Beauty and the Beast Novelization_Disney Page 9

  “I want to help you,” Belle said, surprising herself and the others. “There must be some way to lift the curse.”

  There was a heavy pause as the staff exchanged looks. Then Cogsworth spoke. “Well, there is one—”

  “It’s not for you to worry about, lamb,” Mrs. Potts said, stopping Cogsworth. “We’ve made our bed and we must lie in it.” Her statement clear, Mrs. Potts ushered the rest of the staff out of the room.

  Belle watched them go. When she was alone with the Beast, she walked over to where he lay. She was surprised to see his eyes were open. He had heard everything. And the pain and shame Belle saw when their eyes met broke her heart. Before she could say anything, he closed his eyes and turned his back to her.

  Sighing, Belle retreated and left him to sleep. But as she shut the door, she took one last look at the rose. As she watched, another petal fell. She wished there was something she could do to help the poor souls trapped there. But it all seemed a lost cause, as hopeless as turning back the hands of time.

  BELLE DECIDED THAT AS LONG as she was in the castle, she would use her time productively, which for starters meant helping the Beast recover.

  Adjusting her dress around her legs, Belle settled into the chair beside the Beast’s bed. The Beast’s eyes were closed, which gave Belle the chance to assess his wounds. It had been a few days since he’d saved her from the wolves, and with constant care, most of the cuts were beginning to heal. Still, the larger and deeper ones remained bandaged. Those would take longer to heal and were likely to leave scars. Gazing at him, Belle felt a surge of sadness for the creature. He already had so many invisible scars after growing up without a mother to protect him from a cruel father. It seemed unfair that he now had physical ones to match.

  Belle sighed. It would do the Beast no good for her to sit there feeling sorry for him. Looking around for something she could do to entertain herself while he slept, Belle wasn’t surprised to find very little in the way of entertainment. There were no books on the bedside table. The art was all torn and even the furniture was worse for wear. It looks like I’ll just have to make my own entertainment, Belle thought.

  Softly, she recited some of her favorite lines from one of her favorite works, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”

  To her surprise, the Beast’s deep voice joined hers and they finished the verse in unison. “And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

  Belle looked over, eyes wide. The Beast had apparently not been sleeping. He was gazing back at her, an amused expression on his hairy face.

  “You know Shakespeare?” Belle asked. She knew her voice was filled with disbelief and she blushed. After what Mrs. Potts had told her, she now knew the Beast had once been a human boy. A human prince. Still, she couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that the creature lying on the bed before her seemed to have more class than a great majority of those who lived in her village.

  The Beast shrugged. “I had an expensive education,” he replied.

  There was an awkward pause. “Actually, Romeo and Juliet is my favorite play,” Belle finally offered.

  “Why is that not a surprise?” the Beast replied, a hint of a smile in his eyes.

  “Sorry?” Belle said, feigning offense.

  “All that heartache and pining and—” The Beast shuddered dramatically. “There are so many better things to read.”

  “Like what?” Belle said, raising an eyebrow. She crossed her arms, the challenge thrown down.

  The Beast smiled. Then he began to push himself up.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Belle said, reaching out to stop him.

  But even wounded, the Beast was far stronger than Belle. He brushed her off and got out of the bed. Then, without a word, he slowly made his way out of the room. Belle had no choice but to follow.

  By the time they made it down the West Wing’s long hallway, turned several corners, and climbed one smaller staircase, Belle was nearly bubbling over with curiosity. The Beast had not said a word or given a hint as to where they were going. He just walked slowly, pausing every now and then to catch his breath.

  Finally, they came to a stop in front of a pair of grand doors, which soared at least two stories high and were intricately carved with reliefs depicting various scenes. Standing next to the Beast, Belle tried to make out some of the larger ones, but before she could, the Beast pushed open the doors. “There are a couple of things in here you can start with,” he said.

  Belle gasped.

  In front of her was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was a library. But this was not just any library. This had to be the biggest, grandest library in all of France. The ceiling soared above her, shelves full of books going all the way to the very top. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, and even on the mantel, books were displayed. On another wall, a large window let in plenty of light to read by, but even still, candles were lit throughout the chamber. Despite its immense size, the room was comfortable, cozy. Belle looked around at the multitude of deep cushioned chairs and imagined how peaceful it would be to curl up in one with a book in hand.

  “Are you all right?” the Beast asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

  Belle imagined she looked like a fish gaping in water for how shocked and awestruck she felt. She turned and smiled up at him. “It’s wonderful,” she said, knowing that was not grand enough a response to a room such as this.

  “Why, yes, I suppose it is,” the Beast said thoughtfully, as though noticing this for the first time. “Well then it is yours. You can be master here.” He bowed and turned to leave.

  Belle’s voice stopped him. Her neck was craned back as she looked to the shelves at the very top of the room. “Have you really read every one of these books?”

  “Not all of them,” the Beast replied. “Some are in Greek.”

  Belle’s mouth dropped open. “Was that a joke?” she said, beginning to smile. “Are you making jokes now?”

  The Beast tried not to smile as he replied, “Maybe…”

  Without another word, the Beast turned and left the room. Belle remained where she was, shaking her head as he made his exit. What had just happened?

  As the days passed, Belle found more and more reason to ask herself that same question. Instead of what had happened, however, it quickly became what was happening? Because there was no denying it—something had changed between Belle and the Beast. She wasn’t sure if it had started when he rescued her in the woods or when she had turned around and rescued him. Or perhaps it had been the afternoon he shared the library with her and she first saw the softer side of him. It might have even started somewhere in between all that—when Mrs. Potts had told her the story of the Beast’s youth. When it had happened didn’t matter. What mattered, what Belle could not deny, was the simple truth that there was a spark of something between them that hadn’t been there before. Something that made the days at the castle feel less like a prison sentence and more—well, more like fun.

  And the Beast had become less like her captor and more of a friend.

  Belle no longer snuck down to the kitchen to get her meals. Instead, she and the Beast shared the dining room table—he at one end, she at the other. Sometimes they would each bring a book and read at the table in companionable silence. At other meals, they would talk about the books, sharing their favorite parts or what they would have changed. So caught up in their mutual love of reading was she that Belle stopped noticing when the Beast slurped his soup straight from the bowl and ignored the silverware entirely. Sometimes she even went so far as to sip the soup the same way, to make the Beast feel more comfortable.

  Meals and books were not the only things they shared. When the weather permitted, Belle would join the Beast outside as he showed her around the grounds, or they would walk Philippe. And even when the weather wasn’t perfect, they found ways to enjoy themselves outside the castle walls. Snowy days
led to snowball fights; sunny days led to picnics.

  Belle even encouraged the Beast to help her and the castle staff clean up the castle—the two of them scrubbing the floors until the old gleaming marble shone through, wiping the years of grime off the windows until they saw sparkling sunlight. They transformed the West Wing, removing the shattered columns and debris and replacing the torn bits of fabric with cozy blankets to make a proper bed for the Beast.

  With each moment and adventure they shared, Belle grew more and more comfortable around the Beast. She no longer shuddered if he accidently brushed her with his paw. Nor did her smile fade when his flashed, revealing sharp fangs.

  In fact, Belle realized with a start at lunch one afternoon, she didn’t even really see those parts of him anymore. She saw the kindness in his eyes when he looked at her. She heard the intelligence in his voice when they debated literature. And she saw the pride he had in his home when he looked around.

  I’m seeing the man inside the Beast, she wrote one afternoon in a diary she’d started keeping. If her current experiences didn’t warrant a journal, she didn’t know what did. I’m seeing what Mrs. Potts and Lumiere and Cogsworth and all the others have seen all along. It just took me some time….Closing the pages, Belle stood up and went to the window of her elegant room. Outside, the last of the day’s light was fading. A nearly full moon was beginning to peek over the horizon, illuminating the snowy gardens below in a pale, ethereal light. Looking out, Belle was struck once again by the beauty of the castle. Since her friendship with the Beast had grown stronger, and they had made the effort to return the estate to its former glory, the whole castle had become brighter and cheerier right before her very eyes. She saw the beauty in the lines of the stone that made up the castle walls and appreciated the towering turrets. It was not the quaint and picturesque architecture of Villeneuve but it was enchanting nonetheless.

  Spotting the Beast making his way toward the colonnade, book in hand, Belle turned and grabbed her own book from the bedside table. Making her way downstairs and outside, she went to join him.

  “What are you reading?” she asked when she, too, had entered the colonnade.

  The Beast looked up, startled to see her. He dropped the book to his side. “Nothing,” he said, trying to hide it from Belle.

  It was too late. Belle had already seen the title. “Guinevere and Lancelot,” she observed.

  The Beast shrugged. “King Arthur and the round table,” he clarified. “Swords, fighting…” His attempt to focus on the more action-packed parts of the book was not lost on Belle.

  “Still…it’s a romance,” she pointed out, trying not to smile as the Beast shrugged and looked sheepish.

  “Felt like a change,” he finally said.

  For a moment, the pair just stood there in somewhat awkward silence. Despite all the time they had been spending together, this felt different to Belle. Maybe it was the moonlight. Maybe it was the Beast’s admission of change. Maybe it was just a shift in the air. Whatever the reason, Belle felt a sudden compulsion to say something she had not said before. “I never thanked you for saving my life,” she finally said softly.

  “I never thanked you for not leaving me to die,” he responded without hesitation, as though he, too, had been wanting to say the words for a long while but had never found the right time.

  The air crackled between them as they stood, eyes locked, their words lingering in the air. Just when Belle was sure it couldn’t get any more tense, they heard shouts followed by laughter coming from inside the castle. The servants, it seemed, were having a nice fete. The noise broke the tension and both Belle and the Beast smiled in relief.

  “Well…they know how to have a good time,” Belle said.

  The Beast nodded. “Sometimes, when I take my dinner, I listen to their laughter and pretend I am eating with them.”

  “You should!” Belle said, impressed he would admit such a thing. “They’d love that.”

  “No, I’ve tried,” he replied, the moment of levity gone as quickly as it had come. “When I enter a room, laughter dies.”

  Belle’s mouth opened and shut. That was exactly how she felt whenever she went into town. She said as much to the Beast. Then she added, “The villagers say that I’m a funny girl, but I don’t think they mean it as a compliment.” To her surprise, she felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. She had never admitted to anyone that it hurt her feelings—not even her father.

  “I’m sorry,” the Beast said, his tone genuine. “Your village sounds terrible.”

  “Almost as lonely as your castle,” Belle said.

  Once again the Beast nodded, not offended by her statement. Over the past few days, Belle’s presence—and the life she breathed into the castle—had shown him just how lonely a place the castle had been. “It wasn’t always like this,” he said. He paused as an idea came to him, then gave her a smile. “What do you say we run away?”

  Belle cocked her head, surprised by the suggestion. That was the last thing she had expected to hear come out of the Beast’s mouth. Intrigued, she nodded and followed as he led her out of the colonnade and back into the castle. And despite the many questions she had forming in the back of her mind, she remained quiet as he led her down now familiar hallways and up a flight of stairs to the library.

  With purpose, the Beast walked over to a simple desk that was tucked against one of the library’s walls. Pulling a key out of his pocket, he unlocked one of the cabinets.

  Belle peered over his shoulder. Resting on a pillow made of rich velvet was the most beautiful book Belle had ever seen. The leather cover was lined with gold leaf and glimmered despite the thick layer of dust on top. It seemed magical to Belle and she longed to reach out and touch it.

  “The Enchantress gave me this,” the Beast said, turning and seeing Belle’s wide eyes. “Another of her many curses.” He slowly opened it, the spine cracking with lack of use. There was no writing, no title page or dedication. Instead, the first page opened to reveal an antique world atlas. Unlike ordinary atlases, this one did not show countries or capitals. It just showed land and sea. Belle looked up at the Beast, a questioning look in her eye. “A book that truly allows you to escape,” he answered.

  Stepping forward, Belle’s eyes grew still wider as she saw the art come to life. Waves lapped against beaches. Green trees swayed in invisible winds. A soft golden dust seemed to rise from the pages and swirl slowly over the landmasses on the map. “How amazing,” she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.

  The Beast did not seem as impressed. “It was the Enchantress’s cruelest trick of all,” he said softly. “The outside world has no place for a monster like me. But it can for you.” Slowly, he reached out and took Belle’s hand in his. Then he gently moved it to the book. “Think of the place you’ve most wanted to see. First see it in your mind’s eye. Now feel it in your heart.”

  Belle closed her eyes. She didn’t need to think of a place she wanted to see. She knew it instinctively. Reaching out her fingers, Belle placed them on the page. Instantly, the room around them began to spin and the library walls seemed to fade away.

  When Belle opened her eyes, she was no longer looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The snow-covered peaceful gardens had vanished and the stars had faded. They were standing in a small dusty apartment with a view of glittering lights shining from a city skyline.

  The Beast gazed out the window and saw the wooden blade of a windmill move past. “Where did you take us?”

  “Paris,” Belle said, her whisper barely audible over the sound of the Montmartre windmill’s blades rushing by.

  “Oh, I love Paris,” the Beast exclaimed. “What would you like to see first? Notre Dame? The Champs-Élysées? Too touristy?”

  But Belle was absorbed in her own thoughts, looking around the little dim room they were standing in. She had thought about this particular apartment for so many years, had pictured it in her mind’s eye. But she had never dared dream she wo
uld see it for real. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s so much smaller than I imagined,” she said after a moment, blinking back the tears.

  They had been transported to the dusty attic where Belle had lived with her father and mother so many years before. It looked abandoned, a small crib and broken easel the only reminders that the place had once been a home. As Belle walked forward, the sadness she had felt earlier returned with a vengeance. For some reason, she had imagined that the enchanted book would reveal her childhood home as it had been, not as it was now. But what she was looking at was clearly an empty shell of a place. No one had lived there for years—not since Maurice had moved himself and Belle to the country.

  Beside her, the Beast kept silent, letting her have the moment and the memories. But as she picked up a rattle that had been caught in the corner of the crib, he finally spoke. “What happened to your mother?” he asked softly.

  “That’s the only story Papa could never bring himself to tell,” Belle said, clutching the rattle in her hand. The wood was old, but the detail was still exquisite. It was a perfectly carved rose. “And I knew well enough not to ask.”

  As she spoke, the Beast’s eyes traveled to the corner of the room. He moved to pick up a black mask that resembled a bird’s beak, his expression pained. That mask meant only one thing: it was what doctors used to prevent catching their patients’ dreadful disease. Belle followed his gaze, and as she saw the mask, tears brimmed anew in her eyes. The plague. That was what had taken her mother. That was what had sent her father fleeing for the safety of the country.

  All these years, she had resented him for keeping her trapped in Villeneuve. But now she knew what he must have endured. She could picture her mother insisting he take Belle away, insisting they leave her there before they, too, were infected. She could not imagine how it must have felt to watch his beloved slowly die and not be able to save her. Belle’s knuckles turned white as her grip on the rose-shaped rattle tightened.