下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
Gaston sat astride his large black stallion. Strapped to his saddle were his trusty musket and the spoils of his hunt. As usual, he'd had a successful afternoon in the woods.
“You didn't miss a shot, Gaston,” said the man beside him.
If Gaston was a lion of a man, which many a person had called him over the years, the man beside him was a house cat. Gaston was known and worshiped by all, and LeFou was barely a footnote in the eyes of the villagers. Still, Gaston had a soft spot for the little guy—mostly because LeFou was his biggest fan.
“You're the greatest hunter in the village,” LeFou went on. Gaston shot him a look and he quickly corrected himself. “I mean... the world.”
“Thank you, LeFou,” he said. He looked down at what LeFou had “caught”—a handful of vegetables—and raised an eyebrow. “You didn't do too badly yourself,” he added insincerely.
“One of these days I'm going to learn to shoot like you,” LeFou said, oblivious to Gaston's mockery.
“Come now, old friend,” Gaston said, pretending not to love every compliment. Gaston sit up straighter in his saddle. The dark-haired man's eyes narrowed, as if he were a wolf spotting his prey. Following Gaston's gaze, LeFou saw what had caught his friend's attention. Below, Belle was making her way through the village square. Even from such a distance, LeFou could see that her cheeks were flushed becomingly.
“Look at her, LeFou,” Gaston went on. “My future wife. Belle is the most beautiful girl in the village. That makes her the best.”
“But she's so well read, and you're so...” LeFou caught himself. He had almost just done the one thing he prided himself on never doing—offending Gaston. Quickly, before Gaston could wonder about the hesitation, he finished his sentence. “Athletically inclined.”
Gaston nodded. “I know,” he agreed. “Belle can be as argumentative as she is beautiful.”
“Exactly!” LeFou said. “Who needs her? You've got us! Le Duo!” He threw out the nickname almost hopefully.
Absorbed in himself, Gaston barely registered the neediness in his friend's voice. “Ever since the war, I've been missing something,” he said, still looking at Belle. “And she's the only girl I've met who gives that sense of...” Gaston stumbled, trying to find the right words.
“ Je ne sais quoi ?” LeFou finished for him.
Gaston turned and looked at him, confusion on his face. “I don't know what that means,” he said. “I just know that from the moment I saw her, I knew I would marry Belle. And I don't want to stand here any longer, wasting time.” Kicking his horse into a gallop, he headed toward the village.
Belle heard the sound of hoofbeats moments before the horses burst through the village gates. Instantly, Belle recognized the large black stallion and the man astride its back. It was Gaston. Behind him, his ever-present sidekick, LeFou, was struggling to keep up on his shaggy pony. She stifled a groan and quickly ducked behind the cheese seller, hoping Gaston would not notice her.
She'd had one too many run-ins with the war hero. Every time, it went the same way. Gaston would preen like a peacock while he boasted of his latest hunt or told her a tale from his glory days in the war. Belle would try not to roll her eyes. The villagers—especially the female ones—would swoon and whisper how lucky Belle was, and ultimately, Belle would walk away. She knew that Gaston was considered by many—well, all if she was being honest—to be quite the catch. But she just couldn't stand the man. There was something beastly about him.
Like now, she thought as she peeked out from behind the fromagerie. Gaston was clutching flowers in his hand and scanning the crowd like a wild animal. Belle groaned as his eyes locked on hers and he began to push through the villagers to get to her. She turned and hurried off in the opposite direction, hoping the other villagers would distract him.
Unbeknownst to Belle, just as Gaston was about to reach her, Agathe stepped in front of him, her cup raised. Gaston saw the shiny metal cup. “Thank you, hag,” he said, grabbing it out of her hands and turning it upside down. Coins spilled to the ground as Gaston checked out his reflection in the bottom of the mug. Satisfied with what he saw, he shoved the cup back at Agathe and moved past her.
“Good morning, Belle,” he said, running to come to a stop in front of her. She took a step backward. “Wonderful book you have there.”
Belle raised an eyebrow. “You've read it?”
“I did a lot of things in the army,” he answered vaguely.
Belle swallowed a laugh. It had taken him less than a minute to bring up the army. Must be a record , she thought.
With a flourish, Gaston presented the flowers. “For your dinner table,” he explained. “Shall I join you tonight?”
“Sorry,” Belle said hastily, shaking her head. “Not tonight.”
“Busy?” Gaston asked.
“No,” Belle said, and then before Gaston could reply or process her refusal, she was ducking back out into the street.
Quickening her pace, Belle made her way out of the village center. Moments later she arrived back at her cottage. It was a cozy little house. There was also a nice garden out front and a detached basement workshop for her father.
The soft tinkling melody of a music box drifted up from the closed hatch doors. Her father was already working, despite the early hour. Careful not to disturb him, Belle opened the hatch and tiptoed down the stairs. Sunlight streamed through a small window, illuminating Maurice as he sat hunched over his workbench. For the moment, he was focused exclusively on the music box in front of him. As Belle watched, he tinkered with one of the gears. The inside was beautifully painted, depicting an artist in a small Parisian apartment. The artist was painting his wife's portrait. She was cradling a small baby and holding a rattle resembling a red rose in her other hand.
Belle took a step farther into the room. Maurice looked up distractedly at the sound. Seeing his daughter, he smiled. When he straightened his shoulders, he grew taller and leaner, still handsome in his older age. “Oh, good, Belle, you're back,” he said, turning again to the music box. “Where were you?”
“Well, first I went to Saint Petersburg to see the tsar, then I went fishing in the bottom of the well,” she said.
“Hmmm, yes,” Maurice said. “Can you please hand me the—”
Before he could finish, Belle was handing him the screwdriver.
“And the—”
This time she held out a small hammer.
“No, I don't need...” His voice trailed off as a spring popped off. “Well, yes, I guess I do.”
As he went back to tinkering, Belle walked over to a shelf full of completed music boxes. Each one was a piece of art, depicting famous landmarks from around the world. She knew her father made them for her, as a way to give her a glimpse beyond the village. Maurice never said as much, but Belle knew he was aware of her longing to explore, to get out of the small world where he felt she was safe. She thought of the small village and the gossiping people who lived there. Softly, so as not to startle him, Belle asked, “Papa, do you think I'm odd?”
Hearing her tone, Maurice looked up from his work. He frowned. “Do I think you're odd?” he repeated. “Where did you get an idea like that?”
Belle shrugged. “Oh, I don't know... People talk.”
“There are worse things than being talked about,” Maurice said, his tone growing sad. “This village may be small-minded, Belle, but it's also safe.”
Belle opened her mouth to protest. That was the line her father used all the time. She knew it came from a good place, but she just didn't understand why he wanted to stay in their small town.
Seeing his typical explanation wasn't going to work on Belle today, Maurice quickly changed course. “Back in Paris,” he said, “I knew a girl who was so different, so daring, so ahead of her time that people mocked her until the day they found themselves imitating her. Do you know what she used to say?” Belle shook her head.
“She used to say, ‘The people who talk behind your back are destined to stay there.’” Maurice paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then he added. “Behind your back. Never to catch up.”
Slowly, Belle nodded. She enjoyed Maurice's little stories that served as life lessons. Her father was trying to tell her it was all right to stand out, be apart from the crowd. She nodded once more. “I understand,” she said softly.
“That woman was your mother,” Maurice added, smiling and reaching out to take his daughter's hand. He gave it a squeeze.
Belle smiled back, warmth and sadness filling her heart. She didn't remember her mother. All she had were the stories her father told her. But remembering was hard on Maurice, so he gave her only snippets —like this one—from time to time. “Tell me more about her,” Belle prompted as Maurice tried to return to his work. “Please. One more thing.”
The older man looked back at his daughter. “Your mother was... fearless,” he said. “To know anything more, you just have to look in the mirror.” He picked up a pair of tweezers and placed the last gear in the music box. With a click, it snapped into place.
“It's beautiful,” Belle said as music tinkled forth. As she looked up, her eyes landed on the portrait hanging above her father's workshop. It showed the same image that was depicted on the inside of the newest music box. Her mother was the woman holding the infant and the rose rattle. And Belle was the baby. It was the only image of her mother Belle knew. “I think she would have loved it,” Belle added softly.