Author's note: I just want to say a big, heartfelt "Thank you!" to all you reviewers. When I first started writing this story, I was very worried that no one would want to read it, because it's not about Belle and the Beast. So your comments really mean a lot to me! Thank you so much!

CHAPTER 8

It was a sunny morning in late August as Gaston's horse and wagon entered the town of Reillanne. Gaston stepped down and called loudly, as he always did, "Come one, come all, for the finest merchandise in all of France! Pots and pans, exceptional tools, tempting trinkets, and everything you could ever want or need!"

A rather brutish young man approached the cart, accompanied by a pretty blonde girl. He smirked when he saw Gaston. "Get a load of this little pipsqueak," he told the blonde.

The blonde giggled, but was quickly distracted by the wares on the cart. "Oooh, look at all the lovely rings and necklaces!" she squealed. "Buy them for me Etienne, pretty please?" She batted her eyes at her beau.

"I'll buy you one, Melisande," he said. "I'm not made of money." She pouted prettily. Etienne picked up a ring adorned with an amethyst. "How much is this?" he asked Gaston belligerently. "And you better not overcharge me, you little shrimp, or I'll pound you."

"My, my," said a new voice mildly. "Such rudeness, Etienne. You should be more polite, or this gentleman may not want to sell you anything at all."

Etienne sneered, "Ah, what do you know about it, you witch?"

Gaston looked up, and was startled by what he saw. A young woman in her 20s was approaching, but there was something wrong with her. On the right side of her face was an ugly red scar, and the skin around it had a puckered, bubbly appearance, like oatmeal.

But despite her unattractive appearance, Gaston didn't appreciate the lout's nastiness to her. He'd suffered too many taunts himself over the past five years. "That's no way to talk to a lady," he reprimanded. The girl looked surprised, but pleased.

Etienne rolled his eyes. "Just tell me how much the ring is, okay?"

"It's 10 francs," Gaston said. Ordinarily he would have charged seven. He felt a smug sense of triumph as Etienne tossed the money at him and left with the simpering Melisande. Gaston turned to the young woman. "May I help you, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, thank you," she said. She smiled at him pleasantly, displaying no reaction to his stunted appearance. It was a refreshing change. "Do you have any cloth?"

"Of course." He showed her his wares - cotton, wool, satin and silk in a rainbow of colors. She was delighted. "Oh, this is wonderful! The general store here in town has such a limited selection."

Gaston eyed the girl calculatingly as she examined the fabrics. For five years he had been seeking a girl who could love him, but all those he had met rejected him because of his appearance. But a disfigured girl...now that was a possibility he hadn't thought of.

He felt a sudden surge of excitement. Of course! It was so obvious! If he courted a girl who was even uglier than he was, then his appearance wouldn't matter.

For the first time in a year, he felt his hopes soaring, along with his confidence. It wasn't over after all - he still had a chance! Normally, of course, he would never have chosen an unattractive girl for romance, but at this point, he couldn't be picky. All that mattered was breaking the spell, no matter what the cost. And here was the perfect solution. A disfigured girl like this would surely be lonely and desperate for a man - any man, even one as loathsome as himself. Surely it would be easy to win her love. She would no doubt be pathetically grateful for any attention.

He could do this, he realized excitedly. And then, finally, he could escape the curse and get his life back.

He approached the girl, determined to impress her. "This wool is the finest in the world," he told her with his customary bravado. "It's from a very rare breed of sheep that lives only on high mountains in Russia. Their fleece is of the very best quality. They're tended by monks who devote their lives to their care, and fed only milk and wine. The special diet and the cold, thin mountain air makes the sheep's fleece especially soft."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Really?"

"No," he admitted, with a disarming grin. "It sounded good though, didn't it?"

She laughed delightedly. "You have a way with words, monsieur. You must be the best salesman in the world!"

"I am," he bragged.

She smiled. "Not exactly lacking in confidence, are you?" She liked that. She knew how it felt to be different, to have people stare and mock you for how you looked. It took strength of character not to let it affect you. It was all too easy to become timid, or to feel somehow like less of a person. But that had never been her way. She knew her own worth, and if some people judged her purely on her appearance, well, it only proved their ignorance. She knew who her true friends were, and it was their opinion she valued.

This peddler was a tiny, funny-looking dwarf, but he acted as self-assured as if he were the most handsome man in the world. Good for him, she thought.

"I'm Genevieve," she said, extending her hand. "And you are...?

"Gaston," he replied. He took her hand and kissed it, with a courtly bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

She picked up a sky-blue satin ribbon and studied it thoughtfully. "I think this would make a perfect trimming for a dress I'm working on. I wonder...would you mind terribly bringing your cart over to my house? I'd like to compare the colors I already have with yours, to see which shades would be most complementary."

She realized belatedly that it would normally be considered improper for a man to visit a woman's home unchaperoned. If she were anyone else, gossippy tongues would start wagging. But she also realized that in her case, no one would think anything of it, because the townspeople couldn't imagine any man being attracted to her.

Gaston, meanwhile, saw the invitation as a perfect opportunity. "No trouble at all," he assured her. Things were finally falling into place, he thought.

She lived in a small, neat white cottage. In front was a colorful garden of roses, violets and lilies, with more flowers in pots on the windowsills. Gaston led the horse and cart to a spot under a shady tree.

Genevieve went over to a well, pulled up a bucket of water, and set it before Henri, who drank gratefully. "Wait here a minute," she said, and went into the house. She came back out with a handful of carrots, which she gave the horse as well.

"That's very kind of you," Gaston said.

She smiled, patting the horse's neck. "Now, let's see what you've got." She looked through the cart, chose some fabric samples, and brought them inside. Gaston followed.

Inside were two rooms, a kitchen and a sitting room, with stairs leading up to what Gaston presumed were bedrooms. In the sitting room were three dressmaker's dummies with dresses in various stages of completion, a worktable covered with drawings, sketches and patterns, and a small sofa strewn with various scraps of cloth. Genevieve smiled apologetically. "Sorry for the mess," she said, clearing space on the sofa and putting down the armload of fabric she carried. "I'm a seamstress."

"So I see," Gaston replied, looking around.

She chose the sky-blue ribbon and brought it to a royal blue dress on one of the dummies. She held it against the bottom of the dress, and expertly twisted it into a scallop design. "Oh, yes, this will be perfect," she said in satisfaction. She put the ribbon down.

Then she went through the other fabric samples, holding them up to her other dresses and consulting the patterns on the table. She picked out eight bolts of cloth and several bright ribbons while Gaston watched.

"You have excellent merchandise," she said, paying him.

"Only the best," he agreed, taking the money. He thought quickly, I should compliment her. But he was at a loss. He certainly couldn't tell her she was beautiful. What else was there to say to a woman? He looked around for inspiration, and his eye fell on the dressmaker dummies. "Your dresses are nice," he improvised quickly.

He went over to look at them, and was surprised to realize that they really were beautifully made, with expert craftsmanship. He examined the delicate embroidery. "You made these yourself?" he said, this time with genuine admiration. "You're very talented."

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

He thanked her, and she led him into the kitchen. Unlike the sitting room, the kitchen was neat as a pin. It was painted a cheery yellow. On a braided rug in front of the fireplace, an elderly basset hound lifted its head at their approach and thumped its tail on the floor.

Gaston kneeled next to the hound. "Hey, fella," he said, scratching its ears. He liked dogs; he had grown up with them. His father had always kept two or three hunting hounds around the house when he was a child.

"That's Remy," said Genevieve, pouring two cups of coffee. "He loves attention, as long as he doesn't have to actually stand up or move to get it."

Gaston patted the dog one more time, then sat down at the table with Genevieve.

He tried not to stare at her scar, but he couldn't help it. She smiled understandingly, seemingly unoffended. "You can ask me about it, you know," she told him. "I don't mind."

Well, if she says it's okay... "What happened to you?" Gaston asked bluntly.

She took a sip of coffee. "When I was two years old, I was playing near the hearth, and I tripped and fell in the fire. I was burned very badly. But fortunately, my mother was there, and she pulled me out quickly. If she'd taken a few seconds longer, I could have died, or been crippled. As it was, it took a long time to heal, but there was no serious damage. Just the scars. I was incredibly lucky."

Gaston didn't think she was lucky, looking like that, but he didn't say it.

"So, that's my story. How about you? What's it like being a peddler?" Genevieve asked conversationally.

"Oh, it's very exciting," he bragged immediately, wanting to impress her. "I've travelled all over France, and seen everything there is to see. In Paris there are glittering shops full of marvellous things, and elegant people strolling along the Champs Elysee, and the Musee de la Republique has all kinds of paintings." Not that he'd ever gone inside - he had no interest in art. But she didn't have to know that.

"In Alsace, there's a town called Riquewihr which is famous for its flowers. You'd like that," Gaston continued, remembering the garden in front of her house. "In Strasbourg there's a magnificent cathedral made of red sandstone, and in Bordeaux you can get the finest wine you've ever tasted."

She listened with interest, her eyes on his face. "It must be fascinating," she said. "I've never been out of this town myself. Although I have to admit, I never really had a taste for travel. I like being in my own cozy little house, with my garden and my dog. I suppose it must seem very boring to you," she added with a laugh.

"No, I know what you mean," said Gaston truthfully. "I grew up in a little village too. My family lived there for generations. There was one girl there who hated it - she complained it was too 'provincial,' whatever that means. But I was happy there." His blue eyes were wistful as he sipped his coffee. "I knew everyone, and everyone knew me, and they all thought I was great. I had everything I wanted. I was going to get married, and have a big family, and raise my children there."

She leaned forward, her chin on her hands. "It sounds wonderful. So why did you leave?"

He looked away. "Things changed," was all he said.

Genevieve was curious, but it was clear that he wasn't going to talk about it. She changed the subject. "You mentioned Paris. I wonder if you might do me a favor?"

"Of course," he said. "What is it?"

"When you go to Paris next, would you buy some dresses for me? Three or four would do. But not fancy ballgowns. I need the kind of dresses that sophisticated, upper-class ladies would wear to go shopping or visiting. And they should be the latest fashions. Can you do that for me? I can give you the money now."

"Certainly," said Gaston, pleased. It was a ready-made excuse to see her again, and doing her a favor would get him in her good graces. "I'll be heading to Paris on Tuesday, so it's no problem. But what do you need them for?"

"I want to copy them," she explained. "Not in the same materials, though. Parisian fashions will probably be silk or satin, which is impractical unless you have an army of maids to clean them for you. Mine will be cotton. But here in town, there are quite a few ladies who fancy themselves to be ever so sophisticated and fashionable, even though they've never been farther than the next village. If I can offer them the kind of dresses that are the latest style in Paris, they'll be thrilled. They'll want to buy four or five each, for certain."

"That's very clever of you," he said admiringly. Intelligence was not a trait he usually valued in women; talk of books or politics bored him to tears. But figuring out a way to make money - that was something he could appreciate.

Genevieve went to the sofa, bent down and drew out a metal box hidden underneath. She opened it, took out a small bag of gold coins, and replaced the box.

Holding the bag, she hesitated. She did need the Parisian dresses...but this was a lot of money to give to a complete stranger. Was she making a foolish mistake?

She looked at Gaston, who was waiting expectantly. She took a deep breath. "Here," she said, handing the bag to him a bit reluctantly. "This should be more than enough. It's most of my savings, so don't lose it!" she added, with a nervous laugh.

"How do you know I won't run off with it?" he teased, as though reading her mind.

She smiled. "I trust you. You have an honest face."

Now that was something he had never heard, even before the curse. But he took the money and promised to get the dresses.

He wondered if he should say more, do something to woo her. But he decided not to push his luck. She had already invited him in for coffee, asked him a big favor, and trusted him with money. Best not to overdo it. He had an excuse to come back and see her, after all.

"I'll be back as soon as I can with the dresses," he promised. "You can count on me."

"I'm sure I can," she said, smiling.

He took her hand for a moment. "It was a pleasure to meet you," he said with a gentlemanly bow, and left the house, feeling hopeful for the first time since leaving Celeste.