PART TWO
Dull, yellowed sunlight poured through the horn panes of Gaston's bedroom. He could not keep clear glass windows, for too many eager eyes would set upon them, seeking a glimpse of the magnificent form on the other side. These sheer strips of animal horn, arranged in rows, proffered him some protection from the usual crowd who wanted to stare at his admittedly awe-inspiring body. Even with his room situated on the upper floor of his house, those who yearned to see him found their ways. Sometimes it was girls outside with telescopes. Sometimes men of a certain taste would crawl up on the windows and peep in. Sometimes people would devise idiotic schemes of blackmail to compel his cooperation with their twisted fantasies, which normally cost them their teeth when Gaston invariably let his fists make his answer.
The sad thing was, this went on so much that it all seemed downright normal to him.
He stretched as he rose, and went straight to his mirror to gaze upon the face that launched so much chaos in the streets. He looked tolerable, given he was straight out of bed. When Gaston finished shaving, brushing his teeth, straightening his hair, washing his face, applying his lotions and creams and dusting himself with his favorite perfume powder, he looked again and smiled proudly: now there was the stunner he wanted to see. He winked at himself.
After the final approval, he dressed. This day was feeling fairly warm; he selected a rose red short-sleeved shirt with a gold-colored collar.
All abloom, he opened the bedroom door to see his cousin coming down the hallway. Those who were drawn to Gaston by lust, shied away when it seemed the small and unattractive LeFou was going to have to be included in their plans. The little mandrake was the first line of defense against the unceasing tide of perverts all around him.
"I'm heading downstairs," said the haggard LeFou, rubbing his sleepy, dark-rimmed eyes. "I heard the cart while I was asleep. Woke me from a dream about going downstairs for eggs, which made things pretty confusing for a minute there."
Gaston had a standing order with a local farmer for sixty eggs a day, delivered to him each morning. He needed them in order to maintain his size — he had a theory that they were better nourishment than meat because they were the substance that animals were formed out of, and might be forming his muscles likewise.
Actually the theory was originally Limey Bastard's, since he was the smart one in the social group — but Gaston had adopted it as his own.
Whilst LeFou collected the downstairs egg delivery, Gaston headed for the kitchen. He didn't relish eating eggs — in fact he disliked them so much that he often swallowed them in-shell to avoid the taste. He considered them simply medicinal — a penance to punish himself for those days when he was small and weak and stupid. His real breakfast was the same fare as the rest of the villagers took: a nip of wine or a swig of brandy with stale bread, the customary morning reprieve.
As Gaston was about to sip his fresh-poured brandy, he perceived from downstairs the sound of LeFou crying out for help. Annoyed, he put down his cup and went to investigate the source of the commotion.
He discovered, in the doorway, LeFou being savaged by a herd of enormous pigs. An old farmer in the street was trying to call and command his out of control livestock into order.
Gaston sprang to action, tossing and kicking huge spotted pigs out of his way. He also grabbed and tossed LeFou out of the way — he wasn't concerned about his cousin so much as he was the shipment of eggs. He located the wooden À Marat style box near the doorstep, with two of the filthy swine shoving their extra-filthy snouts into it. Clearing them aside, Gaston observed in horror what was left of his delivery. He hurriedly snatched up the crate and brought it inside.
Bright yellow yolks ran through the cracks in slimy strings. The crate had barely enough eggs left to make an omelette.
Gaston mentally lamented living in a town so rural it was practically a barnyard — but a barnyard would at least have some human supervision, unlike this animal infested shithole. He returned to the door, kicking another pig out of the way and sending it flying like a football. With his long arms he reached into the melée and seized upon LeFou, plucking him up into the safety of the house. He then gave a few choice words to the swineherd before slamming his front door shut.
"Thanks Gaston," said LeFou, dusting himself off and unheeding that his cousin could have rescued him much sooner. "Those pigs were about to trample me into slop."
"Too late for that," muttered Gaston as he hurried upstairs with an air of angry determination. LeFou automatically raced after him.
The seven-foot pompadoured rock ripped his rifle from its stud on the wall. He tore open the front window, spying the porcine pedestrians below. He fired upon them repeatedly. His rifle was of an unusual style, able to bang out three shots in succession — highly atypical; for most guns of his era could only knock off one shot before being reloaded. His was an original piece, procured at great expense. A trophy weapon to be sure; but every bullet spilled hit its mark.
Three massive dead pigs were left in the street, to the consternation of the swineherd who had no way to move them by himself.
Gaston, out of both bullets and fury, closed the window. He was vindicated, but his brow remained furrowed in aggravation.
"They ate all my eggs!" he seethed, replacing the gun on its stud.
LeFou gulped in concern. Gaston was not good company if he missed his morning eggs. "Maybe you could skip a day…?" he offered, yet knowing the helpful suggestion would be futile. Gaston took his advice about as well as those pigs did.
"Skip a day!" Gaston echoed in abject horror. He yanked LeFou up by his collar. "And 'why go to the latrine when my pants are right here?' A slippery slope, LeFou. If I start skipping eggs, I'm going to be getting my ass kicked by those — whatever they are, out there," he cried.
"I think most people call them 'people,' Gaston."
Gaston shot LeFou with a shut the fuck up glare, then raced from the house, dragging his cousin with him.
Scrounging up sixty eggs in a pint-sized, rustic town like theirs was no small feat. Both men's combined efforts would be needed to snatch up what remained — and they had to do it fast as possible.
Soon Gaston and LeFou were at the village market. Half an hour after that, the pair had forty-four eggs between them, which number — it was determined after some argument — was still less than sixty.
"We have to find more," said Gaston, collecting the haul into one basket. "Some of the houses around here keep hens. They'd sell a few spares."
"But we don't have time for that," said LeFou urgently. "Remember, Chaucier's funeral is today? I told his kids I would help squeeze him into that old suit he insisted on being buried in. I already bought the tub of lard to grease him up."
Gaston rolled his eyes. "And I'm sure the maggots will appreciate his being buttered up with extra dressing." He sighed in aggravation. "Alright, go do whatever you have to. I'm going hunting for the rest of the eggs."
LeFou conferred a cheery farewell wave. "Happy Easter," he said.
Gaston sneered resentfully, and contemplated whacking LeFou, but deemed it too risky while carrying something as fragile as his precious eggs. He moved along on his new errand alone.
The houses in the town center didn't usually have enough yard for keeping livestock; Gaston made his way to the outskirts of the village, where there were more gardens and farmland. The stout and plain Widow Artagnan gave him a few eggs as well as a few choice words inviting him into the house, the latter of which he refused — for Gaston had rebuffed that woman's advances often enough to know an invitation into the house really meant bedroom. Afterward, he crossed paths with an elderly couple, their skin resembling dried leather from years farming under the relentless sun. They possessed a few eggs, and although the price they demanded bordered on extortion, Gaston's need far surpassed his concern for dwindling funds.
If he could just get five more he'd have enough for his daily ritual, and there'd be no more need to fear that his muscles could atrophy by noontime.
Nestled amongst the landscape, there stood a quaint cottage adorned with a water wheel. In the distance, Gaston could make out a handful of chickens leisurely foraging on the porch. He strained his memory, attempting to recall the occupants of this humble abode…
Ah yes. It was the inventor who blew himself up all the time. His name was something like Marcel, or perhaps Maurice. He had seen the rotund, elderly fellow loitering around town on numerous occasions. He struck Gaston as the type who might part with a few eggs if he happened to have any to spare.
Gaston's colossal frame thumped up the L-shaped stairwell leading to the cottage's door, making every effort to exude maximum masculinity with his wicker basket of eggs gripped firmly. He raised his massive knuckles and delivered three resounding knocks.
A pause hung in the air, then the door creaked open.
The first thing Gaston noticed was the hairline; a widow's peak, tied back into a ponytail somewhat like his own, but the hair was of a soft brown shade.
Instead of the old man he expected, there was a young woman standing before him.
"Hello?" she said politely, though her tone betraying some uncertainty.
Gaston noticed that her skin was absolutely perfect. No sunspots, no acne scars, no large pores, nor marks of smallpox nor leprosy nor syphilis. It was a rarity in these parts, skin that was genuinely pleasant to behold — unless it was on a taxidermy.
"…Can I help you with something?" she urged, after the lengthy pause that followed her greeting.
Gaston suddenly remembered his purpose. "Ah… Hello," he coughed. He was baffled for a moment. It was rare for Gaston to be tongue tied — he usually didn't care enough about what others thought of him to worry over something like words. But there was something different about this interaction. He wasn't sure what it was, but he could feel something different. Something new. Like an aria just composed.
This image is the best I've seen,
The like of her has never been.
I feel it, how such looks divine
Stir something new in this heart of mine.
I know no term yet for this yearning,
Yet I feel it up inside me, burning.
Might this affection be amour?
Indeed! I'm feeling love for sure.
Oh, could I find myself beside her!
Oh, could I no more be denied her!
I'd like to — like to — all my heart —
What would I do? Knowing pleasure, I shall seize her,
And hard against my body squeeze her,
And then we'll never be apart.
"The market is out of eggs," he finally said, feeling a bizarre surge in his bloodflow that seemed to choke him. "I'm trying to get a few more. I saw the chickens outside. Do you…"
God, her eyes were enormous; but not in that bulging, sickly way one often saw from thyroid disease. Just big, bright and beautiful orbs; a pair of gems that sparkled with life.
"Do I…" she urged with a kindly impatience.
"Do you have any eggs to sell?" he finished, yelling over the pounding of his own heart.
The girl looked him over, and her gaze landed with curiosity upon the basket he was holding. "You really need more eggs? It looks like you've enough to feed an army."
Gaston smiled and puffed up a bit. "I need to eat quite a few to maintain my impressive size," he said, thumping his fist on his chest. He could feel that he was lightly sweating. It was very strange. "Is it hot out here, or is it just me?" he said genuinely. His shirt was beginning to stick to him.
Belle's skeptical eyes crawled across him. She considered whether this was some kind of con. Gaston noticed the path of her gaze; he was accustomed to this sort of examination. It normally signaled attraction. He normally hated it. Normally.
"I'm Gaston," he abruptly said, realizing he had no introduction to this strangely entrancing creature before him.
"Pleased to meet you," she replied in an automatic way. "I'm Belle." She hesitated for another moment, then stepped back from the doorway. "Come in," she said at last, conceding that he was telling her the truth. "I'll see whether the hens have anything."
Gaston followed her into the house, though a second later it was apparent that she had simply needed him to clear his hulking figure from the doorway so she could get outside. He was left standing alone in the front room, his keen eyes taking in the surroundings.
He found himself within a cheerful, cute, domestic sort of cottage, slightly shabby but surely not screaming with poverty. It exuded a homely atmosphere that reminded him of how his mother used to decorate their family home. He noticed a sweet scent in the air: in the fireplace was a small cauldron of honeyed oatmeal, perfuming the home with a delicious fragrance. He didn't usually eat oatmeal but he now wondered if he might be able to join this dainty breakfast.
Belle was such a perfect name for a girl like that. It meant beauty in their language. Gaston pondered why he hadn't crossed paths with her before, with those striking looks bound to turn heads. As he ruminated, he suddenly realized he had glimpsed her around town now and then. She had arrived with her father when she was about ten years old, back then just another gangly child with a mix of adult and baby teeth crowding her thin, unremarkable mouth. At that time, Gaston had been eight years her senior, and he hadn't viewed her as a peer — till today. It was evidently the first time he had observed her in full bloom. And what an impression she was making! She had grown into something charmingly odd… a je ne sais quoi to her, intensely appealing to him. He could not recall ever seeing someone else like her. And there was no doubt at all that he had never reacted like this to anyone else.
He simply didn't experience attraction to others. The feeling was entirely new. And it was a good feeling… a desirable feeling… something he wanted to feel again…
Soon the little charmer returned, her apron wrapped about a few dirty, sticky eggs, freshly snatched from their mother's nests. "We have four," she declared.
Gaston had hoped for five, but somehow he now ceased to care if it was five or four or none at all. Belle approached him, coming very close — a kiss? No, no. Disappointed, he realized her object was only to place the eggs into his basket.
"You can just bring us four more eggs tomorrow, or when the market's replenished," she said sweetly.
Gaston's heart fluttered. "Why — I can do better than eggs. I'm a hunter! I'll bring you a whole roast goose — a flock of them, if you like."
Belle smiled, supposing he was joking. "Well, I suppose a bit of meat would be an upgrade."
Gaston resolved to bring her something wonderful. Something that would set the bar for the marvels he could offer to an astonishing creature such as this. He was suddenly very aware of his heart blasting the most rapid rhythms, though he hadn't done anything strenuous in the last few moments. It was a feeling he normally only got from hunting, when he'd lay in wait and see his prey coming towards him. He raised a hand to his chest in surprise, and noticed that he was out of breath.
"So, I hope you enjoy your eggs," said Belle, amiably enough. She was expecting him to be on his way.
"Ah…" he pulled his wits about him. "It's not about the enjoyment — it's about the results." Gaston then reached into the egg basket and pulled up a few eggs which he began to juggle. He caught them in his mouth — a party trick he'd devised, and which he could carry out with a certain lack of effort. The same instinctive skill it took him to aim his bow or his rifle guided his mouth to the airborne food.
Watching Gaston juggle and then swallow six eggs in a second did make a certain positive impression on Belle, though perhaps not the ardent love he would have hoped to inspire. His clownish behavior amused her, and she could not help but clap in acknowledgement of his feat.
"So what are you, a circus strongman?" asked Belle, with interest.
Gaston smiled confidently. "Well, I own some property; and I have my hands in a couple of businesses," he said hurriedly, knowing this was about as exciting as wanking to a brick wall, "but I really spend the day hunting, or working out." In an instinctive move, he flexed his brawny arms, each length of muscle straining for attention. Surely she was turned on. He would be turned on seeing this. Was there a mirror nearby…?
"Oh, that's right," she answered carelessly. "You said you were a hunter."
Just as Gaston was about to regale her with dazzling accounts of his wild adventures, the front door flew open, and in came a short, stout old man wearing mismatched socks, whom Gaston immediately recognized as Belle's father.
He entered distractedly, muttering to himself. "Confounded machine, you never know when the spring is going to go flying — " Suddenly he perceived there was a visitor in the house. A handsome one. "Oh, I'm sorry, Belle. I didn't realize you had company."
Belle smiled fondly at her father. "This is Gaston, papa. He came to borrow some eggs."
Maurice had often seen Gaston around town; indeed at almost seven feet tall the fellow was hard to miss when he trudged about. "Gaston, yes — I've known you by reputation. You own the tavern, right?"
Maurice wasn't wrong. "Among other things," said Gaston, his tone markedly more frigid than before. He was somewhat miffed by fat old Maurice's intrusion into the beautiful dream he'd been inhabiting. Still, the old man seemed to regard him happily.
"I was going to ask about breakfast," said Maurice to his daughter. "Though perhaps your new friend would like to join us? I wouldn't want to stand in the way of your flirtation."
Belle's mouth twisted into a sudden look of horror. She had not conceived any of her interaction with Gaston to amount to flirtation. The idea that it even seemed that way to anyone, especially her father, was like dumping a bucket of ice water down her bloomers. She didn't want to be so rude as to scream disgust right in front of Gaston himself, but at that very moment, she had an urgent desire to see him out of the house and out of her life.
"Oh, I'm sure Gaston needs to save room for all his eggs — " she began to protest.
But Gaston saw his opportunity. "Join you for breakfast? Love to." He immediately set down his egg basket and made himself comfortable at the little kitchen table.
Belle rolled her hazel eyes — but the himbo was on her father's invitation now. "I'll thin down the oatmeal…" she muttered, not having made enough for three and not wanting to wait around another forty minutes to cook a second batch of the old-style oats.
The result was more of an oat soup than a meal. Still the trio sat and ate, enjoying the simple dish.
Maurice eyed the handsome guest with great interest — indeed, with the somewhat erotic leer to which Gaston was too well accustomed to receive. But Maurice knew that his daughter was growing up fast, and soon enough she would look to be married. A fellow like Gaston seemed like a great prospect for her — not too far up the age ladder, rolling in the dough (practically a billionaire in this village), a man of popularity, and heavens, he looked like the sort who could introduce some excitement into the life of his bookish girl. Belle, on more than one occasion, had grumbled about the dullness of village life and craved the thrill of adventures beyond. Maurice knew that Gaston was one of the few men in town who would be able to fulfill her wish. They were also well-matched in looks. Maurice considered the enjoyment of youth and beauty an indispensable part of young love — and his heart warmed at the thought of Belle and Gaston together as a vibrant young couple.
Belle, on her part, felt a growing sense of mortification. Her father seemed to be dancing the tango of delusion, thinking there was some torrid romance brewing between her and this complete stranger who'd just strolled into her life not half an hour ago. Going through the world with her nose stuck in a book, she had never observed his towering frame before, even when she was out and about. Moreover, the more she was learning about Gaston, the less she liked him. His attempts to show off his best qualities seemed to her like attention whoring, and she caught him more than once staring at his own reflection — a dead giveaway of his obscene vanity. And as if that weren't bad enough, he kept on booting her under the godforsaken undersized table.
At length the breakfast was finished. Maurice had to return to his workshop, explaining that he was in a time crunch — "Can't put anything off. Got to have my invention ready for the fair this week," he said.
Belle sighed with relief. "And I have so many chores to do and errands to run," she said to Gaston with a compelled smile.
"No problem," Gaston answered cheerily. "I have to go hunting for something to return for the eggs. I'll see you again tonight!"
Belle tried to control her facial expression so as not to reveal her revulsion at the promise. Gaston didn't notice it anyway — his view of the world saw only the beautiful, bright symmetry of Belle's countenance, and not the inner feelings betrayed upon it.
…
That evening, Gaston returned to the cottage as he had promised. Over his shoulder was slung the remains of an entire family of deer: daddy stag, mommy doe, and two little baby fawns. Hard to recognize what they were after he'd killed them and cut them up, of course. Once their insides of bone and undesirable organs were cast away, the meat was easy enough for him to carry back to Belle. The lone ornament he retained were the male deer's antlers. He thought she might like them.
Gaston knocked on the door, his heart tap-dancing in his chest, producing an odd symphony of thumps that had him both jittery and wonderfully exhilarated. The anticipation was always a killer.
When he heard someone on the other side fussing with the latch, he impatiently pushed the door open.
"Hi, Belle," he boomed as he almost knocked her backward with the swing of the door. "I brought you some venison. Poached from royal lands, so you know it's fit for the mouths of royalty."
"How nice of you," said a cautious Belle. Her father had told her a bit more about the illustrious Gaston during the day; and she was determined to find out why he held such a prestigious position in town. Yet, after her father's earlier comments, she was wary of doing anything that might be misinterpreted as flirtation.
"Here, let me bring it inside for you," he said, barging into the house.
Belle let him do it; she couldn't have carried that much meat by herself if she wanted.
"I also brought you a present," said the cheery strongman, pulling up the antlers to show her.
"Oh. Antlers. How thoughtful, Gaston," said Belle with an enforced gaiety.
"You can put them on your wall in here," he said sincerely. "Brighten the place up."
"Well, as you see, we don't have much wall space…" answered Belle with an uncomfortable giggle.
"Easy enough. Just take something down," said Gaston. He yanked the first object he saw off of the wall, carelessly tossed it away, and began to arrange the antlers in its place.
Belle leapt to retrieve her grandmothers' Claude Lorrain landscape from the hearth. Now she was more than annoyed. "Gaston, really. Now isn't the time to redecorate. I have to prepare dinner."
"Oh, right," said Gaston. "No problem, I can stay and talk while we wait."
Belle was momentarily puzzled by this answer; then her eyes widened in an amazement verging on horror when she recognized that he simply expected he was invited to dine with them. In a way, it did spark in her a legitimate curiosity about the man: she truly wished to comprehend whether this was hubris or if he was just plain stupid. For this reason alone, she didn't throw him out of the house. One had to be nice to those who were… simple, afterall.
To Gaston's thinking, he had been invited to breakfast, ergo, he was welcome at other meals: the precedent was set. Moreover, being a man who was accustomed to stirring the lust of literally every woman in town (and most of the men, too) it genuinely didn't cross his mind that Belle of all people — the one and only one he was attracted to — should prove immune to his effortless charms.
It was Gaston's very first time playing the courtship game, and he recalled a dozen stories he'd been told by his friends and relatives of how they'd won the girls of their dreams. He looked for echoes of it in everything Belle did throughout the evening —
Ah, yes, this is like when Aunt Georgette started out frigid to Uncle Lucien's charms — and this like when Uncle Jacques had to work so hard to keep the interest of his old flame — and now this is like when Cousin Doon's girl always told him so affectionately to shut up.
Belle chatted uneasily as she chopped the meat and prepared a fricassee, good-naturedly including a portion for Gaston despite her hopes that he would have a change of heart and leave her be. Gaston didn't seem to care much for chitchat about her favorite books, and she could only feign polite interest when he went on about how much weight he could lift, how he could break through buildings by flexing his muscles, and how he had once killed a man and got away with it; none of which she believed despite that, in fact, every word he said was true.
When Maurice ascended from the cellar to check on dinner's progress, he was greeted by Gaston once more, providing Belle with a welcome respite as the two men engaged in conversation. The aging inventor found himself more enamored with Gaston's tales of masculine pursuits than his own daughter ever could have been. In fact, he might have been keener to marry Gaston than Belle ever would have been. Gaston just had something about him that stirred the entrails in most people, and consequently made everything else about him seem so much more forgivable.
Belle set a steaming dish of meat upon the table, and plunged a spoon into it for everyone to serve themselves.
"No bread?" asked Gaston.
Belle shook her head. "Sorry. I didn't make it to the baker's today."
"What were you doing?" asked Gaston, dishing up a very large portion for himself.
"Reading my book," she answered, perturbed. "I had told you before, remember?"
"Belle's a fantastic reader," said Maurice, trying to talk her up. "She can go through a dozen books in a week, easy. She's consumed so many she's going to turn into one! Ha ha!"
Gaston half listened; he was a little puzzled for how to eat his dinner without bread. He was from a household that had not embraced the still-new fashion of using metal utensils; and his bachelor life had been quite designed to limit the number of dirty dishes he would have to encounter. The bread made his usual fork, if indeed he didn't simply gnaw at a hunk of meat straight from the bone. To tackle a fricassee required some gymnastics. He finally just lifted up the dish and, after a moment of knit-browed examination, effectively drank it in a single gulp.
The feat was impressive whether one approved of the etiquette or not. Belle and Maurice both stared at him in disbelief.
"Great job, Belle," said Gaston cheerfully, not perceiving he had done something strange. "That family of deer couldn't have asked to have their muscles fried up any better."
"Umm… you're… welcome?" said Belle, uneasily.
"Yeah, you should have seen them," smiled Gaston, starting to boast. "The two little ones were cute as buttons. Sound asleep when I came up on them — didn't even wake when I bludgeoned their mother twelve feet off. Struck off the first one's head with my hunting knife, one blow — thwack! — and it was hilarious what happened next! The blood from the first one just squirted like a — a — ugh, I probably shouldn't even say it in front of a woman. But it just sprayed the other one in the face and woke it up! You should have seen the look on it! Ha! Then the stupid little thing moved so fast, it impaled itself on my knife blade, right through its eye, and got caught like that, just trying to kick itself off — "
Belle interrupted desperately. "How nice, I always wondered where venison comes from. Now I know." She tossed her napkin over her plate, not intending to eat anymore. "Well, I am stuffed. Papa, are you finished?"
Maurice was old and well past the point of being shocked by the way animals died. "Oh, I've a bit more to finish, sweetheart," he said. "And we don't get nice, fresh meat like this often."
Belle forced herself to smile as she waited out her father's appetite. "So you… like to hunt," she began to Gaston, trying to turn the conversation to something less gruesome. "But don't you run the tavern on the street?"
"I don't run it, but, I am one of the owners," said Gaston. "I was responsible for all the decoration in there. I have to show you the trophy collection — I try to keep a specimen of every kind of animal I've killed…"
Belle hurried to turn him on to something else. "And how do you… style your lovely hair?"
"Oh, that's a pomatum I get from the hairdresser," said Gaston. "He gives it to me for free because he makes it from the fat of all the dead bears I bring him."
Belle tried once more. "And I suppose in addition to the hunting, you do… other types of exercise?"
"Definitely. Can't get biceps like this just from hunting." He flexed his arms, displaying his frighteningly developed muscles. "I sometimes get practice at the churchyard. When they need to dig out the bodies to move to the ossuary, they crush them so they don't take up space. I'll just get a skull and squeeze it between my hands till it crumbles…" He began demonstrating the motion upon an imaginary skull.
"Tell me about your mother," Belle cried, trying to find something that wouldn't become a story of death.
"Oh, well, she's dead."
Maurice, much as he was enjoying his meal, could see that Belle was getting tired out. He cleaned the last of his plate and with a tinge of regret declared, "Well, Gaston, it's been a real pleasure having you over. But I still have a lot of work to do on my invention — got to burn that midnight oil."
"And I have to help him," said Belle with a smile of relief. "He… needs someone to supervise all that burning oil, you know?"
"I understand," said Gaston cheerfully, rising from his seat. "Want me to come by and see you tomorrow?" he asked, in a tone that implied he quite expected a yes.
"Oh, Gaston, I'm afraid not," said Belle apologetically. "We're going to be very busy for the next few days with papa's invention. But, I will let you know when I'm available again," she lied, and began to usher Gaston from the house.
Her action required placing her dainty hands upon the lumbering mass that was Gaston, to push him forward. He shivered happily at the contact of her cool palms upon his arms.
It was not a matter of sowing wild oats or weighing his options. There were no other options to consider. Gaston had never felt an inkling of attraction to anyone else, not once in his entire existence. All the other people in his world, to him, were nothing but savage beasts. Belle, on the other hand, hailed from a different realm altogether. She possessed a beauty so rare that it had the power to draw him out of his emotional slumber. Being near her sparked sensations he hadn't known were within his reach. Just her presence made him feel inexplicably happy. Where could he possibly find another Belle? The idea seemed preposterous. Why would he even entertain the thought that there might be another Belle? Belle was sui generis, uniquely suited to him. If he ever wished to be with someone, it had to be her. But a prize like Belle wouldn't remain in the field for long; he could see that much. Furthermore, he saw no reason why Belle would have any objections to him. The time to strike seemed nigh indeed.
A frigid breeze blasted Gaston as the door swung open. The sky had grown dark with storm clouds, and the air was wet and spitting. Flashes of lightning danced in the distant heavens. There, at the threshold, he sought to bid Belle a final, romantic adieu, yet she summarily slammed the wooden barricade in his face. Gaston, ever the nonchalant optimist, shrugged it off, attributing it to her desire to keep the chilly air at bay. Those questions she had asked him before were enough to designate that she was interested. Clearly great minds thought alike, and she was fantasizing about a happy union just as ardently as he was! Her present restraint was probably just in acknowledgement of her father. Why, if he could get her alone…
Strangely, it was the first time he'd ever felt a yearning to touch another human being. He conjured images of the silkiness of her hair, the suppleness of her skin, the dulcet tones of her voice…
He almost burst right back through the door to see her again. The thought of encountering Maurice was all that held him back.
It would be for another time.
Soon, he told himself as he walked through the cool, rain-soaked night air. His heart thrummed with unbridled mirth, his cheeks rosy. Love and excitement coursed through his veins like electricity in a thunderstorm. The light drizzle quickly escalated into a torrent, soaking his attire and drenching his hair. Yet he pressed onward with a smile, the wet chill, even as it pained his injured arm, doing nothing to dampen his boundless joy.
This was love. He was feeling love at last. And he had never felt so good.
END.