bigger than the small provincial town. And there was no way she would ever share her dinner table with him. Not now, not ever.

  Quickening her pace, Belle made her way out of the village center. Moments later she arrived back at her cottage. It was a cozy little house, with a small staircase leading up to the front door and large picture windows. There was also a nice garden out front and a detached basement workshop for her father.

  The soft tinkling melody of a music box drifted up from the closed hatch doors. Her father was already working, despite the early hour.

  Careful not to disturb him, Belle opened the hatch and tiptoed down the stairs. Sunlight streamed through a small window, illuminating Maurice as he sat hunched over his workbench. Bits and pieces of his projects were scattered about. Small knobs, tiny screws, half-painted boxes, and delicate figurines sat on various shelves and tables. Some were newer, their surfaces bright and shiny, while others had accumulated a fine layer of dust waiting for Maurice’s attention to turn to them once again. But for the moment, he was focused exclusively on the music box in front of him. As Belle watched, he tinkered with one of the gears. The inside was beautifully painted, depicting an artist in a small Parisian apartment. The artist was painting his wife’s portrait. She was cradling a small baby and holding a rattle resembling a red rose in her other hand.

  Belle took a step farther into the room. Maurice looked up distractedly at the sound. Seeing his daughter, he smiled. His eyes, the same warm color as Belle’s, were bright and focused. When he straightened his shoulders, he grew taller and leaner, still handsome in his older age. “Oh, good, Belle, you’re back,” he said, turning again to the music box. “Where were you?”

  “Well, first I went to Saint Petersburg to see the tsar, then I went fishing in the bottom of the well,” she began, smiling as he nodded absently. When he was working, he didn’t see or hear anything else. Belle understood. She was the same way when she was entranced by a book.

  “Hmmm, yes,” Maurice said. “Can you please hand me the—”

  Before he could finish, Belle was handing him the screwdriver.

  “And the—”

  This time she held out a small hammer.

  “No, I don’t need…” His voice trailed off as a spring popped off. “Well, yes, I guess I do.”

  As he went back to tinkering, Belle walked over to a shelf full of completed music boxes. Her long thin fingers trailed over them as she moved down the row. Each one was a piece of art, depicting famous landmarks from around the world. She knew her father made them for her, as a way to give her a glimpse beyond the village. Maurice never said as much, but Belle knew he was aware of her longing to explore, to get out of the small world where he felt she was safe. She thought of the small village and the gossiping people who lived there. Softly, so as not to startle him, Belle asked, “Papa, do you think I’m odd?”

  Hearing her tone, Maurice looked up from his work. He frowned. “Do I think you’re odd?” he repeated. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

  Belle shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know….People talk.”

  “There are worse things than being talked about,” Maurice said, his tone growing sad. “This village may be small-minded, Belle, but it’s also safe.”

  Belle opened her mouth to protest. That was the line her father used all the time. She knew it came from a good place, but she just didn’t understand why he wanted to stay in their small town.

  Seeing his typical explanation wasn’t going to work on Belle today, Maurice quickly changed course. “Back in Paris,” he said, “I knew a girl who was so different, so daring, so ahead of her time that people mocked her until the day they found themselves imitating her. Do you know what she used to s
ay?”

  Belle shook her head.

  “She used to say, ‘The people who talk behind your back are destined to stay there.’” Maurice paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then he added. “Behind your back. Never to catch up.”

  Slowly, Belle nodded. She enjoyed Maurice’s little stories that served as life lessons. She had, in fact, thought she’d already heard them all. But this was a new one. Her father was trying to tell her it was all right to stand out, be apart from the crowd. She nodded once more. “I understand,” she said softly.

  “That woman was your mother,” Maurice added, smiling and reaching out to take his daughter’s hand. He gave it a squeeze.

  Belle smiled back, warmth and sadness filling her heart. She didn’t remember her mother. All she had were the stories her father told her. But remembering was hard on Maurice, so he gave her only snippets—like this one—from time to time. “Tell me more about her,” Belle prompted as Maurice tried to return to his work. “Please. One more thing.”

  The older man’s hand hovered over the music box. Slowly, his fingers closed and he looked back at his daughter. “Your mother was…fearless,” he said. “To know anything more, you just have to look in the mirror.” He picked up a pair of tweezers and placed the last gear in the music box. With a click, it snapped into place.

  “It’s beautiful,” Belle said as music tinkled forth. As she looked up, her eyes landed on the portrait hanging above her father’s workshop. It showed the same image that was depicted on the inside of the newest music box. Her mother was the woman holding the infant and the rose rattle. And Belle was the baby. It was the only image of her mother Belle knew. “I think she would have loved it,” Belle added softly.

  But her father didn’t hear her. He was once again lost in the world of his music boxes. Belle knew that talking more about her mother would only sadden him. She turned and headed back upstairs. She loved her father so much, and she didn’t want to cause him any more pain or heartache than he’d already experienced in his life. But sometimes she wondered if there was a chance anything would ever happen to set her life on a different path than the one she and her father were so firmly planted on now.