He does not come back for a long time. I begin to think he must have given up on his project, consigned his beautiful roses to the devil, and stalked off. But I recognize more clattering of buckets in the well, followed by a measured creaking from the yard, and the rattling of some heavy vehicle over the wooden drawbridge that crosses the moat on the eastern side, until Beast emerges into the garden again. He is pulling behind him the yoke of a haying cart. The yoke was built for a team of oxen or mules, and Beast has to pause every few steps to get behind the T-shaped bar and press the contraption forward with the strength of his massive shoulders, an effort that sets him trembling to the very tips of the useless feathers on his back. And I can see why, for the open cart is heavily laden, not with hay, but with vessels. There are buckets from the stables and barrels that once held feed for livestock. There are basins and bowls and iron pots of every size purloined from the kitchens, even some crockery pitchers. Every one has been filled with water.
Beast is as lathered as any draft animal by the time he brings the cart to rest at the second row of flower beds. But his step is lively enough as he goes to inspect his load and withdraws a pitcher. He waters the first bush from this pitcher after he has turned the soil with his claws. When the pitcher is empty, he takes it back to the cart and dips it into a barrel to fill it again, then returns to the next bush.
He labors on in this manner all the rest of the day, breaking up the earth and watering each rosebush. When all his containers are empty, he hauls the cartful of them back to the well, draws the water to fill them all again, and hauls the loaded cart back into the garden to begin where he left off. The work is slow, but he keeps his pace steady. I wait for the moment he will throw up his paws in dismay or unleash a bitter tirade of impatience. But it never happens. Neither does he make any more demands of the magical forces, nor whine for their help. His resignation to his task is complete.
But no, Beast is not resigned. He is eager. Throughout the wearying day, his vigor never flags. He pauses only now and then to refresh himself with water from one of his vessels, and then he is back at his labors again. More labor I think in this one day than Jean-Loup ever accomplished in his entire lifetime.
The weak sun is drooping toward the west wing when the work is done. Beast stands at the bottom of the garden and gazes up at the rows of neat flower beds on which he has lavished so much attention. There is not much to show for his labors but that the soil beneath each bush is fresh and moist. Dead petals still litter the gravel walkways between the rose beds.
Beast turns to the cart and extracts an empty kitchen bowl of earth-colored clay. He makes his way along the pathways, picking up forlorn petals and collecting enough to fill the bowl, then climbs the front steps and carries the bowl heaped with red petals into the entry hall. He pauses in the doorway to look around, then carries the bowl to a sideboard against a wall in the shadows and places it just so. There are finer objects on the sideboard, but he removes them all and hides them away inside the cabinet, leaving only the rustic bowl of petals on the surface.
He considers the effect for a moment, and then he half turns to look at me, although he says nothing. It might have been mere chance that he thought of water at the same moment I did. But what if he heard me in some magical way? And I store away this tiny grain of possibility.
Beast keeps at his gardening for days. It absorbs his waking hours, except for those times when he must hunt and feed. He has lost interest in exploring the chateau and discovering its treasures. He does not come for me, but I watch him in his garden from my window perch.
One afternoon, as Beast is pruning dead heads from his empty stalks, I see a flash of scarlet amid the landscape of brown shrubs and grey sky. It’s not a new bloom, but a little bird with a dapper, crested head. Beast lifts his muzzle, watching, as the creature flits about. It lands on an upper branch, warbling down at him. Beast is very still, getting ready to pounce, I suppose. But then Beast smiles a little, and a moment later the red bird cocks its head and flies off.
Beast waters his roses every day and feeds them from the pile of rotting vegetation and muck kept in a shed out beyond the stables. He brings a barrow of the foul-smelling stuff into the garden and dallies among his roses all through the night. Snow falls no more in his enchanted garden, but the night air can be bitingly cold. He spends another day hauling in hay bales, building a wall around the beds to keep off the night chill. And as the pale winter sun climbs a little higher and lingers a little longer in the sky each day, I see how his efforts are rewarded. New green shoots begin to thrust up from the old rose wood under tiny clusters of rust-colored leaves.
Soon enough, the frozen white landscape out beyond the garden wall starts turning to grey slush, and the nights no longer freeze. Beast now seems content to spend his time in the company of his roses.
It takes a sudden drenching rainstorm to drive Beast back inside the chateau one night. He drags the doors shut behind him, then stands in the entryway and shakes the water out of his fur and feathers so violently, he staggers on his hooves to keep his balance as tiny beads of water skitter across the marble floor. Yet he stays rooted where he is, fur knotted in wet clumps, dark eyes gazing all around the room. He sniffs at the air, and I suddenly know what has caught his attention. It’s the bowl of rose petals on the sideboard. The petals are long dead; they have lost their bright color and velvety texture and curled into crisp, dry cinders. But their scent is alive and stronger than ever before, rich and heavy and seductive.
Beast follows his nose over to the sideboard, peers into the bowl, and stirs the brown papery petals gently about. The scent in the room intensifies. He lifts his paw and sniffs at the soft pads, heady with the perfume of dried roses. He shakes his great head in wonder.
“They are even sweeter in their transformation,” he murmurs.
The rains continue off and on, and Beast is obliged to spend more time indoors. A beast in nature cannot mind a little wet and must seek whatever poor shelter he may, but some memory, some instinct still roots Beast here, to his chateau. I am watching a light grey drizzle pattering down on the rose garden when I am aware of Beast beside me, gazing out the window. I notice his paw on the sill next to me, free of dirt and grime.
“I’ve done all I can for them,” Beast muses, nodding out at his roses. His voice rasps, dry and dusty from disuse. “Now they must thrive on their own.” He takes one step back from the window and sighs. “And so must I.”
He turns his head to gaze at me with his brown, thoughtful eyes. “There is more to see,” he suggests. “If you like.”
I make no objection, so he takes me in his paw again. We climb the grand central staircase, past the portraits of Beaumont ancestors, past the formal hallway of the second-floor landing, and on up to the third-floor attic rooms — the rooms that contain the past, all the relics of previous Beaumonts that have been forgotten or banished over the generations.
Beast hesitates at the landing to gaze down the corridor. It’s daylight outside, but all is shrouded in gloom up here. Is it my light he needs, or my company?