“Please,” breathes Beast. “Let him in.”
The two halves of the iron gate unlatch and sweep open into the courtyard of their own accord. The man draws back in alarm, but his horse lifts its head and its tail and trots boldly into the courtyard. The man follows cautiously, and the two of them progress up the long driveway under the arch of roses. They emerge at the foot of the grand front steps, where the man pauses. But the horse canters off toward the east wing and the track that leads around to the back of the chateau as if he senses he’ll find comfort there.
“Stables,” whispers Beast. “Feed him and curry him.” The magic seems willing enough to oblige.
The man can’t hesitate for too long in the driving rain. Abandoned by his horse, he climbs the steps to the shelter of the colonnaded porch.
“Door,” murmurs Beast, and I can hear the great double doors below us creaking open into the entry hall.
Beast’s movements are stealthy as he creeps down the stairs to the second-floor landing. I, too, feel curious but wary, and I manage to dim my flames so we are concealed in darkness to get a better view of our unexpected guest. The stranger stands bewildered in the entry hall, below, gazing fearfully all around in the dark.
“Light,” whispers Beast, and for the first time since the night of the transformation, flames blaze to life in the hall sconces. The stranger gasps and turns around again. He’s an old man with a short grey beard, made straggly by the rain. His cloak is made of fine stuff but much worn with use. It leaves a puddle of water on the marble floor.
“Hello?” he calls out in a voice frail with apprehension. “Is anyone there?”
“Dry and warm him,” Beast requests of the air, and a fire roars into being in the grate of the nearest sitting room, illuminating the doorway. The old man jumps at first, but then draws near, too wet and weary to wonder anymore where his salvation comes from.
Upstairs, Beast hurries to the dining salon and throws open the door. “Food!” he exclaims. “Wine!” The sideboard overflows with roast meats, tureens of soup, and platters of fish. Fruit of all sorts piles up in bowls, vegetables steam in silver pots, and a decanter of wine appears on the table beside a handsome setting of plate and silverware. At a nod from Beast, the sconces light, and a fire glows in the grate; then he crosses back to the railing overlooking the stairs, still gripping me in his paw.
The fire has gone out below, and the old man is drawn back into the lighted entry hall. “Here,” murmurs Beast, and the stairwell sconces light up, illuminating the grand staircase. The old man hesitates for only a moment before obediently climbing the stairs. We fade back into the deepest shadows as the stranger arrives on the second floor. All is in darkness but for the blaze of warmth and light wafting out of the dining salon, along with the irresistible aromas of hot food. He goes straight there, never pausing to notice what might be lurking in the shadows.
Inside, he stumbles to the table, throws off his cloak, and slides into the chair where his place is set. Groaning platters arrange themselves on the table before him, and food dishes itself onto his plate. His hand trembles as he reaches for the decanter to pour himself a glass of wine; it sloshes over a little when he sets it down again, as full as it was when he first began to pour. But before he drinks, he pauses with his hands hovering before him in the air.
“Thank you,” he quavers. “Whatever fairies or gods have done this, I thank you. I am in your debt.”
When the old man has eaten and drunk his fill and begun to drowse by the fire, Beast causes his way to be lit to the nearest of the private bedchambers. Dust is banished, and a welcoming fire appears in the grate. The soft, down-filled quilt peels itself back, and our guest crawls happily into bed to sink upon the instant into untroubled sleep. He should scarcely look so peaceful if he knew what terrible visage was watching him from the shadows.
I wonder if Beast will keep this vigil all night, but at last, he wrenches himself away and carries me into the dining salon. The food has completely vanished, but Beast sniffs all around the table and chair as if to pick up the human scent, to accustom himself to the novelty of a person in the chateau again. Beast follows the trail downstairs to the entry hall, restless, probing everywhere, until he finally sets me down in my usual place on the windowsill.
“What are we to think of this, Lucie?” Beast murmurs.
No more do I know what to make of this unexpected visitor, but I know how eager Beast is for human companionship.
Let him rest, I suggest to Beast. We will sort it out in the morning.
Beast nods at me and melts back into the shadows.
He’s an old man who has lost his way in the storm. Really, what harm can he do?
I find out the next morning.
The sun rises pale but resolute after last night’s storm. Raindrops glisten in the red roses; it looks like a garden of rubies. The sound of tentative bustle upstairs tells me our guest has awoken and is making his way back to the dining salon. I have no doubt another lavish feast awaits him there to break his fast. I don’t see Beast anywhere in his garden.
After a while, the horse appears out in the courtyard, his saddle oiled, his coat shiny, his head and tail held high. He waits patiently at the foot of the steps, and soon enough, the old man comes down the stairs into the entry hall. His cloak is clasped across his chest with the hood thrown back. His thinning grey hair is neatly combed back, and his sparse, pointed little beard is tidy and clean. At the foot of the grand staircase, he stops once more to look around and marvel at the luxury of the place.
Then his eyes fall upon me, aglow in my window, my silver surface gleaming.
He glances at me as he moves toward the doors, then pauses and looks back, measuring me with his eyes. With one last swift glance all around the hall, he steps up and grasps me with one hand. I feel my flames rising up in outrage. How dare he touch me? The old man tilts my tapers toward him and tries to blow out my flames, but, of course, he can’t do it. Undaunted, he swirls his cloak over me, lighted flames and all, and hastens through the double doors, out onto the porch, and down the steps.
At the bottom step, he signals his horse and, without ceremony, thrusts me into one of his saddlebags. But I don’t fit all the way in; my tapers are too tall. He leaves the flap unbuckled and hurries to his horse’s bridle to lead him down the drive. I am livid! I will scorch this saddlebag to smoking ruin before he gets as far as the gate!
But it’s the glorious rose garden that halts him in his tracks. The gates stand open at the end of the drive, but he is too awed with looking to mount his horse. He crosses to the edge of the drive and gazes at the wall of roses soaring upward to arch over his head. His hand reaches out to touch one leaf; then his fingers caress a beautiful rose in bud, perfectly formed and dewy with rain. After another furtive glance all around the empty garden, his fingers close on the base of the stem, and he gently plucks the rose.
He has scarcely turned a single step back toward his horse when a thunderous roar splits the air, as if the storm were beginning again. Beast stands at the top of the steps, howling like a demon, his horns agleam, his dark eyes fierce, and his paws upraised, claws extended. He is swathed in a cloak of Jean-Loup’s he has found somewhere, burgundy velvet, trimmed in gold. It falls to only a little way below his haunches, but the effect is both regal and terrible. He is a nightmare come to life, and the old man is so affrighted, he drops the perfect rose into the wet gravel.
“Human!” thunders Beast. “Why do you steal from me?”