CH. 5 Putting Out Fire with Gasoline

Maurice was wearing nothing of any value whatsoever — an old nightshirt and some underpants he'd already donned through several days' wandering in the forest, and thick bootie-socks soiled and tattered from being walked in.

The Prince, on the other hand, had new leather boots with gold-leafed trim, silk breeches, a silk shirt, a cape containing yards and yards of the finest velvet, and a golden medallion pin that could knock a person out with its weight.

The young man wasn't sure what to think when three burly highwaymen, big as the orderlies from the asylum, sprang forth and started pulling him out of his clothes. He tried to struggle against them, throwing a few swipes with his fists, but was once again outnumbered and pinned to the dirt.

Maurice, meanwhile, perceived that there was absolutely zero interest from the bandits in himself. A part of him rejoiced and thought at first that this was justice being served — that this arrogant, perverted Beast of a man should be so humiliatingly waylaid. But then, with a sigh, and observing the pathetic reality of this poor kid being stripped naked while screaming, he determined he couldn't leave anyone to a situation like that.

He had to help him.

Maurice seemed to be perceived as so utterly unimportant that the bandits did not try to restrain him in any way. The little old man thus inserted himself easily into the fray and simply snatched the flintlock pistol from one bandit's belt.

"Now put your hands up!" cried Maurice, fumbling with the weapon and trying to get it turned around so as to actually be pointing at someone other than himself.

The bandits paused, considered what the level of threat was from Maurice, determined it null, and thus resumed pulling the struggling Prince out of his fine leather boots. His cape was already gone.

The Prince bellowed protests and fought as hard as he could against the trio. Then suddenly the noise of a shot rang out, and the Prince felt a bullet strike the dirt about an inch from his face.

"Good God, Maurice!" he cried in horror, realizing the old man had nearly shot him.

But the dirt hadn't been the bullet's first visit. Its initial stop had been through the hand of one of the highwaymen. The victim was now standing over the Prince, his palm pierced through and gushing blood.

"Don't bleed all over the shirt," cried one of the other bandits. "It won't be worth anything ruined!"

The two uninjured bandits began to push their injured companion away from where he could damage the goods they worked for. In their distraction, the Prince seized his opportunity to roll away from them across the dirt, flinging himself to his now-bare feet.

The two uninjured bandits reacted. They drew pistols from their belts and pointed the weapons at the Prince.

The Prince bared his teeth. "It's the clothes you want?" he seethed. He then grabbed his shirt, and tore the sleeves from the body.

He continued shredding the garments as he wore them, rendering them worthless to the robbers.

The highwaymen were momentarily taken aback.

"What should we do?" asked the first.

"Forget it — we already have the cape and boots!" said the second. "Let's get out of here!"

And so the three highwaymen fell together like magnets and zipped out into the copse, disappearing from view.

Maurice and the Prince stood silently for a time, adrenaline blasting through the both of them. Then the Prince sank to the ground, raised his head — and let out a loud, wailing, pathetic sob.

When he was a Beast, these loathsome sobs were rendered into frightful roars and growls. Now, human again, they were audible for what they truly were. The nervous and sensitive Prince was actually quite a big weeper.

Maurice approached him with some sympathy. "If it's any consolation," he said, "we get to keep his gun."

The Prince looked up at Maurice with pure shock and terror. "You almost shot me! Maurice, I can get new clothes — I can't get a new head!" He observed this little old man in his nightgown and waving his new pistol. The Prince didn't feel much better, indeed began to wonder if locked in the asylum might actually be the right place for this loony old man; but, he could perceive that Maurice was trying to offer him some kind of comfort. It reminded him to pull himself together. The Prince rose to his bare feet and wiped at his eyes with his tattered sleeve. "Let's just hurry back," he said. "I don't want to stay here."

Maurice forced a little hint of a smile. He looked down at the gun and tossed it away — he didn't really want the thing.

It was now twilight. The warm glow of the village lights could be seen close ahead.

…

Belle knew too well that it was possible to be maltreated by someone, but to forgive them and even, eventually, come to love them.

She remained seated on the bed in the tiny room, watching Gaston as he continued his anxious pacing to and fro. In the better light, she noticed something about him that she had not noticed before. Something there she simply didn't see.

"Gaston," she said, suddenly donning a bright smile. "Come here, will you?"

Gaston thought this curious, but he indulged her by taking a few steps forward. "What is it?"

"I want to take a look at you. A really good look."

Gaston threw out his arms, exposing himself to her view.

"Twirl round so I can see," she said.

Gaston obliged. He grinned, putting on the 'handsome face' that he liked to pose with before the mirror. "Like what you're seeing?"

"Very much so," she answered coyly.

Gaston began to flex his muscles and twist himself into other artful poses she might like. Belle slid herself from the bed and rose to her feet, coming directly toward the fascinated Gaston.

She pulled him in for a deep, hard kiss, arms encircling his waist.

Gaston's lovesick heart nearly leapt from his chest. He felt Belle's hands crawling all over him, and her warm breath, and her soft skin. When he finally pulled back from her, he was breathless and feeling like he was walking on air.

Belle gazed into his shimmering sky-blue eyes, so full of joy and love and relief. There was a softness in him she'd never seen before this moment.

And she hated herself for doing what she had to do next.

She had pulled his hunting knife from his belt and now viciously slammed the shining blade deep into his back.

It was a good hit. She got him right in the spine. His legs immediately collapsed out from under him, and he fell to the floor with a shocking crash, flailing his arms and knocking over a little table on which rested the lit candelabra.

"Belle — " he gasped, puzzled for what was going on. He was having trouble breathing. Flaming candles, separated from their holder, rolled across the wooden floor around him.

Belle threw down the bloody knife. "I'm sorry Gaston, you left me no choice."

Gaston tried to choke out a response, but sound wasn't coming forward anymore.

Belle turned her attention immediately from him to the front door. It was barricaded. Moving the enormous storage cabinet out of the way would be the first order of business. Belle began pushing with all her might — but the cabinet stayed put whilst her feet slid out from under her. It was harder to move than an unconscious Beast.

And meanwhile, the candles kept rolling across the floor, burning along till they tumbled under the bed and began to singe the cloth bedding and straw-filled mattress.

Belle had been fussing with the barricaded door for some time before she observed the beginning of the fire. At that point it was just a flicker out the corner of her eye — but when she looked, the saw that the whole bed was already aglow.

"Oh no!" she cried, and immediately went over to try to put it out. She looked around for some water — but there was nothing. Gaston had not stocked the cabin with any kind of rations.

She next looked for something that she could smother the fire with, but the furnishings were so meager. She yanked off her cloak and tried to use it to snuff the flames, but in only a moment the garment was also ignited and burning.

She abandoned the cloak and decided her best shot was to hurry her escape out the door. She looked at Gaston lying still on the floor — if he wasn't dead already, she couldn't tell differently. He would be no use.

No progress had been made trying to move the massive piece of furniture unassisted. She needed to take the cupboard apart, to make it smaller so she could move it on her own. She hurried to the fireplace where there was the iron poker, which she took; and using it, began desperately hitting the cabinet to try to bust it apart.

"Where is an outraged Beast smashing furniture when you need him?" muttered Belle aloud.

…

The two men reached the village, looking quite a sight — the Prince barefoot in his shredded silks, Maurice in his filthy nightclothes. Fortunately there was no street lighting in the town; few people observed them, and those that did just shook their head and muttered: "Crazy old Maurice is back!"

The night air was chilly. Both men were underdressed and beginning to shiver. Maurice's coughing and sneezing resumed, for which Matthieu could muster very little sympathy.

By the time they reached the house, the Prince was in a very sour mood. Maurice's criticisms hadn't fallen on totally deaf ears; indeed, the recently-transformed Beast was in a very receptive state to whatever critiques folks might have of him. Only then could he improve, afterall.

But what Maurice was telling him was that he was flawed beyond improvement. That he could never be good enough for Belle.

Now, did the Prince believe him? Not altogether — for he had great faith in Belle, and was sure that if she had declared her love for him, it was real. And surely none but Belle knew Belle's feelings any better.

But what was putting him ill at ease was Maurice, and it wasn't Maurice for Maurice's sake. It was Maurice for that he was Belle's father — her beloved father for whom she would do anything, even sacrifice herself to a monstrous Beast.

He recalled a mere twenty-four hours ago, when he and Belle had danced and declared their love for each other, shattering the wicked Enchantress's spell at long last. How happy they were. How in love. How passionate. Then… he thought about how she had behaved after they'd located Maurice. Suddenly Maurice became the priority over everything. Really, if she had been willing to give her life for Maurice, what else could be expected? Of course he was priority over everything!

But that worried the Prince greatly. If that man didn't approve of him… if the two of them didn't get along…

When he and Maurice finally set foot inside the cottage interior, there was no trace of Belle. They went outside and observed that Philippe was also gone from the stable, which wouldn't have been necessary were she visiting anyplace in town.

"Odd," said Maurice. "Perhaps she went to take us back from the asylum?"

"We didn't pass her on the road," said the Prince, shaking his head. "She must have went back to my castle."

Maurice groaned. "I have a feeling you may be right," he said. There wasn't any other place that made sense for her to go.

The Prince began to saddle himself up on his own horse, Isolde. "I suppose I'll find out once I'm there," he said.

"Now you just wait a minute," said Maurice sternly. "I've been out in the woods, snow and shine, searching for Belle for days. I'm not about to give up on her now. I'm coming with you! Make some room on that horse for me!"

The Prince was surprised. "Uh… very well. But, if you're going to travel, would you not prefer to change into some real clothes?"

"I think you have enough rips and slashes in your own garments to occupy yourself without getting into mine," said Maurice angrily, climbing up onto the horse with some difficulty. "Now I don't have all night. Let's go!"

With a sigh of dismay, the Prince did as Maurice instructed.

…

Belle had managed to break up enough of the cabinet that she could, with all her might, push it a little across the floor. The trouble she faced now was that the room was filling up with black, sooty smoke. She coughed and gasped as she did her utmost to get the door unblocked, finally moving the furniture just enough out of the way that she would be able to get the door open.

That is, if she could open it. She could scarcely see through the black smoke, but she determined that there were multiple padlocks on the door. Presumably, Gaston had keys to them.

She turned to look at Gaston, thinking he must hold the keys on him somewhere. But to her consternation, Gaston was beyond her reach. Smoke and flames surrounded him, engulfed him — his body was burning up even then. There was no way she would be able to get over to search him for keys, if indeed they were upon him at all.

Coughing, Belle returned her desperate attention to the door. There had to be another way to get it open. She tried to pull up the hinges, breaking her fingernails and stripping the flesh of her fingers, but she made no progress. Her hands were beginning to sweat from the rising heat. Air became harder to find between the coughs.

This was it. She was going to die. And no one was going to help her father, or her fiancé, to escape from imprisonment at the asylum. They were all doomed.

"I'm so sorry," said Belle aloud to the absent men of her life, as she gave in to the reality that there was no way for her to escape the flames.

…

The Prince and Maurice had been riding for over an hour into the woods, bickering on and off, and the Prince doing his utmost to pretend that his inexperienced butt wasn't about to fall from the back of the horse and die.

It was then that they noticed a peculiar orange glow piercing through the jet of the distance.

"What is that? Sunrise already?" asked Maurice, squinting.

"Looks like a fire," said the Prince. His heart sank. The last thing he needed was to get trapped in a forest fire. "I suppose… we ought to see what it really is."

He turned the horse in the direction of the glow, uneasily guiding the animal off-road to investigate.

Soon they could make out that the conflagration was a burning building. Some shack out in the forest had caught aflame.

"Well, what do you think of that!" said Maurice. "Take a look. There might be people who need help."

They got as near as they dared. The heat from the burning building could be felt from some distance away. When they drew close, they saw a unique black horse sprinting and running excitedly around the flaming structure.

"That horse looks familiar," said Maurice. "Does it have — red eyes?"

"Does it matter?" asked the Prince.

"I think it's Gaston's horse!"

The men paused, considering the implications of this.

"Gaston?" Maurice began to call. "Gaston, are you here? Are you alright?"

They listened for an answer. The roar of the flames and cracking of burning wood was the loudest thing they heard — but then, a faint soprano wail, followed by coughing.

"Not Gaston," said Maurice. "But someone's in there!"

The Prince naturally went over and tried the door, which he found was stuck fast. Shielding his eyes from the heat, he looked for another way in, but saw nothing.

The coughing and wailing from the other side continued. It was a female voice, and it reminded him awfully of Belle's.

Feeling a tremendous pang of sympathy, the Prince put his hands to his head in frustration for what to do. He wanted to help this person — but how?

"We've got to get that door open," said Maurice.

The Prince paused. "I think I know a way." He stood there, and puffed himself up, trying to think angry thoughts.

Back in his days as a Beast he was quite a master of smashing furniture apart, afterall.

He tried to push away all the thoughts of kindness and warmth and sympathy, and instead just let himself get really upset at Maurice for everything the man had put him through today.

"You crazy old imbecile!" he bellowed. "You know, if you'd just listened to me and not fretted about Belle anymore, we'd have avoided this whole thing! Belle would have been fine at the castle, you'd have been safe at home, the madhouse wouldn't be after you for telling them about me, you wouldn't have come an inch from shooting me in the face and then coughed all over me for three hours and said… gah!"

The Prince, in rage, began punching and slamming his whole body against the door of the house. He wasn't quite as strong now that he was human, but he was still pretty tough. Especially when rage was dulling the pain of his bones on the verge of cracking.

He had to hit the door four times before it was split adequately that the person on the other side became exposed to the air.

Laying on the floor, covered with wood splinters was — good God it couldn't be —

"Belle?!" cried both Maurice and the Prince. The men scrambled to haul her out as fast as possible.

She was barely conscious, and blackened with soot. Unable to move out of the way, she had been struck by the splintering wood of the door and received a deep gash across her face, now bleeding.

Maurice and the Prince pulled Belle a safe distance away from the flames, calling her name and pleading with her to answer them.

Belle could only cough and groan, before falling fully unconscious.

"We have to get her home!" cried Maurice. "Hurry — get her to the horse!"

The Prince looked at his mare. "I don't think Isolde can carry three of us. You! Take Belle home! Don't worry about me! Go!"

The Prince helped Maurice load Belle onto the horse and wished him well. With a slap to the rear, the horse galloped off into the night, its white fur a streak in the infinite blackness.

The Prince spent a while standing alone, warmed by the flames, trying to decide what he ought to do next. There was the other horse, apparently belonging to Gaston. But he didn't know what had become of Gaston. The man might be out in the woods, looking for the animal. He'd dealt with him enough to know not to tangle with him. It was best not to risk taking his horse away.

The Prince thus began to walk toward the village, but after only a few steps, he changed his course. His tired, sleep-deprived eyes soon adjusted to the dark. Harder was adjusting to walking barefoot across forest floor, and shivering in his tattered silks through the chilly night air. It was funny how much more frail this human body he'd so longed for was proving to be.

He was also on guard for the possibility of wolves, but, part of him wouldn't mind being eaten alive at this point.

Afterall, this adventure had sufficed to show that he didn't suit Belle. Even if he looked like a handsome Prince now, well… was he any different from the Beast that Belle had fallen for?

Belle deserved more than a Beast.

He really did love her, but part of his loving her meant that he had to feel her happiness was more important than his own. His love was of a submissive, even self-destructive nature, because it had been required of him — he couldn't break his curse, free his household, enjoy humanity, unless he just did whatever the Enchantress wanted of him.

Fell in love with whoever came in, learned not to love based on appearances…

Of course, were that the case, how did he end up with the prettiest girl in the village, instead of the father?

Maybe because he never learned anything. Maybe because he deserved nothing.

Tired and with teeth chattering, he made his mournful way home.