CHAPTER 5: In which the Prince gets a haircut, and some visitors.

Cogsworth tiptoed about the daylit rooms, trying not to disturb the slumbering master and mistress; but he still had work to do. His efforts to fill out the master's household staff were ongoing, and urgent. He — he — was having to empty chamberpots like he was some housemaid! This could not go on! He was a respectable steward of a great family, and he needed to get them staffed again to show that it was indeed a great house.

Mid-day there was a knock at the door. Cogsworth answered and saw a man of about thirty years, swift in his movement, wearing a grey redingote. His looks were sinister; nevertheless, the man was friendly and polite.

"Good day, sir," said the man, speaking in a distinctive foreign accent. "Are you the one who is searching for staff for a Monsieur Capet?"

Cogsworth begged him to keep his voice down. "But yes, that is I."

"Excellent," said the man.

"Are you looking for a position?"

"Well, it's not for myself," he replied. Indeed, the man didn't quite look like a member of the serving class. "You see, I have a cook who has been with my family for ages. We love her to death; she is practically family. Her son is just the right age to find a position for himself. But, he is young, he has no actual experience, though he's as smart as a whip. I want to give him a leg-up and recommend him. I'm sure he would be suitable for any position."

"Is he with you now?" asked Cogsworth.

"No, but that's what I wanted to check. What would be a convenient time for him to come and talk with you?"

"Well, admittedly not at the moment," said Cogsworth, eyeing the bedroom door. "The master was out very late last night, and I believe he intends the same tonight. The best hours would be in the evening, after six or seven, when he'll be away."

"It sounds perfect," said the man.

"And what is your name?"

"I am Luciano Buonaparte," said the man, tipping his hat. "The young man is named Philippe. I'll pass along the word to him. We'll get back to you in a few days."

Cogsworth confirmed he looked forward to it, and the men bade each other good day.

…

The Beauty, the Beast and the rest of the aristocrats dined out at yet another restaurant, lingering at the table for hours in the French custom, with lots of coffees and liqueurs to occupy them. Belle already felt ragged, simply from so much socializing. That was not a habit she'd ever acquired. Her husband, however, seemed to thrive on the interaction. One could see in his face how he vibrated with joy amongst the wildly noble company.

The fact was, the Prince was an extrovert by nature, and had only lived in solitude out of necessity rather than choice. This was contrary to his pretty young wife who had always been something of a loner. The decadent nightlife of Paris caused the Prince to thrive in a way he had never experienced before. Moreover — and this was something of a surprise to Belle — he was popular. The chivalry and good manners he'd learned for his wife's sake made him amiable and easy for most people to get along with; and his naturally underlying arrogance made him more intriguing of a character than were he simply a nice guy.

The nightly tête-à-tête dinners of Belle and the Prince were replaced with a nightly-into-the-dawn ball or private party. They never returned to the inn before sunup. After a week of this, Belle was starting to feel like fun wasn't very much fun anymore.

Following dinner one night, the Capets and the aristocrats all went together to Gutslasher's home in the fashionable Chaussée d'Antin for more entertainment. The residence was a fine new building, and decorated far more tastefully than one might expect from a person named Gutslasher. In fact, he was a great Comte, and the home was filled with family heirlooms that had escaped the looting and destruction of the recent Revolution. In his parlor, a fragrant smoking mixture was burnt, and liquor distributed freely to his guests by his team of valets who had so many face-piercings that you initially thought they wore masks.

In between chatter about trivial and pleasant subjects was conversation concerning the theory and practice of escapology. Murderella presented her idea of avoiding strangulation by turning one's head; Mantua Gargantua suggested a technique for escaping from shackles.

"Carry dog's eyes to avoid wolf attacks," added the Beast with a smile. "I knew a woman who swore by it."

"Take out the Pream's glass eye, see what that wards off," joked Gutslasher.

"The marrying type," suggested Pream in answer, provoking a laugh.

Belle was getting accustomed to the ways of the aristocrats. She didn't exactly dislike them, but she didn't seem to feel the same connection with them that her husband did. It was only for his sake that she tolerated them.

The chat resumed with knife show-and-tell: Gutslasher had some hidden in his sleeves, Pream had one in his boot, Gargantua's stiletto heels were literally such. Growing weary with the belliferous course of the conversation, Belle rose from her husband's grip and moved against the wall to the Comte's pianoforte, on which she casually began to play a tune. Doing so, she noticed that her silver wedding ring needed to be polished.

Over the enjoyable melody, the conversation and drinking went on. Beast, braced by his newfound reputation as one who could drink others under the table, seemed determined to discover the threshold of this ability. After a while he'd had more than a pint and a half of brandy by himself.

That's when talk of the haircut began.

"What's — what's, um, the hairstyle you have?" he asked of Murderella, though he could have asked any of the aristocrats for they all wore their hair the same.

"À la victime," said Murderella. "We all have à la victime. To commemorate those who fell under the guillotine, and the tragedy brought on by their deaths with the fall of the ancien régime."

"IT SUITS ALL," said Humongous. "IT'S THE SAME CUT THE EXECUTIONER GIVES BEFORE SEVERING ONE'S HEAD, TO MAKE SURE THE BLADE WON'T BE PUT OFF COURSE BY A LONGER STYLE."

The Beast tried to envision in his choppy, alcohol-diminished thoughts what he would look like with the hairstyle. "I must get one!" he announced. "Yes. I have to get one."

"If you want your hair cut, why, I can get a pair of scissors and do it now," said Murderella. It should be noted that everyone had been drinking down some hard beverages for a while, and nobody was in condition to legally sign a contract.

Belle heard what they were saying and stopped playing, turning to look at her husband. She had loved his mane of strawberry blond locks. Was he really about to cut it?

"Very well," said the Beast. He looked to Murderella. "Let's cut it."

Gutslasher called for some scissors to be brought, under the term cross-knives. Whatever had happened to him during the Terror, the Comte couldn't seem to handle words with more than one syllable anymore.

The Beast removed his coat, preparing for the sacrifice.

Belle contemplated interfering — but it was his hair, he had every right to style it how he liked. She turned again to the pianoforte, preferring not to watch. She could hear it all going on behind her: the anxious hoots and squeals of the aristocrats, the crunch of the scissors over hair, the hands dusting debris from the shoulders.

With a sigh, she twisted round to look at what had been wrought. She was very surprised at what she saw. The tousled and somewhat agitated mop à la victime suited his personality far better than the neat and tidy queue — at least, it suited whatever personality he was depicting this week. It actually looked good on him.

Belle's smile dropped when the aristocrats immediately began encouraging her to join the club and crop her hair as well.

"It's so amazing!" said Beast, trying to entice her. He kept flipping his head about, relishing the newfound lightness.

Both Mantua Gargantua and the Marquise Murderella wore the style, but Belle's tastes were a little more old fashioned. She politely declined, and after a minute or two of pestering, the nobles relented in their insistence.

Drunken barbery might have been a warning to Belle that it was time to get her husband home. Nevertheless, he wanted to stay.

"You're just not understanding," he drunkenly objected. "You'd have more fun, otherwise."

Belle gave in and let him remain with his friends, till an hour later he was incapable of standing up on his own. Now it was definitely time to get him home.

Belle's thoughts were bombarded by memories of hauling up the massive beast after he was attacked by wolves, as she labored to get her husband onto his feet. Strong-armed Murderella, seeing the struggle, stood up. "I can help," she said, spitting into her hands and rubbing them together.

The two women were obliged to carry him out, practically unconscious, though occasionally still mumbling a nonsensical protest. Belle's patience was exhausted, and she was angry.

"I hope I won't need to do this ever again," she remarked, panting for breath and very humiliated.

Murderella tried to reassure her. "Oh, don't be sad. This is very good practice should you ever have to kidnap someone," she said.

Thus the two women wrangled the intoxicated Prince into his coach.

Once arrived back at the inn, Cochet assisted his mistress in wrestling the master upstairs and into the front room. Cogsworth — long gone to bed — had left an oil lamp burning to greet them on their return. Belle assured Cochet that she could handle the rest by herself, and Cochet bowed a hasty goodnight and hurried himself to bed, exhausted by these long hours he was suddenly keeping.

Belle, overtired, tried to guide the Prince towards the bedroom, but it was no use. She settled instead for dropping him into a chair in the sitting room; and, in exhaustion, she took the seat beside him. Just intending to catch her breath and maybe rest her eyes for a moment, she soon fell asleep in the chair, leaning against her husband in the lamplight, thoughts unable to navigate the short trip into the adjoining bedroom where there awaited them a nice soft bed, with an assassin hiding underneath.

Lucien's plan had really been pretty sound. The guns of the day held but one bullet, which needed to be reloaded after each firing. In order to conserve ammunition, his scheme was to wait till his target couple had gone to bed. Thence, he would simply pick off the Prince while he was asleep — no struggles, no commotion, no wasted bullets. To gain access to the room, he had hired some teenager to feign interest in a serving job, keeping Cogsworth busy with an interview. While the steward was thus occupied, Lucien had broken the lock on the couple's bedroom window so that he could gain access. Lucien and the teen left, and when the Bonaparte saw the chance, he hurriedly climbed the wall and crept through the unlocked window, then concealed himself beneath the couple's bed. The trouble was that now, the couple didn't seem to be coming to bed.

The would-be assassin waited, listening to the silence of the rooms. He had heard the Prince and Princess enter; they were definitely in the suite. He concluded they must be in the sitting room, and by the lack of conversation or other noise it appeared they were taking some rest. He decided to emerge from under the bed, revising his plan so that he would now pick off the Prince as he slept in the sitting room instead of the bedroom.

Seated in her chair, Belle — sleepy but sober — could hear someone moving about. She assumed at first that it was Cogsworth or Cochet, but the steps didn't sound quite right. She lifted her head groggily, puzzled at the noise. Her movement stirred her husband.

Belle glanced toward the bedroom door. The lamplight illuminated a figure that was not supposed to be there. She yelped in alarm.

Lucien had been observed. He had two pistols, one on each hip. Two chances. He drew.

The Prince had not yet perceived the cause of Belle's alarm, but comprehending something had startled her, he intended to leap to his feet. Drunkenly, he failed at this and instead staggered forward into a fall. This saved him from the sharp side of a flintlock's distinctive whoosh-BANG, as the bullet hit where he would have been had he been able to stand, rather than where he ended up.

Six and a half feet of muscle hit the floorboards with a great thud. Lucien searched the dim light for any clues to whether he had hit his mark or not. Belle was terrified beyond the ability to speak or scream.

Lucien, now thinking it was better to play safe than sorry, dropped his empty pistol and drew up the second, stepping toward the floored male figure, harboring every intention to shoot again.

A hundred thoughts waltzed through Belle's mind. She wanted to escape, she wanted to defend herself, she wanted to defend her husband, she wanted him to escape with her. In the midst of it all danced the recollection of the night when her Beast — still truly a beast — had fallen dead on the wet marble castle balcony as she lovingly cradled him. She could not endure that a second time! Bravely, Belle threw herself over her husband as a shield.

The Prince, meanwhile, tried to piece together what was even happening. There seemed to be an intruder. Who seemed to have just shot at him. Belle seemed to be acting as a human shield —

"What the devil, Belle!" he cried, trying to throw her off of him. He was the one who should be shielding her! This meant-action sent the pair tumbling across the floor of the room like a tangle of fighting cats.

Lucien struggled to aim his weapon. He had zero interest in killing Belle, only the Prince was his target; and the man's drunkenness was proving an advantage, as it rendered his movements quite incomprehensible.

The Prince finally detached himself from his wife and leapt to a standing position with all the grace of a three-legged octopus. He was confident that Lucien was a threat who needed to be destroyed, and he wasted no time before springing to attack this man.

Lucien let loose another woosh-BANG. The Prince staggered backward, crying out in pain. Lucien felt relieved at the certainty he'd hit his target — but in an instant the Prince was still coming at him. Evidently, he hadn't shot him fatally. Bad. Lucien reached into his redingote pocket and produced a jack-knife he would have to use to finish this job.

Belle watched this dim-lit scene from the floor. Scrambling, with legs entangled in her skirts, she dove forward and seized her husband by his knees. This pulled him to the ground. Meanwhile, Lucien's blade was left slashing the air where the Prince would have been.

Cogsworth and Cochet had been awakened by the commotion, and they now hurried out of their rooms. They could see there was trouble, and without having to think, they hurried to the front door so they could fetch help.

"Belle! Just get out!" cried the Prince, confounded by her behavior as he tried to roll and shake her off of him.

Lucien leapt on the both of them before she answered. In the dim light, his knife blade glimmered.

The Prince struck out, meaning to grab Lucien by the wrist — but missing his mark and instead clumsily swatting the blade from the man's hand.

At this point Cogsworth and Cochet burst into the hallway of the inn. A man in a redingote was running towards them, holding a pistol in each of his hands.

"I heard the shots — I'll try to help!" cried the stranger. "You two, hurry to the guard house at the end of the street!"

The two servants were relieved that some help was already on the way, and they hurried to follow their instructions to fetch the guards. Thus they allowed Luigi Bonaparte into the suite unobstructed.

Lucien and the Prince were struggling on the floor, each trying to seize the dropped knife that lay beside them. The Prince should have had it already, but he was too trashed to capably pick it up. Belle was helplessly entangled with them; Lucien was sitting on her skirt and she couldn't get up if she wanted.

Luigi burst into the room and quickly surveyed the scene.

"Three minutes," he said, addressing Lucien with that Corsican singsong. He then forcefully stormed towards the fray, guns ready to shoot.

The Prince, being the largest of the entangled trio, desperately swung his body, throwing off both Belle and Lucien with some considerable effort. Lucien was hurled in the direction of his partner in crime, falling close to his feet. He recovered himself swiftly, adrenaline rushing, his movements catlike as always.

Luigi, without a word, tossed one of his pistols to Lucien. Lucien caught it, and the two assassins took aim at the Prince who lay solo and unguarded on the floor. Both men intended a shot straight through the à la victime.

Belle scrambled into the way, shrieking the word "No!" as she sought to throw herself across the Prince once again.

The Prince was just horrified. "Belle! Stop!" he yelled, attempting to push her away.

"Please!" pleaded Belle to the gunmen, her nails digging into her husband's shirt. "Take whatever it is you want and go!"

The two assassins hesitated, recalculating their plan.

"I'll knock off the girl, you get Blondie?" said Lucien quietly.

Luigi made a noise of approval.

The Prince, frightened and filled with adrenaline, had heard the words. There wasn't time to hesitate. He pushed Belle off himself hard enough to hurt her, and scrambled for the glass oil lamp which gave the room its only light. With a frantic gesture he snatched it, scalding his hand but not sensing this in the moment's chaos. He threw it at the assassins, the object shattering at their feet in a burst of greasy flames.

The assassins jumped back to avoid the fire, losing their aim. Lucien's gun misfired in the confusion.

Belle saw the floor splinter a few inches in front of her face. This represented the end of Lucien's ammunition.

The Prince made a dive for his wife and snatched her, awkwardly, by her clothing. In a clumsy, drunken gesture that didn't look like it could have possibly been what he'd intended, he hauled her across the floor to the safety of Cogsworth's room.

Luigi tried to focus his aim on the Prince once again, but he didn't perceive the potential for a good shot. He let out a curse.

"Let's go — before the servants return," said Luigi.

Luigi and Lucien beat a fast retreat. Only the flames and bullet holes marked that they had ever been in the room at all.

…