CHAPTER 15: In which the painting is revisited, and Cogsworth resolves his problems

Belle thought about life in her old village, amidst the pleasant chaos of local business and gossip, when she would wander from her father's cottage to chat with the friendly old bookseller or someone like that. She had acquaintances there, but not real friends. Nobody there ever aspired to do anything greater than run a business or get married. She used to long for more, for adventure in the great wide somewhere. She had gotten her wish, she realized — in the worst possible way. It started when Gaston became obsessed with her. Then, when her father got lost on his way to the fair — she had not realized how the act of chasing him down would alter her entire life. That's when she met the terrifying figure who would later become her beloved husband. She got to know his wonderful and amiable servants, and came to discover that his sinister tendencies were largely the consequence of frustration and anxiety. Yet she had felt a prisoner in that castle (for, technically, she was) and wanted to go back to her village. When she finally did — oh, how things had fallen apart! Gaston had called the entire village together to imprison her and her father while he went to kill the Beast. The stowaway Chip helped them escape, just in time to return to the castle to find it a wreck from recent warfare and to witness her Beast murdered by Gaston. He died, with luck alone bringing him back, now as a human. But he'd wanted adventure in the great wide somewhere, too. Like her, he'd received it.

She realized what her own greatest error and biggest regret had been in the situation: trying to go back to the village. What for? It was a comfortable place, but had she ever really been happy there? There was no reason to go back to that. When she did so, it only brought the miseries of the village into the castle she had grown to love, and nearly killed off what she loved about it.

Belle realized she could not make this error again. She could not look back, trying to recapture a tranquil life that had never really existed in the first place. Whatever she had been before, she was no longer. She could never go back to the village, to fantasize about fairytales. Nor could she be the prisoner of the sullen beast, attended by his magical servants while he just did whatever he thought would impress her at the expense of himself. They had a real union now, and he needed to be happy too. He needed to reclaim his body with strange haircuts and amuse himself with crazy friends who understood what he was going through better than she did, and aspire to have a profession beyond deposed prince. He was not rotting in place, forever frozen: he was still evolving.

This would mean handing him off from time to time. She could abide being alone for a little while he attended to his discoveries. Afterall, she had overseen the defeat of Napoleon by herself, as her husband was fast to point out to anyone.

"You see?" said the Beast to Gutslasher, Humongous and Murderella over breakfast a week later. "She saves me every time! I'm — passed out on the ground somewhere, but Belle comes! And she fixes everything! I'd be useless without her."

After Napoleon's battle-plans were foiled via the capture of Joseph Bonaparte, the French commanders had surrendered Paris to the Russian Tsar. Two days later, the Senate declared Napoleon deposed. The Corsican Fiend and his brothers — all living, though not so pretty as they once were — were being sent away in exile to the island of Elba. Napoleon agreed to go peacefully if he could retain the honorific title of Emperor.

It was happy news for the aristocrats, though today the mood was somber, with everyone dressed in black for two separate funerals they would attend. The inseparables hadn't been up for their usual partying ways while trying to recover from their wounds. Gutslasher was able to cover his bandages with his clothing, but Murderella and Humongous's injuries were on display.

Beast looked rather dashing for a mourner. He had a new black suit, and the barber he'd seen had shaved him with the newly fashionable side-whiskers. He looked dandyish indeed. A pair of black suede gloves that he refused to remove hid his disfigurement. Nevertheless, the illusion of class and sophistication was destroyed by watching him try to use his knife and fork. The lack of certain fingers made it impossible to operate them in the received manner. Belle was back to having a fellow who couldn't use tableware. It was embarrassing for him. Small comfort was that Humongous with his purple, withered hand wasn't doing much better. The two men gave each other sympathetic looks every time they knocked food off their plates or missed their mouths entirely.

The first funeral was that of François-Zélamir "Pream" the Vicomte d'Anjou. He was to be interred beneath the floor of a lovely little medieval chapel that was filled with statues of angels. A cousin who didn't really know him well but who would be inheriting his title and estate, was also in attendance. Thus Belle bade farewell to one of the few men she'd ever kissed — and whatever her issues with him, he had died in service to his Prince.

Rushing to arrive on time, the friends made the funeral of Mantua Gargantua, the alias of a woman called Jeanne-Catherine-Nicolette d'Amiens. She was laid to rest in a simple concrete structure at a public cemetery. Like Pream before, she didn't have a lot of loved ones still living. Thus bade the Prince farewell to the only woman besides Belle that he had danced with — and one who had definitely saved his head.

In the back of Beast's mind he contemplated how, someday, he would attend the funerals of everyone he was with. But he fought not to think about it. Fretting about these impending deaths just took away from what time he did have to spend with them alive.

After the funerals, there was a lot of day remaining. The aristocrats were used to having things to do, but they were not in shape to jump and dance around at any parties. Trying to figure out what else was possible, it was suggested that they could take a look at the Louvre. It had escaped any significant damage or looting during the Battle of Paris, and there was always more there than one could actually look at. It was open to the public again. They decided to take a look.

The concept of an art museum was unknown outside of the big cities. Belle hadn't seen much fine art in her life but for what the Beast had at his own castle. She enjoyed looking at the paintings, at the attempt of the various artists to capture reality or else bend it to their wills. The fivesome journeyed through the galleries, which were all piled to the ceiling with artworks. Some artists were in the aisles with their canvases, copying the famous pieces that were strung to the walls. Beast began to wonder if he could arrange to paint copies. His right hand, the painting hand, was fine; and he was getting some interesting new ideas.

At last they came to the room where Beast's famous painting was on display. He was initially enthused about seeing it again; but when they walked into the room, Belle could feel him freeze with alarm.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He furrowed his brow, staring at the massive canvas. "No… No!"

He released his hold from Belle and walked towards the painting, appalled.

The vision. When he had painted the piece, he had only seen it once. It had disturbed him so much that he knew he had to put it down on canvas, so others could see it, so others could get a sense of what he had seen. He had now died and viewed the same dreamscape dozens of times over, and what was painted… wasn't what it actually looked like. Not a damn thing like it. Almost everything in it was wrong.

"This isn't what it's supposed to look like!" he cried.

Murderella stepped towards him. "What do you mean? Has it been damaged?"

"No!" cried Beast. "I mean the whole thing! It's all wrong!" He grabbed at his hair unconsciously, and began to pant. "This is not what it looks like!"

"NOT WHAT WHAT LOOKS LIKE?" asked Humongous.

"The — thing!" cried Beast, falling to his knees in despair. Other visitors at the museum were beginning to look at him. "I see it each time — this painting, it's supposed to depict it — "

"Beast," said Belle, hurrying to his side. "Calm down, you're making a scene."

He responded by screaming in frustration. He didn't care who heard.

"Beast," said Murderella, "it's a great painting, whatever it came out like…"

"IT'S A GREAT PAINTING OF GARBAGE IS WHAT IT IS!" roared Beast, rising to his feet in the midst of a tantrum that was threatening to put out every flame in the building.

Belle was so embarrassed. She thought he had gotten over this sort of thing.

"Someone get me the director right now!" Beast screamed. "This painting has to come down right now!"

…

There was only one place where Beast could work on an eighty foot canvas to repaint it. That was in the dreary old castle in the wolf infested woods.

Cogsworth settled their bills in Paris. It had been a very strange trip for him, indeed; but not a total waste. Beyond his participation in the British victory against the Corsican Fiend, he had also at long last succeeded in hiring new staff for the castle: namely, he hired all of Pream and Gargantua's servants, an experienced lot who were all quite suddenly looking for new situations.

One of his final errands was to visit the Silver Tower. It was still in process of reopening after the damage, but there were staff at hand to receive him — and that staff was the maitre d', Lumiere.

"Morbleu! Cogsworth, my old friend, is that you?" Lumiere greeted with his customary enthusiasm.

Cogsworth smiled back. "Well, who'd have thought I'd ever be glad to see you again?" He hastened over to greet Lumiere with a handshake.

Lumiere proceeded to instead give him the gallic kiss of welcome, just to fuck with him.

"Still steward to the master?" asked Lumiere.

"Naturally," said Cogsworth. "We just hired a new staff."

"Good to hear! So you really found someone to replace me?"

"Yes. Three big ones. We'll never have another problem with intruders in the castle," said Cogsworth, alluding to Lumiere's notorious habit of letting strangers inside. "And I suppose the restaurant is in a bit of disorder since the battle?" He noticed a damaged spot on the rug where something like a bayonet had torn through.

"The soldiers dug up the street, and were shooting and fighting directly outside this place, broke some windows," answered Lumiere. "It might be a few weeks before everything is back to normal."

Cogsworth wanted to boast of his achievement to someone. Lumiere was as much of an open ear as he was likely to find. "Well then. I don't suppose you heard of how the Coalition finally won the war? Someone turned General Joseph Bonaparte and his war plans over to the British."

"These days," said Lumiere, smiling, "when it comes to politics, I am like a fromage de Salers — wrap me up and hide me away."

"Well," said Cogsworth, his pride unwounded, "I bring it up up only as a matter of some interest. I had the honor to have accompanied a certain Princess in delivering General Bonaparte to the Duke of Wellington."

Lumiere was intrigued indeed. "Even a fromage hears that the capture of the Emperor happened at the Marquise de Montsangue's house. I knew the master had to be involved somehow! I saw him during the battle, trying to find his way out there. So — you were in on it, too? Brave fellow!"

"It was a terrifying ordeal. Blood was shed, lives were lost, luggage misplaced…"

"And doubtless you saved the day by ordering a new set."

"And replacing the wardrobe on no notice at all. Master has never looked so dandy."

How very Cogsworth to be just as proud of keeping his master's wardrobe in order as he was of defeating the tyrant of France. "I take it you're here today for something other than to dine at the restaurant."

"No, I'm afraid it is time to settle the bills," he said, bringing out the cashbox to pay.

"You're leaving Paris?"

"Back to the wolves," said Cogsworth.

The dreadful castle! "He's really going back there?" asked Lumiere in disbelief. Everyone hated that place.

The cashbox had been damaged when using it to bludgeon the Bonapartes, and it did not open easily. Cogsworth had to wrestle with it.

"His masterpiece needs some refurbishment," said Cogsworth with a note of irony. "There isn't enough space to hold an eighty-foot monument to trauma in just any building."

Lumiere laughed. He'd seen the painting. Yes, the master wasn't going to make a project like that because he was feeling in good spirits — that was a massive distress signal made in lieu of talking to anyone about his problems. "Well, I suppose he can take all the time he needs with it. No need to rush, am I right?"

Cogsworth was oblivious to Lumiere's intended point. He was still fighting with the box, banging it with his fists, trying to pop it open. "I suppose," he replied, preoccupied. "He is young."

"And immortal," added Lumiere, supposing Cogsworth had merely overlooked his meaning.

The cashbox sprung open at last, hitting the Englishman in his fleshy face. "Immortal?" he asked, shaking off the blow. Cogsworth genuinely didn't know anything about it.

"Didn't he tell you?" asked Lumiere, arranging his hands over his mouth to conceal his laughing at Cogsworth.

Cogsworth did not respond, other than by stacking up the gold and silver coins for payment.

"Didn't you notice?" pressed Lumiere.

"Notice? Notice what?"

Oh, dear. Cogsworth didn't know he was immortal! "Ah, well," said Lumiere, scrambling to deliver this news tactfully. He nervously patted his hands together. "I think you and I need to have an important conversation…"

Cogsworth received the information from Lumiere with disbelief.

"I don't know what sort of prank you're trying to pull on me — " he protested irately.

"It's the truth!" Lumiere assured.

"— But if I'm immortal, I'll eat the floor-rug!"

Cogsworth locked up the cashbox and turned to leave. When he spun his heel on the carpet, its torn fibers tangled up beneath him, and he tripped. He fell face up on the floor.

"Oh, so close," said Lumiere, "but pointed the wrong way!"

…