CHAPTER 14: In which the Corsican Fiend is captured and the Capets are reunited.

The injured Napoleon was abandoned with the equally injured Murderella and Gutslasher. Seeing that things were not going well for him, nor was this tide apt to change, the Emperor realized it was time, at last, for him to retreat.

The Corsican Fiend got to his feet with difficulty. His short legs fled down the steps, passing the carnage that had been wrought throughout the house. Near the door he spotted Jerome, who was still alive but in bad shape. Napoleon left him — if there was anything to be done for Jerome it could be better achieved once he had fled to safety himself. Luigi and Lucien, he had to trust, were taking care of themselves.

As Napoleon thrust himself across the front steps, three bodies came hurling down from the roof and fell upon him.

Lucien and Luigi's falls were softened by striking their brother, and miraculously they both survived the plummet, albeit with abundant injury. The impact left Napoleon battered and dazed.

Beast cracked and faded out fast, one more little lifetime gone.

It was to this scene of four royals in a bloody heap that the Duke of Wellington and his troops arrived, informed by Belle — or, specifically, by her English-speaking servant Cogsworth — of where to find Napoleon for capture. The Duke was pleased that this was far less of a fight than he had anticipated. The injured Emperor, and his regal brothers, were easily borne off as prisoners.

The English medics offered help to the wounded survivors of the Mansion House Battle, but there were many dead. Pream and Gargantua were both gone. So was the shabby looking fellow who had fallen from the roof, clearly.

As two soldiers were moving Beast's body away from the house, he came gasping back to life. The startled soldiers, thinking they mistook the man's condition, hurriedly ran to find the doctor. By the time they returned to him with the medic, he was almost completely healed. All that seemed wrong was he was dehydrated. They gave him some water.

Beast spoke no English and the medic spoke too little French to be able to interrogate him about what had happened: the soldiers put it down to a simple error and let him go.

They watched the tall, shabby strawberry blond wander off, looking puzzled for what to do with himself.

"Damndest thing," said the first Englishman, speaking his native tongue. "I would have sworn, when we found him, that he'd bade the world goodnight. Purpled and ruddied like spoiled fruit, bones out of order…"

"His clothes are a sight," said the second, agreeing. "Perhaps someone else's blood had splashed him?"

As they watched the man roaming off, a Frenchwoman's voice could be heard loudly calling: "Bête! Bête!"

The Englishmen saw the tall fellow turn, and suddenly he was running into the yard excitedly, crying: "Belle! Belle!"

The same Frenchwoman who had arrived at the English camp towing Joseph Bonaparte was running into the yard with arms outstretched.

"I suppose that must be his wife," said the first Englishman, intrigued.

Male and female crashed into each other so hard that they both tumbled into the grass. The pair embraced and kissed frantically as the Brits observed.

"Ah, the French. So open in their displays of affection."

"It is rather lovely," said the second Englishman, watching. "Embarrassing to watch, surely; but it's lovely for them."

They watched very intently for a minute or so.

"Wager on whether they'll start shagging?"

The Brits reached into their pockets looking for a few coins to bet with.

…

Murderella's mansion was in such disarray that no one wanted to stay there that night, not even Murderella. Mantua Gargantua's home in the city was sure to be vacant, and her servants were under instruction to always let her friends enter. Thus it fell to the surviving aristocrats to inform her household of the sorry death of their mistress, as they spent the final night they would ever spend in her home.

Gargantua's home was decorated with colorful Egyptian revival furnishings and painted walls. She wasn't as rich as some of her friends, but she had standards. The place made you feel like you'd moved into a museum.

The aristocrats upset the splendor with their gruesome appearances: Murderella's head was bandaged, a gauze patch over her dead left eye. Gutslasher walked on an improvised crutch, his leg bandaged. Humongous wore splints and bandages over his shattered wrist, and there was fear he may need his hand amputated.

Only the aptly named Beauty and Beast had come out of the ordeal without a scratch on them; Belle by her refusal to actually fight and Beast by his still-undeclared supernatural powers. But by this time, the aristocrats who had seen Beast shot and battered in combat knew that something strange was going on with him: he should have some injuries, yet did not.

In eloquent but limited language, Beast told Belle and his friends about being kidnapped by Lucien and Luigi Bonaparte, how Napoleon had tortured him, and how he had been thrown in the oubliette only to escape it by chance. It was all true. He was just leaving out a certain important detail.

The fact was, the Prince was embarrassed by his immortality. To him, it was something wrong with him; like being deformed or diseased or still under that unyielding curse. He didn't want his friends to and loved ones to know about it. Yet, it was a thought that tormented him; and faced now with its certainty and inevitability, he was going to have to find a better way to deal with it than making eighty foot cry-for-help paintings of it.

Those who weren't too injured to eat, ate a meager meal. Everybody was tired. After appropriate mourning gunfire in honor of Pream the Prim and Mantua Gargantua, Humongous and Gutslasher hobbled away to their own homes in the city, while Murderella and the Capets were given beds for the night at the gaudy home of the dear departed tiny cannibal.

Beast inquired about a bath: between mud and blood he badly needed one, and he feared what would happen to the bedsheets if he got near them as he was. Gargantua's servants, with no small amount of trouble, were able to get him a lukewarm sort. The Prince bothered Cogsworth for a few coins from the cashbox so he could tip the servants. Grimhilde the Enchantress had taught him that — you tip the servants when you're visiting another's house.

As was typical in a world with no plumbing, the bathtub was set out in the bedroom and filled by hand, by servants who then left the two Capets to themselves.

In the dim candle light, the Prince splashed and scrubbed himself with almost an air of desperation, trying to get himself clean in the somewhat too small tub. He was still pale and sick-looking from blood loss. The two weeks beard growth made him look older than his twenty one years.

Belle sat nearby, watching him. His clothes, discarded on the floor, were riddled with bullet holes, yet there was not a visible scratch on him. Miraculous. And no less so that he was alive at all. A week ago, she would have never believed she would be in this situation again, idly watching her husband scrubbing at his fingernails and rinsing his hair in a bath. He was supposed to have been dead. She was never supposed to see him again.

Tears of joy stung at her. She walked to the tub and knelt beside it. The Prince faced her and smiled at her; but there was pain in his eyes. Belle couldn't recall him looking at her that way in all the time since his transformation; but many times beforehand.

As a monstrous beast he was always unhappy about his looks and his body, and it came out in his personality. Belle had fallen in love with that personality. He'd seemed like someone else since they were married. But her handsome Prince was sad right now, and ashamed of his current appearance. It was both wonderful and horrible to see him like this. She'd loved the Beast — and she loved her Prince, but the Prince was always so mysterious to her, so frustrating.

His mutilated left hand rested on the edge of the tub. When her vision skimmed over it, he immediately thrust his hand under the water to hide it.

"I'll get a glove to conceal that," he mumbled unhappily. He could bear to show the injury to someone like Lumiere, who'd already seen him at his worst. But he didn't like the thought of Belle seeing him that way.

"I don't mind," said Belle, reaching into the water and feeling out his wrist, then his mangled hand. "I'm just so happy you're back," she added, tearing up as she spoke.

The Prince softened. "Belle…" he said, looking at her imploringly. With his intact right hand he reached for her, caressing her cheek, the water on his fingers effacing her tears. "I love you."

"I know," said Belle. "And I love you. Everything is fine now. We're together again."

The Prince's eyes widened at her words and he suddenly sank himself down into the bathwater with an anguished groan, letting the water cover him to the prominent chin. In the smallish basin, he had to fold up his exposed legs.

"It's going to be fine," she reassured him.

He winced. "No! It's —" he stopped himself from finishing.

He was plainly upset about something. In fairness, he'd escaped the oubliette only fourteen hours ago, and since then had undergone an assassination attempt and the deaths of two friends. And that's just what Belle knew about.

"I'm sorry," she said, realizing affection was perhaps not what he needed right now. "I know this has to be the worst day of your life…"

The Prince groaned in a long, adolescent manner. "Not even in the top three," he grumbled.

Belle's eyes widened in horror as she took in the words. What on earth sort of life had this man lived? She tried to picture it. Suddenly, little pieces of information were coming together. Fragments of stories and logical deductions caused her to perceive a bigger picture, not just about the last few days, but about his entire life since the start of the Revolution. "Tell me," she commanded. "You never tell me anything."

"What do you mean I never tell you anything?" he asked, perturbed.

"I didn't even know your name until you put it on the marriage contract," she said gently. "I didn't even know you were a human until you became one."

He hesitated, like he was thinking deeply. "Would it have changed anything, if you did?" he asked, a note of fear in his tone.

"I'd have understood what I was getting into," said Belle. She comprehended that he was in a vulnerable spot and she was trying to keep her words soft and caring. "I… I hadn't thought I was falling in love with a Prince, who would have assassination attempts, and wanted to move to Paris. I didn't know I was going to be a Capet, or an aristocrat. I don't think it would have changed how I felt, but it all would have been a bit easier, if I'd known."

His silence was hurting Belle. He certainly didn't want that. She wanted to know things about him. To indulge her request he began stammering out false starts of sentences; but after a minute of nothing but wells, sos and umms, he finally gave up in a cry of frustration, sliding himself so that his head was submerged in the bathwater. He stayed down there, hiding, for several moments.

Belle was starting to worry he would drown when he suddenly splashed up.

The Prince had married Belle after a deliberate effort at trying not to be himself, so that he could impress her. To talk to her about himself was going against second-nature instinct.

In a single movement he left the tub of now reddish water, and began wrapping himself in clean towels.

"Ask me anything," he said, drying his hair. "I'll answer as best I can. But I have some questions for you, as well."

"For me?" Belle wondered if this was simply a ploy to evade the interrogation. "You promise you'll answer mine?" He nodded. "What do you want to know?" she asked.

The one he was most concerned with was an indelicate question, and it took him a few false starts to spit it out. He felt bad about asking it. Yet it was something that had been tormenting him. "How — um, how many other men have you been with?"

Belle couldn't believe that was what he wanted to know, especially in the midst of everything. "Is that really something that bothers you?"

He was already embarrassed that he had to ask it, and now she was mad for his asking. He was frustrated. "To talk of not knowing what we're getting into. Who was that on the roof back at the castle? The one that brought the mob, shot me with an arrow and stabbed me? Was he — your husband?"

Belle was appalled. "You mean Gaston? Why would you even think that?"

"He kept screaming 'Belle is mine' and — when you volunteered to be my prisoner I didn't think to ask if you had other commitments. Then, today, Pream — practically the last thing he said to me —"

Belle winced at the mention of Pream. "With Pream — we both thought you were dead. If I had known you were alive I would have never…" She could see her husband wilting as she spoke. She felt supremely humiliated. "We didn't take things very far. I… don't know if I would even say we were together."

"'Did some stuff' was his wording." He found the news unsettling, but he could understand it. Both parties had acted while believing him to be dead, and as such it should not be taken as any offense against him. Still, he rather wished that Belle would have been the one to admit the event to him. "So… can't you give me a tally? What am I up against here?"

Belle sighed, irritated and yet strangely moved. "One. You. In the village there were some other boys, who like Pream, went nowhere. Is that strange?"

The conversation was rattling the Prince, but his secret fear of many months was being put at ease. "I… I suppose it's very normal. Your life was normal."

"Why did you need to know?" she asked. He was silent. "You promised to answer my questions," she reminded.

It was hard for him to answer. It was more vulnerability than he wanted to show. "I've… been… afraid… you… have better options," he said, disgusted with himself. "And afraid they'll come for me again." He fell backwards onto the bed, exhausted. "I never even had a crush on another girl. Or knew one to have one on. I… don't know what it's like."

Belle could see this was hard on him. Still, this was exactly what she needed — understanding what he had been going through caused his behavior to make more sense. This wasn't jealousy: rival suitors, or perceived ones, were very real threats to him. Someone like Gaston might actually try to kill him. And he'd married the first girl he ever met: he did not understand failed relationships beyond hearsay accounts of them.

"Belle?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"What did I do that impressed you? At the castle, when I was a — a — I mean, we danced that night. But you just wanted to leave me to attend your father. I don't blame you for that; but then you sent that mob for me, and you came back, and… suddenly… you loved me."

Belle's eyes were wide in surprise. Beast had a very weird understanding of what that entire situation had been. "You really believed that I was married to Gaston, left you, and sent him to kill you — and then I came back, in love?"

"I… thought it was a likely explanation."

She was quite appalled that he had been thinking that all this time. "I would never do that! You believed that, and you still wanted to marry me?"

"I'd have married you had you killed me yourself." He tried to make it sound like he was joking, but he really wasn't.

This man whom she slept with, whom she had comforted when he awoke from nightmares, who listened intently when she read aloud from old fairytales that annoyed everyone else on the planet, he thought she wanted to harm him? "Beast, what on earth!"

"I had to get out of that curse, Belle." An intense emotion was breaking through now, with real pain in his voice. He sat upright, bouncing and contorting with passion as he spoke, staring into the air as visions of his horrifying old life raced before him. "I can't describe — it's — transformed — it's an unspeakable violation! Someone has done something to you, to your whole body… and there's nothing you can do about it. Worse, everyone can see it, it's the very first thing anyone will ever notice about you — this humiliating, revolting, terrifying…" he trailed off, his voice betraying the rise of tears. He hung his head wretchedly; but as he spoke, his tone took on increasing degrees of outrage. "And the Enchantress didn't intend for there to be any reversal at first. I was to be that way forever. She felt badly for it later, and she was able to devise a way out. If I could fall in love, and win someone's love in return… not because I wanted to fall in love, or was ready to fall in love, I just had to fall in love! Not fake, not contrived, but a real, true, I-will-die-without-you passion! I had to provoke that — with whatever walked through the door! And — it almost — is this really not offending you?! Do you understand why I didn't want to say anything about this?!"

She was appalled. Belle had never really considered what that circumstance must have been like for him, and for everyone in the castle. Everything for him had been an absolute horrorshow for the last ten years, in which he was the absolute slave of a spell. No wonder everyone always spoke of the castle so unfavorably: those had to have been miserable days for all of them. The upbeat Lumiere, the kindly Mrs. Potts, even sweet little Chip, were all suffering greatly.

The Prince let his face fall into his hand. He was sure Belle hated him now. Though he tried his best to hide it, he released a whining sob that at one time might have manifested as a roar.

"Beast…" she said, pathetically. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, trying her best to comfort him. She touched him on the head, right where the horns used to be. That always made him shiver with pleasure. "The way you impressed me," she said, answering his earlier question, "was, I saw how much you loved me. No one had ever loved me, apart from papa. When I went back to the village, I realized that. And I think I already did love you, by then; I just hadn't said it. The villagers learned about you when I tried to tell them how wonderful you were. If it was love that you needed to break the curse, I don't know why it didn't happen before."

Contrary to the knowledge of even the Prince, the Enchantress's spell had been set to break when he turned twenty-one, not when he fell in love. This alone was why it had not broken sooner.

That made a good segway to another issue he badly needed to discuss with her — the one she had asked about in the first place. He mustered his courage. "Belle? I am… probably never going to die." He winced, wishing he had worded it better.

"You'll never die?" Belle asked as if she thought she had misheard.

"The spell," he said. "It… did something to me." His heart raced as he spoke. "I… I just don't die, or at least, I don't stay dead. You thought I was dead because I was."

Belle was in disbelief. "Are you saying you're… immortal?"

Eyes closed in shame, the Prince nodded yes.

Belle lit up with joy. "But that's fantastic! Beast, that's the best news you could have given! You'll never die! You'll live forever!" She embraced him, thrilled. All her worries, her dismay for his wellbeing were gone. He would be safe forever, nothing bad would ever happen to him again. She'd never have to experience the trauma of his loss. To someone who had already known the frightening emotions of her husband's death twice over, this was the most welcome news in the world.

The Prince was somewhat shocked that she was so pleased over this. Belle cuddled and squeezed him with delight, but then noticed his sad expression. Her own smile faded. She suddenly realized what the problem was.

"Oh…" she said, her heart breaking for him.

He would outlive her.

He knew it was so: his faint hope that she too had been rendered immortal by the spell had been dashed today with the observation of the bruise on her neck, which wasn't healing up immediately like the injuries he, Lumiere, and others had known. She remained mortal.

"How old are you?" asked the Prince.

Belle winced realizing there was still as much basic information he didn't know about her as there was that she didn't know about him. "Eighteen," she replied.

"So, maybe… twenty, thirty years before it's a problem?"

"Something like that," said Belle, flattening herself out on her back beside her towel-clad spouse. This news was a shock indeed. "We really got married too fast," she lamented.

The Prince reached out with his damaged left hand and took hers in it. Their shining wedding rings scraped together. "I'm glad we did," he said, smiling. "We don't have any time to waste."

…