Chapter 8- Hard Feelings

Belle awkwardly searched for words as Gigi, Mimi and Fifi stood in front of her. She lifted her chin after a moment, taking a deep breath. She might as well get it over with. They had been so fond of the man, if not infatuated, and Belle felt pained sympathy for them. Before, in the village, she had so often wished Gaston had chosen one of them and left her alone. If only he had. Guilt over their words was ripping at her heart.

"I am truly sorry...about Gaston," she said, in a shaky voice. She had never wanted anyone to die. The girls had no idea what had transpired that night. She searched for the right words to say, while the triplets glared at her, their arms folded in front of their chests.

"I am sorry that it happened. He didn't deserve to die. Please believe me when I tell you it was an accident. He fell. He was trying to climb-" Belle averted her gaze as she visually recalled that horrible stormy night- "but he fell. It was all a horrible mistake. It's still hard for me to believe." she added softly, her eyes meeting the girls' in a sincere gaze.

The sisters continued to glare at her. "Well, we can't believe you could be friends with a hairy monster and lure Gaston to chase after it!" accused Gigi.

"You're crazy!" shrieked Mimi.

"Go back to your haunted castle and... hug your monster if it's still alive!" spat Fifi.

Belle looked aside and saw her father with the horses, looking at her in concern. "I have to go now," she said assertively, and turned to walk away.

She hadn't gone two steps when a woman in a wide-brimmed hat rushed up to her.

"Belle! What delightful news! You are going to marry a Prince, I hear? Marie just told me! This is the most exciting thing that has happened in our town in years!" gushed Madame Fortier, the town seamstress.

"What? What prince?" exclaimed Mimi. The triplets were standing within earshot.

"Belle is marrying a prince now?" screeched Fifi.

"Well that just proves, he was never good enough for her!" said Gigi to her sisters. They gave Belle a look of pure hatred, and flounced away, down the street. The older woman noticed Belle's hurt expression.

"Never mind the girls, mademoiselle, they are still having a hard time of it," said Mme. Fortier. A gust of chilly wind came up, and the older woman quickly held on to her wide-brimmed hat. She always wore hats or wigs; an illness she'd had years before had caused her to lose most of her hair. She was one of the more cultured ladies in town, and a bit of an artist, so she tried her best to look dignified and proper.

Maurice came up to them, a hammer and nails in his hands. "Belle-" he started to say.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur DeFleur! It is good to see you again. And congratulations are in order! Would you mind if I steal your daughter away for just one minute?" greeted Madame Fortier.

"That would be all right. Belle- I was about to get us on our way, but that boneheaded front wheel of the wagon broke! I'll have to fix it, don't worry, it'll be done in a jiffy. You ladies can visit a minute."

Maurice nodded in greeting at Madame Fortier, and turned back to the wagon. The town residents weren't all being hostile. He supposed the women could visit for a moment or so.

Mme. Fortier led Belle into the tailors' shop, next to the bakery. She and her husband, a tailor for men's clothing, were a busy couple. Excitedly, she showed Belle her own sketches of the noblewomen's' gowns she'd drawn from paintings she'd seen in the big cities.

"I would like to help you create your wedding gown, if you'd let me," she offered.

"That would be very nice… thank you," said Belle. Adam had two tailors on staff; Yves and Georges, they were named. The poor old men had spent the last decade as a spool and a coat hanger. They were frail now, probably the oldest on staff. Belle thought they should be allowed to rest after their long lives of sewing for Adam's family in the past.

"What do you think of this one? Isn't it elegant?" Mme. Fortier held out a drawing of a very wide-skirted, stiff gown, over-bustled and crinolined. The sleeves consisted of about twenty layers of ruffles. Belle wrinkled her nose.

"No, thank you. It's too much for me. Something simpler would be fine."

Mdme. Fortier showed her five or six other sketches. Finally, one stood out to Belle. It reminded her very much of the magnificent yellow gown that she had worn, twice, at the castle. It had a very full skirt, but flowing rather than stiff, a sweetheart neckline with a dainty bow at the front, and sheer, gossamer sleeves. "I like this the best," she indicated.

"Ah, the gown worn by Duchess Marie-Louise of the House of Bourbon. Except, it will be much prettier on you than on her. I shall do my best, whatever pleases our royal bride," said the seamstress.

Belle allowed herself to feel a little giddy enthusiasm, recalling that evening in the ballroom with Beast, and imagining a similar, future day where she would be dancing in the arms of Adam, as his wife. She smiled at the thought. She also had an idea, to save Mme. Fortier some bother about the dress.

"Perhaps I shall send the Prince's servant, a Madame de la Grande Bouche, into town soon, and she will bring my yellow gown to you. It looks like this one, except the sleeves are short. But it is a perfect fit, and you may use it as a pattern, if you wish, for a white wedding gown."

Recalling that evening, she had been shy to try on Adam's late mother's yellow gown at first, but felt like the most elegant lady in the world once Madame de la Grande Bouche had convinced her to don it that night. If Mme. Fortier could use the yellow gown, then Belle would be relieved of the need to keep going to the village for measurements.

"Magnifique! I will be happy to do so, Belle dear. It will make my job much easier. When is the happy day, may I ask?"

"The first Sunday in April."

"Why, that is only a few weeks! Do have the ladyservant bring the gown to me soon, and I shall work as hard as I can!" said Madame Fortier happily.

"I promise I will. I must get back now. Adieu, Madame, and thank you so much!"

"Adieu!" exclaimed Madame Fortier, waving. When Belle left, she strode straight to a few rolls of white satin on the shelves, taking them down and searching for the finest fabric in her stock.

"Most peculiar mademoiselle," she sang to herself, and sighed dreamily as she smoothed the fine white satin and took out some pale blue ribbon.


"Papa! I'm ready!" Belle called out to her father. Maurice had fixed the wagon wheel, and he passed her by as he was trying to make certain it would stay secure.

"Belle, I am taking a test run on the wheel, meet me at the fountain, I am going to circle the wagon, just a minute or two!" he yelled back.

Belle, a little impatient, kept walking at a fast pace and lingered near the fountain. She had all sorts of conflicted feelings in her mind. The confrontation with the triplets had bothered her, but now it was soothed somewhat by the warmth and friendliness of both the baker's wife and the seamstress.

Yet, she couldn't help feeling that they might only be acting nice toward her because of the fact she was marrying a Prince. It was making her a sort of instant celebrity, and that was not something she was comfortable with. She wanted to get back home to the castle- to Adam- as soon as possible.

The afternoon was getting late, there came a chill and dark clouds settled in. She wanted to be back in the castle's library, by the fire, finishing her novel she'd started the day before. A minute went by, and Papa still hadn't circled back around. She noticed that Monsieur Livre's bookshop down the street was closed, as usual on Saturdays, and hoped for a chance to visit him someday. Right in front of her was the village tavern. It made her uneasy, since it had been Gaston's.

She stared at the door of the tavern. It was closed, but smoke rose from the chimney. She wondered, if what the triplets had voiced so angrily was commonly felt here, how the men were feeling about his demise. She felt like she was in the presence of enemies, lurking nearby. Perhaps- if she were brave enough…

Belle slowly walked away from the fountain and to the side of the tavern. It was a merry, happy building, the center of the village men's social life. It always smelled of beer, tobacco, and pipe smoke, not unpleasant but it had a foreign, rough, very male, atmosphere. Her curiosity got the best of her. She stood close to the corner of a slightly open window.

She heard voices- no, just one voice, she thought. A man was speaking, what sounded like a long-winded speech to someone else, but the other person hadn't entered the conversation. He sounded soft, sad and reverent. She could barely make out the words.

"…get this place running again, I promise. I'll make you proud. I dunno, maybe you'd kill me for doing this but I really think…"

Belle tilted her head to peer into the window at an angle. Her heart sank, the same guilt feeling she had when the triplets approached her.

Lefou was standing in front of the fireplace, and Belle noticed that no one else was there. He was alone, talking to no one, other than the portrait of Gaston on the wall. He was placing bouquets of red roses in beer tankards and setting them up on the mantle, and was deeply engaged in a one-way conversation.

"...Andre tasted the stuff, so did Stanley, they like it. Honest. Yeah, I know, you only liked the beer from Thionville, but I'm gonna make two different flavors, so the guys'll..."

Belle hadn't recognized his voice at first, because it was quite a different tone than what she'd known of Gaston's little hanger-on. All she'd ever heard from him before were mocking wisecracks and silly, chuckling laughter.

"...sorry about all the red roses, they're from the triplets, not me. I would've got you something else..."

A feeling of regret came over Belle. Part of her wanted to be brave, go in, confront him and tell him she didn't mean for it to turn out that way. The grieving man at least deserved to hear that she was truly sorry. But she couldn't do it.

Perhaps he'd hear the news of the Beast's "death" from someone else, she rationalized. She glanced at the portrait above where Lefou was standing, and was not proud of the feelings that surfaced. That horrible man. That rude, conceited, monster of a man. Poor, naïve Lefou, Belle thought. He's better off without him. Gaston used and abused the smaller man so much. But then, why was Belle even feeling sorry for him? She remembered how he'd taunted her father when D'Arque from the asylum came for him, the mocking, the snickering. She decided the last thing she wanted to do was to speak to the little man in the tavern. Besides, he wouldn't appreciate her just stumbling in.

She heard the familiar sound of Phillipe's and Antoinette's hoofbeats. Papa was rolling back through with the wagon, the Shire horses fully rested and fed. Belle wiped an eye and quickly walked back to the fountain. She had no reason to be near the tavern peeking into windows anyway. It was time to go home.

"So how is your wedding planning coming along, Belle?" Maurice said, grinning. He was in a happier mood, anxious to get back to Mrs. Potts at the castle.

"It's coming along all right. Papa. Thank you," she answered softly.

She was very quiet on the ride back home, through the forest and uphill toward the highlands and Adam's castle. She felt as if she was closing the book on her life in the village with finality.* She would be happy to allow the two women to help with the wedding if they wished, but she would send the servants there to interact with them. She no longer belonged there; either she was an outcast, or a person to gawk at and fawn over. Neither made her comfortable. Adam, I hope so much they accept you, not just as Prince, but as a person- if any of them do come to our wedding, she thought.

Early evening fell as they neared the castle; it was chilly but peaceful; and the soft howl of a wolf was heard, far and distant.