Beauty and the Beast Novelization_Disney Page 3

  BELLE WAVED TO HER FATHER as he drove his cart away from their cottage. Philippe, their gentle giant of a draft horse, tossed his head in the air and whickered happily, ready for the adventure.

  As he did every year, Maurice was heading to the large market a few towns over to sell his music boxes. The cart was loaded with every piece he had worked on for the past year, carefully packed and stored to protect them during the long journey. And as he did every year, Maurice was leaving Belle behind. It was for her own safety, he always told her. Or because he couldn’t leave the cottage unattended, he would sometimes add. Either way, every time it was the same. He packed up the cart, Belle made sure Philippe was ready for the journey, and then they went through their ritual of saying good-bye. Belle would tuck Maurice’s cravat into his shirt, and Maurice would ask Belle: “What would you like from the market?”

  “A rose like the one in the painting,” was always Belle’s reply.

  Then, after a quick hug and a pat for Philippe, Maurice would head out.

  This year had been no different. When her father and Philippe were finally out of view, Belle sighed. Well, she thought as she walked back into the cottage, now what? She knew she could read or clean or work in the garden. But for some reason none of those things appealed to her at the moment. She needed to do something more. Something that would get her out of her own head—which was beginning to fill with worry about her father’s trip, as it did every year. Catching sight of the large pile of laundry, she raised an eyebrow. Normally, she hated doing the laundry. The washerwomen were always by the fountain, gossiping and jabbering away. When she arrived, they would inevitably get louder, their laughter colder—lasting the excruciating length of time it took to get the clothes clean. If only it didn’t take so long…

  She looked around the room, noticing one of Philippe’s leather harnesses and the basket of apples. Suddenly, she had a thought. Smiling, she ran into the barn, grabbed what she needed, and headed into the village. To her delight, when she arrived, the only person at the fountain was a young girl with sad eyes. Belle had seen the girl around the village before. She was always by herself, and judging by the way she hunched her shoulders and avoided eye contact, Belle was pretty sure she didn’t have a lot of friends. As Belle watched, the girl plunged a shirt into the fountain and then pulled it out and began scrubbing at it.

  Taking her pile to the fountain’s edge, Belle began to pull her other supplies from her apron pockets. She walked over to Jean the potter’s mule, which was standing by the door to the tavern with its head down, lips twitching, and one hind foot cocked. After attaching one end of Philippe’s harness to the mule’s halter, Belle secured the other end to a small wooden barrel. Then she dumped all the clothes and a few soap chips into the barrel before lifting it and dropping it right into the fountain. The barrel bobbed on its side, filling slowly with water. Belle walked in front of the mule. Holding up one of the apples enticingly, she walked backward. The mule followed. She set it on a path walking around the fountain.

  “What are you doing?”

  Belle saw that the girl was watching her, a perplexed look on her face.

  “The laundry,” Belle answered matter-of-factly. She pointed to the barrel. The mule was dragging it through the water, churning up the liquid and covering the clothes in a nice layer of suds. Satisfied with her work, Belle took her book out of one of her apron pockets and sat down to read. Glancing at the girl, who was eyeing the book with something close to hunger, Belle smiled. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Belle wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting by the fountain. Jean’s mule was still doing laps, the water was less sudsy, and the clothes were much cleaner. But Belle barely registered any of that. She was too focused on the girl sitting beside her. She had spent the morning and some of the afternoon trying to teach her to read. She knew that the village elders frowned upon girls reading—hence the local school was open only to boys—but Belle had never agreed with that narrow-minded way of thinking. So when the girl had sat down on the fountain wall and asked in a voice barely above a whisper if Belle would tell her a story, Belle had been excited to be able to share the thrill of reading with her. The idea of living in this village and not being able to escape through books was alarming. And the girl lived that life every day. Belle was determined to change that.

  They had gotten pretty far. The girl was much further along than Belle would have thought possible. She just needed practice.

  “T…th…the blue bi-ir-ird flies…” the girl stammered.

  “Over the dark wood,” Belle prompted. She opened her mouth to read the next line but was interrupted by a shout from nearby. Looking up, Belle saw the thin cruel face of the headmaster in the school’s doorway. She sighed. Their moment of peace and quiet seemed to be over.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he shouted, storming over to her. A line of boys followed him, their matching uniforms making them look like a small army. “Girls don’t read.”

  His shouts quickly garnered the attention of more villagers. Jean the potter appeared, followed by the fishmonger and even Pere Robert and Agathe. They waited to see what Belle would say or do.

  Raising one perfectly arched eyebrow, Belle met the headmaster’s angry gaze. For a moment, they remained that way, eyes locked. Then Belle turned back to the girl and smiled. “Try again,” she said.

  As if she had ignited a powder keg of explosives, the villagers who had gathered went off. Some, like the fishmonger and the headmaster, expressed outrage at Belle’s audacious behavior. Others, like Pere Robert, cheered her on. Amid it all, Belle sat unbothered. Let the headmaster scream and shout and throw a fit, she thought. He should be concerned with his students’ education.

  Suddenly, over the increasingly loud shouts of the villagers, a shot rang out.

  Startled, Belle looked up. Then she rolled her eyes.

  Gaston stood, or rather posed, with one hand on his hip and the other holding his hunting rifle to the sky. Smoke still wafted from the tip of the recently fired weapon. LeFou, ever the aide, was pushing his way through the villagers. “Make a lane, people,” he shouted. “Come on, don’t make me say it twice.”

  Walking behind him, Gaston lowered the rifle and handed it to LeFou. Then he looked over the crowd. “This is not how good people behave,” he said, shaking his head. “Everyone…go home. Now!” If the gun hadn’t been enough to get their attention, the man’s deep bellow did the trick. The villagers, mumbling to each other, began to disperse. Within moments, the area around the fountain was almost empty. The only ones left were Belle, Gaston, and LeFou. Even the young girl had taken off, frightened by the war hero’s shout.

  Belle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Gaston surely thought he had just come to her rescue, but all he had done was given the other villagers what they’d wanted and ended her reading lesson. Not to mention frustrate her.

  Belle got to her feet and walked away from the fountain. Gaston fell in step beside her. For a few glorious moments, the large man was silent as they walked toward Belle’s cottage, and Belle wondered if perhaps she had been wrong. Maybe Gaston wouldn’t make this all about him. And then he spoke.

  “I was pretty great back there, wasn’t I?” he said. “Like being back in command during the war…”

  “That was twelve years ago, Gaston,” Belle pointed out.

  “Sad, I know,” Gaston said, clearly missing Belle’s tone. He slowed his steps, and his expression grew serious. “Belle, I’m sure you think I have it all. But there is something I’m missing.”

  Hoping to get away, Belle quickened her own pace. “I can’t imagine…”

  “A wife,” Gaston went on, his tone earnest but the line too well practiced to sound genuine. “You’re not really living until you see yourself reflected in someone else’s eyes.”

  Oh, no, Belle thought. This was just what she had feared might happen. And she needed to nip any further talk of wives right in the bud. “And you c
an see yourself in mine?” she asked, trying to make her tone as disinterested and removed as possible.

  Gaston nodded. “We’re both fighters,” he said, clearly referring to the incident at the fountain.

  “All I wanted was to teach a child to read,” Belle protested. Not be a fighter, she added silently.

  “The only children you should concern yourself with are…your own.”

  Gaston’s words hit Belle like a runaway cart. As if he knows me, or what I want, at all, she thought. How dare he make assumptions? She clenched her fists at her sides and tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “I’m not ready to have children.”

  “Maybe you haven’t met the right man,” Gaston responded.

  “It’s a small village,” Belle shot back. “I’ve met them all.”

  “Maybe you should take a second look….”

  Belle shook her head. “I have.”

  “Maybe you should take a third look,” Gaston went on, not picking up on the hint. “Some of us have changed.”

  Enough! Belle wanted to shout. Gaston could change into Mark Antony and she into Cleopatra and she still wouldn’t want to be with him. Ever. Never, ever, ever. “Look,” she finally said. “We could never make each other happy. No one can change that much.” Picking up her pace still more, she tried to get away from Gaston. This conversation had gone on long enough. Up ahead, she could see the front door of her cottage, like a beacon of safety.

  But Gaston wasn’t having it. His long legs quickly closed the gap between them, his boots crushing the vegetables in the little garden. “Belle, do you know what happens to spinsters in our village after their fathers die?” he asked, the earlier softness of his voice gone. When Belle didn’t answer, he went on. “They beg for change in the street.” He waved at Agathe, who was wandering past. “This is our world, Belle. For simple folk like us, it doesn’t get any better.”

  “I may be a farm girl,” Belle said, climbing the steps with Gaston close on her heels. She came to a stop and turned to look straight at him. “But I’m not simple. I’m sorry, but I will never marry you, Gaston.”

  Without another word, she pushed her way inside and firmly shut the door, preventing the hunter from following. She knew he couldn’t have liked having a door slammed in his face, but he’d left her with no choice. Hopefully this would be the end of Gaston’s unwanted advances.

  Someday, she thought as she slumped against the door, someday I’ll find someone who will understand me, someone who will let me be me. Someday I’ll show them all. I want so much more than the people in this town could ever understand.

  LIGHTNING FLASHED, ILLUMINATING the woods with a menacing white light. A moment later, the wind picked up. Leaves whipped across the ground at Philippe’s feet as he trotted nervously forward. The horse’s eyes bulged as a moment later a loud crack of thunder roared in the sky above. Jigging his head, he rattled his bit.

  In his spot on the carriage’s front seat, Maurice knew what the big animal was trying to say: Let’s turn around now, before it’s too late. But he also knew it already was too late. They had somehow gotten stuck in the middle of what locals called the dark forest. Rumors swirled around that thick patch of woods. Some said witches lived there. Others claimed it was full of packs of wolves smarter than most men. There were even those who said the trees had been known to speak. It was the type of place where one saw dark and hostile eyes wherever one looked.

  It was not the type of place to get lost in at night—especially in the middle of a storm.

  “Perhaps we should have turned right at those crossroads, old friend,” Maurice said, his hands shaking on the reins as more lightning streaked the sky. “Or perhaps I should stop pretending my horse understands me.”

  Just then, another bolt of lightning flashed down. Only this time, it nearly hit Maurice and Philippe. It missed them, barely, but a gnarled and withered tree did not fare so well. The lightning tore it in two. As it split, one half fell onto the road right in front of Philippe. The other half fell sideways. When Maurice looked closer, he saw that the second half of the tree had fallen right next to a previously hidden narrow path.

  Glancing back and forth, Maurice pondered what to do. A rational, reasonable part of him knew that he should find a way to keep going on the road. But a smaller part of him realized that was never going to happen. At least not that night. He couldn’t get the cart, himself, and Philippe around the fallen tree. With a sigh, he tugged on the reins, steering his horse toward the path.

  “It will be all right, Philippe,” he said as the horse whinnied nervously. I hope, he added silently.

  As they moved farther and farther down the path, Maurice became less and less confident that things would turn out well. The weather, which had already been stormy, grew worse—and stranger. Even though it was summer, a light whirling snow began to fall, dusting his jacket and turning Philippe’s coat from dappled gray to white. It also grew eerily quiet. The rumbling of thunder vanished, and soon the only sound echoing through the seemingly empty woods was the clip-clop of Philippe’s hooves.

  And then there was a piercing howl.

  An instant later a huge white wolf burst out of the bushes, barely missing the cart. Looking over, Maurice saw an entire pack of the beasts running parallel to them. “Go, Philippe!” he cried, slapping the reins against the horse’s neck, as if the creature needed any encouragement. “Hurry!”

  The horse wasted no time. He broke into a gallop. But the sudden movement combined terribly with the cart’s age and general disrepair. Just as the horse started to pull away from the wolves, the cart began to buckle and the harness loosened. Within seconds, the cart tipped.

  Maurice cried out as the cart fell to the ground and he was thrown into the air. He heard the sound of his beloved music boxes breaking as they fell and the slavering howls of the wolves, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he, too, fell and was destroyed. But just then, his plummeting body came to a jerking stop. Looking up, he saw that his descent had been stopped by a low-hanging limb. He dangled from it helplessly.

  Shaking off the last bits of his leather harness, Philippe kicked out a hind leg, toppling one of the wolves. Seeing his owner hanging from the tree, he raced underneath it. Maurice didn’t waste a minute. Reaching over his shoulder, he freed himself from the limb and fell onto the horse’s back. Then, with a loud h’yah, he kicked the large animal forward.

  As they raced through the woods, Maurice clung to Philippe’s mane. The wolves followed, their eyes mad with hunger, their jaws open to reveal sharp teeth.

  Just then, Maurice thought he saw something glimmer from the corner of his eye. Could there be some sort of structure…a safe haven in this godforsaken place? A moment later, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. A huge ornate gate, frozen over with ice, had suddenly appeared in front of them. As they raced up to it, the gate swung open slightly. Philippe plunged through. The tip of his tail had only just made it inside the gate when it closed. Behind them, the wolves’ howls turned to yelps of fear and then faded altogether as the creatures ran away.

  If Maurice had not just barely escaped a pack of wolves with his life, he might have taken pause at their sudden disappearance—or the odd gate that opened and closed by itself. He might even have wondered how a castle as large and ornate as the one that rose in front of him could seem to appear out of nowhere. But as it was, he didn’t stop to think about it. Instead, he kicked Philippe forward, toward the large castle and whoever lived inside.

  Maurice had seen great buildings before. After all, he had lived the majority of his life in Paris, where beautiful buildings dominated the skyline. He had seen the artistry that went into creating such architectural wonders and, as an artist himself, was in awe of those who crafted their visions into reality. But nothing he had ever seen in Paris could have prepared him for the castle he saw now.

  It seemed to defy gravity, with large turrets that reached high into the stormy sky. Its sides were made of g
ray stone cut so that it seemed the castle had grown out of the ground. The path Philippe now trotted on was actually a long bridge that spanned a frozen moat and ended in front of the castle’s massive entryway. To the right of the huge front doors was a large colonnade. To Maurice’s surprise, growing behind the colonnade, despite the strange cold weather, were beautiful rosebushes. White roses blossomed on all of them, so pure that they even stood out against the snow.

  A small shiver of fear flashed over Maurice. Roses growing in the snow? It was most unnatural. But as quickly as the feeling came, it went when Maurice noticed the castle’s large stable. The door to the outbuilding was open and a lamp had been lit inside.

  Maurice steered Philippe over, then quickly dismounted and led him inside the stable. He paused on the threshold and looked around. It seemed like an ordinary enough stable. “Water, fresh hay,” Maurice observed, giving the large animal a pat. “Looks like you’re set, old friend. Rest here”—he looked back outside to the castle beyond—“while I pay my respects to our host.”

  Turning, he headed across the courtyard and cautiously walked up the steps to what he assumed was the castle’s front door. The tingle of fear returned as he gazed up at a row of torches held by hands sculpted from iron. The hands were so lifelike Maurice couldn’t help reaching out and tapping one, just to be sure. The hand remained still. But the door did not. It swung open in front of him.

  “Hello?” Maurice called, peering in. “Anyone home?”

  His voice echoed through the large empty hall. Maurice could just make out the faint sound of a harpsichord coming from somewhere deep within the castle. Someone, it seemed, was home.