CHAPTER 3: In which we get to know the Emperor, and our couple discover Paris and its denizens.
Napoleon Bonaparte was about the same size as Belle's father — but rather than a rotund little figure, he had the strong, lean body of a soldier, with a big, barrel-like chest that proudly displayed his countless medals and badges of office. His voice was a pleasant baritone. His bearing was that of a proud military man.
Napoleon owed the astonishing trajectory of his career to a single explosive incident. It had been shortly after the King and Queen were executed. A conflict had arisen with the royalists who wished to reinstate the monarchy and the Capetian line. These royalist troops, assisted by the British forces, had infiltrated the city of Paris to demonstrate their power. At the time of this event, the entire Directory government were clustered together in a single room for a convention. They were trapped like turkeys in a pen. The Directory's defenses were outnumbered. Their military was in disarray due to a sudden illness of their commander.
The royalists could have surrounded the building, taken the Directory captive, and seen the French monarchy reinstated — had it not been for the brave young General Bonaparte and his decisive action which gained him the nickname The Corsican Fiend.
Boldly seizing his opportunity, Bonaparte brought in cannons full of grapeshot — a terrible substance made to fire many small projectiles all at a blow from a single cannon, the equivalent of riddling an area with hundreds of bullets all at once. These cannons were fired at the numerically superior royalists. Grisly injuries thinned their numbers till they were brought to such a gruesome, bloody point that they could be readily overtaken by Bonaparte's much smaller force.
From there, Bonaparte had quickly been promoted. He went on to lead numerous successful military battles across Europe. He built up his power, winning battle after battle and fight after fight, until he shifted his attention from foreign wars to overthrowing the Directory by himself. They had needed him more than he needed them, and he was a shrewd man who seized every opportunity he could. He thus acquired a level of power and influence scarcely seen since Charlemagne or Alexander.
Naturally, his strategies did not gain him many friends, but Friends were overrated — what he had instead were four brothers: Joseph, Lucien, Luigi and Jerome. They could be trusted more than anyone. He had planted them all upon the thrones that he had conquered: Spain to Joseph, Holland to Luigi, Westphalia to Jerome, and to Lucien —the rebel of the family — had gone the principalities of Canino and Musignano.
Unfortunately, the Bonaparte winning streak had recently washed out. Europe was tired of Bonapartes. Too many years of war, too many dead young men all across the continent. Rebellions were shooting up all over, and Napoleon's family were the targets of it all. Already the brothers had been obliged to resign their royal positions and return to France, where they could be of better use. The hope was that, eventually, they could retake the territories and reinstate their monarchies.
Donning an ermine cape over his redingote, Napoleon sat on his throne, which was far too high off the ground for his notoriously short legs. A minister entered the Great Hall at his palace, intending to speak with him.
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the minister, bowing. "There is some unusual news to report."
"Speak," said Napoleon, his Corsican accent standing out even at the monosyllable. He was not native a native speaker of French, but of Italian; and his inability to shake the accent was a constant embarrassment to him.
"A letter was received at the Louvre in Paris, addressed to the director of the art gallery. It is requesting permission to show a painting, by one Louis-Charles Capet."
"A Capet?" asked Napoleon, his sharp mind comprehending the trouble. "Like the royal family, the Capets?"
"It is the name of the Dauphin," said the minister. "Or, if one were to strictly adhere to the rules — the death of the father makes him the current King."
Napoleon didn't like the sound of that.
"However," the minister continued, "this could be a false alarm. It sounds that this man is only portraying himself as an artist — perhaps he has simply adopted the name in order to gain more attention for his art. There have been no reports for the last ten years to suggest that the Dauphin is even alive."
"There is doubt about whether the Dauphin is alive or dead?" asked Napoleon, sizing up the situation.
"In the commotion of the Revolution, nobody thought it strange that there was never a body or a funeral," said the minister. "But the belief had been that the Dauphin was imprisoned in a distant castle, where he had died of starvation and neglect."
Napoleon contemplated the situation briefly. He was good at thinking on his feet, and right now there was not enough danger to merit the concern.
"Have the director at the Louvre agree to show the painting," he instructed. "When Capet arrives, we shall have a look at him and reassess."
The minister bowed, and went to fulfill the order.
…
Say what you would about the Prince, he had a fantastic eye. He stood vibrating with joy before his finished painting, his arm wrapped tightly around Belle. She could hear his heart thudding in excitement, making its own private dancebeat.
She stared at the artwork in astonishment. Even to her notoriously unconcerned-with-appearances eye, the piece was a feat. It was true she had doubted that this project would amount to anything worthwhile. An eighty foot painting made from powdered mummies, depicting something he couldn't seem to describe? It sounded like he had lost his mind. But now she understood what he was doing. She could see — he really did need mummy black and no other color, for any other shade would create a visible clash in the subtlety of the hues. The brushstrokes were large, befitting the size of the canvas; but they were purposefully placed, and radiated a deadly energy. The composition was perfection, lacking the careless flaws of inherent to so many other paintings of this type. He even knew to varnish the piece with beeswax instead of the usual gum and oil mixtures, to prevent glare on such a large canvas. And the overwhelming size — it really was a part of the piece. Beautiful was only one way to describe it. Awe-inspiring was another. Terrifying was another.
"It's the most amazing painting I've ever seen," Belle said honestly. Her pulse rose simply by looking at it. "Does it have a title?"
"The Head of Orpheus," the Prince answered.
Belle squinted, trying to see if there was a head particularly in the painting. "Orpheus like in Orpheus and Eurydice?"
"Yes," said the Prince. "But not the one with the happy ending."
Belle didn't know a version with a happy ending; every variant she had read ended with Orpheus and Eurydice separated at the underworld. Looking at the painting, she thought she could see why that would be the name; there was some air about it of loss and separation and sadness, perhaps even shades of romance.
"Cogsworth received the reply from the Louvre," said the Prince. At the time, the Louvre was the only art gallery in Paris. "They are willing to show it. I'll have to disassemble it to transport it."
Belle had been informed of the plan when it was first crafted. "This really means we're going to Paris?" she asked.
The Prince was excited. "To Paris — you and me!" In joy, he lifted her in his muscular arms and swung her.
Gradually the painting was disassembled for transport, the enormous canvas carefully folded to avoid creases. Arrangements were made for carrying it and its massive frame by wagon. Monsieur and Madame Capet would be riding in their own coach to the city.
While Mrs. Potts would hold the fort, Cogsworth was to come along to Paris. He had been struggling to restaff the castle by the usual means — typically, a steward in his position would inquire with other large households for recommendations. But he had been out of the loop for some time, and indeed the Revolution had destroyed most of the households to which he had connections. In the city, he would surely find better luck locating new hirees. The master also needed someone to handle the cashbox, and make such arrangements as would usually fall to a valet — but poor Cogsworth was pulling multiple duties for the time being.
The coachman was named Cochet. He had been trapped in the form of the coach itself for the past ten years, and as it was not a piece of indoor furniture, he had rarely associated with anyone. He hadn't talked in so long that he didn't even remember how to. Nevertheless, he was now as pleased as punch at a karate match to be back at the job he'd always wanted, taking the master on an exciting trip, far from that horrific castle where everyone had known so much pain.
Belle, for her part, felt quite differently about the situation. The happiest days she'd ever known were in that castle, which, to her, seemed such a tranquil and cheerful place — doubly so since the transformation. She had vaguely expected, when she married her Prince Beast, that they were going to remain contently in the castle together for the rest of their lives. She had looked forward to their enjoying one another in the quiet pleasures of the residence. Yet, it seemed that her husband had other plans. When he had first proposed the idea of going to Paris, she had stated her reservations — but they seemed trivial, especially when she began to recognize that her poor husband really had never been away from the castle and its surrounding woods in his entire adult life. He had never even talked to anyone else but her and her father, apart from his servants and the infamous Enchantress. The Prince was so anxious to see the world — and for the world to see his painting. Consequently, she gave in for his sake; and so, here they were, together in a coach being carried away to the capital city, Cogsworth and Cochet seated on the driver's perch outside.
It was a few days trip along bad roads, with stays overnight at quiet inns. They reached the city in the evening, and took up in the nicest of the Parisian coaching inns. The recent Revolution had devastated the city's fine hotels, there being too few wealthy citizens remaining to support such establishments. And the wealthy citizens that hadn't fled or been executed… they had adopted some unusual habits.
The accommodation at the coaching inn amounted to a four-room suite, with a sitting room, a fine bedroom for the master and his wife, and two much smaller rooms for the servants. Some porters attached to the inn assisted in bringing up the luggage, including a sweaty set who hauled up Belle's ridiculously heavy chest of books that she wanted to read on the trip. Cogsworth tipped the men for their service with funds from the trusty lockbox in his charge.
The very next day the Prince was at the Louvre making arrangements with the gallery director. His new wife remained faithfully on his arm all the while, bored by the conversation yet fascinated by the character her husband had taken on. He was bold, capable, vibrant and brimming with enthusiasm. She remembered him as the Beast, gulping in fear as he tried to dance with her, embarrassing himself as he struggled to eat with a spoon, roaring out tantrums when he didn't get his way. But then, she could remember the hints that he was capable of more — the night he saved her from wolves, the way he adopted manners of chivalry in so short a while just to impress her, the way he learned to dance (digitigrade!) in only a few days. She had married an impressive man, no doubt about it.
The Head of Orpheus was to be displayed in the only gallery large enough to hold it. It was intended for only a temporary exhibition — for in Paris, the tastes changed fast: one day the people would be obsessed with fine works of art, the next it would be with wearing no pants. You had to be able to keep up.
After talking with the director, everything was arranged for the workmen to set up the piece. Monsieur and Madame Capet would be back in a week when the piece was ready for exhibition. The couple was so involved with this business that they did not observe the well-dressed man with the spyglass who observed them from a neighboring gallery. When the couple left, the dark-haired gentleman remained for a few minutes more, pretending to examine some of the fine architecture in the building, till at last he was sure he could make his exit unnoticed.
With nothing else to do for several days, it was natural for the newlywed couple to go out sightseeing in the city. When they passed the Tuileries, it jogged a memory — the Prince could vaguely remember his childhood there. But he did not remember much beyond those strange, haunting memories of childhood that interest no one but the person to whom they occurred, absent of context and meaning.
"Is something wrong?" asked Belle, noticing his sudden melancholy shift.
The Prince shook his head, and they resumed their walk.
After some more hours idly walking about, the day faded into golds and purples. The couple became hungry. They returned to their inn and asked Cogsworth what was to be done about dinner.
"I can purchase a simple meal, to be eaten here in the sitting room, if you like," said Cogsworth, "or, for a finer experience, I might advise the restaurants."
Neither Belle nor the Prince had ever been to one of those things. Cogsworth had to walk them through the concept: they would go in, waiters would attend them just like the servants at the castle did. They'd be offered a choice of dishes instead of simply being presented with whatever the chef had made. When finished, they would leave Cogsworth's contact information and the bill would be sent to him. Even the inexperienced Prince could comprehend this. Belle and the Prince dressed for dinner, then had Cochet take them to a suitable restaurant. The coachman referred to an unbound City Guide in his possession and drove to the best sounding place in the list.
The restaurant he brought them to was called the Silver Tower. The Prince and his wife entered together, hand in hand as usual. They were at first puzzled as to just what they were supposed to do. No one was in the front room. The Prince peeked behind the lectern, looked through the doorway, checked under the rug. In a moment a friendly maitre d'hotel came swooping out to greet them.
There was a moment of electricity as everyone recognized one another. The maitre d' was Lumiere! Even with his nose busted after the wedding fist-fight with Cogsworth, his face was unmistakable. Any propriety was forgotten as they all began to embrace and bise in their excitement, calling out each other's names.
"Lumiere! What on earth are you doing here?" cried the Prince cheerfully.
"Quite the same as you, monsieur!" answered the exuberant maitre d'. "I've gotten married, and I have come to Paris to make a new life for myself, far away from that dreadful castle!"
The Prince and Lumiere were still all smiles, though Belle thought it was strange that Lumiere would express a negative opinion of the castle. He had always seemed so happy and upbeat there.
Lumiere told how he and Babette were living it up in Paris. Babette was trying to become an actress. "She is playing Fanchette in a production of The Marriage of Figaro," he said. "She's wonderful! The critic for the paper described her as 'astounding' and 'unbelievable' and particularly commended her ability to stand still and say nothing at all. You must go to see her perform. She plays every night, with a matinée on Sunday. And you, my old master — oh, I have been hearing your name quite a bit!"
"For the painting?" he asked, flattered.
"They say it is the most novel thing the Louvre has ever agreed to show."
"I'm certain no one else has seen anything like it," he answered proudly.
"And how is the young lady — or should I say, how is Madame?" said Lumiere, smiling like an ocean and embracing her like high tide.
Belle hugged Lumiere back. "I'm wonderful, Lumiere! Everything has been so exciting!" she answered.
"I can see it," said Lumiere. "The pair of you together — you positively radiate! How long have you been in Paris?"
"Since yesterday," said the Prince.
"Well! Then you still have plenty to see and learn about this place. It is perhaps not what it used to be, before the Revolution. Things have become a little…" He smiled forcefully, trying to think of a positive word for it. "…Morbid…" was what he settled upon. "But, it is still the finest city in all of France."
At length, Lumiere had them seated at a table with a white cloth and a dozen different knives and forks. To be sure, with him as the maitre d' the experience was unforgettable. Despite several other tables being waited upon, the couple never had to linger long in want of another glass of wine or a fresh napkin or more sauce. It was just like dining at home — at the castle. Indeed, the couple enjoyed themselves so much they simply took to eating at the Silver Tower every night for the next week.
The only thing that stopped them on the eighth night was the unveiling of the Head of Orpheus.
…