O Faithful and Longsuffering Readers. Know that of a certainty, the Glacially Slow Writer has been working on another story since early autumn of 2011.
I became enamored and obsessed with the 1946 film version of Beauty And The Beast, La Belle Et La Bête, by famed French moviemaker, Jean Cocteau. It is nothing short of magical. Another tale took shape, the equivalent of An Ardent Admirer, from Belle's POV. And, like all my stories, it grew and grew. And parts of it necessitated telling some details from the Beast's POV. So I had to come back here to fill some stuff in.
chpt 2
The door to Belle's bedchamber slowly opened. A great hulking shadow filled the doorway. The gleaming eyes narrowed. They settled on the sleeping girl under the rich four-postered canopy. The shadow dropped to all fours and crept into the room, like a beast stalking its prey…
…Or, rather like a chastened whelp contritely coming to its mistress…or a supplicant approaching his queen. At the side of her bed, the Beast slowly rose up…but not to full stature. He remained on his knees, like a communicant at the holy alter about to receive the Sacrament.
He clasped his hands and bowed his head. Then, very slowly, very cautiously, very reverentially, yet with great daring, he parted the sheer gauzy fabric that hung from the canopy and surrounded the bed like a curtain. Again he clasped his hands on his breast and gazed upon her, the object of his devotion.
She slept on her side, facing slightly away from him. The moonlight filtering through the window cast a pearly sheen on her. In the daylight, Belle's hair was the color of cherry or oak. In this light, it was darker, a rich maple color, almost black. The satin coverlet and her slender uncovered arm were the same pale ivory. Her form seemed lost under the thick bedcovers.
Her nightgown had slipped off her left shoulder. Very cautiously, with his thumb and forefinger, the Beast pulled it back up, covering the bared shoulder…the shoulder, as curved and round and perfect as a stone worn smooth by a river. His claws were sharp; they could easily put a run in her garment or a scratch on her skin if he were not careful.
The tresses of her hair that she kept tied back with a ribbon the color of the frock she wore were unbound and strewn over her pillow. His fingers strayed over her hair, and it was as soft as gosling down. Curling his fingers, he withdrew his hand.
His heart swelled. In the days of his humanity, before his bestial transformation, he had tasted of many delights and pleasures; he had denied himself nothing, and he had appreciated nothing. And nothing in his life as Man and Beast had ever filled him with desire and longing as did this damsel.
Belle suddenly sighed and turned to lay on her other side. The Beast was alarmed. He froze. He almost leapt up and bolted for the door. His horns almost snagged in the veil that surrounded the bed. But she resumed the soft breathing of a sleeper.
He regarded her heart-shaped face…her high forehead, arched eyebrows, dimpled cheeks, pert nose, small mouth, and full lips. It was all so perfect and flawless. His eyes drank her beauty as a deep gorge drinks a waterfall. Again he carefully reached up and, lightly grasping the hem of her coverlet, pulled it up to her chin and tucked it in. She snuggled under her covers and was still again.
The Beast blinked away the moisture in his eyes. He drew a great breath. He addressed her from both his heart and his lips. He mouthed the words, almost speaking audibly.
La plus chère et plus précieux Belle…Je suis seulement une Bête, rude et fruste…mais pourriez-vous jamais me prendre comme votre époux? Je suis à toi, le cœur et l'âme. Si je vous demandais de devenir mon épouse…consentiriez-vous à ma proposition de mariage?
Dearest and most precious Belle...I am only a Beast, rough and uncouth…but could you ever take me as your husband? I am yours, heart and soul. If I asked you to become my wife...would you consent to my proposal of marriage?
There was a noise by the wall, beyond the bed. The Beast turned his head sharply and looked up…
Madame Armoire, the wardrobe, was awake. She stared at the Master. Her eyes were agog and her mouth was agape. She began to gasp audibly…
…The Beast glared at her grimly. He lifted a stern admonishing finger. He held it to his lips to indicate silence.
Madame Armoire nodded nervously. Her mouth snapped shut.
Without another glance at Belle, the Beast left the room. He was as quiet as a cat.
He strode to his lair in the ruined West Wing. He bolted the door behind him. Knotting his firsts, he looked around. To one side, on the wall hung the old portrait he had slashed to pieces. On the other side was a small table with the Mirror and the Rose in the bell jar.
He snarled. Once upon a time, it had been enough to gaze at Belle in the Mirror. Not any more. He needed her. He wanted her. Not to sate some base desire, but only to be with her. To hold her and feel her warmth, the way his ears heard her voice, and his eyes beheld her beauty.
He knew what they would all counsel…Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth and Lumiere. All of them. Patience and kindness would will Belle's heart.
An anger and fury welled up in him, as strong as the longing he had for Belle moments before. An urge took him…first to smash the portrait frame to kindling, then to smash the Mirror and the bell jar to fragments. Instead he clutched at his horns, as though trying to break them off.
He took off his garments, except his breeches. He climbed nimbly out the window and down the ledges and parapets to the ground. Then he ran like a bloodhound on the scent, into the dark forest. For minutes he ran, heedless, panting. He gave no thought to whether Madame Armoire would tell her Mistress that the Master had spied upon her while she slept. He hardly cared.
He tried to run from his thoughts. But they ran just as fast as he did. No…they ran faster.
His bestial transformation had given him the nose of a bloodhound, the ears of a lynx, and the eyes of a hawk. Sometimes her scent was sweet and clean, like apple blossoms or fresh-mown hay. Sometimes it was heady, like lilac or lavender. And her scent was everywhere in the castle, both within and without…on the castle grounds, in the library, in the dining room, in the den…everywhere but his West Wing.
Her voice filled his ears and heart. From the moment he first heard it, as she was speaking sorrowfully to her father in the castle dungeons, the Beast himself was taken captive. Whether it was to plead with him to release her, to reprove him for his temper, to read a story with him out of one of the books from the library, or even to laugh him when he slipped on the ice, her voice caught his heart like a…like beast in a snare.
He had watched her ceaselessly from the day she had come looking for her father…watched her from afar, by both the Mirror and his keen predator eyesight. He knew every distinctive habitual movement, whether it was the way she brushed back her forelock from her forehead with her left hand, or the way she held a book carefully, and read it intently, her eyes straying over every line, and turned each page slowly. And he read her face as intently as any book, from her big expressive eyes, as deep and dark and soft as her lustrous hair, or her small mouth, as round and red as a cherry.
And her touch…it was her touch that drove him mad with unrequited yearning. She had gently cleaned and bandaged his wound after the fight with the wolves. He had taken her up in his arms when she fell through the ice searching for a Christmas tree.
They had read Romeo And Juliet together, seated before the fireplace. And the words of another, from another time and place, from another language, gave utterance to his deepest feelings.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! / It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night / Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear- / Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! / So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows / As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. / The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand / And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. / Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! / For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven / Would through the airy region stream so bright / That birds would sing and think it were not night. / See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! / O that I were a glove upon that hand, / That I might touch that cheek!
At last, miles from the castle, he stopped. The moon was low in the west. The stars were pale and cold. A faint lightening was visible in the east.
One upon a time, it was enough for the Beast to look at and listen to his dear and precious Belle from a distance. It was enough to slip into her room during her absence and gaze upon the bed wherein she slept, and the frock she wore, and the brush that smoothed out her hair. Not any more.
The Beast lifted up his head to the sky and howled like a wolf. All his frustration…all his loneliness…all his desire poured forth. In the castle afar off, they heard, and slept uneasily. Then he curled up on the ground and wept in a very human and childlike way…
to be concluded in Ardent, Too…