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Belle opened the front door of her cottage, taking in the picture-perfect pastoral scene in front of her. Morning in the small village of Villeneuve began the same way each day. At least it had for as long as Belle had lived there. Narrowing her warm brown eyes, she sighed at the mundanity of it all. She often wondered what it would be like to wake up differently.
Belle shook her head. It did her no good to wonder or wish. This was life as she'd always known it, the life she had shared with her papa ever since they had moved from Paris many years earlier. She had things to do, errands to run, and—she looked down at the book clutched in her hand—a new adventure to find. Straightening her shoulders, Belle pulled the door closed behind her and set off into town.
Within minutes, Belle was making her way down the cobblestoned main street. As she passed other villagers, she nodded distantly. While she had lived in the village most of her life, she still felt like a stranger there.
Weaving her way through the street, she listened as the rest of the villagers greeted each other. She felt a pang of loneliness watching them talk to one another. They all seemed perfectly content with the monotony of their morning routines. No one seemed to share her desire for something new and exciting, for something more.
Belle reached the baker's stand, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. As always, the harried baker was holding a tray of freshly made baguettes and muttering to himself. “Bonjour,” Belle said. The man nodded absently.
“One baguette...” Belle peered at the row of jars filled with rich red jam. “And this, too, s'il vous plaît ,” she said, picking one up and sliding it into her apron pocket. After she'd paid and collected her goods, she moved on to complete her next errand.
She was just about to turn a corner when she paused. Jean, the old potter, was standing next to his mule looking confused. The cart attached to the mule was loaded with freshly made pottery. Looking up, Jean caught Belle watching him and smiled.
“Good morning, Belle,” he said. He was peering into his cart, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Good morning, Monsieur Jean,” Belle said in return. “Have you lost something again?” The older man nodded. “I believe I have. Problem is, I can't remember what,” he said sadly. Then he shrugged. “Well, I'm sure it will come to me.” He turned and pulled on the mule's reins, trying to lead the stubborn animal away. The mule was having none of it. He tried to stick his nose in Belle's pocket, searching for the apple she had hidden there just in case she ran into Jean. Giving the creature a hard yank, Jean succeeded in drawing the mule's attention away from Belle. But he also succeeded in knocking the cart off balance.
Gasping, Belle reached out and grabbed one of the beautiful clay pots just before it fell. Then, she gave the mule the apple and turned to leave.
“Where are you off to?” Jean asked.
“To return this book to Pere Robert,” she said, smiling and holding up the well-worn book. “It's about two lovers in fair Verona—”
“Are either of them potters?” Jean interrupted.
Belle shook her head. “No.”
“Sounds boring,” he said.
Belle sighed. She wasn't surprised by Jean's reaction. It was the same reaction she got anytime she mentioned books. Or art. Or travel. Or Paris. Anything other than talk of the village or the villagers was met with indifference—or, worse, disdain.
Just once , Belle thought as she gave the potter a wave good-bye, I'd like to meet someone who wanted to hear the story of Romeo and Juliet. Or any story, for that matter. She started to walk more quickly, more eager than ever to get to Pere Robert's, get a new book, and return home.
Finally, Belle arrived at her destination—the vestry of the church. Pushing open the doors, she breathed a sigh of relief as the quiet and serenity of the building enveloped her. For the first time that morning, Belle felt at peace. Hearing her enter, a kind man in a long black robe looked up from his book. “Good morning, Belle,” Pere Robert greeted her. “So where did you run off to this week?”
Belle smiled in return. The well-read priest was one of two people in the entire village Belle felt she could talk to. The other person was her father. “Two cities in Northern Italy,” she answered, her tone growing animated. She held out the book. “You should have seen it. The castles. The art. There was even a masquerade ball.”
Reaching out, Pere Robert took the book gingerly from Belle.
“Have you got any new places to go?” Belle asked hopefully.
“I'm afraid not,” he replied. “But you may reread any of the old ones that you'd like,” he added kindly.
Belle nodded and moved in front of the shelves. Her fingers brushed the familiar books, most of which she had read at least two times. Still, she knew better than to complain. Picking one up, she smiled back at the older man. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Your library makes our small corner of the world almost feel big.”
Book in hand, Belle left the vestry and made her way back out onto the village's main street. Opening to the first page, she planted her nose firmly in the book and blocked out everything else. She ducked under the cheese vendor carrying his tray of goods and swooped out of the way of the two florists, their arms loaded with huge bouquets, all the while never losing her spot on the page.
While she had been disappointed not to find anything new, this book was one of her favorites. It had everything a good story should have—far-off places, a charming prince, a strong heroine who discovered love... but not right away, of course.
CLANG! CLANG!
Startled by the loud noise, Belle finally tore herself from the book. Looking up, she saw that the noise was coming from Agathe. If the town thought Belle was odd, they considered the older woman an outcast. She had no home or family and spent her days begging for spare change and food. Looking past the dirt that covered her cheeks and the rags she wore, Belle had always had a soft spot for Agathe. Whenever she saw Agathe, Belle tried to give her a little something.
“Good morning, Agathe,” she said now, smiling gently. “I have no money. But here...” She reached into her bag, pulled out the baguette she had picked up especially for the older woman, and handed it over.
Agathe smiled gratefully. Then her smile turned playful. “No jam?” Anticipating the response, Belle already had her hand in her pocket and produced the jar of jam. “Bless you,” Agathe said. Lowering her head, she ripped a chunk off the baguette, Belle's presence instantly forgotten.
Belle smiled. She felt, in some strange way, a kinship with the woman. Agathe simply wanted to have food and be left alone. Belle was the same way with her books. As lonely as she could be at times, she couldn't stand unwanted attention—hated it, in fact.