Chapter Three

Consequences

Belle had thought that a lack of chatter from Madame Cotard would be the only consequence of Gaston's rejection. She'd hoped, almost naively, that when Maurice came back everybody would remember that fathers are generally present to give away their daughters, and that permission is needed for men to court, and all kinds of other things which normally Belle would shudder to even say. Now, she clung to these trappings of custom that painted a father as custodian of his child as if they could protect her from Gaston's advances.

Of course, they couldn't.

He wasn't enough of a fool to come round to her house again, now that Maurice was back home. But there were other ways he could pressure Belle into it - ways that maybe even he hadn't thought of at first. It started, as it always did, with the women of the village. Belle had known deep down that it was only a matter of time until Madame Cotard's way of thinking spread to her friends, and then her acquaintances, and then everybody else. The baker's wife, always quiet when talking to Belle, had first stopped smiling, then stopped greeting, and eventually stopped serving her altogether. When Belle asked the baker why Marie was being so strange, he merely shrugged and mentioned something about "Neighbourhood gossips being what they are."

The barber's wife, the hatter's assistant, the numerous women that Belle passed everyday or bought food and material from; one by one, they all turned to stony silence when Belle appeared on the scene. The only thing worse than their silence was the fact that many didn't even stop until she was out of earshot before gossiping about her again.

"A beauty, yes, but a funny girl," Belle heard the day after Maurice got back.

"Turned down a man she'd known since childhood - and one with good prospects, too," they whispered a few days later.

"One of those city girls, too good for our Gaston," Madame Cotard had sneered cruelly one day. "Look at her, walking around with her head held high. She thinks she's so high-and-mighty because she reads novels. Absolutely shameful."

That one had stung more than Belle liked to admit. She used to read books in the Cotard's shop while Maurice talked business, swinging her feet to and fro from a high chair or table. She'd always loved books, but when Gaston became more engrossed in hunting as they grew older, Belle pushed herself deeper into fiction. She'd never thought of herself as better than the villagers - although it was difficult to think seriously about somebody's cow not giving milk when there was a fair maiden who needed to climb a mountain to save a prince waiting in Belle's room.

"Papa," she'd asked later that night, "do you think I think I'm too good for Gaston?" He'd been reading a manual about mechanical advances at the time, and he slowly laid it down and took of his glasses, rubbing gently at his temples.

"Where on earth would you get an idea like that?" Maurice had said.

"Oh - no reason," Belle had said quickly, turning back to the book Madame Hoen had given her.

"Have people in the village been saying things about you?"

"When don't they say things about me?" Belle had said, trying to pass it off with a laugh.

"Has this been bothering you, Belle?" he had asked, a hint of darkness in his voice.

"Not really," she'd said quickly. Too quickly. "It's just some of the women. They don't approve of my choice."

"Hmm," Maurice had said, picking his glasses back up. "It's none of their business. But if they start bothering you again, Belle, tell me. I don't want them being too hostile. Husbands listen to their wives, after all."

Belle understood. If women like Madame Cotard continued being vocal about their dislike of her, Maurice might have problems buying and selling stock. They'd made a comfortable amount of money from the fair, but not enough to move. And besides, Maurice wasn't getting any younger - it wouldn't be fair if he had to move away at his age.

Belle decided to simply not tell her father about the rumours after that night. Her only female friend in the village had quickly become Madame Hoen. More and more often, after a painfully silent trip to buy food Belle would spend hours at the bookshop, just so she could delay the walk back across the square. They often sat together over cooling cups of tea, quietly discussing the situation.

"Is this what you meant when you said Gaston could make life difficult for me?" Belle asked.

"This isn't something he's done," Madame Hoen said. "It's because of his actions, but this was done by the women. If Gaston was going to do something, you'd be feeling a lot of pressure."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better," Belle spat.

"That's not what I meant!" she said. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Belle said, rubbing her eyes wearily. "It's just . . . it's just been a lot to deal with. I don't want this hurting Papa any more than it already has. He says that if Madame Cotard and co. keep this up, he'll say something, but I really don't want him too."

"He's just trying to help -"

"I don't need help!" Belle shouted. She shot out her chair, grabbing her basket and shawl. The air had a definite bite in it now, and she needed to keep out the chill. "I need him to stay away from them." She could see the change in Madame Hoen's face when she realised what Belle was remembering.

"Belle, that's not going to happen again -"

But she was already gone, hurrying down the street as fast as she could go. Tears burned in the back of her throat, and out the corner of her eye Belle could see a familiar figure in hunters' red leaning against the door to the public house.

That had been yesterday. Now, Belle lay silent in her bed staring at the wooden ceiling, coloured with the glory of sunrise. Her curtains had never kept out sunlight, but Belle had always been able to fall asleep easily. It used to be a joke between her parents, where they'd find Belle sleeping next. The oddest place, so they had liked to say, was halfway up a tree. She couldn't remember it, but apparently Maurice had needed to climb up himself and carry her down. She smiled slightly - not at the actual event, which she had forgotten long ago - but at the memory of her mother telling the story. She had precious few such memories.

She stretched out in the bed, then quickly, trying not to think about it to much, threw back the covers and got dressed almost at lightening speed. Shivering a little from the cool morning air, Belle splashed some cold water on her face from the ewer in the corner, and wrapped her shawl around her. She opened her curtains, allowing the full spectrum of colour to flood in her bedroom, and tidied her bed. Glancing at the sun, she saw she had a few minutes until she needed to be downstairs. Properly smiling now, Belle picked up her book from the table by her bed. Who ever said books were pointless things for women to read? she thought.

Suddenly, even before she'd flicked open to where she left off last night, Belle felt the strange humming sound again. It was louder than the last time, a few weeks ago, and as it increased in intensity she dropped her book to the floor. Her head was spinning round and round, like when she used to roll down hills as a child. The noise flooding through her ears was so loud she didn't even hear her book clatter against the floorboards. Belle raised her hand to her head, the cool touch of her fingers strangely alien, trying to steady herself. No, no, no! she heard someone say - the same voice she'd heard weeks ago, after talking to Maurice about his journey. Her shawl fell away from her shoulders, and as the cool air hit the back of her neck, the ringing and the spinning and the buzzing faded away to nothing.

Breathing heavily, Belle slowly righted herself again, until the shawl was back around her and the book was safely on the table. What did this mean? Was it just the stress of the last few weeks catching up to her?

"Yes," she said decisively to the empty room. "That's all it is. Just stress." She went down the stairs at her usual pace, determined to carry on normally, when Belle noticed the front door was open. She could hear loud voices and feet stamping outside. She glanced at the table, where she saw a half-empty bowl of gruel and a spoon abandoned there mid-meal. Fear spiked in her belly, and she rushed over to the front door.

"Hello? What's going on?" It looked like half the men from the village were outside her house, hanging around awkwardly. When they saw her, most of them started guiltily and left. Out the corner of her eye, she thought she could see Gaston, a strange look on his face, but Belle had passed over him before she had time to analyse the expression. She caught sight of the baker, standing by the water wheel leading to their front door. "Monsieur, where's my father?"

He glanced at the small group of men beside him, and turned to face Belle. "Belle, didn't you hear what happened to your father last night?"

"No," she said. She could almost feel the blood draining out her face.

"Well, he - he came into the bar, as he normally does. Everything was normal at first, getting a drink, talking to us - just his usual routine. Then Gaston came in."

Subtly, Belle reached behind her to grab onto the doorframe for extra support. "What happened?"

"Your father . . . I don't really know how to say this, Belle, but he took one look at Gaston and he fell to the floor. In a fit."

There it was, the three words that Belle had been dreading to hear. "How long did it last?" she heard herself asking.

"A few minutes," the baker said, focusing on the ground instead of looking at Belle's face. "When he came to, he just beetled out of there. Somebody must have contacted Monsieur d'Arc, because when I woke up this morning most of the men were coming here to -"

"To what? Help my father?" Belle spat. "I'm not a fool, monsieur. I know they came to watch." She suppressed a sob rising at the back of her throat - these were men she'd known for ten years, men she'd grown up next to, bartered with, bought food from, danced with at holy days . . . and they were willing to watch her father be taken by Monsieur d'Arc. She wasn't sure if she felt relieved or betrayed when the baker didn't respond.

"Didn't you hear the noise when they arrived?" he asked after a moment. "They were making enough noise to raise the dead out there, at least until he was loaded into the -" He cut himself off abruptly.

"I was asleep," Belle said slowly.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he said quietly. "Hopefully they won't keep him for too long. You remember their decision last time. You'll get by for a few days." He turned and left Belle standing in the doorframe. She watched him walk towards the bridge until he disappeared from view, the only man in the village who'd had the decency to tell her what was going on.

Numb, she turned back into the house, shutting the door carefully behind her. She pressed her back against the solid wood, willing herself to stay strong. But then she caught sight of Maurice's breakfast, only half-eaten, and it was as if something cracked inside of her. She crumpled to the floor weeping bitterly into the shawl that had been her mother's before it was Belle's, pressing her back against the door that her father had modified, utterly alone in a house that was now only hers.

She didn't leave the house for the rest of the day. The townspeople would only have been another reminder of the last time Maurice was taken away.


A week had passed after Maurice was taken to Monsieur d'Arc's lunatic asylum. It was a week Belle could only describe as being sent from Hell. The women in the village, now that her father was gone, seemed perfectly willing to verbally attack Belle in the streets. It grew harder for her to find shops willing to serve her. The first time a gangly shop-boy called Maurice a lunatic in Belle's hearing, the only thing stopping her from getting into a brawl was the fact that her reputation would sink even lower, and even fewer shops would let her in.

It killed Belle that she had to think about her reputation when they insulted her father. She'd never wanted to be the person who only cared about what other people thought of her. But increasingly, it was becoming the only way she'd survive. She knew why this was happening to her; she'd broken their rules about marriages and betrothals, and now she was reaping what she'd sown. She just didn't expect it to be such a bitter harvest.

When the bank sent their first letter, Belle thought they'd understand her circumstances. When they sent their second letter, she realised her mistake. The pipe burst shorty afterwards. Then Phillipe fell ill for a spell. And the hens that clucked around her feet every morning, the ones that Belle and Maurice had never really relied on for money, since his tinkering paid most bills, stopped laying.

"I don't know what to do, Madame Hoen," Belle said about three weeks after Maurice had been taken away. "It would have been bad enough if it was just the bank, or just Phillipe, or just the hens, but it had to be all of them at once!" She set her jaw.

"I don't know what you can do, Belle," Madame Hoen said. "All I can do is sympathise, since you won't let me help you -"

"I can't accept your charity," Belle interrupted.

"- and you won't come and stay with me."

"That would just make it worse. This isn't about them hating my father. This is about my reputation." Belle snorted. "As if I ever cared about it before."

"I don't know what to say. There's nothing you can do about it now."

"There is." Madame Hoen's brow crinkled. Belle pulled her shawl a little tighter around her, caught her lip between her teeth.

"I can't get my reputation back," Belle said. "But I can try and make it respectable again. I can try to save the house. I can try to stop the money problems."

"No!" Madame Hoen cried out as she understood. "No, Belle you can't!"

"I have to," Belle said. "I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice!" As Madame Hoen paled in horror, her curls only emphasising the unrest on her face, Belle felt the same buzzing in her head again.

"I have to do this," Belle said, as her head started swimming, as her ears rang, as she heard a voice in her head cry out so loudly it eclipsed the words she was saying.

"I have to marry Gaston."


A/N: Well what do you know, I actually did update within a week! *confetti* Insert last week's disclaimer that I'm a student and can't always update weekly here.

Anyway, some notes of historical/medical interest: I don't know how banks worked in France during this ambiguous time period, but if you're here for historical accuracy then you are in the wrong place, my friend. Likewise, I don't know how asylums worked, but it's literally just there for the story, kay?

Also, Maurice's admission is because of a seizure. It's not unreasonable for an otherwise healthy person to have a seizure or two in their lifetime and not be epileptic. NHS choices (where I got my information) says "Some people may only have a single seizure at some point during their life. If they do not have a high risk of having further seizures, they would not be regarded as having epilepsy." I am not a medical professional so don't blindly believe something an 18-year-old girl wrote, but for the purposes of this story Maurice doesn't suffer from frequent/severe seizures and so will not be described as epileptic.

I'm very much looking forwards to the next time I write (whenever that will be my word what happened to my spare time)

TheTeaIsAddictive