Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor
chpt 3
From chpt 1
But what entranced him was her hair. It was still as it had been in the woods, unbound from her ponytail. Falling past her shoulders, and down to her back and upper arms, it adorned her head and shoulders like a Madonna's veil, forming itself to her contours. In another way, though, her hair seemed to float around her head like an ethereal mist, its sheen mimicking the brightness of an angelic halo.
"I'm going to bandage your wound, Monsieur Beast," she said in a low voice, kneeling beside him. She dipped a cloth in the basin of water and wrung it out.
While she was leaning over his arm, dabbing his wound with the cloth, some of her locks spilled over her shoulders, and rested on her bosom in pliant curls. Her face, with its eyes downcast and lips drawn like a bow, was framed by her loose tresses, and looked even more beguiling.
He remembered something he heard as a young lad: a woman's hair her crowning glory. Belle's crowing glory had a mysterious quality, as dark as stained oak, yet as glossy and as shimmering as the noonday sun on running water. It looked as soft and smooth as satin. She absently tucked the hair that obstructed her vision behind her ears, first the left, then the right. He saw, closer than ever, the dimples of her cheek, the lines of her jaw, and the roundness of her ears. He longed to touch even a silken strand of her hair, to satisfy his burning curiosity. But he dared not.
…
His eyes followed her as she stood up and gathered her hair back off her shoulders and bound up her tresses in a ponytail. He felt suddenly deprived, as though a great honor had been withdrawn. And before he was aware of it, she was gone from the den, back up to her queenly bedchamber, the gilded cage he had imposed on her. Her presence had been light and music, and her departure greatly diminished the chamber.
From chpt 2
It was one day while Belle and the Beast were walking through the forest that they had one of their impromptu games of hide-and-seek again. Belle got her hair stuck in some tree branches.
"Here," the Beast said gently, "Let me help…since it's my fault that you ran among the branches.
She was afraid he would pull her hair and entangle it worse in the branches, but she hardly felt a tug. In the process, he had to undo her ponytail.
"You have such beautiful hair, Belle," he murmured. "I'm surprised you don't wear it down."
She blushed at the sudden and unexpected compliment. She gulped, and murmured "Thank you," in response. "I left it unbound when I was a child," she continued. "My mother brushed it out every night. She would tell me how beautiful it was, too. She said her mother would say the same thing to her. Alas…I never knew my grandmother. She died young, just like my mother. And since that time, I've put my hair back in this plain fashion…very commonsensical, " she added, giggling.
"I'm very sorry," he answered, "Both that your mother should die so young, and that your beautiful hair shouldn't flow freely in the wind. He sounded both sympathetic and poetic. She was taken aback even more.
…
It was that evening, when Belle was in her nightgown and dressing gown, that a knock came on her bedchamber door. "Come in," she said, assuming it was Mrs. Potts, or one of the other servants. The animated comb and brush were just beginning to groom her hair and braid it for her nightly slumber.
To her shock, it was the Beast who opened the door. "May I enter your room? " he asked quietly.
Swallowing her amazement and unable to speak, she nodded. She tried to say, "Please do," but her throat felt too dry.
With great boldness yet a humble deference, he took up the brush in his oversized paw. "May I?" he asked sonorously.
She nodded again, wide-eyed and a little nervous.
Standing behind her while she sat on the vanity stool, he first stroked her hair, smoothing it down. The touch of his hand along the back of her head sent an electric thrill through her that she felt down to her toes.
…
She was astonished. She had never experienced so gentle, so meticulous, so unhurried a hair-brushing…not since the last time her mother had performed the service, before her final illness. And of a certainty, her mother's brushing did not elicit so sensual a reaction.
…
He even braided her hair, as meticulously and carefully as she used to, in her father's house in Molyneaux, and as the servants did here in the château. The slight pull on her hair was not at all painful, and the mesmerizing effect continued as she felt the plaiting of her tresses on the back of her neck.
"Thank you, Beast," she said softly, still surprised at the spontaneity of his self-appointment as her 'handmaiden'…she giggled inwardly at this thought…and was even disappointed that the tender treatment he lavished on her was concluded so quickly.
…
She had to swallow the lump in her throat and suppress again the involuntary quivers that resulted at his final caress. She turned her head to murmur another heartfelt "Thank you"…and saw him already leaving the room. Sadly, feeling suddenly deprived of pleasant companionship, she turned back from the door to face the mirror.
chpt 3
The Beast scarcely left Belle's bedchamber before bracing himself against a wall, panting and gasping for breath. His heart was thudding in his chest like the booming voice of the Giant from the story Belle once read of Jack And The Beanstalk. His garments were sodden with sweat. Stooping, he slowly lowered himself to all fours. The muscles of his limbs quivered as though with great exertion. But the enormous effort he had expended was not physical; all his labor had been of the mind and heart.
The first time he had seen Belle with her hair unbound was the night he had defended her from the wolves. The second time was today, when he had loosened her ponytail from the tangle of the tree branches. On the first occasion, he had longed to caress but a single lock of that lustrous softness, but dared not. Today, he dared.
He could see that he had startled her when he had hesitantly entered her bedchamber. He could see that he had further astonished her when he asked if he might brush her hair. She had nodded mutely, staring up at him with those big appealing eyes. He wondered if she was as afraid to speak as he was.
He and Belle had read together in Shakespeare's The Tragedy Of Romeo And Juliet of the lovers' first timid exchange of words. He felt that Shakespeare must have seriously underestimated the apprehension that Romeo felt the first time he reached out and touched Juliet's hand, and the recklessness required of him to do this daring deed.
Romeo. If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Juliet. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, / Which mannerly devotion shows in this; / For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Romeo. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Juliet. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r.
Romeo. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! / They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Juliet. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Romeo. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take. / Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kisses her.]
Juliet. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Romeo. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! / Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.]
The mere sight of Belle's unbound hair cascading from her head and spilling onto her shoulders almost overwhelmed him. He had never before beheld it from this perspective. Its lustrous waves shimmered like teakwood coated with resin and polished to a smooth finish. Its splendor surpassed that of strands of pearls, and jeweled necklaces, and molten gold.
With caution and deliberation, he had taken up her brush and was smoothing down her hair There was no fabric in the entire château with this kind of texture. The feel of its glossy silkiness on his hand nearly drove him to a state of…of...
He didn't know what to call what he was feeling; it was a turmoil but it was also a delight. He had wanted to gently grasp her flowing hair with both hands and bury his face in it, to inhale deeply of whatever fragrance it might have…for he assumed that something that appeared so beautiful must smell equally beautiful, like flowers in the spring, fruit in the autumn, or grass after a rain. But he managed to restrain himself.
He had marveled at the roundness of her head from this perspective. It was a perfect roundness, like that of a full moon, covered as it was by the silken tresses. Her head was not disfigured by a shaggy mane or an obscene pair of twisted horns, he had said to himself, in a moment of self-loathing.
Having no idea how to proceed, he had merely begun to brush her hair off her face, around her ears, and down the back of her head and neck.
He was gratified by the way she had leaned her head back, and the gentle sighs she had made. He had noticed a shudder run through her whole body when he had brushed up from the back of her neck; in an anxious moment, he was afraid he had pulled too hard. But when he heard her moan, he knew that he had imparted a more-than-pleasant sensation.
He would try to glance at both their reflections in the vanity mirror. He noticed her doing the same, seemingly trying to catch his eye, but he forced himself to look impassive.
He would have prolonged this for hours, but was afraid he was already imposing on her sleep. So he braided her hair the way he remembered seeing the maidservants braid his mother's hair in his youth…it seemed ages ago. He could remember little of his parents before their departing the château and the estate to embark on a voyage across the Channel
They were to travel overland by coach to Calais, then bock passage on a ship bound for Dover, across La Manche, as the French called the English Channel, and from thence to London.. He had desperately wanted to go with them, but he was too young, they said. They had left him in the capable care of Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts, assuring him that they would be back in a mere couple weeks.
But the weeks had become a month. And Mrs. Potts had quietly taken the young Prince Adam aside, and told him that the ship had disappeared in a sudden squall…
And from that moment, the heartbroken lad had forgotten the admonitions of his noble father to always remember that a prince was obligated to rule with mercy, for both kings and commoners were answerable to a Heavenly Sovereign. Young Adam Seth Jared St. Michael of the noble house of Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne had forgotten himself and had given himself over to bitterness and hostility…
…The Beast shook his head even while he was concluding putting the braid in Belle's hair. These were old memories, buried deep, never divulged, still painful, like a wound that would not heal. He had allowed himself to be distracted from the pleasant task she had permitted him to carry out for her. And he had wanted no distractions while engaged in the most pleasant task he could ever remember doing.
It couldn't be helped; his task was complete. And the Beast could think of no excuse to prolong his presence in Belle's bedchamber. He assumed that even now, she must have been weary of his intrusion and his company, and his departure from her boudoir couldn't come soon enough. He therefore quietly slipped from Belle's presence and bedchamber before she even noticed he was gone.
The two opposing moods gushed in his soul like a flash flood in a dry riverbed and threatened to overwhelm his carefully preserved appearance of nonchalance. The one mood was of sheer delight at finally gaining the privilege of caressing and fondling Belle's crowning glory, and the other a mood of sheer pathos that the delight of grooming her crowning glory should end so abruptly.
So here he was in the corridor near the stairwell, nursing in his bosom both ecstasy and melancholy. Feeling completely spent, he crawled down the stairs on all fours, fearing that he would tumble down if he stood erect.
The Beast did not run feral through the woods and hills as he usually might to relieve his turbulent emotions, stalking prey and roiling in the nighttime dew. Instead he returned to the refuge of the ruined West Wing.
Stripping himself of his perspiration-soaked shirt, he wrapped himself in his cloak and gazed meditatively at the glowing enchanted Rose floating suspended in space in the bell jar. Glittering diamond dewdrops continually fell from the bloom like water dripping from the trees after a rain.
With the glow of the Rose suffusing his vision, and the glory of Belle suffusing his thoughts, the Beast finally curled up on the floor, his head pillowed by one of the several volumes of the plays of William Shakespeare he had obtained from his own library, and drifted off to sleep, even as Belle was already dreaming of her Bête and his gentle ministrations on her.
It was painfully paradoxical; both grieved for their departed parents, and were preoccupied with each other; each was saddened by the other's departure, and neither was aware that their company was craved by the other. Both were shyly faltering their way into first love.
It would be yet many more months before a complicated crisis would bring the matter to a head…Belle's father Maurice Bricateur losing himself in the woods during another snowstorm in an ill-conceived attempt to single-handedly rescue his daughter from an imprisonment she no longer found unpleasant…and Gaston Duchasse's twin nefarious schemes, to force Belle to marry him by threatening to confine Maurice in Monsieur D'Arque's insane asylum, and to incite the credulous populace of Molyneaux to besiege and destroy the château, allowing Gaston himself to underhandedly kill a hated rival for Belle's heart.
But that is another story.
A / N
I'm telling you…reading Dante's La Vita Nuova and Boccaccio's Life Of Dante, and watching the old tearjerker movies (I'll Never Forget You, with Ann Blyth and Tyrone Power, for the record) does strange things to one's head.
I was reading of Dante's adoration and his unrequited love for Beatrice, and the thought came to mind how the Beast had so longed to stroke even a lock of Belle's hair in the first chapter, and how he finally got the opportunity in the second chapter , and what the fulfillment of that desire must be doing to his heart and soul.
And it also struck me between the eyes…the twin theme of bereavement for both of them…my own plot development, and I wasn't even picking up on the possibilities…duh. But the Muse beguiled, and this chapter came out.
The genesis of my name for the Prince before he became the Beast, "Adam Seth Jared St. Michael de la Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne," is explained in wearisome detail in the author's notes for chpt 1. The back-story of how his parents met their demise and left him orphaned is inspired by the Disney movie Frozen, and is a work in progress. Maurice and Belle's last name, Bricateur, is derived from an alternate word for 'inventor', 'fabricator', according to Google Translate. This in turn derives from the naming convention of many books and shows; William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and even the storywriters of the Kim Possible series use plays on words for the names of the characters, drawing upon their personality traits and vocations.
Speaking of Google Translate: I needed a last name for Gaston, so I consulted the site, and learned that the French word for 'hunter' (Gaston's vocation) was 'chasseur'. As I did with other surnames in the story, I adapted it to look like a last name, and came up with 'Gaston Duchasse'.
Google Translate is of course as dependable for accurate translation as a medical thermometer is for measuring the outside air temperature.
In doing my research for what the French call the English Channel, I learned that there has been regular travel back and forth between the U.K. and France since the early 1800's; it wasn't the hazardous venture that it would have been a few centuries before.
This sort of throws the whole setting of my BaTB fanstory into renewed consideration; the classic setting of the BaTB tales is in the baroque era, or earlier. But the 1800's was the age of burgeoning technology; and many fairy story anthologies, such as the Grimm Bros, were being published. I must muse on the matter further; am open to input from my readers.
Believe it or not, I'm still working on my Kim Possible fic's, my Indiana Jones fic, my Jenny Wakeman fic, my Ebenezer Scrooge fic, and my Minerva Mink fic…assuming my various fanons have any readers in common.
I'm as procrastinative with answering reviews as I am with updating stories. But I thank each and every reader who takes the time and trouble to plod through my overblown prose. Y'all rock. Vaya con Dios.