CHAPTER 10: In which the Prince receives a boon and Belle attempts to move on

The Prince just couldn't bring himself to do it again. He knew exactly what was going to happen if he punched that wall, and his muscles were too well trained to the pain of it to allow the commission of such a reckless act. Meanwhile, the sealed oubliette was out of oxygen. He felt sick and dizzy, but couldn't do anything about it; not even die.

It seemed like it had been ages in this black hole. In blackness, waking and sleeping look alike; he was beginning to struggle with knowing which one he did. He saw nightmare visions of yellow gloves reaching for weapons; of green skirts towering over him while the dreaded curse was spoken; of grey redingotes blasting him with bullets; and the wolves, the wolves, the wolves.

He reached up with his mutilated hand and rubbed his face thoughtlessly. He noticed that, if he ever got out, he'd need to make an appointment with a barber. It was only stubble, not a full beard. The amount suggested it had been a mere few days, maybe a week he'd been trapped in the place. It was a devastating realization. He'd already suffered so much and it had only been a week? What would years in this place be like?

It was hopeless. He really was never going to escape from this pit. He was too parched for tears to come. He mourned a while, screaming out for his lost life in this echo chamber of the pit. But all he could do now was feel around in the blackness for a spot on the floor that might be comfortable enough to pass centuries wasting away upon. He blindly removed his jacket and waistcoat. The fabrics were stiff with dried blood. He gathered them on the floor to make a sort of pillow, so he might at least have that degree of comfort. He zealously clung to the material, so he wouldn't lose track of it in the abject darkness.

And there he laid. There was nothing to do but recall the past and dream of a life that would never be. He conjured recollections of a few happy days he'd known, and invented stories of things he wished he had done. He sometimes believed he experienced real things, lived out moments that were only phantasmic fancy. Time and reality lost meaning. However, these reveries ultimately received an interruption.

Do not underestimate what was required for this. To interrupt the inside of an oubliette demands a force majeure.

The event transpired in the form of an earth-shattering crack that sent rubble cascading from the ceiling. Daylight suddenly beamed inside. On the opposite end of the cell from where the Prince laid, an explosive force sent rubble and dust zipping all about.

The noise, the light, the stimulation, the sudden influx of oxygen, the chaos of it all left the Prince completely paralyzed with confusion. Was he dreaming? Had he somehow died? Blinded in the sudden illumination after a fortnight of black, he had to wait several minutes before he could make out anything around him. Meanwhile, he could hear distant gunfire and explosives from above.

At last he regained enough sense to perceive that his salvation had come in the form of a cannonball.

The palace was under siege. The oubliette had been breached by accident — a very lucky accident which the Prince realized he needed to take advantage of at once. It did not sound like anyone else was around. And why would they want to be, if cannons were being blasted in that spot? No one would stop him if he got out, just as long as he could actually get out. The opening left by the cannonball was about forty five feet over his head. The concrete walls were not so smooth anymore — there were cracks and broken spots where it might be possible for him to grab hold.

Catching his breath for the first time in days, the Prince leapt with all his might at the wall. He seized a crack and scrambled upward like a madman. One hand was missing some fingers, he wasn't as capable a climber as in the past; but he was desperate and he was doing it. Clawing his way to the top with difficulty, he found there was a final span of about eight feet between the part of the wall he could hold onto and the opening left by the cannonball. He would have to jump it and grab onto the edge of the opening. It was the only way out.

After a moment's hesitation, he buckled down and made the leap. He completely missed his mark, and his body shattered on the concrete below.

…

It had been crazy times at the mansion of the Marquise Murderella. The military had needed the location as a stronghold in case of a British attack. So far, the British never had made their move, but five other armies had. Europe wanted Napoleon out.

The aristocrats were in the mansion voluntarily, and were free to come and go as they pleased. Nevertheless, the whole group tended to camp in Murderella's bedroom, which they had turned into a headquarters for their own operation. Murderella feared that she might not be let back into her own house if she left; but the others occasionally went out into the city. Still, the present situation meant that the capital wasn't exactly operating as normal: food was growing very scarce in Paris, but still came in from some farms to the west, at inflated prices. Wealthy aristocrats in a house full of military men had no difficulty purchasing what was available, but the overall desperation was working itself out in the streets in riots and violence. And there certainly wasn't much in the way of fun to be had about town.

The Marquise's bedchamber had become an apartment for all six aristocrats (six, if Belle was included in the count.) Contrary to a certain rumor, they were not all sleeping in a single bed together; though sometimes questions like where one slept became matters of no concern. It happened wherever it happened. Other sorts of privacy were neglected, too. The place was effectively a mixed-gender barracks, but with valets and ladies' maids dutifully attending.

Murderella napped gracelessly in a chair, a newspaper over her lap as she snored and occasionally flailed amidst a nightmare. Gutslasher was coiled up on the floor, also asleep.

And then there was Belle. The poor girl looked like she'd aged ten years in the last two weeks. When she had married her Beast, she hadn't been able to imagine a future without him. Now she was living it, and it was… apocalyptic. She had lost the man she loved, who had loved her. That love had somehow become the pillar of her whole identity. What was there for her without it? What could she do? Where could she go?

Frustrated, brow furrowed, she gazed into the room. Her eyes immediately fell upon Pream, who was surrounded by a team of his valets and barbers. They were changing his shirt, dusting him with talcum powder, waxing his mustache and spritzing him with cologne as he simply stood there and let them, arms extended like he was in a crucifixion. His thin, boney back had scars on it that most people would recognize as the result of being whipped; and there was a strange liquid-looking scar on his front chest, which had come from molten lead being poured on him. Two silver nipple rings sparkled in the light.

In terms of the available men, Pream probably was the most alike to Beast as far as the trauma that shaped him. But Beast hadn't killed nine people to escape from his issues. Nevertheless, Belle had been noticing that Pream seemed a bit more interested in her than Gutslasher or Humongous, and that their rapport was a bit better.

She needed someone to make her whole again, and water always flows the path of least resistance. It was the most natural thing in the world that she should try to attract the young Vicomte.

Coming up on his blind side, Belle stood beside him and tried to smile out some small talk. Pream was initially startled, as he hadn't seen her coming.

"You would make a good scout," he said. "You sneak up quite well." His valets were beginning to withdraw.

Belle blushed, the pupils of her wide eyes like little pinpoints. "You're the one letting your guard down."

Pream looked at her, feeling a sting of remorse as he did. He remembered meeting her at the Louvre as the radiant young woman on Beast's arm, who dragged that man over to meet the group of wild nobility. Now, as she stood talking to him with probably an equal boldness, she instead had a nervousness, a confusion about her that hadn't been there before. She'd been broken. But then, hadn't all of them?

As the last valet buttoned up his waistcoat, Pream inquired, "Made any progress with gun-loading?"

"I'm down to about a minute," said Belle. "I haven't had any chance to shoot, though. We don't want to upset the military men."

The Vicomte smiled warmly at her, an idea forming. "Well, we could go to my place any time you want — there are no military people there, and you can practice shooting in my garden."

Suddenly Gargantua's high-pitched voice sang out a warning from across the room: "Stay away from her, Pream."

Pream shot a glare at Gargantua. He didn't say anything back: he just gestured at Belle in a way that asked of Gargantua, You really expect me to resist this being offered up on a plate?

"BEAUTY," Humongous butted in helpfully, "HAVE YOU READ ANY INTERESTING BOOKS LATELY? I NEED RECOMMENDATIONS."

Books. Books. Belle needed a moment to stop her head from spinning. But yes, books was something she knew. Eagerly she turned her attention to the Duc de Humongous, who thus won a victory in the battle to hinder Pream's romantic exploits with the young widow. Or, as the reader knows, the presumed widow.

…

Meanwhile, Belle's poor husband was coming to upon the floor of the oubliette once again. Dying wasn't as easy as it looked: it was a pretty intense experience each time. He sat up slowly. He was shaken, confused and trying to remember what he had been doing before. Eighty foot painting? No. He was… escaping. That was it.

The Prince craned his neck to gaze upon the opening overhead. It was the final few feet of the escape which were difficult to complete. It effectively required leaping from the wall and, somehow, floating without any influence of gravity towards the desired spot, so that it could be seized upon. Perhaps if he had longer arms it could be possible. For a moment he really missed being the Beast; in that form he was about two feet taller and could have done it. But there had to be some other way — he couldn't come this close just to end up trapped again.

He climbed up the wall more slowly this time, struggling to favor his right hand. He was searching for any alternative route that might allow him to get closer to the opening. When he reached the ceiling, he spent a long time hanging from the cracked wall, his fingers aching from his weight. He really couldn't see anything that would take him closer to where he needed to get. His heart began to sink as he envisioned weeks more of just killing and injuring himself over and over in futile attempts. He screamed in dismay.

Suddenly another explosion rocked the palace. The Prince lost his grip, slipped, and skidded several feet down the wall. Ceiling bricks rained down, clobbering the floor below.

He was able to catch another crack and scramble back up to the top. He looked upward: the blast had rendered the opening larger than before. It might even be in reach.

"Please! Please! Please!" he whispered, hoisting himself back to the top, daring the attempt once more. He leapt — and caught the opening!

Then his weight broke the damaged bricks he had grasped. He fell to the floor once again, this time with a mass of debris falling on top of him and crushing his abdomen on impact.

But it was okay, he thought as everything faded. He knew he could try it again; and that this time he really would be able to get out…

…

It had been two weeks since the murder of Belle's husband, and no body had been recovered. She no longer expected he would be found. She sometimes tried to recall her final glimpse of him as they leapt from the carriage into the fumes of the smokebombs; but the reality was she didn't remember seeing him in the commotion. The last she could really recall was a few minutes earlier in the coach, when they were talking with hardly a care in the world, hand in hand as always. How had she gotten through life without a hand to hold before all this? How could she be expected to live like that ever again? Belle's instincts were telling her to, of all things, hurry up and get herself married again. She'd loved being married. Her future was designed all around being married. A new marriage was about all that could repair the damage that had been done, and put things somewhat aright.

She was presently shouting a statement to this effect at Pream, who wasn't sure how to take it.

She was her father's daughter, and crazy old Maurice hadn't been known by that name till his wife died. Belle had been so young she had scarcely been aware of it; but it was only because he had a young daughter who needed him that the inventor didn't go out of his mind altogether. Belle likewise required someone to stabilize her after such a loss.

Working against Belle's new plan was Cogsworth. He found the very idea of his mistress swiftly remarried to some Paris weirdo to be deeply disturbing. It wasn't really any of his business, of course; but he had personal reasons for preference.

"Milady," the steward said, doing his best to console her. "Can I suggest you might wish to recover from the shock of the master's death before you do anything rash?"

Belle heard him. "How can I recover, but by moving on?"

"Well!" answered the steward helpfully. "You might… eat large quantities of ice cream…"

Pream was starting to step up in objection to this. "Pardon me —" he called.

"Or," continued Cogsworth loudly, "you might cry over some stirring romance novels —"

"Hey, slab of roastbeef —"

"Or," Cogsworth was now shouting to drown out Pream's increasingly offensive interruptions, "you could do something healthy, like becoming an artist's model? Wouldn't you like that, plenty of attention?"

Pream jumped to the harshest insult of all, which was reminding the servant of his damn place.

Gargantua and Gutslasher watched, shaking their heads. Pream had what could gently be termed "a bit of a bad reputation" when it came to romantic matters. That was putting it nicely, for when you didn't want to frighten people. The other aristocrats could foresee that a union between such a man and the sad and sweetly Belle was sure to be a disaster.

"We've really got to stop them!" squeaked Gargantua. "You know what he'll do." With her hands she gestured like someone being throttled.

"Well…" said Gutslasher in thoughtful reply, as he ran his fingers over the spiked studs on his coatsleeves. "She did wed a man who jailed her in his house. Could it be she likes that stuff?"

"She has all her body parts," said Gargantua. "Pream will be too much for her."

…

The oubliette was accessed from an outdoor yard at the palace — out of the way and designed to repel attention. Nobody saw the cannonball strike through its brick cover, and no one saw two hours later when a three-fingered hand rose from below, followed by an arm, followed by the remainder of the most desperate looking young man imaginable, wriggling his way to freedom. He was covered in dried blood and dust, and his tattered white shirt was plainly full of bullet holes.

The Prince was finally out. Breathless, sweating, he collapsed in exhaustion on the dirt, silently thanking every deity he could for his safe escape. Somehow, Athena seemed like the most responsible. Good old Pallas of Württemburg.

After a minute to recover himself, he took off in a run. He didn't know where to, but he knew he couldn't stay where he was. Cannon blasts, gunfire, and the human roar of battle were audible at a distance much too close for comfort.

He passed soldiers armed with bayonets, who initially wanted to stop him in his progress; but he ran past them without acknowledgement, and the men could perceive that whatever he was, he was not in fighting condition. They let him go on.

A few more minutes' frantic run brought him to a pond. Water, at last! He threw himself down at the bank, already exhausted, and attempted to cup his hands to drink the water. No good: missing fingers let everything leak out. He just submerged his head and gulped down what he could. He could feel his body absorbing the moisture immediately; anyone else would have died by now from the dehydration and blood loss, but of course not he.

Starting to feel alive again, his next thoughts went straight to Belle. Only a couple of weeks had passed since they had seen each other, but what had become of her? Where would she have gone? He concluded the best place to ask would be at the Marquise Murderella's house, since that was where they had been so brutally separated. Belle might even still be there, and if not, surely someone would be able to tell him what had happened to her. He hadn't been taken far away from Paris, he was sure; for he was alive and aware during the ride with Lucien and Luigi. They hadn't traveled long. If he could just get himself oriented, he could probably find his way back.

The Prince splashed himself with more water to try to rinse some of the dirt and blood from his hair and clothing. Once he believed he looked okay, he rose to his feet and began his way back into the city.

Little did he know that that's where the real warfare was happening.

…