CHAPTER 7

Over the next year, Gaston continued peddling his wares around France. But something in him had broken. He was just drifting aimlessly, going through the motions. Without a plan or scheme, without his former overwhelming confidence that he would break the spell, he felt empty and bereft.

His entire worldview had crumbled. He had always held the unshakable belief that he was destined for greatness, and that no matter what happened, he would always come out on top. The shocking revelation that it wasn't true devastated him. He was terrified to realize that he was actually going to spend the rest of his life in this wretched, insignificant form, and eventually die alone and forgotten. And there was nothing he could do about it.

In the early days of the spell, his rage and his desire for revenge had sustained him. He had envisioned tracking down the Enchantress and making her pay for what she had done to him.

But in his current state of fear and desperation, such thoughts had long since vanished. He still dreamed of finding the Enchantress - but if he did, he would immediately fall to his knees and beg her to lift the curse. Only she had the power to save him now. If she ever appeared to him, he thought, he would tell her he was sorry for everything he had done, he would promise to stay away from Belle and her prince...anything she wanted, if she would only change him back to his real self and let him have his life back.

But the Enchantress never appeared, and he knew that he was doomed.

For a time, he tried to use his money to ease his pain, attempting to buy himself happiness as he had tried to buy Celeste's love. He ate in the best restaurants, drank the finest wine, wore the best clothes. But it did nothing to alleviate his misery.

Money couldn't buy him the things he missed most: hunting wild game in the forest, making an impossible shot with his bow or rifle, thundering at a gallop on his fiery black stallion, fighting and wrestling, lifting massive weights before an appreciative audience. His whole life had centered around his physical prowess; without it, he felt empty.

No amount of money could erase the expression on people's faces when they first saw him: that instinctive recoil, that look of disgust in their eyes. Even people who were polite and covered up quickly couldn't hide that first reaction. Gaston never got used to it, and never would.

And then there were the intangibles, the things he missed that he couldn't put into words: the reassuring familiarity of the village where he'd lived his whole life; the comforting routine of seeing the same faces every day; the pride in knowing that he was admired and respected by all who knew him; the camaraderie and good spirits of his friends at the tavern every night. He missed having a home, a place where he belonged.

How strange it was that he had ended up as a travelling peddler - he, who had never had any interest at all in seeing faraway lands or different kinds of people. He wondered why he continued doing it. It was a pointless quest, after all. He knew now that he was never going to find a girl to love him, no matter how many towns and villages he visited. He might as well just pick a town at random, buy a house with the money he'd saved, and spend the rest of his days there. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with the endless, exhausting months on the road, and the discomfort of riding in the rickety wagon in rain, wind and snow.

And yet...despite everything, there was still a tiny, stubborn spark of determination inside him that refused to let him give up. He had been a dwarf for five years now, but the magic hourglass would continue to flow for five years more. He wasn't a quitter - it just wasn't in him. He simply couldn't stop trying until the very last grain of sand was gone.

So, even though he knew it was futile, he continued travelling around France, talking to the women that the met, and he tried to tell himself that there was still a chance, that he still had time to break the spell. But he knew in his heart that it was hopeless. Five years or 5,000 - it wouldn't make a difference. No girl in the world could ever love the hideous thing that he had become.

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In the village of Reillanne, a young woman was rolling out dough for an apple pie. She was 24 years old, with clear grey eyes, a slightly pointed nose and a wide, generous mouth. Her hair was straight and sandy brown. She would have been pleasant-looking, though not pretty, but her appearance was marred by an ugly scar on her right cheek.

A knock at the door interrupted her baking. She opened it. Outside was a lovely girl of 18, her hair a cascade of blonde ringlets. Without a greeting, she immediately pushed past the other girl and launched into a torrent of words. "Is it ready, Genevieve? How does it look? The dance is this Saturday, I hope it will be finished! I have to look my best, you know."

Genevieve laughed. "It's finished, Melisande. Come and see." She led the blonde to a dressmaker's dummy, on which was a low-cut pink party dress with a flounced skirt.

Melisande squealed with delight. "Let me try it on!" Genevieve helped her into it. She went to the full-length mirror and twirled.

"You look beautiful," Genevieve said sincerely.

"I do, don't I?" said Melisande happily. "Etienne is sure to propose when he sees me in this! " She stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she told Genevieve apologetically. "That was inconsiderate of me. I shouldn't talk of marriage around you."

"Why ever not?" asked Genevieve, arranging the hem of Melisande's dress.

Melisande looked at her pityingly. "Well, you're already 24 and not married. It must be so hard for you, being disfigured like that," she said sympathetically. "Men like pretty girls, after all."

"Yes, a lot of them do," agreed Genevieve lightly.

Melisande thought a moment, then suddenly brightened. "You know, Genevieve, my mother has a cousin in Aquitaine - he's about 50, but he's blind! He wouldn't care at all what you look like! Shall I ask him to come for a visit?" she asked helpfully.

Oh, Lord, give me strength, thought Genevieve. She forced herself to smile. "No, thank you, Melisande. I'm fine," she said patiently. "Of course marriage is a wonderful thing. But it doesn't happen to everyone, and it's foolish to waste time fretting over things you have no control over. I've been blessed: I have a nice house, and food on the table, and good friends, and I love my work. There's plenty in the world who aren't as fortunate."

"You are so brave to see it that way," Melisande said admiringly.

Genevieve had had enough. "Let's take this new dress off so it doesn't get wrinkled before the dance," she suggested.

"Oh! Good point!" said Melisande. Genevieve helped her take off the dress, folded it neatly and wrapped it in brown paper. "How much do I owe you?"

"30 francs," said Genevieve. Melisande paid her. "Well, au revoir!" she said merrily, skipping out the door with her package.

Genevieve shook her head in amusement. Then she went back to rolling out dough for her pie, humming cheerfully.