COUNTDOWN: 10 DAYS
Gaston returned to his home at dawn, in a sour mood despite an assortment of furs and fresh game meats slung over his shoulder that would have brought smiles to the faces of most men. They would think it a sign of a very successful hunt. But not Gaston: while he'd caught the animals easily, effortlessly — he had not found what he sought.
He had not found Belle.
He believed he'd seen traces of Maurice, or at least someone about Maurice's size; but, despite being the greatest hunter the town had ever known by far, he never seemed to locate that man in the night. If he couldn't find him, then surely the man was not around to be found.
Maurice and Belle were not in the woods.
The old song began to run through his head:
Nous n'irons plus au bois,
Les lauriers sont coupés,
La Belle que voilà ira les ramasser
He groaned wearily as that annoying tune wasn't about to leave his skull any time soon. Gaston took his meat upstairs and began to cook it upon the fireplace gridiron. A good breakfast was very sorely needed after his long, sleepless night. He had a box of coffee in the cupboard and prepared a small pan of it, drinking the hot beverage under the philosophy that it was medicinal; and thus he had a glass of wine on the side as his real beverage. He still had bread stocked up, though it was growing stale.
After he'd consumed his wine, coffee and nine pounds of meat and three loaves of bread, he heard the usual delivery of eggs arrive downstairs. No snail could have been more sluggish in its progress than he, as he descended the stairs and listlessly collected the box from the doorstep.
Five. Dozen. Eggs.
He just couldn't stomach them right now. Wouldn't kill him to skip a day, right? He'd do ten dozen tomorrow to compensate…
Somehow the eggs didn't seem like the magic bullets they once had. They were not bringing Belle into town any faster. Why was she always so difficult? Surely she had to know she was keeping him waiting… oh, ha ha, of course she didn't. She didn't know about the plan.
Then an awful thought crossed his mind. What if she wasn't coming back? What if, somehow, she did predict his plan, and had run away with her father in advance of it?
He was suddenly stricken by a recollection of those long, dull yet anxious days he spent in wait for his mother to die. She had been sick for several months, and for the final two weeks or so it was understood by everybody that her demise was imminent. Fifteen year old Gaston couldn't really see what good it did to wait around for her to pass — she was sleeping most of the time, drugged up on laudanum if she was awake, and didn't seem aware of the family one way or another. He was angry that he was being made to sit and wait for her death, as if that achieved anything. He'd have preferred to be out hunting where he could vent his spleen on some helpless animal — or passed some time with the fellow he considered a friend, Giraut —
Eggs. Eggs would keep him from that ever again.
He wondered if things would have fallen that way, had his mother not died. He probably wouldn't have been so desperate for a friend as to get tangled up with that man. And certainly, with mom around there would have been no need for LeFou to come in after the broken arm, which without Giraut would not have happened in the first place —
Placing the box on the table upstairs, Gaston realized he was thinking far too much.
Ugh. No wonder he was in a bad mood! Thinking always did this to him. He needed to do something to take his mind off of all this. Something fun, something difficult enough to occupy his thoughts. An adventure!
Ah… but… he couldn't leave the house.
He got an idea.
Gaston hurried to the door and burst into the street. He began looking around, sure he'd find the usual sort of crowd outside…
Indeed, he spotted one. A young girl, probably a teenager, hanging near his door, hoping to get a look at his fabulous face.
"Hey, you there," he said, motioning her over. He made sure to give her a flash of the white teeth.
The girl could hardly believe it. Gaston — the actual Gaston — was talking to her, and she shivered with joy.
"Got anything to do today?" asked Gaston, lifting his eyebrows and lowering his lashes.
"Today? N—no," she said nervously, trembling with delight. What could Gaston be wanting with her? Maybe, the day had come at last — as she had secretly hoped would happen whenever she waited at his home — the day when he had spotted her, and been so moved by her unusual beauty that he was now asking her out, and he would give her a chance to prove her worth, and he would fall in love with her, and…
"Do me a favor. Stand on my doorstep and wait to see if LeFou comes back here. If he does, tell him he's an idiot for coming here instead of to Monsieur d'Arque's and that he needs to go straight there."
Estelle was a little dismayed at the nature of the request, but, surely this was a better chance to prove herself than she had ever had before. She knew the town gossip: Gaston had been in love with that weirdo Belle and had meant to marry her, but his wedding had fallen through for some reason. This was a window of opportunity for her — indeed, virtually proof that they were destined to be together! — and it was not to be missed. If Estelle was to win him over, she had to demonstrate her loyalty from the beginning.
"Go straight there — to the Asylum? Yes, I can tell him that," she smiled.
"Great," said Gaston carelessly. He vanished back into the house to grab his cape and a few odds and ends, and then he was off, leaving the faithful whatever-her-name-was standing watch on his doorstep.
…
Pinfinger. That was about the right level of concentration. Gaston was in the tavern playing pinfinger. His skill and speed at stabbing the knife blade between his bulky fingers was drawing a crowd to the building, even though it was early in the day.
He could have played it at home by himself, of course — but what fun was such a game without an audience? Besides, the standards he was setting were drawing competition… and the results were laughable. As the name of the game implied, rival men were pinning and slicing their fingers apart on the tabletops. There was blood everywhere.
"Aw, it's no fair," one bearded spectator complained. "Look at how big Gaston's hands are! He has enough space between his fingers to put seating. Of course he'll have an easy time at this."
Gaston heard him. "Bigger hands means bigger fingers to avoid, you know."
Gaston wizzed the blade between each of his fingers and back again. He held up his hands, showing them unscathed. Hoots and cheers rose from all around.
The competitor took the knife, and Gaston's mind immediately went a million miles away. He began wondering where Belle could be at. He knew she certainly was not in the woods. Where could she have gone? To a nearby village, maybe? Or maybe she'd traveled to one of the cities, like Toulouse. In fact he recalled hearing that she was originally from Marseilles, and that was where she had learned those fancy-lady habits like using forks at the table and reading… so unlike the people here…
"Your turn, Gaston!"
Without missing a beat, Gaston took up the knife and went blam-blam-blam-blam-blam across his hand with lightning speed, missing his fingers on each rapid pass. Cheers and exclamations rose from the spectators. Gaston proudly raised his hands in the air.
He faintly wondered if a fork would be just as good for the tool in pinfinger. Maybe once he was with Belle again, he'd try it out. He could picture sitting with her at a dinner table, eating some kind of venison or duck he'd caught, that she'd have wonderfully prepared because women all inherently know how to cook, and he'd whip out his pinfinger skills and she'd be very entertained by him and so pleased to have such an impressive husband…
"Your turn, Gaston!"
Gaston distractedly took the knife. He lifted it to play.
Suddenly he looked at his hand and realized he could scarcely see his actual fingers before him. He just kept seeing the mental pictures of Belle by his side.
Gaston slammed the blade into the table. "You know what? I'm tired of this game."
A man bandaging his wounded fingers frowned. "Already? I was sure you could make fifty passes in a row."
"Two hundred on a bad night," said Gaston. "Not that I ever lost, as my set of ten fingers should prove. But… I feel the call to adventure now. I have to find something else. Something soul-stirring."
He thus began curling his hands into fists, vaguely planning to pick a fight with someone.
The voice of Limey Bastard rang through the room. "Hey, Gaston! Why don't you sing us a song?"
Limey Bastard could see where the big bolshy bloke of a kid was headed, and was trying to keep him from turning the place into a massive swedger. He didn't blame Gaston for it. It all was quite sensible of course — Gaston had just lost his first love, and the guy needed to be distracted for a while. Time would heal the wounds. He just needed things to pass the time with. "Why don't you sing that English song I taught you? The Golden Vanity?"
For men to sing stories and folk ballads in the tavern was very commonplace, and Gaston was the best singer in town.
Happy to not have had to think out something to do, Gaston smiled and obliged his friend's request. He began to sing the old tune that the anglophile Limey Bastard had passed on to him, the simple little folk melody:
There was a little ship, and she sailed on the sea,
And the name of the ship was the Golden Vanity.
And she sailed in the lonely, lonesome water,
And she sailed in the lonesome sea.
She had not been sailing but two weeks or three
When she came in the sight of the Turkish Reveille,
As she sailed in the lonely, lonesome water,
As she sailed in the lonesome sea.
The captain of the Golden Vanity cried, "What will we do?
'Cause she will overtake us and cut us in two.
She will sink us in the lonely, lonesome water,
She will sink us in the lonesome sea."
Up stepped a gallant sailor, sayin' "What'll you give me,
If I can sink that ship to the bottom of the sea?
If I sink her in the lonely, lonesome water,
If I sink her in the lonesome sea."
"Well I have gold, and I have land,
And I have a daughter that will be at your command,
If you'll sink her in the lonely, lonesome water,
If you'll sink her in the lonesome sea."
He bowed down his breast, and away swam he,
He swam till he came to the Turkish Reveille,
So to sink her in the lonely, lonesome water,
So to sink her in the lonesome sea.
He had a little augur, all fit forto bore.
He bored a hundred holes in the bottom of the floor,
So to sink her in the lonely, lonesome water,
So to sink her in the lonesome sea.
Well some had hats, and some had caps,
To plug out the water that was pouring through the gaps,
But she sank into the lonely, lonesome water,
But she sank into the lonesome sea.
"Oh captain, oh captain, oh will you keep your word?
Or even will you take me back on board?
For I've sunk her in the lonely, lonesome water,
For I've sunk her in the lonesome sea."
"Oh no, I won't be as good as my word,
And neither will I take you back on board,
Though you've sunk her in the lonely, lonesome water,
Though you've sunk her in the lonesome sea."
"If it weren't for the love that I have for your men,
I'd do unto you as I have done to them,
And I'd sink you in the lonely, lonesome water,
And I'd sink you in the lonesome sea."
He bowed down his breast and away swam he,
And bid farewell to the Golden Vanity,
And he sank in the lonely, lonesome water.
He sank in the lonesome sea.
Some men had little matches and tapers they held up and waved, teary eyed, as he sang the sad tune. The song was morbid, in the way of most folk songs; but Gaston's booming voice and his thrilling embellishments ensured that it was a crowd-pleaser.
Still, Gaston's breakfast coffee was wearing off, and the fatigue of the prior sleepless night was beginning to weigh on him. "I'm getting a little tired," he said, surprised at himself. "I need a good, stimulating drink."
The barkeep, who was literally cleaning glasses with his own spit, smiled at Gaston's request. From beneath the counter he pulled up a jug with little Xs on it. "We have absinthe! The finest mountain hooch you can get."
That sounded alright to Gaston. It was regarded as a stimulating beverage. Being large, he ordered a serving that amounted to five shots.
Unbeknownst to him, Limey Bastard signaled the barkeep to pour a double portion; for he knew Gaston needed it, if his mind were to be distracted from thoughts of Belle.
Still, the barkeep was as curious as many men in town. "Have you seen Belle again?" he asked Gaston, warily.
Gaston felt his heart stir and throb at the very mention of the name. It was so weird! Why were his organs behaving like this?
"No," said Gaston with a mournful sigh that came from true feeling. Then he suddenly realized that he looked weak and vulnerable behaving like that. He puffed up and went into his macho act. "Nah, been too busy killing — " quick think of a manly animal. Wolves, bears, bison — "Sharks."
"Sharks? I thought those only lived in the ocean."
"Yeah, but one of them got out. No need to worry about it — I took care of it."
The barkeep wasn't an expert on animals, and he figured Gaston must know more about it than he would. "Well, that's our Gaston. Keeping the village safe!" he said approvingly as he slid up the rather large drink. "Glad to hear you're doing alright. We were a bit concerned after what happened, with Belle."
"Belle will change her mind, just wait!" said Gaston with great assurance.
After slugging back his drink, Gaston sang a requested encore of the Golden Vanity.
And then he drank another serving of absinthe, alike in size to the one before.
Lonely, lonesome water. Lonely, lonesome sea.
He was never going to see Belle again, was he? She had fled — why, he didn't know. And what good was all the world, without a Belle in it?
Nous n'irons plus au bois,
Les lauriers sont coupés,
La Belle que voilà, la lairons-nous danser.
And then it all went green, and he lost track of what was actually happening.