Rebel Rose, page 19
“I’ve come to you with a new proposal.” The group made their displeasure evident in their posture and expressions. Belle soldiered on. “In regard to the salon, I’ve had an idea.” Their skepticism radiated off them like a bad scent. “Instead of inviting only intellectuals, academics, philosophers, and the like, I’d extend an invitation to Aveyon’s farmers, merchants, factory workers, bankers, maids, lawyers, physicians, et cetera. I see it as an opportunity to take measure of what the kingdom truly needs, instead of allowing our institutions to decide for them.” She looked over to Bastien, expecting his immediate and enthusiastic approval, considering the revolutionary sympathies he had revealed to her after rescuing her from the mob back in Paris.
He was, to her surprise, frowning. “I’m not sure you’ve really thought this through, Belle.”
She stiffened. “I can assure you that I have.”
“Have you considered the logistics of inviting commoners into the palace? I mean”—he scoffed a bit—“were you listening to the report I just made to the advisory? Have you any consideration at all for your safety?” He looked around to his fellow advisers as though Belle were being ridiculous. It made her blood boil.
“I thought the only threat against us came from the rogue noblemen who are plotting a revolt under our very noses. Not the Aveyonian commoners you’ve spent weeks assuring us are content, happy even.”
Bastien eyed her as though seeing her in a new light. “Threats can take many forms, madame. It would not be prudent in times like these to invite them into your home.”
“If we are willing to open our doors to the rich, then we must also be willing to open our doors to the poor. You speak as though wealth precludes someone from committing a crime, and that has not been true in my experience.”
“I think I speak for everyone, the king included, when I say you are perhaps not thinking clearly.”
“And I speak for myself alone when I say you’re wrong. Do you forget that I am a commoner? That I grew up in a poor village with the very people you seek to malign? I do not fear them in the same way I fear a rich man who believes justice is a fluid concept and that innocence can be bought.” She let them sit with what she had said for a few moments before continuing. “I called this meeting as a courtesy. This is how I envision the salon, and I believe it will be beneficial for all the people of our kingdom. You still get the prestige-raising, economy-boosting aspects, only now the doors are open for everyone. If you cannot abide by that, then I suggest you remain in your estates for the duration.” If she had ruffled the feathers of the advisers before, it was nothing compared to how they viewed her now. “All in favor of the amendment to the salon?” They mutely assented with barely raised hands, but it was enough. In a way, it seemed they almost feared her. No one protested or voiced any concerns, and the meeting ended in near silence. She would take their unease over their disdain. She thought perhaps it was time for men like them to fear what a woman could do.
Bastien, of course, stayed back after the rest of them had left. “That was quite the display.”
She didn’t have time for false niceties. “Do you have something you wish to discuss with me? I have a salon to plan.”
“I only wanted to know if you were aware that the Mademoiselle de Lambriquet often leaves the castle for large stretches of time.”
She searched her mind for a reason he would bring something so mundane to her attention. “Of course I’m aware. I’m not her keeper, Bastien. She is free to come and go as she pleases.”
“I ask because I’ve seen her in the village a few times, boasting about her access to you.” He presented it to her like it was a gift, but Belle didn’t see it as such. She tried to imagine Marguerite doing what he claimed to have witnessed and found she couldn’t. “You know,” he continued, “revolutionary agitators come in all shapes and sizes, often disguised as friends.” He let the thought linger. “If you’re worried about the messiness of it, I could have her removed from her position right away; you need only say the word.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Nothing you’ve told me suggests Marguerite needs to be removed.”
“I think you need to be cautious, Belle. You don’t even know the girl.”
“I am cautious, Bastien. You forget that I met her in your own home. If you think so poorly of your friends, then I have to question your judgment.”
He grinned smugly. “I was friendly with her brother, but Marguerite has always been something of a loose cannon. She caused quite a stir last year when she had a, shall we say, dramatic falling-out with the comtesse d’Armagnac and her coterie and is prone to raging fits if anyone asks her about the matter.”
“That sounds like her business, Bastien.”
“Oh, I can assure you that her tantrums were the talk of Paris.” He looked at her expectantly. “She is just the type of girl to take advantage of your kindness and use you as leverage. You would be wise not to trust her. Everyone knows she is flighty and hot-tempered and only ever thinks of herself.”
Belle stared at him blankly. “I can make my own decisions.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, he frowned and cleared his throat. “If you’re sure you don’t want her dealt with…”
She shook her head. “I’m more than capable of dealing with things on my own.”
If Belle was sure of anything, it was that Marguerite de Lambriquet would not lie to her. The same could not be said for Bastien, duc de Vincennes, who had his own agenda in the castle. If anyone was not to be trusted, it was him.
Belle spent the bulk of what remained of the day in the library with Marguerite and Chip, recording titles in the ledger and making progress on the notice they would be posting in the town squares of the villages of Aveyon, requesting proposals for subjects to be presented at the salon. Chip was doing his best to distract them by building himself a throne out of any objects he could find in the library and subsequently carry.
“Which is the more kingly color?” he asked, holding two pillows aloft as Chou jumped to bite them.
“The purple one, to be sure,” replied Marguerite.
“Perfect,” he muttered to himself while grabbing every purple cushion in the room. Marguerite and Belle had no sooner returned to their tasks, when a voice interrupted them from across the library. “Would a king carry a sword?”
Marguerite grinned at her. “I fear the implications of our answer.”
“Not answering is always worse, though,” replied Belle. She craned her neck to see if she could spot the boy. “A king would exercise caution above all else!” she shouted. “He would not be reckless with sharp objects!” But Chip was nowhere to be seen.
“A valiant effort, Belle.” Marguerite laughed and bent back to her work.
“At least we can say we tried.” Belle laughed too and tried to shake the feeling that she had wronged her friend in some way when she allowed Bastien to tell her something personal, something Marguerite hadn’t chosen to tell Belle herself. And it was so small a thing, to have a fight with someone that ends a friendship, that Belle felt even worse for thinking it was something she should be ashamed to know about Marguerite.
“Is everything all right?”
Belle looked up from the rows of titles and dates to see Marguerite looking down at her with a concerned expression. Belle prayed she wasn’t that easy to read. “Nothing, I’m just tired.”
“That’s a word for ‘heartsick’ I haven’t heard before.”
“Sorry?”
“I know you’re missing Lio, Belle. You don’t have to hide it from me.”
“You’re right.” Belle felt a pang of guilt for the lie. She looked at the piles of books and pages of work they had gotten through that day, and an idea struck her. “Why don’t we finish early for the day?”
Marguerite looked at her like she had suggested they set the ledger on fire. “Are you sure?”
Belle cringed inwardly, wanting so much to be the kind of person who would abandon work on a whim to go have fun. She wondered why she was intent on punishing herself. “Yes, of course I’m sure.”
“You mean we’re done already?” Chip asked, crestfallen, his arms full of cushions pilfered from the various chaises around the room. He had jammed a poker from the fireplace through his belt like a scabbard.
Marguerite’s eyes widened. “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to build your throne another day, mon ami.”
“I was done with the throne,” he muttered.
“Oh, yes?” replied Belle, looking over at the mess of cushions in the center of the room. “What were you working on now?”
“My dungeon,” he replied, as though the answer were obvious.
“Of course,” agreed Marguerite, looking at the same ill-defined pile of pillows that Belle was. “I can see the moat and everything.”
Chip looked at her with pure adoration, and Belle had to suppress a laugh.
“Shall we clean this up?” Marguerite asked the boy, and he agreed, happily setting off to clean his mess, such was her gift.
“Wait,” Belle called out to her before she joined him. “What are you doing tonight?” She was done with worrying about what kind of burden she might be to her friend.
“Same as usual,” replied Marguerite, a bit too casually. “Visiting some friends in Plesance.”
Belle was a bit surprised she hadn’t been offered an invitation right away. “I’m getting so tired of the castle,” she said, laying the hint on thickly.
“Oh?” Marguerite stalled. “Well, I think I’ll go give Chip a hand—”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind joining you this time.” Belle felt like a fool for needing the excursion as much as she did. “All those recluse comments have really gotten to me,” she teased.
Marguerite’s smile faltered. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”
Belle was taken aback. “No? You’ve asked me plenty of times before.”
“It’s just that this friend in particular isn’t one for unexpected guests. I’d feel awfully rude.” Marguerite gave Belle a weak smile. “I’m sorry, but I promise you can come next time?”
Her heart sank, but she plastered a smile onto her face and feigned lightness. “Of course. I’m sorry for my imposition.”
“It’s not an imposition, Belle. I’d like very much for you to join me if it were any other night.”
Belle continued smiling her false smile and nodded. “I understand.”
“Well, I’d better get going. See you tomorrow morning? I’ll make sure the notice is sent to the press, and we should have more copies than we know what to do with by then.”
“Bright and early,” Belle replied.
She watched Marguerite pass Chip as he tidied without stopping to help him and commanded herself to remain calm. Belle had dismissed Bastien’s accusations against Marguerite so easily because she could not fathom her friend lying to her, but Belle had a sinking suspicion that she just had.
As much as she liked her, Belle had to consider that since she had only known her for a short time, Marguerite’s motives being impure was at least within the realm of possibility. But she also thought that her reluctance to include Belle didn’t have to mean that Bastien was right about her. The truth could be what she said it was, or Belle’s new friend could be betraying her.
There was only one way she could be certain, and it meant donning a disguise once more.
• • •
She left the castle a few hours later, wearing the same disguise she had worn when she snuck to the tavern in Mauger, only this time, she was heading toward the village of Plesance.
There were enough travelers and merchants on the road for Belle to blend in while she followed her friend. Every step felt foolish, but Belle was convinced she needed to see for herself that Marguerite was not an agitator and was in fact exactly who she claimed to be in order to ease her mind and prove Bastien wrong.
As they got closer to Plesance, a crowd began to form. Almost as soon as they stepped through the gates of the village, Belle lost sight of Marguerite entirely. Belle paused at the fountain in the square and scanned around for the bright yellow gown Marguerite had been wearing, but she came up empty. The sun was setting in earnest now, and Belle thought it was a sign that the entire endeavor had been ill thought out. She didn’t need proof that Marguerite was who she said she was. She had enough faith in her friend and in her own judgment to know that was true. She cursed Bastien for casting doubts upon her friend needlessly. Belle had just decided to sneak back into the castle and pretend none of it had ever happened, when she overheard something suspicious.
“Did you hear about the meeting at the atelier d’ébénisterie?” a woman asked her companion.
“They say a revolutionary has come all the way from Paris,” replied the other. “To Plesance, of all places!”
Belle froze as the terrible feeling that the revolutionary might in fact be Marguerite washed over her. She wanted to be certain of her friend’s innocence, but times were such that it was impossible to be certain of anything. She found herself following the two women all the way across the river to where the guild of furniture-making menuisiers plied their trade. It was not a place she had frequented as a child. This part of Plesance catered to Europe’s upper class, who came to their sleepy village to buy fine furniture and porcelain, things the peasants couldn’t dream of affording.
By the time the crowd reached the atelier, the sun had sunk beyond the horizon. Belle appreciated the dark, hoping it would do more to conceal her than her shoddy disguise could manage. It was foolish to walk into the building alone, but her curiosity could not be sated by mere speculation. Belle had to know what she was up against and if her trust had been misplaced so severely. She was propelled by the same conviction that had pushed her to explore the West Wing of the castle back when it had been forbidden to her—she refused to be kept in the dark, especially when the truth was so easily accessible.
A healthy crowd had formed inside. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and ale. Belle stayed close to the walls, trying very hard not to catch anyone’s notice. She was not in Mauger, where no one knew her. She was in the village where she had grown up, and she would be lucky if she escaped unnoticed. Her spine tingled as she made her way through the building, the villagers casting long shadows in her path, their bodies silhouetted by dim, flickering candlelight.
There was an undercurrent of darkness in the room. She recognized it as the same unease she had felt in Paris before the crowd became a mob. In the streets beneath the Hôtel de Ville, Parisians had been tipped toward murder as easily as a match caught flame. It had felt unbelievable and inevitable all at once. Belle couldn’t help but peek at the gathered crowd, searching for some mark of madness in the faces of her former neighbors, but the room was intolerably dark.
Her heart cast a steady drumbeat against her ribs. Her mind protested each step that brought her farther into the hall. She tried to suppress her fears by reminding herself that it was perfectly legal for everyone to gather together, and that until she heard otherwise, she had no reason to suspect the people of Plesance were anything like the ones she had encountered in Paris. Though, it struck her that such a large amount of people were willing to at least listen to someone with ties to the French Revolution. Bastien’s reports hadn’t mentioned these clandestine meetings, or he had suppressed them, or worse, he knew nothing of them.
The thrum in the air reached a feverish pitch when the agitator took the stage. Belle was immediately relieved to see it was a man. But in the next moment, her chest tightened again as she realized it was someone she knew.
Someone she hadn’t seen since the night she broke the curse.
She froze completely as LeFou took to the makeshift pulpit. He was thinner than she remembered, angrier too. Gone was any spark of mischief he used to carry. This version of LeFou had been hollowed out and scraped bare by the life he had lived since that fateful night.
“Sisters and brothers, I come to you tonight with a simple message, carried in the hearts and minds of our compatriots in France all the way to our village and beyond. It is a message of change and hope. It is a message of revolution.”
Belle expected silence, or perhaps laughter, since LeFou had been the butt of many jokes all her life, but the room roared to life as if by command. LeFou fed off their energy. She hadn’t thought him capable of rousing a crowd the way Gaston had done. Belle had always pictured LeFou as the harmless sidekick to Gaston’s villainy. When the dust settled after the curse had been broken, she had wanted justice for her father, for Lio, and for herself, but it was not to be. The mob that had been led by the now-dead Gaston couldn’t remember marching on the castle, calling for the Beast’s head. They couldn’t remember standing idly by as Gaston and LeFou attempted to have her father committed to an asylum. They couldn’t remember any of the things they had done.
But Belle would always remember.
Lio let go of the pain long before she could. She wasn’t sure if she ever would. It wasn’t as if justice could be served to those who could not recall the crimes they had committed, and reminding them of their sins would mean revealing what else they had forgotten—that their prince had been a beast, and they had wanted him dead.
She had done her best to put the darkness behind her and tried to bury her anger and her desire for vengeance, knowing nothing could be done about it, and for the most part she had succeeded.
