He was not yet eleven when the transformation was done to him. A prissy, bratty little prince, who might have learned better manners with age had things been allowed to progress as nature intended. Nevertheless, the Enchantress acted as one of the supernatural: she therefore used only the most extreme measures to teach a lesson, much as would a six year old whose birthday was forgot. Thus was the haughty young prince transformed into a massive, hideous, fur-covered beast, in punishment for his unforgivably beastly act of proffering an unsolicited aesthetic critique, of the sort which is only excusable among the writers for La Mode. All of his household servants, too, were put under this supernatural punishment: they were mutated from their human bodies into the most hideous living furnishings.

The only hope the young prince harbored for ever breaking the cruel curse upon him was, if before the age of twenty-one, he could prove that he had truly learned how love and earn another person's love in return.

Notwithstanding this means of escape provided, it is a simple fact that when one is a monster who is living in an isolated, forest-hidden castle, there are tragically few romantic prospects which will find their way into one's life.

Moreover, a ten year old is not ready for romantic love, no matter how ardently he might be told of its virtues.

Ah, but at last the moment came! Here he was — older than he'd ever been, a strapping thirteen years. Given the untoward sensations he was beginning to feel when watching the featherduster wriggle about its business, or upon espying some especially curvy piece of wood, it had grown apparent he was ready to try his hand at catching Cupid's darts.

As he was arrogant and entitled by nature, and moreover a native of one of the gallic countries, the young prince felt sure that if anyone could lick this curse by fourteen, it was most certainly himself. To prepare, the prince availed himself of his massive library and read every love story he could find, from the classic Greek myths to an interminable epistolary novel by Rousseau, in order to best understand how he should behave in these new situations.

The servants in the castle had no wish to discourage him. Quite the contrary, they were as anxious to end the curse as he was. They therefore offered him every encouragement and reassurance that he would find a way to defeat the spell. They even promised to assist him by all means with which they were furnished, being that they were furniture.

The real trouble was in finding anybody that he might be able to end the curse with.

Surely there would never be anyone coming into the castle, haunted and abandoned as it was made to appear by the enchantment. He certainly would have to go outdoors to find someone. But, was it safe to do so? The woods were swarming with wolves and, perhaps more dangerously, hunters. It would be a dreadful thing indeed were someone to mistake the prince for a bear and mount his head upon a wall. Yet, bears did not speak, bears did not read Ovid, bears did not know Gluck's operas like a young prince did. They also did not wear expensive capes with enormous golden pins. The prince felt confident that he could persuade whomever or whatever he encountered that he was really a human under a curse. From there he could gain their love and trust as would be needed. Then, certainly, once they came to know his wonderful character, they would immediately fall in love with him, and his curse would be broken in a few hours. Such are the illusions of a thirteen year old.

He began to go out in the mornings, searching for the right sort of person to help him end his magical affliction.

Occasionally, amidst the cool shadows of the forest leaves, he would see someone — a weary old traveler, a wagon filled with Italian actors, a postman on horseback. Yet to break the spell, it was necessary that he should fall in love himself. None of these creatures sparked any feeling within him; for his tastes were aristocratic, and as the Greek of the term implies, and only the best could ever do. It was therefore necessary, really quite essential, that he should feel attraction to the person he chose. It was necessary that he be patient, and not spring too prematurely upon some hapless character for whom he could never really feel love. This seemed right to him: for even the greatest romantic heroes sometimes needed a whole chapter before their true love would appear, and a chapter took twenty minutes at least.

Then at so long last, the day came when he espied the most beautiful person that his young eyes ever fell upon. At first he was unsure if it was a male or a female. The being was long haired, tall, with a figure that was perfection for any gender. Even from afar, the prince could feel the radiating splendor of this person, whose ethereal beauty depicted itself in every movement made. The prince drew nearer, his heart pounding with the warmth of new emotion.

The fabulous being donned a cape to protect against the somewhat chilly morning air. Coming nearer, the prince could now see that the beautiful one was a young man. He appeared to be a teenager, perhaps around seventeen or eighteen years. The young prince supposed that this was age appropriate for one of his own youth. He began to imagine how they could be like Apollo and Hyacinth: manly, romantic lovers, as done in the antique. They could be the best of friends, inseparable, going together on athletic and rugged romances through sunny vales and fragrant forests, loving and sporting away their days forever after.

The prince watched as the teen boy turned around, revealing his smooth and shapely face. He wore a loosely buttoned red shirt. A breeze suddenly caught him, making the garment billow attractively, exposing a hint of the smooth pectorals and a tasteful tuft of chest hair. The young prince almost swooned with passion at the sight. He crept nearer to the impossibly beautiful person, whom he felt certain was soon to be his.

…

Gaston was eighteen years of age, and only lately growing into what he considered to be a man's body. The achievement of this had required a great deal of work on his part, contrary to the expectations of mothers everywhere who feel that their little boys grow up too fast without any trouble at all. For the past two years Gaston had committed himself to eat four dozen eggs every morning, whilst undertaking a grueling routine of physical exercise to build up both his strength and his bulk, into the fearsome proportions he so richly desired. Like most pretty young boys, his most ardent desire was to make himself into a monster. This natural wish seems to result from the indignities such attractive boys receive from their jealous peers. His beauty was notorious, for sure, but it was something of a double edged sword for him. He enjoyed the attention it brought, indeed it commanded his own attention and often left him staring at himself for hours in the mirror. Yet, he hated the way that lustful and impassioned suitors made him feel; and it seemed that he could never free himself from their tireless leers. What he really enjoyed most was physical cultivation through the ancient practice of bloodsport. Certainly, there are few things that depict a man's higher self better than the murder of some inferior species. Perhaps only opera singing, and that was indeed another of Gaston's talents. But he was a simple boy from a simple background, and beauty and art were lofty aspirations. No, his love was hunting. It furnished not only the practical virtues — in it he found exercise, he found meat, he found decorations in the form of hunting trophies which he prepared all by himself — but it brought also the edification of being something which he was really good at. It made him feel the truest joys of success and importance when he undertook the task. He loved to come home with as much kill as he could carry; and to ensure that he he could do still better, he often hunted with friends who assisted in carrying even more than that. He was gradually building for himself a reputation as an expert hunter, one capable of being more killsome than any other in the province.

On this day, he had ventured into the forest alone, intending to only shoot a few birds for the sake of pastime. He had with him his shooting supplies and gun — an old blunderbuss rifle, able to make one front-loaded shot at a time before being reloaded — along with his best hunting knife, and a burlap sack for conveying his meat back home. Gaston did not expect it to be an eventful day. For all the gear he had borne out, all he truly aimed to kill on this morning was some time. He plodded along through the moist and heavy air, searching the verdant leaves of the trees for any nesting spots where he could reasonably expect to disrupt some avian home-life.

As he proceeded along, he perceived a nearby noise. It was the scurrying of some large animal, like a moose. It was close. Gaston turned to look at it, but he did not observe anything other than brush all about.

"I shouldn't worry about it," he figured to himself, for he wouldn't be able to carry something large like a moose home when unassisted, in any event. His purpose on this day was not horned beasts but simple birds, and that was all.

Meanwhile, the young prince-made-horned-beast crawled alongside the beautiful hunter's path, concealing himself in the brush, walking only as the other did so as to mask the sound of his steps. He carefully mirrored the boy's progress, waiting for the right moment to strike. What, then, would he say to his adored? Surely his beastly appearance would be, to say the least, alarming at first glance. He had to say something to appease and calm his Apollo (or was he the Hyacinth?) so that he would remain, and would get to know him. Whatever could be the right greeting? Do not be afraid? I come in peace? Bonjour, mon amour?

He heard the footsteps of the hunter stop, and he hastened to mirror the action.

Gaston heard the movement of the animal cease when his own footsteps ceased. It was the third time that this had transpired, and the young huntsman grew concerned; for it was very contrary to the usual custom, in which animals were to run away from their hunters. Whatever this creature was, clearly, it followed him. Might it be a highwayman, or perhaps an especially large wolf or other apex predator? These scenarios did not render any comfort to the young man, who could only have been more horrified to know that he was being chased by a thirteen year old.

With grip on his his gun tightening, Gaston took yet another step. Once again, he heard the rustle in the bush mirror his own gait.

This time, Gaston turned immediately and fired his weapon into the greenery.

The prince had not expected that. Luckily, the blind-fired shot completely missed him, but the loud bang caused great fright, and moreover, this unanticipated threat to his life utterly terrified him. He unleashed a yell of shock — which, rendered through his beastly young lungs, manifested as a blood-curdling roar that shook the entire forest, sending birds ascatter and branches falling from the trees.

Now Gaston too was terrified, though he was not so dramatic an actor as the beast. The young huntsman was never one to run from a fight. However, it would be mere carelessness not to run when a monster was in the bushes, and was moreover chasing him. He had just expended his only bullet, and he would need to reload before he could defend himself with the gun again. Therefore, fast as he could convey himself, he fled.

The prince, on observing his intended take flight, hesitated in his response. Should he pursue someone who had just shot at him? His mind raced. It occurred to him that, certainly, the other boy would not have shot at him had he known that he was a human. Therefore it was surely just a misunderstanding which had caused this near-accident. There was no reason to lose hope! The matter could be cleared up straightaway with a bit of finesse, and then the dreadful curse would be put to an end — but he must hurry, before the young hunter got his blunderbuss reloaded.

The beast went springing after Gaston, tripping lithely like the little fop he truly was.

Gaston dashed like lightning, all the while attempting to focus his ears upon the sounds that rattled behind him. The monstrous roar had died down, and soon the thud of the animal's pursuit was silenced. He had not dared to turn round to see precisely what roar-rendering creature was chasing him — that would have slowed him. He only stopped his flight when he was sure that he could not hear the animal nor anything else at his back.

From his belt he took his powder horn and embarked upon the elaborate adventure of reloading his gun: measuring powder, filling the barrel. He was very good and very fast at this task, but it still took ages to render the weapon ready to fire. He had not even packed in the bullet before he heard a noise at his side. He turned to look.

Apparently having taken some circular path around, the massive beast was now posited beside the horrified young Gaston. The monster's face bore a wide-eyed, soft and desirous look upon it; something like love, or affection.

Gaston knew it too well: hunger. The huntsman used his gun muzzle to bash this dreadfully ravenous beast in the face, brutally as he could. The monstrous prince roared in agony as his nose was shattered by the force. Blood sprayed across his muzzle. He had intended to say something in greeting, but this huntsman was acting far too swiftly for even a vulgar "What up?" Meanwhile, Gaston took off in a ferocious run.

Unaware of the creature's true motives, Gaston concluded the predator was after him and was ready to kill. Afterall, it clearly was chasing him deliberately. It must be for how strong he had become — he was made of so much meat that now the beasts of the wild wanted to feed off of him! The only way to be rid of this predator was to kill it. However, he could not easily achieve its death if he fled. He would need to resume his rightful place as the hunter, not as the hunted. The eighteen year old searched for a safe spot where he could commence the reloading of his gun. There was a large rock, almost big enough to call a hill, onto which he climbed. The monster would not be able to sneak up unseen on so steep a place as that.

Meanwhile the the young prince, for his part, required some time to recover from the shock and pain of his injury. A broken snout! Really! This was not at all what he had planned, nor was it expected from a young man whose beauty had portrayed the stillness and tranquility of a Buonarroti. Still, in roaring and wheezing through the pain of his impromptu rhinoplasty, he tried to recall the deeds of his most venerable role models. Did not the lovely Hyacinth find himself with some kind of injury whilst interacting with Apollo? Boys are very boisterous, after all. It is as one says to the little girl who cries that she has been teased or insulted by her male peer — if the boy is mean to you, it must be that he likes you. In any event, he must ensure that he got a word in this next time, or else the young hunter would certainly persist in this most ungentlemanly behavior.

…

Gaston listened as the roaring died down. All the while, he hastily worked at the loading of his gun.

The thought crossed his mind that, once this monstrous opponent was dead, he should make a trophy of the animal — otherwise no one would believe he had seen such a creature. He told himself that he should make a point not to shoot it in the face, for preservation's sake.

At last he made the weapon ready to fire. He aimed his gun and stood ready to shoot at the first sign of the monster. Yet before and behind him seemed to be only sunlit woods. He could perceive no trace of the ravenous creature.

Little did Gaston know that the beast was below him, pancaked with his back up against the rock, carefully monitoring his desired one. The unhappy prince knew that the young man above was armed. He therefore sought the most efficient way to introduce himself so that they might get all this frightened hunter nastiness out of the way. The youth was perfectly aware that he looked like a beast; but he knew he was a rather appealing teenage nobleman. Moreover, from what he had been told, real beauty was within, and seemingly every adult knew and accepted this as truth. It was why they felt so violated when a favorite actress said something uncouth. Beauty is not, without inner beauty; and inner beauty comes of cultivating goodness and love. Therefore, the young hunter simply had to be overbrimming with the stuff. It was only a matter of knowing what to say to this adorable one, this perfect Hyacinth (or was he the Apollo?) above.

He should say something intelligent, something that showed he was no mere monster, something that displayed his cultivation of inner beauty. At length he seized upon the perfect thing.

Bravely stepping forth, the beast declared aloud:

"Puis que de vous je n'ay autre visage,
Je m'en vois rendre hermite en un desert,
Pour prier Dieu, si un autre vous sert,
Qu'autant que moy en vostre honneur soit sage."

He was quoting Clement Marot, of course, but he thought it was a suitable amorous sentiment. Beyond that, it showed that he was educated and could quote a 16th century poet like Clement Marot. This should prove him to be utterly not a beast.

Yet somehow Gaston was unimpressed by the action. The only answer from his well-formed lips were a stream of the most vile swear words and still worse declarations of the utmost horror. Then, without further ado, the young hunter aimed his gun and fired. The young beast was hit with a terrible force that drove him backwards. He roared in agony at the sharp pain in his chest.

Gaston let the smoke of the powder-blast clear before he jumped down to examine his kill. He could see that his tormentor was a massive monster, covered in long brown fur, with two gnarled, black horns protruding from its head. The creature was very tall, almost nine feet. Blood was all over its muzzle, betraying all the men it had eaten and certainly not that Gaston had broken its nose a few minutes before.

Yet when the hunter came near, he realized that this was not a kill. He had hit the beast, but the monster wore a cape secured with a golden pin the size of a dinner-plate. The bullet had been blocked by this massive piece of jewelry.

The prince was actually pleased — the handsome hunter now stood directly before him. His opportunity to end the curse was nearer than it had ever been before. After a moment to recover from the shock of the bullet's impact against his pin, the battered beast got up on his hind-paws. He threw his arms around the attractive young man in a warm embrace, which he felt sure would provoke good feeling and further interest.

"You missed," declared the thirteen year old, unheeding the thunderous growl of his own voice. "Fortunately for you. You see, my love for you knows no bounds." He spoke in the manner drawn from the choicest of his library's love stories. "Ah, my beloved, you know that my heart holds only the noblest and purest sentiments of love! You shall see what virtues and luxuries a prince can bestow!"

Ensnared by the two monstrous arms, Gaston little perceived the Quixotic words. He was simply horrified that this terrifying creature not only talked to him, but was also wearing expensive clothes. He supposed it must have killed someone and stolen their garments. Now he was trapped in this dandy behemoth's deadly grip! He squirmed desperately in an effort to escape this prison, kicking his legs with ferocity.

It was not beneath the young huntsman to engage in what might be commonly termed a "cheap shot" and certainly, when his opponent was not recognizably human, it should have never even crossed his mind that he had committed any such action. Flailing against his nine-foot foe, Gaston booted the monster in the groin. With a savage roar, the teenage beast released his captive whilst sinking to its knees in anguish. Gaston took off running.

Once the initial pain had lessened enough to permit the return of his faculties, the young beast considered this act. Taken in context with all the rest, it was beginning to appear that the beautiful young man was like those people he had read about in the works of de Sade and de Laclos, who enjoyed bestowing pain to another. Yet, the prince supposed he could give such strange proclivities a chance — afterall, it was all new to him.

Gaston had dashed a short distance forward and was rapidly attempting to reload his rifle, when he heard the beast's heavy footsteps coming toward him once more. With a faint sigh, Gaston lamented that this was what he suffered for being so good looking.

His gun was not ready to fire, but there was one more weapon he had at his advantage: his hunting knife.

The young prince approached, expecting that he and the young man now could begin to converse in a much more congenial manner. Instead, Gaston grabbed his knife and unleashed a battle cry. He swung out, and the blade struck, jabbing the beastly prince in his arm, near his shoulder.

Pleased with the successful blow, Gaston smiled for the first time since the encounter had begun.

For his part, the prince was appalled. Pain filled his body. Blood spilled from his wound. The prince realized, at long last, that the beautiful young man before him was doing more than playing hard to get. This Apollo or Hyacinth or Adonis was not a lovable hunter of Greek myth, easily diverted to amorous adventure — no, this entity was a genuine predator, looking to kill.

With the knife still buried in his enormous arm, the prince began to run away — on all fours, as was most natural to his anatomy.

The hunter, now reclaiming his rightful place in the world, gave chase to the monster. The truth was that he hoped, first of all, to reclaim his best knife; but, he would not be disappointed in the least to kill the vicious monster that had chased him so. At eighteen, Gaston was considered a very good hunter; indeed he aspired to one day be known as the best in the whole province. Today might well furnish him the long-awaited opportunity to prove himself.

"That's right!" he called in pursuit behind the creature, "No ugly beast can ever put one over on Gaston!"

And Gaston realized he did have still one last tool he could use against the monster — the burlap bag he had brought. If he could simply pull it over the monster's head and blind him for but a moment, it would grant enough time to retrieve the knife and, with it, finish off the vicious foe. He snatched the sack from his belt and raised it, with hopes of hoodwinking the creature.

The prince, still in agony with the knife in his arm and its blade slicing him each time he moved, paused to look back.

The enemy gained two paces in that moment of inertia. Gaston recognized the advantage. "I've got you now, you disgusting hairball!"

Disgusting hairball? The prince was as scathed by the words as by the actual injury. He badly wished to stop and nurse his wound, but he realized he must flee, with all the speed he could compel, if he wanted to see another day. He intensified the length of his leaps and bounds. Blood dribbled from his arm, leaving a dark trail upon the forest dirt behind him.

All of a sudden he felt a sharp tug, which forced his whole body backward. He turned to see what had happened, and observed that Gaston had seized the hem of his cape. It was a serious impediment to have a sudden 190 pounds of muscle weight withholding him. Compounding his terror, the hunter was starting to climb up his garment like some deadly spider creeping up a thread of web.

Hastily, the prince tore the clasp-pin from his neck and abandoned the entire garment — and thereby, also the hunter. He sprung away into the forest on all fours, demonstrating far more speed than any hairball known to cat.

The young hunter was left holding in his two hands the now limply hanging cape. For a moment he attempted to follow the animal and continue with the chase, but he became entangled in the length of fabric. As he pulled himself from the velvet knot, he decided that the cape was adequate booty to have gained from this misadventure; indeed, that it more than made up for the loss of his knife, as the pin alone was worth more money that he saw in three months. Moreover, it made sufficient proof that he really had seen something unusual in the woods.

…

With an air of satisfaction, Gaston made his way back to the town. There, in the dusty streets, he showed the blood-stained cape to his usual acquaintances, and told them of his singular encounter.

When he began to describe a mysterious beast who could, among other things, talk and read 16th century poetry, he heard his companions roar with laughter.

"A talking beast in the forest!" giggled the nearly-toothless Dic, whose appellation was a contraction of Dominique. "You're just making up stories again, aren't you?"

Gaston punched Dic.

"Sorry!" said Dic, frankly more astonished by the answer than by anything Gaston had told him so far. "But you have to admit, it sounds made up!"

Gaston was offended by the accusation. "I didn't make up this cape!" he retorted haughtily.

Thom fingered the rich material, and agreed that it was nothing Gaston could have simply had on hand. "Maybe someone was playing a prank on you?" he suggested. "Dressed up like a monster hoping to scare you?"

"A dangerous prank, if so!" said Gaston, quite appalled by the thought. "I lost my hunting knife driving it into the bastard!"

"Well," answered Thom, "then I suppose in a day or two we'll see who has a knife wound, and then we will know the culprit!"

Naturally, nobody in town was ever identified as the culprit; for there was no merry prankster involved in Gaston's adventure, nor even a woeful and injured one. Yet some distance away through the mists, through the woods, though the darkness and the shadows, a sullen and defeated beast returned to his accursed castle, teary eyed, with a hunting knife still embedded in his bloodied arm.

He collapsed on the floor of his antechamber and wailed loudly in anguish, till his servants arrived to attend him.

Of course they immediately pulled out the knife and dressed the young prince's terrible wound, fawning over him and murmuring soothing appeasements all the while. A nervous mantleclock blotted the prince's broken snout with a handkerchief whilst expressing his indignation at anyone would would so harshly use a boy of his age and rank. Occasionally the same handkerchief blotted at the prince's monstrous tears, which spilled wretchedly from great, blue eyes which were his last remaining human trait.

The prince was frightfully shaken by the whole affair, and moreover, critically wounded; though it was not his life that was endangered, but his self-esteem. While the knife wound would most probably heal in time, he was unsure whether he could ever recover from the horror inflicted upon him, which had actually made him feel wretched and inhuman.

"How could he refuse me?" moaned the heartbroken prince in genuine perplexity. "I did everything right. I paid complements, I read poetry…"

"There is no pleasing some people," answered a candelabra. "You offer them a great prince, and it is like giving fine perfume to a dog, who thinks it stinking and prefers to roll in the gutter."

"But wouldn't such unworthiness be apparent upon them?" asked the prince. "I thought that beauty came from within! That's what the Enchantress said!"

"Outer beauty is what's seen with the eyes," said a teapot, filled with hot water which made her nose steam. "Inner beauty is seen with the heart."

The prince growled in frustration. "That doesn't even make sense! First of all, why do we even speak in terms of beauty if the inner and the outer are plainly not the same thing? It's more ridiculous than calling a cow beef once it's been plated!" As a mute but dexterous coatrack bound his injured shoulder with bandages, the prince asked of his servants, "Tell me something, and tell me the truth. Am I greatly unattractive?"

The servants hesitated to reply.

"Certainly, monsieur," began the candelabra with some apparent reluctance, "the curse of the Enchantress was intended to disfigure you. But you must not be discouraged by that! It is bravery and confidence that attracts the love you desire!"

"Bravery and confidence?" asked the young prince, thinking back to what had happened. "I didn't lack for that. If that were true — then why did the hunter not return my affection? Why did he try to murder me?"

A large white wardrobe hobbled into the room and placed a fresh red cape over the prince's shoulders, using the corners of her doors as arms. "Sometimes, people are just funny like that," she said awkwardly, as if struggling to choose the right words. "But you mustn't let that discourage you. You can still win someone's love despite being a hideous monster — "

The other servants gasped at her statement, and she realized she had said something she had not meant to say.

The prince was stung. Though he was aware of his appearance, certainly, the servants had endeavored for all these years to persuade him that it was not so bad, that he was still handsome, that nobody would mind how he looked, that he was more than a beast, and that this would be immediately apparent to all people of any quality whatsoever.

Now, for the first time, the thirteen year old recognized that those had been empty appeasements, offered by servants to a needy young master.

He was ugly. Far from seeing his inner beauty, it was people of quality who would be the first to notice his disgusting form. He was not even the figure of an unattractive human, but of an animal; and thus could only receive, at best, as much affection as would a dog or a hamster.

The prince retired to his own room, which made up the West Wing of his castle. It was a nobleman's bedchamber — expensively and tastefully furnished, with every comfort and convenience for one of his time and place. Tall windows gazed out across stunning vistas, with gauzy red drapes hanging from the ceiling. A marble table, sculpted with Grecian nudes, displayed a bell jar with a shimmering rose inside. This flower was given by the Enchantress as a symbol of the curse she had laid. One day it would wilt and lose its petals; and when it did, the prince's fate would be sealed. If he had not found love by the fall of the finalmost petal, he would remain a beast forever.

And to a boy of thirteen, a mere month might as well be forever.

Outraged and disgusted, both at himself and at his situation, the prince began to smash the furnishings, tear the curtains, and shatter the mirrors in a blind madness. He was disfigured, disgusting, worthless — and living in a world where beauty meant nothing whatsoever. Soon the room was as ugly and shattered as himself.

Upon the wall hung a painting: a bust portrait of how he had looked before the transformation. Growling in despair, the young prince dragged his monstrous claws along the image, shredding the canvas to ribbons.

He was no longer a cute, handsome, young and lovely prince. He realized, moreover, that he might never be so again.

He sunk his hideous visage into his claws, and wept.

Adieu Amours, adieu gentil corsage,
Adieu ce tainct, adieu ces frians yeulx.
Je n'ay pas eu de vous grand advantage;
Un moins aymant aura peult estre mieulx.