Belle entered the tavern to find the prince and Gaston locked in a game of cards, each staring intently at each other as though they were wordlessly calling one another's bluff. The door shut behind her, the noise causing Gaston to look up. The prince, however, did not break his gaze to acknowledge Belle's presence.
Gaston was irritated to see that Belle looked as beautiful as ever, more so even. The pretty brunette had her hair piled on top of her head in a sophisticated upsweep, the usual unruly strands that typically escaped her hair style were now curled and framing her heart-shaped face. Liner had been used to accentuate the lovely shape of her eyes, and a small amount of rouge had been applied to her full mouth, but beyond this she wore no make-up. Her flawless skin needed no powder, and she all but glowed in the candle light of the tavern. Her dress was made out of satin, a shimmering mauve that brought out the rosiness in her complexion and lips.
Everyone stared, even the tavern wenches, in a state of reluctant awe. The prince, however, with his back to the entrance where Belle stood, easily continued to ignore her.
"Your majesty, the mademoiselle has-" Cogsworth began, shuffling up timidly to the prince's side. The prince interrupted him with a gesture, and continued to consider his cards. The servant retreated, seeming to Belle to be thoroughly cowed by the prince.
"Will you place your bet? Or do you need to excuse yourself to the privy for a moment to release some frustration so you can concentrate on the game?" the prince mocked, watching Gaston visually undress Belle. The other men in the tavern laughed, and Gaston tore his eyes away from Belle to glare down at his cards.
"I raise you," Gaston grumbled, tossing some coins into the middle of the table. The prince's face remained impassive. Belle smoothed her skirts, remaining silent. Standing directly behind the prince, she could clearly see the prince's hand. It was strong but beatable. As she considered the game she honestly had no idea which of the arrogant men she would prefer to win this hand.
"You don't know when to quit," the prince said, tossing gold coins onto the table the way a cook might throw beans into a kettle.
Gaston's mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. He laid his cards on the table and then leaned back in his chair, thoroughly satisfied. A full moment of tense silence passed, as everyone in the tavern watched and waited. Even Belle found herself far more interested in the outcome that she would have liked to be. The prince laid his cards on the table and Gaston broke into arrogant laughter, seemingly unable to contain himself as the prince pushed the pile of coins toward the tavern owner in defeat. The prince took another swig of whiskey as Gaston began to rise from his seat, victorious.
"Are you going somewhere?" the prince asked impetuously, his tone challenging, causing Gaston to freeze.
"Our game is finished," Gaston told the prince, gesturing to the now exposed cards laying on the table. Now it was the prince's turn to smirk.
"Our game," the prince said, retrieving more coins and placing them decisively on the table, "Is not finished until I say it is."
"You…request a rematch?" Gaston asked uncertainly, his tone quavering slightly from the effort it took to restrain himself.
"No," the prince replied coolly, "I demand a rematch."
Gaston remained frozen in place, half standing, half sitting, his expression visibly irate. The prince seemed to enjoy this, and sat at his ease in his own chair, his posture unburdened, his expression cocky. A beat passed between them, and the prince rose from his seat to stand over Gaston.
"Sit." The prince ordered, "Now."
Gaston glared into the prince's face. It took all of his considerable strength not to strike his emminence. The tavern wenches and bar patrons looked on in fear and apprehension, the atmosphere as taught as a lion's haunches just before it leaps to make its kill. Setting his prominent jaw, Gaston lowered himself back into his chair. The prince eased back into his own seat.
"That's better," he said, as he began to shuffle the cards.
"Master?" the rotund servant meekly inquired.
"What?" the prince snapped as he dealt the cards.
"Since it seems you intend to engage the Monsieur at playing cards for quite some time, would it not be appropriate to invite the mademoiselle to sit?" the servant asked, twisting his hands in anxiety behind his back as he spoke. The prince stopped dealing the cards to look over his shoulder at the servant. His eyes shifted to Belle, and his hardened expression softened momentarily as he beheld her. So he had not overestimated her beauty after all, and though he had seen his share of attractive women, he was momentarily stunned by her. He quickly regained his composure, however, and his expression reclaimed it impenetrability.
"No," the prince stated flatly, meeting Belle's gaze, "She kept me waiting. Let her stand until we are finished."
Belle raised her chin slightly in defiance, resolving to remain rooted to the spot, to not so much as shift her weight. After all, Gaston was eyeing her smugly, and she would give neither him nor the prince the satisfaction of watching her squirm. The prince turned back to the game, please with his ability to exercise his royal might over these peasants.
The men returned to their games and their drinking, each winning some hands but losing others, determined to prove their skill and luck to the other. Gaston appeared entirely consumed with showing the prince his superiority, at least at cards. The prince was thoroughly committed to humiliating Gaston as completely as possible. And so their games continued as the day travelled diligently from early afternoon to evening. Belle looked on, ignoring the cramping in her legs as she stood for hours. Why had she come dressed so finely to watch what was essentially a pissing contest between two men she loathed? If only she could deal herself in and beat them both at their own childish game. As she watched, she found them both to be fearless when it came to bluffing and betting, but the men had no ability to bide their time and cultivate a strategy. She'd be damned, though, if she were to step in to help either of them and so they played on, winning and losing at fairly equal turns while she mentally corrected the men's foolhardy plays.
When the light of day had sank beneath the covers of the horizon, and the candles lay low in their cradles of tallow, the prince at last seemed to gain the upper hand. He had won the last few rounds in a row, and Gaston was fast running out of gold with which to bet.
"You'll have to fold," the prince remarked, looking pointedly at the bare table beside Gaston that had once bore his winnings.
"I don't fold," Gaston told the price, his muscular arms crossed, his face arranged into a scowl.
"You have no bet to place," the prince explained, in a patronizing tone, "Gambling is a game that requires a wager." Gaston scowled, then began looking around for anything that he could offer as a bet.
Gaston stood up, pacing the floor of his tavern. He grabbed one of his blonde tavern wenches by the waist and pushed her toward the table.
"A night with this one," Gaston, thrusting her toward the prince. The prince raised his eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, and Gaston added, "A night with her and her sisters."
"Do you honestly think I need to win a bet to spend a night with her or her sisters?" the prince retorted. Gaston scowled and pushed the young woman away roughly.
"As much free whiskey as you like?" Gaston offered.
"I already have as much free whiskey as I like from the finest distilleries in Europe," the prince replied, "Fold."
"My tavern," Gaston said suddenly. The prince raised his eyebrows in surprise. The patrons in the tavern began muttering, looking at each other and to Gaston in surprise.
"Gaston you can't!" Lefou exclaimed, running to Gaston's side, "If you lose you'll—"
"I won't lose," Gaston said resolutely, pushing the little man to the side with such force he stumbled into a nearby table and chairs, "But, if I win, that's it. Our game is over. No rematches."
The prince considered this deal for a moment, his blue eyes calculating. Then he held out his hand and he and Gaston shook on the deal.
"Done," the prince proclaimed, laying down his cards. Gaston's eyes widened in disbelief, then his face fell and for a moment Belle was moved to pity him.
"No," he said, "No, it-it can't be."
The prince said nothing, sitting in mock civility like a parent waiting for their child to finish tantruming.
"Please, sir, you can't be serious. Mercy! Mercy your grace! I did not want to keep playing! You made me, you forced me. Please your highness, you can't take the tavern from me, it's all I have. Without it I'm nothing, please," Gaston pleaded, his voice frantic, falling on his knees before the prince.
"You embarrass yourself," the prince said coldly. "It is not my mercy you need but a lesson in humility. Any idiot understands that when you play a game with your social betters, you let them win. No, you sir have far too high an estimation of yourself."
"But I—please, please your highness, I have nothing. No lands, no titles, only this, I'll be out on the street," Gaston continued to beg.
"Might you not consider letting Gaston continue to manage the place, at least?" Belle said, stepping up to the prince's side. She did not quite understand why she felt the need to cushion Gaston's fall from grace, only that she found the prince's toughness unbearable. The prince looked at her, almost amused.
"Very well," the prince said, "Thank the woman for your new position as tavern wench in this establishment."
Gaston looked from Belle to the prince, suddenly wondering if they were in on this humiliation together. Certainly it made sense, why Belle had rejected him, why the prince had humiliated him in town and now in his own tavern.
"Sir this woman is not worthy of your affections," Gaston said, "She harbors treasonous ideas about the crown, sir, she is probably colluding with revolutionaries who want your head on a silver plate!"
Belle looked at Gaston with shock and anger. She had just tried to save Gaston's ability to make a living for himself and he repaid her by telling the prince he should probably have her beheaded as a revolutionary. How was it exactly that she had managed to get herself in so much trouble over the course of the last few days?
"You're drunk," the prince spat, turning to his men he said, "Guards, remove him."
Belle watched as three guards tackled the muscular man, who put up an admirable fight, especially given his inebriated condition. Eventually, however, the guards were successful in dragging him out of the tavern, and he shouted and kicked furniture over as he went. The prince watched him, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. He basked for a moment in his total triumph over the tavern owner, then remembered the mademoiselle.
"You may sit now," the prince told Belle, gesturing magnanimously to the now empty chair across from him.
"No thank you," Belle replied, though her feet ached, "I'll stand."
"Come,"the prince said, chuckling, "Sit with me. It's a great honor, you know, to sit at the same table as a prince."
"An honor I clearly do not deserve," Belle said.
"Please mademoiselle," said the portly servant, coming around to the table and pulling out a chair, "It pains me to watch you stand any longer. Will not you not put me at ease and sit with his grace?"
Belle looked at the servant and felt quite taken with his earnest expression. She wanted to hold her ground against the prince, but could not quite bring herself to spurn the servant's request.
"If it so pleases you," Belle demurred, sweeping up to the table and descending gracefully into the chair, smoothing her skirts around her. The prince looked her over, his expression slightly calculating. Up close, in the candle light, she was nearly irresistible. He had lost count of the number of drinks he'd had, and was finding it very difficult indeed to deny his attraction to the comely commoner. How could a peasant be so perfect physically, so charming in her graces? Though her rebellious spirit made him want to treat her roughly, something else held him back. He felt like a destructive child who stops short of ripping the wings off a butterfly. He had no difficulty, as someone very powerful, being cruel to those who were weak, helpless even. Those on top were fewer than those on the bottom of society. Those on top stayed on top because their force of will was mightier than the bottom's show of numbers. And yet, there was something in this woman that made him…hesitate.
"Bring the mademoiselle some wine," the prince ordered.
"Thank you your highness," Belle responded, "But I am not thirsty."
"Water is for thirst," the prince told her, "I asked for wine."
"No thank you, your grace," Belle said quietly, looking down at the table, smoothing her hair back from her brow.
"Drink." The prince commanded. One of the blonde women came and stood at Belle's side with a tray, upon which stood a half full glass of wine. Belle glanced up at the glass, and then looked back to the prince. His expression was set, it was clear he had given her an order. Belle locked eyes with him, and reached for the bottle of whiskey. She poured the liquid into the empty shot glass nearest her, setting the bottle firmly down on the table between them. The prince watched her, and she looked back at him, defiant but also a little mischievous. She raised the shot glass to her lips and tilted her head back to drain it in one gulp before slamming it back down on the table. She met his gaze again and raised an eyebrow, almost as if to dare him.
The prince blinked and straightened his posture. He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, a number of different feelings wrestling for dominance within him. He did not know whether to laugh, punish her, or kiss her. She was still looking at him, captivating hazel eyes sparkling. Damn her. He would not allow her the upper hand. He pulled the whiskey bottle toward himself and slowly poured himself a drink.
"So," he said slowly, swilling the liquid in his glass, "I have decided what it is I am going to do with you."
Belle waited, saying nothing. It seemed best to remain silent so as not to irk him further. She found it difficult to gauge the prince's personality accurately. Certainly he was no Prince Charming, but to what lengths his cruelty could go, she did not know. It was not easy to tell, between the prince and Gaston, who was the lesser evil. She was so grateful that her father was away at the fair, out of both the prince's and Gaston's path, and did not have to deal with all this trouble.
"As I've said," the prince continued, "I cannot bear to be kept waiting. I've chosen you to serve me in completing this project of mine, yet you seem incapable of obeying even the simplest order on your own. The thing to do, then, is to teach you how to serve me better."
"And how do you intend to teach me, your highness?" Belle asked, her tone even, "Whip me, strike me, flog me?"
"And risk marring that beauty of yours?" the prince responded, "I'm a superficial man, I could never bring myself to such a transgression."
"What then?" Belle pressed, finding she was not as frightened as she probably ought to be.
"You will stay in my castle where you can better carry out my instructions," the prince told her.
"And I will be free to come and go as I please?" Belle asked.
"Of course not," the prince snapped, "I need you to be there when I need you."
"I believe I have recently rejected a similar proposal from a similar man," Belle replied. She pushed the whiskey bottle out of the way and leaned across the table toward the prince, "No. I'm sorry, I must decline. My father needs me."
The prince smiled at her coldly and sighed deeply. He had expected her to refuse. It was true, he was prone to being hot headed and making rash decisions. This time, however, he had come prepared.
"I've been very…curious about you, you know," the prince said, looking her up and down slowly, his eyes lingering at her neckline before he slowly brought them back up to her face, "My status leaves me in a unique position to discover information about people, as I'm sure you can imagine."
"If this is about what I read, I-" Belle began, but the prince slammed his fist down on the table to silence her.
"I don't give a damn what you read," the prince countered, "I, however, have been doing some very interesting reading indeed, Belle Desjardins."
"I don't recall giving you my name," Belle said, now becoming anxious as to where this was all leading.
"I never asked for it, not from you anyway," the prince said coldly. He hesitated to consider her and saw the apprehension in her face. Pleased with himself, he continued, "You know, it's funny you should mention your father a few moments ago. Maurice Desjardins. Yes, I've come across his name as well. As it turns out, he owes an outstanding amount of taxes to the crown."
"Please," Belle began to plead, "Not my father. Leave him out of this. Let me pay off the debt, I'll work day and night, I'll sell my body if I have to, just please, please leave him alone. He's been through enough."
"I could have my men track him down tonight and toss him into the filthiest debtor's prison in France," the prince said slowly, his words a poison he forced Belle to swallow. He did not need to wait long to see them have their effect. Belle sprang from her chair and threw herself at the prince's feet. She was frantic now, how could she have endangered her father so? She would never forgive herself for her recklessness.
"No! Please, I'll do anything! Please! Grant us mercy your grace! Punish me but please spare my father," Belle pleaded, beginning to weep. The prince glared down at her, but for a moment did not speak. She continued to sob, a sound that he found he did not enjoy in the least. He raised his hand reflexively to retrieve a handkerchief from his breast pocket to give to the girl, but he stopped himself.
"You agree to come to the castle then?" the prince asked, his voice nearly soft. Belle looked up and wiped the tears from her face, her breath still catching in her throat.
"If I do, will you let him go?" Belle asked. Perhaps the whiskey had left his feelings exposed, but as he looked down into Belle's sweet heart-shaped face he found himself moved by the girl's bravery and innocence. She knelt as his feet, such a lovely creature, and for an instant he regretted putting her in such a position.
"Yes," he told her, "His debts will be forgiven."
Belle looked away, thinking this over. Her freedom was what she wanted more than anything in the world. But she had made a promise. Her mother, knowing she would die, had made a request of the father and daughter she was leaving behind. "Take care of each other," she had told them. It was her last wish, and Belle and Maurice had agreed. Belle was a young woman now, and her father was increasingly unable to take care of himself, let alone her. It was time for Belle to step into the space her mother left in the family and be the responsible adult that took care of everyone. Belle swallowed hard, digesting the bitter pill of what needed to be done.
"Very well," Belle told the prince, "I will come to the castle."
"Ready the horses," the prince ordered the servants, standing suddenly, preparing to go.
"Wait!" Belle exclaimed, rising disoriented by the rapid turn of events, "I've had no time to prepare! Who will look after my cottage, see to the animals? Can we not wait until my father has come home? So I can say goodbye at least?"
"We leave now," the prince snapped, "Your cottage and your father are no longer your concern."
"But please, I must see to everything, I can't just leave in the middle of the night!" Belle protested.
"You will come with me now!" the prince thundered, "Don't make me have the guards drag you."
Belle opened her mouth to again protest, but saw ice that would not be melted when she looked into the prince's blue eyes. She also feared pushing the prince, he could at any moment decide to renege on their deal and imprison her father after all. Maurice was far too old and vulnerable to survive the likes of prison, she would not endanger his welfare any further. Resigning herself stoically to her fate, she hung her head as tears slid silently down her cheeks. The prince donned his cloak and motioned to his servants. He finished his drink and then strode out of the tavern, and she followed him into the night.
As they approached the carriage, the prince stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. A breeze fluttered Belle's skirts, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Her sweet face looked so unbearably sad, the moon tracing the course of her tears with silver fingers. Startled at his own inability to withstand her distress, he approached her. Wordlessly, he unbuttoned his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him, pleasantly surprised but not quite grateful. He reached for his handkerchief, wanting to dry the tears from her face himself, but held it out to her instead. She took it, watching him suspiciously, and slowly wiped her eyes. He turned on his heel and continued his walk to the carriage. Servants opened the doors for him, and he stopped and motioned for Belle to go in first. She dutifully climbed in and sat herself, and he followed, the servants shutting the doors after them. As the carriage rattled down the road, Belle pulled the cloak tighter around her as though to protect herself, and turned to look out of the back window to watch her little town recede into the distance.