CHAPTER 11: In which the Prince must find his wife amidst a war, and Pream is hindered in his amours
The palace was under siege. Emperor Napoleon bolted from the mayhem on horseback. Several of his guardsmen rode alongside. His youngest brother, Jerome, was in the mix.
There was no hope of saving the palace with a defensive attack. He had to abandon it to the Teutonic terrorists. His best hope now was to return to Paris, where he could recalculate his strategy to preserve the city.
As the mass of soldiers thundered along, Jerome thought he glimpsed to the side of the road a rather distinctive looking six and a half foot strawberry blond. Not a lot of those around. The oubliette must have been breached, he realized; but there were much more important matters for him to be concerned with right now. He just made a mental note to let his brothers know what had happened, when he got the chance.
The Prince, for his part, barely noticed the soldiers. He just continued running alongside the road, hoping that it would lead him to the city. It was a decent plan, for it did.
The exhausted Prince was now racing on foot across the outskirts, unsure as to where he was even going. He'd always relied on coachmen to get him from point A to point B in the unfamiliar city. As he worked his way inward, the sounds of battle grew louder and louder.
What he was seeing all around was rather a surprise to him: Paris, utterly war-torn. Streets were blocked with rubble, buildings had been burnt and blasted by cannon. Occasionally there was blood on the ground.
What had happened while he was trapped in that oubliette?
He thought it out. He realized that he had been so upset at the loss of his fingers that he hadn't really paid much attention to Napoleon's news that the city was under attack. But surely that's what it was.
The Prince suddenly grew even more concerned for Belle, and for Murderella and her mansion. What if everyone had fled for safety? Would the mansion even still be there?
The sun was still out, but the day was growing late. Battle time would be over soon, and it would be a safer journey if he waited till dark. But this was not crossing the mind of the impulsive Prince. He was very anxious to find Murderella's mansion — to find his wife — and he hurried onward.
Soon he was seeing fewer ragged citizens race along and instead seeing more uniformed soldiers. The gunfire's volume rose and rose till it became deafening. He found himself needing to leap through trenches full of soldiers, to race across active shootouts to get where he wanted to go. Bullets rustled his clothing and hair as he swept along the blasted-out rues.
His heart went into overdrive. He was at risk of injury. He knew he wouldn't die — but that was what he was afraid of. Cannons, bullets, fires. It sounded like a recipe for exactly what he wanted to avoid: a head of Orpheus situation. The Prince did not want to end up a head on an altartop for all time, as had happened to the immortal Orpheus when he was ripped to shreds and could not die of it.
Toward the city center he saw a return to normality. The enemy troops hadn't penetrated that far. Familiar buildings helped him to deduce where he was at; and, approximately, where he needed to go.
The bullets grew audible again. Soon the debris and the trenches were in his way. Blood was on the streets. He sometimes saw another civilian racing along with a sack of groceries, or a doctor with his medical bag hurrying to a house where he was needed. The military strategy of the time usually meant that bullets were launched in group ready-aim-fire blasts rather than fired at random, so it wasn't too difficult to stay out of danger, as long as one waited till the soldiers were reloading.
He turned onto a familiar street — it was where the Silver Tower restaurant was at, a place he'd been many times. The place was definitely not open at the moment. Instead of seeing the usual crowds of shoppers and customers, he found himself amidst a skirmish of Russian soldiers and Imperial guards. Rounds were whizzing all over. As he tried to hurry through, he got unlucky — a bullet hit him in the leg, shattering his tibia.
The Prince fell with a wail. He tried not to make a scene; he knew enough about the magic he was under to know he was going to heal from the accident in under an hour. It was going to be painful till then. He fished the bloody bullet out of his leg so he wouldn't be forced to endure that thing forever trapped inside of him.
And then he realized, without enough warning, that he needed to lie flat on the ground to avoid the next set of bullets launched after the soldiers' reload. Another round hit him, this time in the meaty part of his thigh. How did he survive twenty-one years never being shot yet find it happening over and over now? Bullets were the damn wolves of Paris! He cried out once again in anguish.
He cast himself to the cool mud and tried to relax and much as he could, sucking the air, waiting in agony for his injuries to heal. The blasts and shouts of battle continued around him. Occasionally some desperate passer-by flashed in and out of his vision.
At length one of those passers-by did not pass by, and instead stopped to investigate the condition of the injured man in the mud. The Prince suddenly found a familiar face leaning over him.
"Monsieur? Is that you?" asked Lumiere in a panic. The former servant would not have made the identification so readily of this scraggly fellow with hair à la victime, but for those distinctive blue eyes that had so often glowered at him.
"Lumiere!" cried the Prince, thrilling at seeing somebody he knew.
"You're injured!" declared the former servant. Without saying anything else, he hurriedly bore up the Prince by the shoulders and started trying to drag him to safety. The Prince was large: it wasn't easy.
"Just help me up. I can hop off," said the Prince very rapidly, knowing they were likely to be shot again if they lingered.
Lumiere assisted him in standing. The Prince whimpered and growled in pain trying to get up, but up he got. His old friend helped him out of bullet range to the cover of a dirt mound, left from when the street had been dug up for the trenches.
Said the breathless Prince, "I'll be alright in a while."
"You won't be alright for quite a while," retorted Lumiere at the sight of the bloodied, broken leg.
"What are you doing out here?" asked the Prince.
Lumiere was mentally rushing through multiple problems to solve. "The grocers haven't any food left for love or money," he said, answering the question. "But I know the pantry at the restaurant has something — and I have the keys."
"Go find your food, Lumiere," said the Prince, a pained sweat dripping from his brow. "I'll be fine. Really. Don't worry about me."
"You're shot! You need to get to a surgeon!" protested Lumiere.
"I'll be alright in a little while, trust me. It's — hard to explain."
Lumiere's eyes went wide in realization. A terrified look crossed his face. "Sacre bleu, it's happening to you too, isn't it?"
The Prince wasn't sure what was meant and offered a puzzled look through his anguish.
"Every time you get injured," said Lumiere, "it just heals right up in an hour, not a trace of the problem?"
The Prince gasped. "You too?" he asked, excitedly.
"And Babette!"
The Prince let forth an automatic yelp of delight. "So it was all of us, then!" He was so relieved he wasn't the only person on earth with the problem. And he felt hope bursting in his breast that perhaps Belle was protected by the same magic.
Lumiere was just as surprised. "I supposed it was something to do with that spell, but we didn't know whether it had happened to anyone else."
"So, you — don't die, either?"
That was new to Lumiere. "You mean… it's not just the healing up?"
"No. I've been killed about thirty times already, and… I keep coming back," he said, as if he couldn't think of any other way to put it.
Lumiere cursed about as strongly as the Prince had ever heard him do. He threw himself at the Prince's side, no longer trying to help or protect him. "Sounds typical of Grimhilde's manner of problem-solving. Suicidal young man? Just make him and everyone he ever met immortal — and problem solved."
The Prince cringed, still embarrassed all these years later about his unsuccessful teen-beast attempt on his own life. "I don't know whether she did it on purpose. She described having done the same thing to herself by mistake."
"If she's immortal, then how come she died?"
The Prince responded by woefully holding up his mutilated hand with the missing fingers. "You're not impervious to everything."
"Morbleu," said Lumiere, horrified at the sight of the Prince's hand. "What happened?"
"Napoleon," answered the Prince flatly. He noticed, as he looked at his hand, that his silver wedding ring had considerably darkened. "The Emperor evidently discovered that I'm the Dauphin," he said, continuing his original thought. "That's how I lost track of Belle… you haven't seen her, have you?" His heart quickened at these last words.
Lumiere shook his head: no. He was becoming overwhelmed with information. After a moment to gather his thoughts he declared, "If we aren't at risk of death, then we may as well try to get across the street to the restaurant. It will be more comfortable in there. Fewer bullets."
The Prince's leg was healed enough by this time that he could walk on it, though not comfortably. Wincing as Lumiere helped him along, they crossed the street to the restaurant, bullets darting past them. Lumiere unlocked the door and let them both inside.
The restaurant was empty, and not at all the cheerful, elegant place it usually was. Chairs were stacked up, a stuffy odor filled the building from days of disuse. The Prince simply sat himself on the floor as soon as it was convenient, the pain in his shot-up leg too great to walk any more than he absolutely had to. Maybe ten more minutes before he would heal.
Lumiere was fantastic at keeping a level appearance under stress. Nevertheless, he was stressed, and he had a lot of questions. "So you are sure of it? This spell, this effect — we're all immortal?"
"I'm certain that I am," said the Prince. "But… you were there, weren't you? The first time, on the balcony?"
Lumiere realized he meant the transformation. "Do you go through the whole ballet with the lights and beams and tout le tralala each time?"
"I'm not in any position to know what happens. I just wake up feeling as if I've died. It's — it's really pretty awful," he said, recalling it with gut-churning vivacity.
Lumiere absorbed the information. "I wouldn't suppose you have any idea if this immortality also hinders aging? Or are we all going to end up as five-hundred year old geriatrics?"
"It's only been a few months, but, Grimhilde never aged. So far, it seems like it's the same rules." He looked over his former servant and really thought about the man's age for the first time. "How old are you?"
"Do the ten years spent as a candlestick count? It appears I'm frozen at about forty, in any event. Don't get me wrong, I'm happier as a forty year old human than whatever that was that I was —" Lumiere suddenly wilted. "The ones I feel bad for are the little ones. Chip, and the others; if this means they are trapped as children forever. Terrible." A little smile crept back over his large mouth. "Oh-ho, but you, though! You had all the luck, did you not? Twenty-one! That's the age to be if there is one. I'm sure you'll never appreciate why."
The Prince suddenly thought about Mrs. Potts and Chip, and wondered if they'd discovered their condition yet. Then he thought of Cogsworth and Cochet. Had they noticed anything? And all the servants who had left, how long before they would know about their conditions?
Before he could process all of that feeling and sympathy, he noticed the pain in his leg was gone. He had healed. The Prince stood up immediately.
"Feeling better?" asked Lumiere.
"Yes." He flexed his leg, testing it. "I — I should get going. I need to find Belle. I can't imagine what she's been thinking… Do you know how to get to the home of the Marquise de Montsangue?"
"Ah-ha! You made friends with some ancien régime. If the Emperor is out to get you, that's as good an alliance as you could have. I have her steward's contact information. Let me find it." Lumiere went behind the reception desk and began looking where the contact information for the restaurant's wealthy clients was kept. He found the Marquise de Montsangue's card, naming her steward and her address. "It is quite a ways — you are on the wrong side of the city. I can show you part of the way, if you'll wait for me to finish my errand. I have to bring some food for Babette."
The Prince's stomach screamed at the very mention of the word. "Please, don't talk to me of food. I haven't eaten in weeks."
Lumiere raided the restaurants pantry for some wine, flour and cheese wheels to bring home to his wife, and sympathetically offered some wine and cheese to the Prince. The poor fellow swallowed it down like a reptile eats something that's still kicking.
After this, the two immortals were on their way across the streets and battlefields.
…
Pream observed Belle from across the room. She was talking to Murderella and Mantua Gargantua, and from the way they kept glancing in his direction he was pretty sure they were talking about him. The Vicomte was frustrated by this.
Murderella and Gargantua were trying to give Belle warnings about Pream, and why it was a terrible idea for her to attempt any romantic pursuit of him.
"No girl or boy he has ever been with has wanted to see him again after what he did to them," said Murderella, very severely. "Some have pressed charges."
"But if he's so bad," said Belle skeptically, "then why are you still friends with him?"
Murderella sighed in frustration. "Pream is the most loyal friend, intelligent companion, capable fighter you could ever ask for, and he's great in a group. But he is crazy. Those people who kidnapped him made him crazy. Did he tell you what they were doing that put out his eye? That's what he thinks you're supposed to do."
"Well, surely I can tell him if I don't like it," said Belle.
Murderella and Gargantua looked up at Pream who was staring at them with arms folded and tapping his foot in irritation.
"I can't imagine he looks for feedback, Beauty," said Gargantua.
Belle was irritated by the well-intentioned advice, which seemed to her like it certainly had to be overly cautious, or even motivated by jealousy. She had never seen Pream act worse than anyone else in the group, and, like telling her never to go into the West Wing, to tell her not to do this without offering any rational-seeming reason just made her want to do it all the more.
"We understand your position," said Murderella sympathetically. "We've all lost someone we love. We've all lost ourselves with them. You want something to plug the wound. Do so! But Pream will just give you a new set of traumas."
"But what if he needs someone, too?" said Belle, already perceiving in her mind how she could recreate the complicated relationship pattern she had built with the Beast. She could see it all aligning: the disfigurement, the trauma, the situation of being trapped in a house together, being advised against the union, the rumors that he was violent when really he was kind and gentle. The only trouble with her ideal was that the Beast really was just an irritable little artist at heart, who wouldn't harm a fly even if he might scream his head off at it; Pream, on the other hand, wouldn't harm a fly unless he were aroused by it, at which point he would pull its wings and legs off and hold it over a slow flame till its insides burst out. His experiences as an unwilling puer delicatus, who'd had to adopt his captors' philosophy to survive, did not leave him maintaining healthy ideas about love and romantic relationships; but the very notion of such a viewpoint was inconceivable to Belle.
"Maybe Pream's the one we should be talking to?" said Murderella to Gargantua, upon perceiving that Belle wasn't taking the advice.
Gargantua screamed across the room: "Pream! Don't bonk her to death!"
Pream threw up his hands in frustration, screaming back in the rataplan-rataplan rhythm of French. "'To death!' I don't know where you get these notions! Even Violante survived, it was the gangrene that got her —"
The argument would have continued but for a commotion of horses audible outside the mansion. It was not that of a single coach but of a veritable herd of animals arriving at a high speed. Like a wagon of thunderbolts being overturned onto an orchestra's percussion section.
Alarm hit the aristocrats, and they hurried to the windows to see what was on. What they observed was a large number of men on horseback arriving at the mansion, most of them in military dress. The horses looked tired, like they'd been ridden a long ways at speed.
"Do you think they're bringing news?" asked Pream, the dispute about Belle forgotten for the time being.
"I suppose I should go down and see what it is. You three stay up here." Murderella went to investigate the matter. "All three together," she added, before stepping out.
The new arrivals at Murderella's mansion were none other than the entourage of Napoleon Bonaparte himself. They had just escaped from the palace under siege. The Emperor was anxious to report the situation to his brother, Joseph, and to form a new set of plans for what to do about it. The men in grey coats were already gravitating towards one another.
…
Across town, the Prince and Lumiere had reached the point of their journey at which it was time to part ways. Fighting was on nearby — an occasional bullet flew past them.
"You just head straight down this road," said Lumiere, directing his former master to the destination. "Just stay on it in a straight line, eventually it will take you where you want. Best of luck to you, monsieur."
"Thanks, Lumiere. Best wishes to Babette."
A bullet hit Lumiere's wig and put it askew. He hastened to correct it.
"Have a safe trip home," the Prince added quickly.
"Well," the maitre d' laughed uneasily, "it seems I have little to worry about. I am, evidently, infallible."
"Hold onto your fingers, nevertheless," said the Prince, managing a half-smile.
And after an embrace of farewell, the two men parted ways in the war-torn street. The Prince began walking straight, as directed, across the city. The sun was not yet set.
All his thoughts were on Belle. He had to find her soon as possible. As he made his way, he noted the sounds of battle growing variously fainter or louder. There were multiple armies attacking the city at different points, and leaving one battlefield could easily send one into another. He began to observe more bloodstains on the streets. There were more shouts and more horses and more stomping of feet. Then, suddenly, he perceived an enormous explosion. Something very big whizzed past him on the street, coming far closer to him than he wanted such a very big whizzing object to come. He recognized a cannonball. It landed some ways behind him, and he automatically turned to look at it.
When he turned, he went white. There was an entire other army riding up behind him. This would not necessarily be bad, were it not for the opposing army that was already in front of him. In other words, he was on a street with the French about to attack on one end and the Prussians coming on the other. It was a sandwich, and they were going to turn him into some kind of sliced meat.
The frightened Prince looked for an alley where he could take cover, but the street was solid with buildings. Visions of being ripped to still-living ribbons by bullets and shrapnel danced in his head.
The first firing of bullets came. The soldiers, not blind to the fact a civilian was caught in the midst, did him the courtesy of trying to aim around him; nevertheless, that was too many bullets too close.
He really couldn't do anything but throw himself into the mud and let the armies stomp over him till nightfall, when the battle was done.
…
It was now not only Napoleon, Jerome and Joseph, but all five of the Bonaparte brothers convened at the young Marquise Murderella's. The sunset painted patriotic hues across the sky: a fair omen.
The Bonapartes drank glasses of wine and examined maps as they talked of strategy. All were dressed in their military uniforms, some of which were looking worse for the wear after the day's battles. Napoleon wore his crown of gold laurels over his bicorn.
Things were bad. Foreign armies were moving in and the palace had been besieged. Yet the Emperor had not lost hope.
"We must not retreat," said Napoleon. "If we lose Paris, we have effectively lost France."
"But, how much of France is now left to keep?" asked Luigi.
"Plenty," said Joseph. "Almost all of the west is untouched. And if one were to retreat…"
"We shall not retreat," said Napoleon.
"…If one were to," continued Joseph, "That would be the direction to go. There would be more men to conscribe to the military, which would replenish our forces after the recent hits."
"More men to kill off, that sounds good," said Jerome, his sincerity up for debate.
"Our losses haven't been many, all things considered," said Napoleon in seventeen syllables. "Do we have enough to fight for one more day in the city?"
"We probably could fight for a few days if needed," said Joseph. "But to what end? A defeat in a few days, instead of today?"
Said Luigi, "I don't see what more can be done in the big picture. The British haven't even started on their attack yet, though they sit there posed for it."
"Their strategy is plain as pasta al burro," said Napoleon. "They're waiting till we're too weak to fight, then they will swoop in. But what if we attack first? Right now, we still have the numbers for it, though barely."
"So this is the actual plan?" asked Luigi. "We're assigned to this? Attack the British tomorrow?"
"That's correct," said Napoleon. "I will write out the orders — Joseph? You deliver them."
As all this conversation went on, the Bonapartes were unaware they were being spied upon. Gutslasher was concealed in a hollowed-out cabinet, taking notes.
Elsewhere in the house, Murderella was learning the identities of her important visitors. Napoleon had come to her at last, and with all his brothers as well. Five targets, to which she, Pream, Mantua Gargantua, Humongous and Gutslasher made an equal team. Vengeance for the Terror, for the traumas they had endured thanks to Bonaparte — victory could be theirs at last! She just needed to get everyone assembled and ready while the Bonapartes were still in the house.
Murderella hurried to the headquarters where Pream, Gargantua and Belle were.
"The Emperor is here," said Murderella. "And all four of his brothers."
Everyone lit up at once.
"Gutslasher and Humongous are still spying — but we should prepare ourselves now and take places. Pream — you wait by the front gate in case the Bonapartes try to leave, Gargantua, back gate for the same. Think long-range."
Pream and Gargantua began gathering powder horns, and other necessities for war. They were the runts of the aristocrats, both in size and in precedence, so this kind of work went naturally to them.
"What about me?" asked Belle, innocently.
No one really wanted Belle along on an important mission like this. Far from helpful, she seemed likely to be a hindrance; no matter what compliments her husband had given her.
"You should wait here," squealed Gargantua, "in case… anyone… needs a book read to them! Then you can attend them." That seemed like a suitable use for Belle.
Without asking Belle what she thought of it, the three aristocrats snatched up their weapons and hastened from the bedroom. Belle was left standing sadly alone. She just had to wait things out, it seemed.
A moment later, the door reopened and the charming young Pream was revealed. "If you'd like to come along, you can join me," he said shyly.
Belle smiled at him. Pream returned the smile. His walking stick was in one hand; he held out his other to her, and she took it.
He sighed dreamily, hearts and flowers all around him. As the Vicomte led her out to the front garden, sweetly blushing at his pretty companion, he was already fantasizing about raping her and cutting her face off.
…