CHAPTER 8: In which Napoleon must find an Achilles heel
Murderella's notoriously strong arms first swooped up her injured coachman and carried him to the safety and ministrations of her guardsmen.
Then the petrified Beauty — frozen with shock, eyes dripping with tears — was wordlessly hauled through the front gate, to the safety of the mansion.
Inside the salon, Belle remained motionless and seemingly insensible. One did not need to ask how she was doing: it could be plainly seen on her face. The horrifying memory played over and over in her head: one instant they were leaping from the carriage into the surrounding fury of smoke, and the next, his arm was gone from her shoulder and there was simply nothing more of him. Not even a dying farewell like they'd had on the balcony; just whoosh-BANG and he was gone. Forever.
On the balcony she'd only mourned the lost potential. Now she was mourning something tangible that had been taken from her. Something that had renamed her Madame Capet.
She looked down at her hands. Her wedding ring was tarnished solid black. Tears began to fall quietly onto her clothing.
Murderella tried to figure out what she could say to comfort the new widow, but nothing appropriate came to her. Then she remembered there were others who needed to be informed of what happened. She called for her pageboy, whom she entrusted to tell Cogsworth and Cochet of the recent misfortune.
…
Cogsworth had believed his master the Prince to be dead once before, in the incident on the balcony. On that occasion, it had been a sad event, but in a way it almost seemed like it was for the best: the Prince had been so miserable for all those years as a beast, and it appeared at that moment that Belle did not love him enough to make him human again. The Enchantress's timetable to resolve the problem had expired. The Prince was finally out of his misery, and perhaps could receive some peace at last. Under that circumstance, Cogsworth had really felt more pity for himself, since it had appeared he was never going to return to human form, nor would any of the other servants. The unexpected and miraculous last-second revelation of Belle's love for the master had saved the day, and turned it all into a joy and a triumph.
This time, it felt like much more of a tragedy. The Prince was no longer a tortured, melancholy monster but a vibrant and thriving young man, who seemed to have everything going well in his life for once. He had a beautiful new wife, was becoming a respected painter, and was a friend to many prominent aristocrats. It seemed so unfair that his life would end at this point, when it had only just begun for him.
The steward also thought about his employment. He was certainly no longer the master's servant — but there was now his mistress to serve. Feeling obliged to offer condolences and also knowing true concern for Belle's condition, Cogsworth searched through the mansion to look for her.
He found his mistress in the salon, in the company of Murderella. One could see she was in poor condition, probably too poorly to talk to. Murderella waved a gold bottle of smelling salts before her nose, to no effect. Puzzled, the Marquise tried waving one of her pistols before her, to a like result. The steward approached Murderella and sought her advice as to whether there was anything he could do.
There was nothing.
About two hours after the ambush had taken place, Murderella's butler ran in to announce that the Vicomte d'Anjou wished to speak with her. She approved his entry without hesitation. A minute later the Vicomte d'Anjou, or better known as Pream, came in, his silver walking stick clanging on the marble floors, the fringe and feathers on his Hessian boots flailing with his steps.
"The town's abuzz," he said anxiously. "They say something happened outside your gate."
"An ambush," answered the Marquise flatly, with the same level of irritation some might use when speaking of a canceled appointment. "They killed Beast, shot my coachman, stole my carriage. My corset took a bullet."
"To the carriage, it was abandoned a half mile from here. Gutslasher is seeing about its return."
"That's good to know," said the Marquise. "Is Beast still inside of it?"
"I'd not know. Nothing was said to me about that," answered Pream. He made no visible reaction to the news of his friend's death, though he was not unaffected by it.
"This has to be the work of the Corsican Fiend," said Murderella. "We have never thought of a more likely explanation."
"I do suppose," said Pream, "that with the Coalition about to invade, he didn't need any more problems here in Paris." He glanced away from Murderella and perceived Belle on the sofa. She looked like the soul had been taken out of her with a laundry-wringer. "Poor girl," he sighed, sadly.
…
The war room was white marble with colored grottescos. Emperor Napoleon stood before a gilded table, on which a large map of the Île-de-France region was laid out. Some little wooden blocks, in different colors, were arranged over the paper to represent invading forces. It showed that the British were coming in from the south, represented by blue blocks. Austria was set to attack from the east, represented by red blocks. Prussia was at the north, in green blocks.
Advising him were Joseph and Jerome in their military uniforms and grey coats, along with two ministers, and a handful of favorite nouveau noblemen. He was picking his own aristocracy to replace the ancien régime.
Suddenly the door to the war room burst open. In came Lucien and Luigi, panting, dripping with sweat, carrying between them a bound-up six and a half feet of pissed off.
"Ehi! Napoleon!" cried Lucien, in lieu of announcing himself.
The Prince was fully conscious and fully capable once again, and he was not gracefully submitting to his situation. The two brothers had struggled to get him into the room, despite that he was securely restrained and gagged. He thrashed so violently that the captors didn't dare set him down.
Napoleon observed the scene. "What is this?" he asked testily, his two brothers receiving a tolerance for interrupting beyond what he'd allow anyone else.
"The Capetian," said Luigi, straining to hold the said victim.
"I told you to kill him," said Napoleon.
"Lend me another gun and I'll shoot him right now," said Lucien, his accent somehow implying a sarcasm that he had not intended.
Napoleon reached for his own gun without hesitation. Lucien released his side of the Prince to take it.
The Prince, now with fifty percent more freedom, kicked his bound legs at Lucien and tripped him. Lucien fell to the ground, cursing. Still, he knew he had the advantage and tried not to let it get to him.
"The gun?" asked Lucien of his brother. Behind him the Prince was thrashing his bound legs like a live fish dropped on a dock.
Napoleon put the weapon into Lucien's hand. The Prince's heart dropped in dismay as he immediately observed it pointed at his face, then heard the too familiar woosh-BANG before finding himself once again in some other world where that immense and terrifying vision lived.
Lucien handed the gun back to Napoleon. "Now keep your eye on him," he said. "Give him about a minute."
The bullet to the face at close range didn't leave the Prince in a condition anyone was eager to look at. Yet a minute later he somehow didn't seem to be in such bad shape — and then he gasped for air. He was in excruciating pain, but he was alive once again.
"You see the problem?" said Lucien.
"You sent us to this task because you don't need to be told we're the best assassins you'll find," said Luigi having dropped the victim and now standing over his bloodied body. "But facts are facts, and bullets are bullets. I don't know why he won't die. I don't really care why. The fact is, he won't."
Napoleon was surprised and frankly a little annoyed by this turn. "Gentlemen?" he said, addressing his military companions. "Let us make a team effort of this. Everybody draw and shoot him on the count of three."
The Prince had to endure the horror once again. This time the eight bullets didn't even kill him right away, he had to lay there waiting as everything shimmered slowly to black. He had no blood left at this point and was incredibly thirsty and cold. A bullet in his lung was making him cough.
The Emperor was quite confounded when the Prince finally died and revived again. He wondered if perhaps it was bullets alone that the Prince was immune to. "Is there a knife in here?"
A very sharp knife was presented to the Emperor. The Prince saw him coming and put up as brave a fight as he could while bound, but it didn't achieve anything.
The Emperor bent down alongside the miserable and now truly terrified Prince, examining the young man like he was a deconstructed puzzle.
"So what is going on here?" said the Emperor, groping at the bound-up victim like he could find a weak spot. "Is he just healing up each time? What happens if we cut something off?"
The Corsican Fiend turned him around so he was face-downward on the floor. The Prince's hands were bound in a neckerchief behind his back.
The Prince screamed in horror as he felt the pen knife go through his left hand, taking off his index and middle fingers. It was the knife striking his wedding ring that stopped the loss of more.
Even the two assassins winced with disgust. Luigi scolded Napoleon, having to yell over the Prince's gagged but frantic shrieks. "You're not going to kill anyone by slicing off their fingers…"
"I am thinking like with Achilles — !" protested the Emperor, his accent making a song of it.
Suddenly a military guard burst into the room, breathless. The bloody scene he found himself coming into was unexpected, but immaterial to his purpose.
"Imperial Majesty," he began, having to raise his panting voice to be heard over the Prince's muffled cries, "The Russian army has just breeched the gates of Paris, near Belleville."
"The Russians now!" cried Napoleon, aghast. He collected his thoughts for just a few seconds, forming a plan. First course of action was get rid of the Prince, who was nothing but a nuisance at the moment.
"Lucien, Luigi," said Napoleon to his two younger brothers. "Take Capet and throw him in the oubliette, then have it sealed over. That should take care of him." He then spun round to his map and his companions. "Russians in the north-east. We need to defend or attack and we needed to start an hour ago…"
Lucien and Luigi didn't stay to hear the ingenious plan that was devised. They hurried to carry off the traumatized Prince to his fate worse than death: being entombed alive.
…
Gutslasher had recovered Murderella's stolen carriage. It was known that the Prince's body had fallen into it; but when it was returned, there was nothing but the large bloodstain on the floor to suggest his presence. The three friends debated the meaning of this as they went back inside the mansion.
"Is there a chance he could have survived?" asked Murderella, a glimmer of hope in her voice.
"No way," said Gutslasher. "Too much blood."
"But why would they take the body?" Murderella asked, puzzled.
"Proof?" suggested Pream.
"Who needs that much proof on an assassination? Lop off an ear or cut out a heart, maybe, but the whole body? It's not like the Terror, when we had to eat our dead." They entered the salon where Belle remained sitting stiff as a board. Murderella turned to check on her condition. "Poor thing. Can't we do something for her? Do you think she'd like a stiff drink?" The girl was virtually catatonic.
"Smoke," said Gutslasher.
The aristocrats knew what he meant.
"Yes!" said Murderella, brightening. "Fix up some of your smoking mixture. That might restore her senses."
Gutslasher, with sashes trailing, went off to prepare a batch of his signature herbal perfume blend.
Cogsworth coughed loudly, hoping to butt into the conversation. "Pardon me? If I may confer briefly with the mistress?"
Murderella saw it was the servant. "You're welcome to try," she answered.
Cogsworth strode toward Belle. She needed a rock, he could see — and it must be he who would provide the guidance, the support and the assurance that she needed during this dark hour. He, with stiff upper lip, would be the beacon of hope that would show the way; with dignity and fortitude he would proffer the wise words that she required right now.
Instead, he burst into tears.
Belle, perceiving Cogsworth, started to wake up. Seeing him cry stirred her own sorrows, and she began to sob as well.
In turn, Cogsworth seeing her cry made him cry even more. Everything within a two foot radius of them was sopping.
Murderella watched the scene and was moved. "Such open display of grief moves me. Let us fire our guns in sorrow!"
Murderella pulled two pistols from her chest holster and fired both into the ceiling. Pream in turn fired his walking-stick, which was actually a cleverly disguised rifle.
Hearing the noise, Gutslasher hurried back into the room. "What is that?"
The Marquise answered, "We mourn!"
"Mourn!" declared Gutslasher, comprehending. He had no gun. "I shall punch to mourn." And he proceeded to punch a hole in the wall, injuring his hand in doing so but trying his best to play it tough. "Fuck!" he muttered.
The weirdness of the scene was bringing Belle back into the world. Her Beast was gone. And she was left behind with these outrageous friends of his.
Wiping tears from her eyes, Belle choked on the words, "I'm alright… I'm alright…" Her heart was broken but there was nothing to be done. Life was going on. "I suppose we had better leave here…" she said, her voice still wobbling with tears.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Murderella. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you like. You and your servants."
"There's no reason for me to stay in Paris," said Belle tearfully. "I just want to go home — to the village, to papa —"
"We can arrange all of that, milady," said Cogsworth, doing his best to hold himself together.
At that time Murderella's butler came in and announced the Duc de Humongous and Mantua Gargantua. The pair arrived in a panic, weapons drawn.
"Humongous, Gargantua," said the Marquise. "Good to see you. I take it you heard about Beast?"
"I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HIM SINCE THIS AFTERNOON," said Humongous, "BUT WE WANTED TO BE SURE YOU KNOW —"
"Paris is being invaded!" shrieked Gargantua urgently. Her loudest cry still could not overtake Humongous's casual delivery.
This news was not a complete surprise to the aristocrats, but it was very unwelcome.
"Prussia?" asked Pream.
"RUSSIA!" answered Humongous. "AND THE GERMANS AND BRITISH ARE DIRECTLY BEHIND THEM."
Cogsworth was already very upset, and now he could barely believe what he was hearing. "Paris, invaded by a foreign army? What's going to become of us?"
"We cannot possibly support Napoleon," said Murderella firmly. "He supported the Directory back when there was a chance to do away with them. I still have scars from that grapeshot! And now it seems he's had Beast assassinated."
This was the first Mantua Gargantua and Humongous had heard of it.
"The assassins returned for him?" asked Gargantua, stunned.
"In front of my own gates!" cried Murderella.
Gargantua looked at Belle and realized now the cause of her tearful and disordered appearance.
Murderella spoke to Humongous and Gargantua: "I have guns and bullets if you wish to mourn."
"WE SHOULD SAVE THEM IN CASE OF AN ATTACK," said Humongous. "THE TIME TO MOURN IS LATER — WHEN WE'RE SURE OF HOW MANY DEAD WE HAVE."
Murderella approached Belle and Cogsworth. "I don't know how desperate you are to get back to your village, but I don't think you could have chosen a worse time than this for travel. I reiterate, you are welcome to stay here."
"You should take the gift," said Gutslasher to Belle. "Wait till the fight is done. You are more safe here than any place."
Belle tearfully acceded. "Perhaps, at least," she lamented, "if I wait here a while longer, we might recover his body." She felt her heart collapse and she burst into sobbing again.
…