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Belle waved to her father as he drove his cart away from their cottage. Philippe, their gentle giant of a draft horse, tossed his head in the air and whickered happily, ready for the adventure.
As he did every year, Maurice was heading to the large market a few towns over to sell his music boxes. The cart was loaded with every piece he had worked on for the past year. And as he did every year, Maurice was leaving Belle behind. It was for her own safety, he always told her. He packed up the cart, Belle made sure Philippe was ready for the journey, and then they went through their ritual of saying good-bye. Belle would tuck Maurice's cravat into his shirt, and Maurice would ask Belle: “What would you like from the market?”
“A rose like the one in the painting,” was always Belle's reply. Then, after a quick hug and a pat for Philippe, Maurice would head out.
When her father and Philippe were finally out of view, Belle sighed. Well , she thought as she walked back into the cottage, now what?
Suddenly, she had a thought. Smiling, she ran into the barn, grabbed what she needed, and headed into the village. To her delight, when she arrived, the only person at the fountain was a young girl. Belle had seen the girl around the village before. She was always by herself, and judging by the way she hunched her shoulders and avoided eye contact, Belle was pretty sure she didn't have a lot of friends. As Belle watched, the girl plunged a shirt into the fountain and then pulled it out and began scrubbing at it.
Taking her pile to the fountain's edge, Belle began to pull her other supplies from her apron pockets. She walked over to Jean the potter's mule. After attaching one end of Philippe's harness to the mule's halter, Belle secured the other end to a small wooden barrel. Then she dumped all the clothes and a few soap chips into the barrel before lifting it and dropping it right into the fountain. The barrel bobbed on its side, filling slowly with water. Belle walked in front of the mule. Holding up one of the apples enticingly, she walked backward. The mule followed. She set it on a path walking around the fountain.
“What are you doing?”
Belle saw that the girl was watching her, a perplexed look on her face. “The laundry,” Belle answered matter-of-factly. She pointed to the barrel. The mule was dragging it through the water, churning up the liquid and covering the clothes in a nice layer of suds. Satisfied with her work, Belle took her book out of one of her apron pockets and sat down to read. Glancing at the girl, who was eyeing the book with something close to hunger, Belle smiled. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Belle wasn't sure how long she had been sitting by the fountain. She was too focused on the girl sitting beside her. She had spent the morning and some of the afternoon trying to teach her to read. She knew that the village elders frowned upon girls reading—hence the local school was open only to boys—but Belle had never agreed with that narrow-minded way of thinking. So when the girl had sat down on the fountain wall and asked in a voice barely above a whisper if Belle would tell her a story, Belle had been excited to be able to share the thrill of reading with her.
They had gotten pretty far. The girl was much further along than Belle would have thought possible. She just needed practice.
“T... th... the blue bi-ir-ird flies...” the girl stammered.
“Over the dark wood,” Belle prompted. She opened her mouth to read the next line but was interrupted by a shout from nearby. Looking up, Belle saw the thin cruel face of the headmaster in the school's doorway. She sighed. Their moment of peace and quiet seemed to be over.
“What on earth are you doing?” he shouted, storming over to her. “Girls don't read.” His shouts quickly garnered the attention of more villagers. Jean the potter appeared, followed by the fishmonger and even Pere Robert and Agathe. They waited to see what Belle would say or do.
Raising one perfectly arched eyebrow, Belle met the headmaster's angry gaze. For a moment, they remained that way, eyes locked. Then Belle turned back to the girl and smiled. “Try again,” she said.
As if she had ignited a powder keg of explosives, the villagers who had gathered went off. Some, like the fishmonger and the headmaster, expressed outrage at Belle's audacious behavior. Others, like Pere Robert, cheered her on. Amid it all, Belle sat unbothered. Let the headmaster scream and shout and throw a fit, she thought. He should be concerned with his students’ education.
Suddenly, over the increasingly loud shouts of the villagers, a shot rang out. Startled, Belle looked up. Then she rolled her eyes. Gaston stood, or rather posed, with one hand on his hip and the other holding his hunting rifle to the sky. LeFou, ever the aide, was pushing his way through the villagers. “Make a lane, people,” he shouted. “Come on, don't make me say it twice.”
Walking behind him, Gaston looked over the crowd. “This is not how good people behave,” he said. “Everyone... go home. Now!” Within moments, the area around the fountain was almost empty. The only ones left were Belle, Gaston, and LeFou. Even the young girl had taken off, frightened by the war hero's shout.
Belle didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Gaston surely thought he had just come to her rescue, but all he had done was given the other villagers what they'd wanted and ended her reading lesson. Belle got to her feet and walked away from the fountain. Gaston fell in step beside her.
“I was pretty great back there, wasn't I?” Gaston said. “Like being back in command during the war …”
“That was twelve years ago, Gaston,” Belle pointed out.
“Sad, I know,” Gaston said, clearly missing Belle's tone. He slowed his steps, and his expression grew serious. “Belle, I'm sure you think I have it all. But there is something I'm missing.”
Hoping to get away, Belle quickened her own pace. “I can't imagine...”
“A wife,” Gaston went on. “You're not really living until you see yourself reflected in someone else's eyes.”
Oh, no, Belle thought. This was just what she had feared might happen. And she needed to nip any further talk of wives right in the bud. “And you can see yourself in mine?” she asked, trying to make her tone as disinterested and removed as possible.
Gaston nodded. “We're both fighters,” he said, clearly referring to the incident at the fountain.
“All I wanted was to teach a child to read,” Belle protested. Not be a fighter, she added silently.
“The only children you should concern yourself with are... your own.”
She clenched her fists at her sides and tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “I'm not ready to have children.”
“Maybe you haven't met the right man,” Gaston responded.
“It's a small village,” Belle shot back. “I've met them all.”
“Maybe you should take a second look...”
Belle shook her head. “I have.”
“Maybe you should take a third look,” Gaston went on, not picking up on the hint. “Some of us have changed.”
Enough! Belle wanted to shout. “Look,” she finally said. “We could never make each other happy. No one can change that much.” Picking up her pace still more, she tried to get away from Gaston. Up ahead, she could see the front door of her cottage, like a beacon of safety.
But Gaston wasn't having it. His long legs quickly closed the gap between them. “Belle, do you know what happens to spinsters in our village after their fathers die?” he asked, the earlier softness of his voice gone. When Belle didn't answer, he went on. “They beg for change in the street.” He waved at Agathe, who was wandering past. “This is our world, Belle. For simple folk like us, it doesn't get any better.”
“I may be a farm girl,” Belle said, climbing the steps with Gaston close on her heels. She came to a stop and turned to look straight at him. “But I'm not simple. I'm sorry, but I will never marry you, Gaston.”
Without another word, she pushed her way inside and firmly shut the door, preventing the hunter from following.
Someday, she thought as she slumped against the door, someday I'll find someone who will understand me, someone who will let me be me.