CHAPTER 3: True As It Can Be

Belle was in a magnificent ballroom of marble walls and gilded boiserie. She was dressed in a golden gown, encircled by the arms of a prince more beautiful than Cupid, whose soft strawberry blond hair was tied back in a queue. His bright blue eyes looked upon her, overbrimming with love.

"Belle!" he chirped ecstatically. "You've come back! I've looked everywhere for you!"

The couple whirled along the dance-floor, the only people in the enormous room.

"I was gone?" asked Belle.

"Yes!" said the prince. "You had disappeared. I thought I might never see you again."

"But I couldn't have gone far," said Belle. "We've been together the whole time."

"Well, as long as you're back, I don't care where you've been," replied the prince. He pulled her close and embraced her like he wanted to melt into her.

"But, Adam, we haven't been apart. I have been with you."

The prince suddenly jolted up, as if hit with an electric shock. He looked into her eyes, the softness of his gaze now replaced with a wild desperation.

"Belle — tell me where you are?"

"I'm with you."

"But where?"

"In the new village… I don't remember the name."

"Try to remember!"

Belle began trying, fighting a resistance in her wounded brain. The name of the village was something short… beginning with an L or maybe an I…

It was too much work. The deep, concentrated thoughts caused her to wake.

"Isola," Belle muttered, returning to reality.

She was in Isola, with her husband.

In the gray pre-dawn light she could see him, snoozing at her side. Gaston didn't have the pristine airiness that the prince of her dreams possessed, but it might be argued he was every bit as beautiful — beauty like a tightened bow, a kind not natural in an age like this, being high and solitary and most stern.

For all that Gaston fought to make himself manly, something about his appearance always was inherently beautiful. It was an aura about him.

Belle decided not to go back to sleep, instead rising carefully so as not to wake her bedfellow. Her pink taffeta gown looked very shabby after being slept in, for who knew how many days now.

She decided to finish with the dishes she'd left soaking. She opened the cottage's only outside door, and hauled the basin to the yard.

The cottage was situated on a hill, near the edge of something full of trees that couldn't quite be called forest. Only a few bounds from the house was a little spring, spouting forth from a rock, producing a large, deep puddle in the grass. This is where the LeGumes got their water. Belle scrubbed out the dishes, dumped the dirty water, then rinsed them in the fresh water from the spring.

The view of the town from their little hill was quite pretty, and in such a romantic setting even dishes didn't seem like so terrible a chore. The sun was coming up, and Belle paused to watch the misty hills turn pink and gold.

As she sat, contemplating the scene, Gaston appeared in the door of the cottage. He was dressed, but without his belt, like he'd clothed himself in a hurry. He smiled seeing Belle.

"Ah! There you are! Thought you'd run off," he said.

Belle raised her eyes to meet his gaze at a distance. "Afraid you'd never see me again?"

Gaston didn't answer. He came tromping toward her, an eagerness in his manner.

"I had another dream about that prince," said Belle.

"Your fairytale prince?"

"Yes. He was disturbed that he couldn't find me."

Gaston was beside her now. "I suppose I can understand."

"I'm sure you do," said Belle. She reached out and took Gaston's hand.

His hands were massive. Both of hers together still didn't fully encircle one of his.

"Look, Gaston," she said. "About the bed. Now, I'm still getting to know you. Remember that… So, I'll sleep there with you, if you'll keep being on your best behavior. But you really mustn't expect me to do anything but sleep."

Gaston looked perturbed. Clearly he understood, but didn't like what she was saying.

"You think just any girl gets this sort of access? It's all saved up for you, Belle. You know what?" he said. "You just need better bait."

He released Belle's startled hand.

"Bait?" repeated Belle, irritated. "You can't just treat me like I'm some animal you're hunting…"

"You can leave, if you want," said Gaston. "You don't have to watch."

Gaston pulled off his shirt and approached the spring. Using the balled up garment as a sponge, he immersed the cloth and began to squeeze sun-sparkled water over his head.

"Leave!" protested Belle. "What, I'm going to go walking off into the woods?" She took a seat beside the spring and tried, very deliberately, not to look at him.

"I've got self-control in spades," said Gaston. "How about you?" He splashed the water, deliberately hitting her with some. When her eyes were forced in his direction, he splashed himself with more water and made a point of performing a suggestive writhing motion.

Belle was half embarrassed as she watched this strange little courtship dance. "I seem to recall you were in demand in the last town," she said, softening a little.

"Very," said Gaston, wetting his hair, though the pomade repelled much. "Had to beat them off. I was a bowl of honey and they were like flies!" He swung his hair about.

"So what was it about me, particularly, that merits this 'unprecedented access?'" asked Belle.

Gaston stopped his flirtatious little routine. Belle's question was a serious subject. "You were the most beautiful girl in town. Hands down. No one compared — other than me."

Belle's brow furrowed in disappointment. "That's all? There's really nothing else you cared about?"

"Maybe you don't remember?"

"What, being beautiful?"

"What that was like," said Gaston, a disturbed note invading his voice. "That town was full of animals! You couldn't walk down the street without getting hit up by some pervert."

"You mean like you?"

Now he spoke with real agitation. "Hey! I was civil with you! I never groped you while you passed by, or catcalled, or any of that — unlike most of those people. And you think I got anything less? By the time I was sixteen I'd had to put up with stuff I'm still not ready to talk about. Being damned good looking, Belle — it attracts weird things into your life." That voice from the diaphragm again.

Belle thought back. She did remember how highly unpleasant it could be walking through the streets in that old town. It was one of the reasons she didn't go out much. And she had taken to muttering commentaries on the people around her as a way to repulse them —

Belle's heart raced at the realization. So they weren't a totally bizarre match made by mischance alone. They did have something that connected them. Belle had responded to the people's abuse and objectification by retreating; Gaston had managed to make it work in a way that let him keep some control and position in the town.

They both understood the perils of beauty. That was what connected them.

Gaston wrung out his shirt and put it back on, still damp.

"I have to hurry to the market, if I don't want to find the eggs sold out," he said. "Come with me!"

Belle walked towards him and hooked her arm through his. "What is the purpose of all those eggs, anyway?"

"Ah, well," he said, leading her off toward the stable. "I have to maintain my impressive size; you don't get big and strong from eating vegetables! See, eggs are the least expensive form of meat…"

…

Gaston bought his eggs, and amazed everyone at the market by swallowing them whole in front of the crowd. He would juggle them, toss them, catch them in his mouth. The onlookers applauded and cheered like he was a circus strongman come to visit. He soaked up the attention. Occasionally men started to approach him, looking a little too lovestruck. At this, Gaston would throw his arm around Belle and hold her close. He was adept at dealing with unwanted advances, but preferred not to receive them in the first place. In the old village he kept LeFou at his side for protection — now he had Belle, which he deemed a massive improvement.

With the eggs handled, the LeGumes went on the hunt for clothing. Readymade, off-the-rack clothes were unheard of in Belle and Gaston's world. Sometimes a haberdasher might have some common items prepared, or a second-hand shop might have used clothing available. Isola had few choices in that regard, and the nearest post town was only a little better. While Belle finally got lucky and located a red linen dress that fit her, Gaston wasn't succeeding — nor expecting to succeed — at finding a readymade shirt with a seventy-one inch chest. Being roughly the size of a barge was a liability when it came to clothes shopping, not that he had any regrets about his achievement.

"You'll have to sew me something," said Gaston to Belle, regarding the clothes.

"Sew?" asked Belle. "I know how to make a stitch but… I've never sewn a garment that didn't fall apart in five minutes."

Gaston couldn't believe it. "How do you not know how to sew?" he asked. "That's supposed to be natural women's work, like tea parties, hairdressing and obsessing about weight."

"Papa and I always hired it out to someone else," Belle said with a shrug. "Is this the first time it's come up? Shouldn't you have known this already?"

Gaston shrugged his shoulders in turn. "Apparently. We both had enough clothes until this stupid move. And I've given up on our things ever getting delivered out here — my portrait must have been too tempting. Hope the thieves enjoy it! Anyway, we should just buy what we need, at this point."

As it was early enough, it was decided by the couple that they would to travel to the nearest post town, Beuil, some hours' journey away. It proffered a much larger selection of shops.

Belle found herself seated behind Gaston on their black stallion once again. As they went along the road, she asked of him, "How did we find this village, anyway? Isola, I mean?"

"The cottage belongs to a relative of mine," answered Gaston. "It was sitting empty, just rotting away. He said we could have it. We were looking for somewhere new to go, so that made it an easy choice."

"So that's how I ended up in a place with no bookstore," said Belle.

"I'm telling you, you never used to read," said Gaston through his teeth.

"I remember reading with papa all the time," she retorted. "I'm sure that's not a dream."

Gaston frowned, beaten. "Okay. Maybe you read, and I just never saw it," he said grudgingly.

Belle was satisfied. "So what did I do instead of reading?"

"You tell me, Belle. You're the one who seems to remember everything, now."

Necessity required Belle to keep her arms around Gaston for safety, but she really wanted to fold them in front of herself defensively. She wanted to challenge him. "You can't give an answer to the question because there isn't one!" she declared. "You're lying about the books!"

Gaston sank into his aggressive, sarcastic, slightly scary mode. "Very good, Belle! Maybe those things didn't wreck your brain altogether!"

She'd suspected his lie, but now he had finally confessed it. "Why would you lie about the books?" demanded Belle, angrily.

"'Cause I didn't want you getting into those things again. You have any idea how much trouble they made? A woman reading books? Wandering about the town reading them, like she's smarter than everyone? Folks really resented that, Belle."

"Well that's none of their business — or yours."

"It's my business when I have to save you from angry villagers you've pissed off!" he snapped. "That's why we had to leave the last place!"

Belle's eyes went wide. She recalled the things Gaston had told her about the villagers — things she certainly half remembered. Had it really gotten that bad, that they needed to flee for safety?

Suddenly feeling frightened and vulnerable, Belle tightened her grip around her husband's waist, and leaned against his back.

"I wish I could remember these things," said Belle, softly, fearfully.

Gaston glanced back at her. On his face was a look that faintly resembled remorse. It only lasted for a moment before he puffed up and smiled confidently.

"Well, no worries!" he said proudly. "We're done with that life! Nothing but good memories from here on! Henceforth, it's all steaks and songs and looking good!"

The couple arrived in the larger town that had to its credit a real inn, a cafe, and a variety of shops. Gaston engaged a cartier to haul whatever they bought all the way back to Isola, and from there he commenced the purchase of tables, chairs, bedding, shelves.

After a hard afternoon of selecting furnishings, the couple paused for lunch at another cabaret — Gaston eschewed the froofy cafe with its salade niçoise. As they sat eating good hearty meat and potatoes, Belle became aware of a conversation taking place at a neighboring table.

It was two older men, who at first were quietly commenting upon the attractive couple across from them. Then one of the men remarked that they resembled Gracieuse and Percinet from the story.

Belle had read Gracieuse and Percinet. It was a fairytale in d'Aulnoy's collection. "I guess those old men must read fairytales, too," said Belle, surprised that this rustic watering-hole would be a spot for the literary crowd.

"Everyone knows Gracieuse and Percinet," said Gaston, boredly. "It's a folktale. Like you tell around campfires, or in bar-rooms when things get dull."

"People sit around in bars telling fairytales?" asked Belle in disbelief.

"Whatever's interesting," said Gaston. "You go to the taverns to socialize, to keep entertained. Sometimes it's arm-wrestling or seeing who can swallow a live candle. Sometimes it turns into songs or stories. The difference between the fairytales in your school-reader and the ones you hear in the wild, is when it's recited from memory it might not come out as quite the same story every time. It's all done in the moment."

Belle hadn't ever given it much thought, but she had been somewhat aware that men like Perrault and La Fontaine collected their fairytales from known sources. It had just never crossed her mind that men like Gaston were the sources.

After lunch, there was more shopping to do. Eventually the LeGumes happened upon the long-discussed bookshop.

"You did say you'd buy me some books," said Belle to Gaston as they stood before it.

Gaston wasn't enthused, but he remembered the promise. He followed Belle into the shop. While the wife browsed the shelves, the husband stood at the counter and antagonized the clerk.

He leaned his massive figure against the counter and asked the scrawny twerp: "So how difficult would you say it is to rip one of these encyclopedias in half?"

Meanwhile Belle knew she needed to make this a short visit: Gaston in a bookstore was going to be worse than a bull in a china shop. She mostly she knew what she wanted, but notwithstanding that couldn't resist browsing titles or reading a page from something here and there. Finally she found something suitable for her needs, and she hastened to the counter.

"I'll take this one, please!" said Belle in a hurry.

Gaston dutifully paid for the book, to the clerk's relief; and the couple were off.

The day grew late, and the LeGumes needed to speed back to Isola with their hired cartier if they wanted to be home before dark. It was dusk when they arrived: Gaston was able to unload furniture with almost no trouble. Meanwhile, Belle prepared dinner, trying to make use of the rabbit Gaston had nabbed on the previous night. She found the prep work utterly revolting, but she tried to remember that this is where meat came from, and that it was normal and necessary.

She created a dish of rabbit and cracked wheat, in one pot over the fireplace. By the time it was done cooking, the formerly empty front room had been supplied with a table and chairs for dining at.

Having spent the whole day together, there wasn't a lot of news for the couple to share as they ate. But Belle did have one thing she was eager to show off.

"I think you'll enjoy the book I got," she said. She hurried from the table to retrieve it, and handed it over to her spouse.

Gaston boredly took the object and examined it. He was surprised at what he saw, and began flipping through the pages.

"It's blank?" he asked.

"I managed to find one without 'too many words!'" Belle smiled. "It's meant for a diary, but I have a plan for it."

"Yeah?" He handed the book back to her.

"I'm going to start collecting the folklore, and make my own book! You're going to have to help me — the first one I want to write down is the song you sang me last night." She took up another of her purchases — a graphite pencil. Her hand was placed to write. "How does it go again? What's the first line?"

Gaston thought the project very strange, but he played along. "Ma pauvre fille, j'avons bien du malheur…" he sang at full voice.

Belle copied that down. "Then?"

"Voilà ton prince qui vient pour te chercher…"

…

The bedroom looked like a real bedroom — bedclothes, nightstands, dressers, washbasins and candles.

And a mirror. That was definitely Gaston's favorite addition. He was fretting quite a bit over his appearance, not having had a good look at himself in a few days. He finally was able to shave properly, and had been horrified by how scraggly (to his taste) he'd allowed himself to get without knowing it.

There was a strong motive to look his best right now: he wanted to be irresistible to she-who-insisted-she-only-wanted-sleep.

Unfortunately the sight of his extensive preening was having something of an opposite effect upon her. Dressed in a new nightgown, she got into the bed, pulled up the covers, and settled into the soft pillow. This was nice. This was much better than the bare sheets in an abandoned looking room. This was a place she could sleep comfortably.

Then a great weight fell upon the mattress and sent her flying.

"Whoa! Sorry about that," said Gaston, trying not to laugh as he leaned over to help her off the floor.

"You've got to be more careful about that!" Belle scolded, picking herself up.

"I know, I know…" he said dismissively, lifting her back onto the bed.

As on the previous nights, he was shirtless, and for a moment Belle was pressed up in his bare arms against his bare chest.

She stiffened uncomfortably at it.

"Yeah, I get it," he said, perceiving her unfavorable reaction. "Still 'Oh no! This man I keep living with is going to dishonor me!'" He said the words in a cruel caricature of a damsel in distress and began fanning himself while batting his eyes.

"It's not that," said Belle, defensively. "It's just I still have no memory of dating you, or marrying you, or being married to you. In effect, I've only known you for three days."

"That was enough time for you in the first round," he answered with a tiny note of lechery.

Belle felt a squeamishness at another absent memory. She crossed her arms. "Well, maybe I'm different now!"

"I'll say you are," answered Gaston, contempt leeching into his tone. "I think that hit on the head gave you a personality change."

Now she was curious. "What was I like before?"

Gaston hesitated. "You were more… what's the word? Adventurous? No, that's not it. But you weren't so hung up about everything, I can tell you that."

"Carefree?" Belle suggested.

Gaston thought about it. "Not a bad word for it."

"Well," said Belle, "it sounds like we're not in such a carefree situation now. We're on the run from angry villagers, in a new town, and I have memory loss."

"I'll give you that," muttered Gaston, laying back, defeated.

There was a silence.

"What were you like?" asked Belle.

"What you see is what you get."

"Oh, really?" said Belle, skeptically. "I've picked up from things you've said that… you probably weren't always big and strong, for instance."

Gaston made a disgusted noise. "Yeah, a scrawny little kid who could scarcely rip an encyclopedia in half. Fixed that, though!"

By his tone, Belle could tell he wanted to drop the subject. But she wasn't about to let him. "How old were you when you made the change?"

Gaston made a noise that might have been irritation or thought — and perhaps both, given his tendencies. "I think if you saw me before I was about eighteen, you wouldn't have recognized me. Come to think of it…" his tone grew excited, "you did see me around that time! I remember! It was in a graveyard, on Christmas Eve. You were with your father, going to the midnight mass. You'd arrived late."

Belle suddenly remembered this. She was a little kid, freshly come to that village with her father, after financial problems had forced them to leave Marseilles where she grew up. It was the first Christmas Eve in the new place, and they'd misjudged how early they needed to leave for the mass. In the graveyard, they noticed a young man — a teenager — a transitioning towhead with streaks of blond still showing amidst the black. Athletic figure, but nothing imposing. He seemed to be puking his guts out; papa had approached him to see if he needed help. The kid was almost incoherent and it was identified that he'd been drinking from a bottle of brandy, probably pilfered and thus the need to drink in the comparable privacy of the graveyard.

"That was you throwing up in the graveyard?!"

"Yes!" cried Gaston, laughing, and excited that she remembered this. "Me and LeFou! We'd snuck off with a bottle of my uncle's brandy and ditched the mass. I think LeFou was passed out on a sarcophagus by that time. Ah! If I had known how things would turn out, I'd have tried to make a better first impression!" He melted into a cackle.

Belle would have never in a million years expected to end up married to that guy. "So I have that, and the surprise wedding… why is everything I remember about you just horrible?"

"You just haven't remembered the good stuff yet," he answered, still laughing.

"Tell me, then," said Belle, purely. "Tell me about yourself — your life story. Don't exaggerate, just tell me."

His amusement subsided. "Oh, come on! Belle, that will take days. Besides, I thought you wanted to learn from experience."

"I can't experience your past. Tell me as much as you can in five minutes."

"Ugh! Boring! You'll be bored to death in five minutes."

"Try me," said Belle.

There was silence.

"Surely you've told me all about yourself before?" she coaxed.

"Plenty… but this interrogation strategy is something else."

"You won't do it?"

"I will." He took a deep breath and puffed up, like he was ready to endure a difficult task.

He told, in as few words and as unemotionally as he could, about how his father had died when he was two years old, his mother died when he was just shy of sixteen. He had a younger brother, Michel — "Not a close relationship, not even on speaking terms." — Living on his own as a teenager, he had suffered a hunting accident in which he'd broken his arm; consequently his cousin LeFou came to stay with him, to help around the house during the recovery. The arrangement worked well, and LeFou remained as a housemate and companion.

At this point only about two minutes had passed, and Gaston didn't seem to want to say any more.

"What happened to your brother after your mother died?"

"He was sent away…" Gaston replied hesitantly. "M. d'Arque takes care of him."

"Who is that?"

"He runs the asylum."

Belle now understood what he trying to avoid saying. "And… you took over the tavern from someone named Henri…" she urged.

"Henri Proux." Gaston told how a friend who answered to the nickname Limey Bastard had introduced him to beer, and the two decided to take over the tavern after the death of Proux. It became a fun hobby — but his real love was hunting. He bought the best hunting equipment, he made trophies of his most exciting and exotic kills, and he considered himself, above all things, a huntsman.

Now five minutes had passed.

Gaston was in better spirits by the end of his story than when he'd started, but a little discomfited by the intimacy of it all, which was beyond what he would normally divulge to anyone who hadn't simply experienced it alongside him.

Belle was a little discombobulated, too, at learning something about Gaston that admitted he just might be human afterall. She crawled a bit closer to him on the mattress.

"So other than Michel," she asked, "You don't have any family?"

"Cousins, aunts, an uncle," he said. Then added: "You."

Belle blushed in the moon-cut darkness. She slid an arm across Gaston's chest, resting her hand on his shoulder. In turn, he slid a massive arm beneath her.

In the dim light, his face was faintly visible. Belle smiled, recalling how not long prior he had been fretting over his appearance in the mirror.

"You know," she said, "in the dark, your appearance doesn't matter. I can't see what you look like."

"Let me fix that!"

Before Belle could object, Gaston was out of bed and relighting candles. He got back into the bed — carefully, so as not to send her flying again — and tried to pose himself attractively without making it obvious what he was doing.

Belle was more amused than attracted by all of this. But, in the light she could see the pale blue of his eyes, and that slightly crazed look that always dwelt in them. She stared into them, pondering what was behind that.

And Gaston, meanwhile, grew increasingly puzzled and alarmed about just what she was staring at.

He was getting more and more uncomfortable the longer she stared.

But he wasn't daring to look away.

When he stared someone in the eye, it was an aggressive action. This seemed like something else.

He tried to figure it out.

What she was thinking?

The hazel eyes. Staring, gazing at him. If you looked at them absent of the face, they were just eyes. Colorful. Not piercing — opposite. Like some dangerous sinkhole. Alive.

Able to pull you in.

The eyes snapped shut when the two mouths locked together. The breath a sound like rustling leaves in heavy wind. Pulsing.

Then he felt the way that she was touching him and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"We're already at this point?" he babbled, shocked mostly by his lack of control over any of it.

"A problem?" asked Belle.

"Nope," he said, heart racing, mind dizzy. "No problem at all." He hurried to unfasten the brass buttons.

Belle and Gaston did not get much sleep that night.

…

The pink sunlight rose over the sleeping couple. They were some Renaissance painting, a Paris and Helen: the soft female form, the rippling muscles of the male figure, tangled up in colorful bedding.

Belle had learned why Gaston made such a trustworthy bedfellow: he liked to lay there and have things done to him. He was not going to get that from an unwilling or resistant partner. Nevertheless, he could be stirred to action when riled up enough; and she comprehended why she'd have been sneaking him into her room for a while before marrying him. He was a demanding lover, but worth the effort.

He'd also earned a nickname. Something easy to say in breathless moments.

Belle emerged from the bed to embark on what was becoming the morning routine: wash out the soaked dishes, then accompany Gaston into town for his eggs. She clothed herself in the new red dress, and her apron.

When she came back inside with the clean dishes, Gaston was dressed and preening in front of the mirror.

"Good morning, Gaston," said Belle, sticking her head through the bedroom door. "Primping as usual?"

She had come to realize he required a certain sharpness in interaction — not cruelty, surely, but because he wasn't comfortable with vulnerability, she couldn't afford to show weakness either. Or maybe she was simply adopting his bad habits.

Gaston felt no shame for what he was doing. "Beauty is fleeting, Belle! Got to enjoy it while you can. Someday, you'll be a disgusting old woman, and you'll fondly remember your stunning young husband."

"And where will you be?"

"Dead from some hunting accident. Leaving a pretty corpse. Make sure I get one of those glass coffins!"

Belle rolled her eyes. "I'll charge admission. It'll pay for all that."

"That's the spirit."

"Are we going into town for eggs? We need some groceries."

"Yeah. Just a minute." He combed a little more pomade into his hair, rubbed the remainder into his hands (surprisingly soft hands for a huntsman) then gathered up his accoutrements.

In town, eggs and groceries were bought by the head-turning couple. Gaston felt proud and pleased with the position, and Belle cared little one way or the other. In her hands, at all times, were a blank book and a little graphite pencil: If he was getting something palpable out of the relationship, Belle was going to get as much — she was determined on that.

She was going to have fairytales.

"Would you like to go to the tavern in the village tonight?" she asked, not without self-interest.

"The tavern!" echoed Gaston. "Well — I would, Belle. But I'd be worried about leaving you alone at the house."

"Really?" she asked, smiling. She knew how to handle him at this point.

"There's some wolf, or maybe a small bear, I've been hearing around. Wouldn't want to come home and find you in trouble."

"Well, Gaston," said Belle. "The solution would be to take me with you."

Gaston seemed intrigued. This idea had never crossed his mind. "A woman in a tavern at night? I guess certain women do that…"

"Well, Toni," she said, invoking the affectionate nickname she'd given him, "if I'm with you then everyone will know I'm your wife."

This was a double good: he got to show off his prized female, and protect her from a possibly dangerous situation.

The fact was, he genuinely dreaded leaving her alone.

When the duo walked into the village's little tavern that evening, eyes lit up all around. It was like royalty had graced them with their presence. People began offering to buy drinks as a pretext to meet the handsome couple.

Belle had come with her book and pencil in hand, ready and raring to collect some folklore.

They sat with various people, chatted, drank. Belle tended to be quiet — which suited Gaston, who was pleased to have her as mere arm candy. He did the talking, unless somebody addressed her directly.

Time ticked by, and Belle was slowly growing dismayed that no mythical stories or old songs were appearing in the wild — unless the tales the men swapped about their own exploits counted. Gaston certainly had some worldly adventures that weren't wholly lacking in interest, but these were not what she'd come out to hunt for.

The wine she kept being bought, and which politeness obliged her to drink, was making her sleepy.

At one point she dozed off, just for a moment. She saw in that instant the fairytale prince of her fantasies, his flyaway hair that resisted all attempts to confine it in a queue, his burly but fine figure. Tall, active, emotional. That dream of form in days of thought — but a dream, a dream.

Belle snapped back to. No one at the table had noticed her doze in the midst of their lively conversation. But this had been an inspiration. She waited for a break in the chitchat, and when her opportunity came at last, she spoke up:

"I have a story," she said.

The eyes turned to her.

Gaston, seated at her side, was even looking at her with great interest.

Belle smiled and began. "I had a dream, that I was in a little town, a quiet village, every day like the one before…"

She told the story of her dream: the awkward courtship of a man she avoided naming for politeness' sake, then her father's disappearance, tracking him to the enchanted castle where she met a monstrous beast, so big, so strong, so full of pain. She became his prisoner, and on that first night fled from him — fled into the hungry mouths of wolves, from which her beast was forced to save her. Wounded, he fainted in the snow. Moved to pity, she brought him back to the castle, and cared for him. The next day he was like a new man: he gifted her a massive library, bigger than six houses, filled to the ceiling with books. They got to know one another, and began to fall in love. The beast couldn't keep his paws off her, always delicately caressing and holding her, speaking fondly to her, improving himself for her. But she missed her father, and wanted to see him again. The beast produced a magic mirror into which she looked, and in it she saw that her father was sick and lost in the woods. The beast gave her permission to leave, declaring she was no longer a prisoner, and that she should go to her father — but he insisted she must take with her the magic mirror as a gift. She obliged. After some searching, she found her father and took him back to the village. When she was caring for him, the unnamed suitor came to the house, along with the owner of a madhouse; they announced to her that they would take away her father, unless she agreed to marry the suitor. As proof of her father's madness, they recounted his telling them of a beast in a castle. She countered that her father's stories were true — as proof, she took the mirror and conjured it to show the image of the beast, of whom she spoke with fondness and love. At this, the suitor was outraged. He raised a mob to lay siege to the beast's castle; then he locked her and her father in their cellar while he went out to commit the heinous deed. However, a servant from the beast's castle had secretly come home with her; it was he who devised an escape from the cellar. Freed, she rode with her father and the servant, back to the castle in hopes that they might save the beast. They discovered the suitor and the beast in battle, fighting upon the rooftop. She had run up through the many flights of stairs, one room after another, searching for a way onto the roof. When she emerged on the balcony, the beast came to her — but with the gentle monster's back turned, the suitor produced a knife and stabbed him. In the recoil, the suitor was knocked from the roof — surely to his death — and she alone prevented the beast from falling with him. On the rooftop she held the beast as he died, and when the life was gone from his eyes, she could not bear to withhold any longer the reality of her love for him. At her three words, a flurry of magic was produced. The beast was not only revived, but transformed into a beautiful prince. She and the prince were married, dancing happily ever after into the land of wonderful dreams.

Belle bowed her head at her finish. The others in the party applauded her story.

"But why aren't you still with your dream prince?" joked one. "Did this one break into the castle and carry you off?" he said in a jestful tone, indicating Gaston.

This produced laughter — but moreover, produced the circumstance Belle had hoped for, which was to make the others at the table endeavor to top her story.

"Now listen here," said one man, "if you think that's a story, wait until you hear this!" And he began the tale of the beautiful Thalie, who was poisoned by a piece of flax that dug its way under her fingernail when spinning it into linen thread, setting into motion events that led to the king taking Thalie as his new queen, so that they lived happily ever after.

Belle's hands flew across the pages of her book, documenting every word she could. No sooner had the first story ended then another began, and another, and another. Every patron at the tavern seemed to have something. She could barely keep up.

And of course, not to be outdone by anyone, the time came when Gaston stood up to tell a story to top all others. Utilizing the fireplace to a sinister effect, using his powerful voice with expertise, he told a tale of horror:

A girl and her three brothers were orphaned, but old enough that they could fend for themselves. With their inheritance they purchased a comfortable one-story house to live in together. The house was a good size, but was inexpensive due to its location at the edge of a burial ground. The girl's bedroom window faced this graveyard. Every night, she noticed from her window a glowing light that would emerge from the tombs — (here Gaston took a candle from the table, and shielding it with his hands he made of it a representation of the light) — Night after night she saw it, and thought it strange and frightening. But then came a night, when the light emerged, and headed straight for her window, at the long, slow pace of a person walking. For a while she denied that it could be anything dangerous, but gradually she saw the form of a person coming, and the light — the light was the brightly glowing eye of this being, a being who, as he came nearer and nearer, could plainly be seen was no living man, but a rotting worm-riddled corpse, its teeth exposed, but one gleaming eye left in its skull. The sight made her freeze in fear. But it was coming for her. — (He scratched his fingers along the candle holder, and spoke in a soft voice) — The creature came to her window and began to scratch at the glass, slowly scratching, till the glass weakened, and then —

Gaston finished the tale by booming out the final word while jumping up and swinging the candle in the face of listeners. Everyone leapt out of their skins. Proud Gaston raised his arms and bowed his head theatrically, concluding the tale.

Belle had almost forgotten to record it, so entranced she had become; but she swiftly jotted down his story with the rest. Of course the full effect of his visual embellishments were not possible to record. Those could only be known from experience.