Belle reluctantly led the prince through the town, giving what details she could about the largely unremarkable village. The prince followed her, asking very few questions, his footsteps heavy on the dirt roads with disgust. He wondered how often he would have to visit this mud pit to appease his father.
"And over there is the tannery," Belle said, gesturing to a large building to the left. The prince gave the building a passing glance and continued walking.
"And here we have the smithy," Belle continued, "Our smith is quite good, would you like to go inside to see some of his work?"
"Maybe some other time," the prince muttered disinterestedly, adjusting the cuffs on his jacket.
"Perhaps this tour would be improved if you were more specific on what is you're looking for?" Belle said, surprised at her own irritation with the prince's obvious abhorrence with the town. It wasn't some sense of misplaced small town pride, she was well aware that the village was hardly a thrilling destination. In fact, she was a few unwanted advances from overbearing townsmen away from being downright cynical about the place. Still and all, the prince could at least be polite and feign a little interest.
"When I discover it you shall be the first to know," the prince responded, looking around himself with an expression of hopelessness. Belle couldn't help but wonder what his life was like, what places he had seen, what experiences he had enjoyed. Surely a life such as his was filled with adventure.
"I'm certain you have been to far more exciting destinations than our small town," Belle said.
"Yes," the prince responded brusquely.
"Then it must please you to see how much good your charity will do here," Belle replied. The prince paused to look at her and found her expression both sweet and a little defiant. He didn't quite know what to make of it, or of her for that matter. He raised his eyebrows and grunted in response. They continued to walk in silence, seemingly unaware that the entire town was following and watching from several yards behind them.
"Why don't you just tell me what you think the town needs so I can send some money and people to see it through and be done." the prince said suddenly.
"Well, I don't know," Belle said, smoothing back a stray hair from her brow, "I wouldn't presume to speak for the entire town."
The prince turned on his heel and pinned her with his blue eyes. They were so brilliant and intense that Belle felt the need to look away, as though she had been looking at the sun. He considered this girl standing before him. She couldn't be more than 18, and yet there was something about her, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself, that made her seem wise beyond her years. If she had any awareness of her beauty she didn't show it, and walked through the town as if she truly was more interested in talking about the history of the mill than in the appreciative looks she garnered from all the men around her. He really couldn't care less what the peasants in this town wanted, as though there were anything he could do to make their lives less dull and meager. He was, despite himself, mildly interested in what this beautiful young woman wanted.
"My father, your Dauphin, is insisting upon my generosity," the prince told her, "So consider this your lucky day. Name something you want, anything, and I'll make your dream come true."
"I doubt my dreams are something which can be realized through a public works project. But I'm sure the town will appreciate your generosity." Belle asked, feeling fatigued at the preponderance of arrogant men who felt they could waltz into her life and fulfill all her wishes as though her one burning desire was to fall into the arms of a man and live a life of subservient gratitude.
The prince blinked, caught off guard by her response. It was difficult to determine by her tone and demeanor, her choice of words, if she was defying him or not. He was baffled at her lack of gratitude. If he had told a princess that he was prepared to make her dream come true, she would have been needed a fainting couch for the swooning! And here, this peasant, felt it was her right to rebuff him? Let her rot here in the pig manure of this God forsaken town then, what was it to him? He hesitated, unsure of how to respond and increasingly irritated that he did not know how to respond.
"Do you know who I am?" the prince finally asked impetuously, his go to response for when he was unsure of how to handle a situation.
"Prince Adam Auguste de Bourbon," Belle answered evenly.
"That's correct, a man, a prince, a fils de France, the son of a dauphin and your superior in every possible way," the prince retorted. He considered this girl, this peasant, and decided she was far too proud for her own good, too clever, too impudent. He waited for a response, but she merely looked up at him, her pretty face impassive.
"Kneel," the prince commanded suddenly, pointing to the ground just in front of him. Belle held his gaze for a few seconds shy of impertinence, then gracefully sank to the ground, tilting her head downward reverently, allowing the prince to fully appreciate the arch of her graceful neck. The prince glared down at her, but was taken aback by how dignified she looked even as she knelt in the dirt before him. Seeing her this way did not vindicate his authority in the way he hoped, much to his annoyance.
"Rise," he snapped, and just as gracefully Belle pulled herself up to her full height, but her eyes remained downward. He found that he wanted her to look at him, that he found her hazel eyes captivating despite himself. This irritated him all the more. He had seen so many beautiful women, what made her so different?
"Why do you not simply tell me what you want?" the prince demanded, "Why must you be so difficult?"
"There are many works that would benefit this town, your highness," Belle told him, her gaze still settled on the ground, "Better roads, more medicines, repairs to the school. I would be happy to discuss them with you, but you need not trouble yourself with my personal needs."
"I could have you whipped until you become more cooperative," the prince growled through clenched teeth.
"You are a prince, a fils de France. You will do as you must." Belle replied, something slight in her tone suggesting that such an act would be beneath him.
The prince continued to look her over as a breeze toyed with wisps of her chestnut hair, but Belle did not meet his gaze. Like a small child trying to get her attention, the prince reached over and pulled out the book that had been peaking over the top of Belle's apron pocket. As the prince turned it over with mild disgust in his hands, Belle wondered why men felt entitled to grab her and her personal property on a whim.
"Man is born free, but he is everywhere in chains," Prince Adam read from the first page. His cerulean eyes lifted from the page and he looked momentarily thoughtful. The words echoed within him, the meaning reverberating in chambers of his mind where he kept his most personal feelings of pain, frustration, longing, a place within him he rarely visited and never explored.
Belle looked down, twisting her hands nervously. Leave it to her to have a distinctly anti-authoritarian book in her apron pocket the day she gives a prince the tour of her town. He could have her imprisoned, or worse yet, her father imprisoned. At the very least he could fine her father, something they could ill-afford. Belle resolved inwardly to beg the prince to punish only her and leave her father out of it. She prayed he would be merciful enough to at least grant that much.
"Monsieur Rousseau," Prince Adam commented, closing the book and examining the cover. He had not read any of his works, but had heard his father grumble enough times about him to know that the author harbored some incendiary ideas about the nobility and the crown.
"Yes, your highness," Belle responded. Adam looked at her and found that the imperturbable calm of her beautiful expression was for the moment disturbed. He then looked back at the book, still thinking. He had a temper, and he felt as though he should be angry to find anti-royal vitriol in the pocket of a peasant, a female peasant no less. And yet, to his surprise, he found himself more amused than anything. Indeed the absurdity of the situation was getting the better of him, and he was finding it difficult not to laugh. Of, course he remained composed.
"Are you in the habit of reading treasonous material Mademoiselle?" the prince asked, sharpening his tone into an accusation.
"I am in the habit of reading everything I can get my hands on," Belle responded, still looking down.
"You are, are you?" the prince responded, "Might your time be better spent reading something that does not advocate for dismantling the bedrock of civilization? Fairy tales perhaps?"
"One might argue that The Social Contract by Rousseau is a kind of fairy tale," Belle responded. Adam raised his thick eyebrows, surprised. She was smart, very smart even.
"Look at me," he demanded, and with reluctance Belle raised her eyes to meet his. He searched her face, the air as tense as violin strings around them. He found he was far more satisfied by her looking in his eyes than he was by her kneeling at his feet. This confused him, and annoyed him as much as it pleased him. He took a deep breath, tired, disoriented, ready to leave this place.
"I will return in a few days' time to continue to discuss a project for this town," the prince told her, "I trust you will be available?"
"I live here, your highness," Belle responded.
"I am confiscating this," Adam said, holding up her book, "Certainly you can find more suitable books to read."
Adam motioned for his men to bring his horse, and Belle waited for the rest of her punishment. It was only when he mounted his horse, bid the town a terse 'good day' and rode off that she allowed herself to hope that none would be forthcoming. As she walked back to her cottage, disoriented by the unexpected turn of the day, she wondered if her papa had made his trip safely. She jiggled the latch on her door and stopped in the doorway, seized by an unpleasant thought. What if she were on a kind of trial, and the prince meant to watch her during his time in the town? What if he meant to arrest her and her father when she least expected it? She shook her head as though to rid herself of such paranoid thoughts. Would that her life were free of domineering men, she wished as she grabbed a pail with which to feed the livestock. Would that she had not only been borne free, as Rousseau asserted, but was allowed to stay that way.