Who could have imagined thirty years would pass this way? The Prince was literally a different person when they'd met. Arguably not a person at all — a monstrous Beast. He had kidnapped and imprisoned Belle's father, for whom she had traded her own freedom. She was his prisoner, forced to dwell in his castle, all while he conspired to compel her to love him. Who could have figured that would be the start of a happy marriage?
Yet it was so. The middle-aged Prince and Princess had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary, in the very same overdecorated castle where they first had met. The massive, artful rooms were like gilded lillies, festively garnished with orange blossoms and leaves in honor of the marriage. The decorations were pearl and mother-of-pearl in honor of the anniversary. The couple wore matched outfits of off-white silks, custom made for their figures which were both a little more rotund than when they first had met.
At fifty-one years, the Prince, though a genuine Prince, sat eighth in line to the throne. No expectations were held that he would ever take over the country. It was just as well — the whole turning into a Beast business would have been dreadfully embarrassing had it happened to anyone higher up in the hierarchy. Even he tried not to mention it around people who hadn't seen it with their own two eyes. Whenever someone asked about the ten years that he spent holed up alone in his castle, he usually just muttered something about a long illness and let his audience imagine whatever details they would. These days he was rarely even asked for that much. After his marriage, he went on and lived the life expected for a hereditary aristocrat of his ilk. He attended ribbon cutting ceremonies or gave patronage to some new library or orphanage or encyclopedia. He traveled. He partied respectably, or bestowed a disreputable party with an air of sophistication by being present. It was a leisurely life, with few direct responsibilities. It offered plenty of time for his family matters, which were really all his pride and joy.
The friends and relatives he had gained during those thirty years had all turned out for the anniversary party. The couple had seven daughters, all arguably more beautiful than Belle had been at her peak. Five of the girls were already married or engaged to be, and their husbands and fiancés clung attentively to their arms all through the night. The proud parents looked on joyously.
Indeed, the marriage of the Prince and Princess was by all accounts a ball-bouncing success.
Yet there was one thing that troubled the Princess, and which had bothered her for many years.
Belle, the Princess. Rumors persisted to this day that she practiced witchcraft and had won the Prince's affections with some kind of spell. Villagers told wild stories about how she had enchanted the castle so that the furniture moved on its own. Still, Belle did not fret herself with the villagers. When she had to socialize, it was always with other aristocrats — and though she never fully ceased to be an oddball amongst them, it didn't matter. It wasn't as if she should, would or could ever lose her title or position, regardless what the others felt about her. She could do whatever she pleased, and she never had to trouble herself with household chores or financial worries. It wasn't exactly the life of adventure she had imagined in her youth, but it was a life of enjoyment and relative freedom. Motherhood had been demanding, but with the help of servants to handle babysitting and messy diapers, she had found it easier than many women in her position. She loved her daughters notwithstanding, and their little family was famous for the charming impression the sight of so many lovely ladies made when out and about.
As the final anniversary ball guests pried themselves from the castle doors around dawn, Belle stood by herself and looked at the big, showy stained glass window which commemorated her wedding to the Prince. Sunlight sparkled through its colorful panes. It made her smile.
The Prince crept up behind her and bestowed a loving embrace. He was stouter than the youth shown in the glass; his vividly colored hair, cropped short and fluffed to the new fashion, betrayed streaks of white. Belle's own halo was looking pretty salt and pepper — the vivid brunette in the window looked a bit wrong to her eye's training, like it couldn't really be a correct image of herself.
She took a deep breath. A sense of yearning filled her. She touched her husband's large, dry hand.
"Something wrong?" asked the Prince, perceiving an air of melancholy about her, despite the joyous party that had just concluded.
"I was only thinking…" said Belle. "Maybe we ought to have some plaques put on these windows, describing the events and the names of everybody…"
The Prince made an acknowledging noise. He thought it odd she was on this subject again, for she seemed to bring it up at least once every year and it was each time concluded to be needless. "What would be the use of it?" he asked, wondering if there were a better reason than her past proposals.
"Well, you and I won't be around forever. People might not know who the people in the images are," she said.
"I doubt anyone will care. Most people suppose it's just an imaginary story," said the Prince.
Belle sighed sadly.
The Prince frowned, troubled by her unhappiness. "Well… if it's that important, we could have it done. You want labels up, saying 'Mrs. Potts' and 'Lumiere' and all that?"
"Oh yes," said Belle, brightening. "And of course, labels for us…"
"'The Prince' and 'The Princess' then?"
Her face fell once more.
The Prince was all the more confused. "Now what's wrong?"
Belle twiddled her fingers nervously. There was a subject she had been avoiding for so long, but now seemed it might be inevitable to face…
"I'm hoping you won't hate me for this…" she began. Thirty years was a long time to keep a secret.
The Prince smiled, amused. "Inconceivable. What's the matter?"
She took a deep breath. Thirty years. Surely their marriage could withstand anything, with so much time behind it? She drew close to him and encircled him with her arms.
He looked at her eagerly, the crow's feet around his blue eyes tightening in expectation of her revelation.
"…Yes?" he said, trying to urge her.
"…The fact is…" she finally blurted, "I have no idea what your name is."
The Prince laughed. Surely she was kidding! She had addressed him by his name so many times…
Or… actually…
Now that he thought about it…
His eyes widened in surprise.
"You really don't know what my name is? After all this time?" he cried.
Belle shook her head, embarrassed. "I mean, when we got married, it all happened so quickly — you transformed into a human, and a few hours later we were married. By the time it really crossed my mind, I felt stupid to ask something like that."
The Prince released Belle and began to pace in a circle around her, losing himself deep in recollections. The hurried marriage while they were both lost in the dwaal of their newfound love, and the jangled nerves from the previous day's events… they had merely signed their names onto a contract before witnesses, not bothered with a formal ceremony where names were declared. And afterwards… my love, dearest, sweetheart, and other such terms of endearment were what he had answered to. Everyone else just addressed him by his title. "You really never knew my name?" he said, aghast.
"I had hoped when the children were born I might be able to name one after you, and find out; but they were all girls, so…"
Yes. Seven children, all girls. Not that he would have allowed anyone else to share his name.
"Clotaire," he said abruptly.
"What?" said Belle, startled.
"My name," he said. "Clotaire."
Belle wrinkled her nose. "That's your name?"
"Well, I figured that's why you never used it! Who wants a name like Clotaire?"
"What… kind of a name is it?" asked Belle, trying to seem more interested than disturbed by the discovery.
"Some old king. One of the sons of Clovis, I think."
Belle began repeating it to herself over and over.
The Prince was the one cringing now, hearing the ugly combination of sounds in chant. "Ugh! Promise you won't actually call me that!" he said, his heavy brow wrinkling in disgust.
"But I'm starting to like it," said Belle. "Clothilde is a great name."
"Clotaire."
"Oh." Belle's head sank in shame. Already she had forgotten it.
The middle-aged Prince relented. He smiled and put his arm around his beloved wife. "It doesn't matter. What difference did it make for the last thirty years, really?"
Belle's heart was racing, but her nerves were beginning to settle. It was done. She had received her answer at so long last. "Yes. What does it matter?" She put her hand to his cheek, intimately. "I loved you when you were a Beast. Whatever you are, I love you still."
The couple leaned in for a kiss. It lasted a while, but was broken when the Prince began to giggle in the midst of it.
Belle pulled back. "What is it?" she asked, unable to help but smile in turn.
The Prince was fighting not to laugh aloud. A certain mischief glimmered in his eyes. "I just was thinking — not even knowing my name, it's kind of hot that you went to bed with me so many times."
Belle playfully struck him with the back of her hand.
"Like I'm some mysterious stranger who creeps into your room each night…" he murmured, clutching her closer to him.
Nevertheless, bed was the place for them to go after their long evening of festivities. The Prince kept his arm around his wife of thirty years, and led her to the West Wing for their daylight rest.
END.