Belle: A Retelling of “Beauty and the Beast” By Cameron Dokey (5 page)

“Oh, Papa,” I sighed. Just this once, I would have liked it if he’d let me have my way. “Don’t you ever answer just
yes
or
no
?”

“Sometimes,” my father said. And I heard myself laugh before I quite realized

what I’d done.

“There now, that’s better,” Papa declared, and he dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “I am sorry that what happened today has given you such pain,
ma petite
Belle
. But you must remember that you are still young. Perhaps you and your name just need a little more time to find each other.”

“Papa,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as I could. “Are you by any chance

telling me I need to grow up?”

This time it was my father who laughed. He set me on my feet, then rose and gave

a mighty stretch.

“I don’t think I would have put it
quite
that way, but I suppose I do mean that.”

Then he knelt in front of me once again, reaching out to gently take me by the shoulders.

“I’m not quite sure what happened today,” my father went on. “First impressions

can be tricky things, for they can be both shallow and lasting, all at once. But of one thing I am absolutely certain: Anyone with the right eyes and heart to match will see your beauty, Belle. If not at first, then for the long run. Whether or not your beauty is like your sisters’ is another thing entirely. Personally, I think that’s beside the point.”

“It doesn’t feel beside the point,” I said.

My father kissed my forehead. “I know it doesn’t.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said, sighing. “I’m going to have to wait to grow up for this one too.”

“I’m afraid so,” Papa said with a smile. “Now, how’s the hand?”

“Better.” I held it out. Papa eased the bloodstained handkerchief away from my

skin. The place where the knife had slipped had left an angry red gash, but the bleeding had stopped.

“That’s good,” my father said. “We’ll wash it when we get back to the kitchen,

then bandage it up.”

“We’re going to have to tell Maman, aren’t we?” If it had been a little cut, I might have gotten away without Maman noticing, but a bandage was going to be harder to

disguise.

My father nodded sympathetically. “I’m afraid so. But I will make sure she knows

that you were being careful. If she asks, I’ll say I posed a question that took you by surprise. Not that we need to go into the subject matter, of course,” he added.

“Thank you, Papa,” I said.

“Ca ne fait rien,” my father said. “It’s nothing, little one.” He fell silent, as if trying to decide whether to say more. “Though you know,” he finally said, “perhaps if you spoke with your mother –”

“No,” I said at once, for I could see where he was going. As far as I was

concerned, there was no need to share my feelings regarding the unfortunate combination of my name and face with Maman. I had learned what she believed that afternoon. There was no point in having a discussion.

“If you say so,” said my father. “Now, show me what you were carving, and then

we will go in.”

I bent to retrieve the wood, and held it out. Papa and I regarded it together. He grunted in surprise.

“That’s Alphonse,” he said. And so it was.

My father took it from me and held it up, the better to see it in the workshop light.

“That is a very clever likeness, Belle,” he pronounced. “Not complete – you

hardly had time enough for that. But I think that you have captured him, even so.” He chuckled and ran his thumb along the wood. “You see how that bump in the wood is

precisely like the bump on his nose?”

“I’m glad you like it, Papa,” I said.

My father’s expression grew thoughtful. “I think you have a Gift, Belle,” he said softly, and here, at last. I heard the capital letter in his voice. “I would like it if you could believe that true beauty springs from the same place.”

“And where is that?” I asked.

“Why, from the heart, of course.”

Again, I felt tears threaten. “I’d like that too,” I said. “I’m just not sure I know how to believe it.”

“Of course you don’t,” my father said simply. “That’s what growing up is for.”

“Oh,
Papa
,” I said, my tone as good as rolling my eyes.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” my father said, a twinkle in his eye. “In my experience, growing up happens on its own. But now I think I should get you to bed, before your mother comes looking for us and expresses a desire for both our hides.”

“I love you, Papa,” I said.

He reached down and took my uninjured hand in his. “And I love you,
ma petite
Belle
. That sounds like a good starting place for whatever comes next, don’t you think?”

“I do,” I said.

Hand in hand, we walked in silence back to the house.

CHAPTER SIX

What happened next was pretty much just as Papa had predicted. I grew up, with my sisters beside me. But whereas Celeste and April journeyed along the paths I imagine all parents hope for their children – walkways with surfaces just bumpy enough to keep you paying attention and with enough curves so that you learn to think on your feet and develop character – the path I walked turned out to be a good deal more challenging.

I had promised my father I would try to be patient, try to give my name and face

time to find each other. I fully intended to keep that promise, if for no other reason than I wanted Papa to be proud of me. There is a problem with unhappy memories, though; I wonder if you have discovered it.

Unhappy memories are persistent. They’re specific, and it’s the details that refuse to leave us alone. Though a happy memory may stay with you just as long as one that makes you miserable, what you remember softens over time. What you recall is simply that you were happy, not necessarily the individual moments that brought about your joy.

But the memory of something painful does just the opposite. It retains its original shape, all bony fingers and pointy elbows. Every time it returns, you get a quick poke in the eye or jab in the stomach. The memory of being unhappy has the power to hurt us long after the fact. We feel the injury anew each and every time we think of it. And so, despite my efforts to the contrary, this is how it was with me and the memory of my first meeting with Monsieur LeGrand.

It didn’t matter that afterward he took notice of me no matter where I stood. That he moved in next door, we saw him every day, and I soon grew to love him and call him Grand-père Alphonse. The memory of our first meeting refused to leave me. Each time it resurfaced, it created a new wound, brought me fresh pain. Pain and patience do not make for a comfortable combination.

And then, of course, there was Maman.

I’d like to say what happened that first afternoon with Grand-père Alphonse, the

pity I had heard in my mother’s voice even as she held me in her arms, came to make no difference in our relationship. But that would be a lie.

The truth is that it did make a difference. And not a little on at that. For every time my mother spoke my name, every time she looked at me, I felt her pity all over again.

For the first time in my life, I was glad to come last in line.

It meant I could lag behind, putting some distance between me and my

Beautiful sisters – particularly when we had company or went out in public. Though we might arrive at some social engagement all together, I became adept at hanging back. The more distance I put between my sisters and me, the less painful the comparisons between us seemed to be. Eventually what people remembered most about me was that they didn’t really remember me at all.

Celeste and April could always be found at the center of gatherings. Their faces

were easy to call to mind. But the youngest Delaurier girl, the one named Belle, her image was much harder to summon, in spite of all her name might promise.

Finally, I just stayed home.

I expected Maman to protest, but she did not. If I’d needed any more proof that

my mother though I was not as Beautiful as her older daughters, she provided it then. For if she’d truly believed I was a Beautiful as my name proclaimed, she would have insisted I take my place in society with my sisters. But she did not. I was simply Annabelle Evangeline, not Celestial Heavens or April Dawn.

And so, while my sisters went to parties and balls, and did all the things girls do as they grow into young women, I did something entirely different: I spent my days in Papa’s workshop. There, I carved every available piece of wood. The beauty I found within the wood always seemed much lovelier than my own countenance. In this way, the years went by. And if I was not completely happy, I wasn’t exactly miserable either. It seemed a satisfactory compromise.

But even the best of compromises unravels sooner or later, and so it proved with

mine. For I’d failed to consider the very thing that growing up means: passage of time.

No matter where I spent my days, no matter what my face might look like, I was now a young lady. And young ladies have responsibilities to their families that cannot be shirked or avoided.

Or so my mother informed me at the breakfast table one fine morning in late

summer when I was fifteen years old. It was just Maman, Celeste, April, and me. Papa had already departed for his waterfront office, which I considered significant when Maman chose that morning to announce that I would be required to attend the de la Montaigne’s upcoming garden party.

The de la Montaignes were my father’s bankers and one of the wealthiest families

in the city. Their son, Paul, was considered the most eligible bachelor in town. Celeste had been discreetly mooing over him for months, ever since the invitation to the party had arrived. The de la Montaignes’ garden party was an annual event, a highlight of the summer.

“I didn’t have to go last year,” I protested. “How come I have to go now?”

“Because you’re almost sixteen,” my mother answered, daintily spreading

marmalade on a piece of toast. The look of great determination on her face, however, did not bode well for my changing her mind. When Maman spreads marmalade like that,

there’s pretty much no talking her out of anything.

“Almost old enough to be married,” my mother went on. “Your sisters are

certainly old enough to be.”

So that’s it
, I thought. She was hoping for a match between Celeste and Paul de la Montaigne.

“He may be good-looking, but he’s got no more sense than a pailful of

earthworms,” I remarked.

My mother paused, her eyes narrowing as she gazed in my direction, the knife

which she’d been applying the marmalade poised in midair. “Who?” she inquired.

“Paul de la Montaigne,” I answered. “I heard Papa say so.”

“You did not,” Celeste said at once.

“I did so,” I replied. “Though I wasn’t meant to hear it,” I relented, as I saw

Celeste’s face flush. “He was talking to Grand-père Alphonse. We were in the workshop.

I was working in the corner and I think they forgot I was there.”

“He should not have spoken so,” Maman pronounced. She set the knife down on

her plate with a sharp
click
. “But it makes no difference, as he did so in private. Paul de la Montaigne is the most suitable young man in our circle. Everybody knows it. And as Celeste is certainly one of the loveliest young women…”

Her voice trailed off, as there was little more to be said on the subject. She bit into her toast.

“So what do you want me along for?” I asked, when I was certain that my

mother’s mouth was full. “Contrast?”

“Belle!” April said in a shocked voice.

My mother brought the palm of her free hand down on the tabletop so hard

enough it made the silverware rattle. I watched her jaw work as she struggled to finish her food, the muscles of her throat constricting as she swallowed.

“No, I do not want you along for
contrast
,” she said when she could speak, her voice hot enough to scald. As if in answer, I felt a painful blush rise in my face. I knew I’d gone too far.

“I want you along because you are a member of this family. Because you have

family obligations, and it’s time you began to honor them. You have been selfish long enough, Belle.”

“Selfish!” I cried.

My mother place her half-eaten toast precisely in the center of her plate, then rose to her feet.

“I will not discuss this matter with you any further,” she said, her voice now cold as ice. “And you will not take it up with your father. I have spoken to him, and he agrees.

It’s time you take your place in society. You will wear the dress I select for you and attend the de la Montaignes’ garden party in one week’s time. Both your father and I expect you to behave in a way that does our family honor in public. It’s unfortunate you can’t seem to bring yourself to do so at home.”

My mother flung her napkin onto her plate, and it landed squarely atop the piece

of toast on which she’d so determinedly spread marmalade just moments before.

“You have ruined my appetite with your behavior,” she said. “I am going upstairs

to lie down. Be so good as to ring for Marie Louise and ask her to bring a cool compress for my forehead.”

“I’ll do it, Maman,” Celeste said.

“
Mais non
!” my mother replied. “It must be Belle. It is time she acknowledged she is a part of this family. Celeste, you may see me to my room.” She extended an arm.

Celeste took it. Without a backward glance, my mother and my oldest sister walked out.

Slowly, as if my joints ached, I walked across the room to the bell cord. I gave it a swift tug to summon Marie Louise, and gave her my mother’s instructions when she

arrived. April sat quietly, her breakfast untouched.

“I suppose you think I’m selfish too,” I said, when our housekeeper was gone.

“Not exactly,” April answered. Her green eyes regarded me thoughtfully, though