Chapter 2- A Funeral

A day later, the entire population of Molyneux gathered in the churchyard of Saint-Lucien, the majority of them in a state of numbed shock. Pere Gerard-Emile droned on in a somber stream of Latin, a language that the residents typically associated with marriage and death when they heard it.

The crowd was mostly silent and reverent, with the exception of three, who stood near the front shaking with high-pitched sobs. The blonde girls were nearly unrecognizable in their prim black dresses, their long golden locks pulled back and tucked into bonnets. Their mother, Madame Lea Beaudette, insisted that her daughters dress properly for their friend's funeral, "friend" being the only word she could think of to describe the young man who had been the hope of her family for years. Madame Beaudette was a widow, and Gigi, Mimi, and Fifi were the most physically attractive single young ladies in the village. Both mother and daughters' greatest wish was for one of the three to become the true love and possible bride of Gaston de Soleil. The problem was, which one, and it was the cause of a great deal of caterwauling and bickering within their home. But today, the question would be put to rest forever.

Lea Beaudette could do nothing but touch each of her daughters on the shoulder as one, then two, then all three, doubled over weeping and wailing.

"No, no, he can't be dead!" sobbed Mimi.

"Not Gaston! Please, no!" wailed Fifi.

"It can't be true! it can't, it can't! Oh, my God!" shouted Gigi in a keening cry.

A man by the name of Stephan Moreau and his brother, Gilles, were also standing near the front. Worry and concern was etched on their faces. Stephan, who was nicknamed "Stanley," was the village butcher. His livelihood was certain to be ruined now. Over half of the animals he processed into good edible meat had been provided by Gaston's excellent hunting prowess. No one else had been able to bring in the daily supply of large game- the venison, wild boar, elk, and delectable turkey and goose. No other little village in that region of France was as well fed as Molyneux. Personally, he regarded Gaston as just a casual friend, a drinking buddy, but he depended on him completely.

Gilles Moreau had a similar concern. He owned a little farm on the edge of town, and was forever being disturbed by animals attacking his goats and sheep. Whenever Gaston slaughtered a wild boar or bear, it made it more likely that that creature would never slay his livestock, plus it financially compensated for his loss by contributing to the Moreau brothers' meat venture. Who, Gilles thought, will ever take his place? It had been Gaston's father before that- Jerome de Soleil- who'd been the town's skilled hunter. Now, Gaston was dead at twenty-five, no sons or brothers to succeed him.

The baker- stocky, red-bearded Andre Desjardins, and his wife, Marie, were also in the crowd. Their teenage sons Pierre and Paul were by their side. The boys were in a state of shock. How could he be dead- he seemed invincible! For years, they and all the other young boys aspired to be just like the greatest hunter in the whole world. They had little time to hunt, as the bakery needed as many hands as possible, but since they were little, they'd take their bows and guns and practice as much as they could. Their mother had secretly wondered why Gaston never took the younger boys in the village under his tutorage and taught them his secrets in the art of hunting. She correctly assumed he was just too arrogant and proud, but kept this thought to herself. After all, Andre and the boys worshipped him like all the rest, and her husband's opinion was final.

Pere Gerard-Emile switched from the Latin formality to a personal eulogy.

"It is so difficult for us to fathom the loss of this great, powerful young man, cut down too soon in the prime of his life. We bid adieu to him now, and when we gaze upon the constellation of Orion the Hunter on a clear night, may we remember that Gaston is among the great hunters of the past, and his spirit shall inspire us all throughout our lives."

At that point, a short, pudgy man near the front collapsed in a heap on the ground, burying his face in his sleeves.

Pere Gerard-Emile finally spoke the last benediction for the dead. The simple, large wooden coffin lay near him, a gaping hole already dug in the muddy soil. A grey stone was freshly inscribed and lying near the pit.

Gaston Jerome de Soleil. 1745-1770. Requiescat in Pace.

The clergyman gestured for the crowd to be dismissed. The townspeople, the sobbing triplets included, turned to leave. Except for one.

A few people near the front looked in pity at the two men nearest the coffin and the newly-dug grave and shook their heads. Old Henri-Claude Lefou was trying his best to console his twenty-five year old son.

"Come on, son...let's go home."

The small older man with a big nose and grey muttonchop whiskers was bent over his cane, patting the shoulder of the short, chubby young man who sat on the muddy ground, completely still and silent. His face, which typically had worn a comical or happy-go-lucky expression, was now the picture of despair. He didn't budge.

"Please- let's go now. There is nothing you can do for him."

No response.

"Monsieur, I will sit with him for a while. You may go." Madame Desjardins said gently as she and her husband stepped forward to relieve the father of this awkward moment. Henri-Claude shrugged and followed the rest of the crowd, and Andre and Marie both crouched in the grass next to Henri-Ignatius Lefou, usually called only by his surname, who considered himself to be Gaston's best friend since boyhood.

The baker and his wife had to sit there for quite a while, since Lefou showed no intention of leaving the gravesite. When the couple finally left, whispering a somber, "I'm so sorry," they were hardly noticed. The visiting undertakers had no choice but to bury Gaston with a mourner still watching.


There was a visitor to Molyneux that night. A woman came wandering in around the edge of town, following the wooded trail from the direction of Prince Adam's castle. The tall, exquisite looking woman in a fine green gown had been stewing in frustration and worry for the last two days. The unthinkable had happened- the selfish, spoiled Beast-Prince had broken her elaborate spell! And her father- how would he react when he found out?

For years, Delphine Dufresne, a member of a family of the most powerful- and rebellious- rogue Enchanted folk, had been both praised and villified for her punishment of a royal French mortal boy. Some of the Enchanters held a disdainful superiority over non-magical people, while others in the magical society believed in a policy of peace, using magic only for themselves in secret and living side-by-side with mortals. The two sides collided often, with wars being fought over the issue for as long as generations of Enchanters could remember.

Delphine and her father, the dark sorcerer Quentin Dufresne, were of the anti-mortal faction, and they took great sport in wrecking magical havoc on unsuspecting mortals, often in the guise of punishing them for proven character flaws. She was known in those circles as the "Beast Enchantress", for being bold enough to cast the unfortunate Homme-BĂȘte curse on the unsuspecting eleven year old orphan prince, as well as casting the nearly-as-cruel Objecter spell on on his entire household. Other Enchanters labeled her as the vilest criminal for her deed.

Delphine held her wand in the direction of the village and picked up an audible sound of negative emotion and despair. She heard crying and sobbing of various people in her mind's ear, and snippets of angry conversation about a "Beast."

It was quite a contrast from the mood of the castle, where celebration and joy had reigned for two days.

Behind the trees, in the dusk of evening, Delphine swept her wand over her own body. She transformed into a homely old woman in a ragged dress and shawl.

The humble beggar woman entered the village main street and strolled around the little shops and buildings. She didn't really know why she decided to come here; Delphine enjoyed the glamour of parties and secret rogue gatherings among other Enchanters, and that was where she was going to be headed soon- but her curiosity when it came to mortal sans-magiques was a quirk of hers. Who was the man so great that this whole town mourned so over him? What did people do when they had no supernatural powers, and how did they compensate? Her parents had taught her to disdain them, yet she wanted to study the lowly humans, as well as up her quota by casting a little hex or two if she could.

She walked near a bakery, the little shingle sign read Boulangerie. They were closing for the night. She was about to pass when a boy came out of the back door. He had a few loaves of bread in his hands. The baker's son, Pierre Desjardins, was about to feed the stale leftovers to the farmers' livestock. He saw Delphine, and looking her straight in the eye, with a friendly and generous air, tossed her one of the loaves of bread. "All we can spare, madame."

She caught it. "Merci," she muttered, then when he went back in, she tossed the bread aside, grumpily. She left him alone. A part of her wondered if she should secretly reward them sometimes for good character rather than punishing them for flawed character. But her father would find out, and be furious. Only pro-mortals performed those charms.

No one else seemed to be out that evening. There was what appeared to be a tavern in front of the fountain in the very center of the village, but it was closed and empty. She finally came to the edge of town to a road leading to a farm. A second denizen appeared right in front of her, a farmer carrying a bucket of water, toward a pen filled with a half dozen sheep and a few goats. He looked cross and sullen.

"Pardon me, kind monsieur, but I am a starving widow from another village and I wish to purchase one of your sheep. I can only pay you with this rose." A rose had appeared in her hand.

Gilles Moreau scoffed. "A rose? My sheep are worth five francs each. I don't take flowers, lady. Leave me alone!"

"But you cannot see the worth of a rose? Why, it may be a gift for your wife, monsieur! Your only concern is money, and the love of money is the root of all evil," she lectured to the man.

"You're crazy!" Gilles shook his head and continued down the path to his cottage.

"You shall be taught a lesson.." she softly called to his back. At this point, she would have transformed into her beautiful younger self, but since he was walking away, she saw no need. She gazed at the group of white sheep in the pen, and pulled her magic wand from her shawl. She pointed it at the livestock.

The robust, fluffy sheep and little billy goats shrunk down to the size of kittens.

The Enchantress went back to the forest and conjured up a little tent with a cozy bed to camp out for the night. She was in a much better mood, and hoped to play some additional pranks- perhaps one of her minor, forty-eight hour long hexes- on the villagers the next day as well.