Beauty and the Beast.
There was once a house in a bustling French port town, where the windows were always dirty with salt, and the rooms were always full of noise.
It was a grand house, three stories high, with marble fireplaces and carpets so thick, they swallowed the sound of footsteps.
The man who owned it was a merchant, and for many years, every wind that blew across the ocean seemed to blow money straight into his pockets.
His ships sailed to the far corners of the earth, returning with chests of cinnamon, rolls of heavy silk, and jars of sweet oils.
He had three sons and three daughters, and because he loved them dearly, he spared no expense on their education.
The two eldest daughters spent their days in balls and operas, wearing dresses that rustled like dry leaves, and talking of nothing but dukes and marquises.
They were handsome girls, but they carried their heads so high that they rarely saw the people beneath them.
The youngest daughter, however, was different.
When she was a baby, she was so remarkably pretty that everyone called her the little beauty.
And as she grew older, the name simply stayed with her.
She was called beauty, not only because her face was pleasing, but because her mind was quiet and her heart was steady.
While her sisters spent their afternoons looking into their mirrors or whispering about who was the richest man in the province, Beauty sat by the window with a book.
She loved stories of old voyages, of distant lands, and of people who had to be brave when the world changed around them.
And then, in a single night, the world did change.
A letter arrived, followed by another, and then a third, like a row of falling dominos.
One of the merchant's richest ships had been wrecked on a reef.
Another had been seized by pirates.
A third had been lost in a sudden violent storm in the Atlantic.
Within a week, the grand house in the port was gone, sold to pay the merchant's debts.
The carriages were sold, the silk dresses were packed away, and the servants were dismissed with tears and empty hands.
"We are ruined," the merchant told his children, his hands trembling as he held his spectacles.
"We have nothing left but a small cottage in the depths of a dark forest, miles from any town.
We must go there and learn to live by the labor of our hands."
The two eldest sisters wept and raged.
"We cannot live in a forest," they cried.
"We are ladies. Our friends will come and rescue us."
But their friends, finding that the merchant was no longer rich, suddenly found themselves too busy to visit.
Only Beauty did not cry.
"It is no use weeping," she thought.
"Tears will not grow corn, and they will not sweep a floor."
When they arrived at the cottage, which was small, damp, and smelled of old pine needles, the family had to learn a completely new way of being.
The three brothers took up axes and spades, clearing the wild earth to plant potatoes and cabbage.
The merchant rose before dawn to tend the small field, and Beauty became the keeper of the hearth.
Every morning, she rose at 4:00.
She carried water from the well, built the fire, and made bread.
Her hands, which had once been soft and white, grew chapped and brown, but she found that the work kept her warm and her mind clear.
When her chores were done, she would sit under a great oak tree and read her books, or play a small spinet her father had managed to save from the ruin.
Her sisters, however, did not adapt.
They did not rise until 10:00 in the morning, and they spent the day sitting on three-legged stools, complaining of the draft and the smell of the cabbage.
"Look at her," the eldest sister would whisper, watching Beauty sweep the stone floor.
"She has the soul of a servant. She is perfectly happy in this miserable place."
But Beauty was not a servant.
She was simply free.
She had learned that happiness did not depend on the thickness of a carpet or the height of a carriage wheel.
A year passed in this quiet, hard-working way, until one morning, a messenger brought a letter to the cottage.
One of the merchant's lost ships, which had been thought sunk at the bottom of the sea, had actually limped into port, its cargo intact.
The cottage erupted with joy.
The two eldest sisters danced around the kitchen, instantly forgetting their chapped skin and the cold drafts.
"Father," they cried.
"You must go to the port at once. You will be rich again."
The merchant, his heart beating with a sudden wild hope, prepared his horse for the long journey.
Before he mounted, he turned to his daughters.
"Tell me," he said.
"What shall I bring you from the town? My fortune may be small compared to what it was, but I shall have enough to buy you a keepsake."
"Bring me a gown of gold brocade," said the eldest.
"And bring me a necklace of pearls, three strands deep, and ribbons for my hair," said the second.
The merchant smiled and turned to his youngest.
"And you, Beauty, what is your wish?"
Beauty looked at her father's tired eyes and his coat, which had been mended so many times, the thread was thicker than the cloth.
She did not want to ask for anything that would cost him money, but she knew that if she asked for nothing, her sisters would accuse her of trying to look better than them.
She looked around the yard.
It was late autumn, and the frost had killed every flower in their small garden.
"Father," she said gently.
"Since you ask, I should like you to bring me a rose. I have not seen one since we left our old home, and I miss them very much."
The sisters laughed, calling her silly and pretentious, but the merchant kissed Beauty's cheek.
"I will find you a rose, my child," he said.
And with that, he rode away into the forest.
The journey to the port was long, but the journey back was longer, and it was filled with bitter disappointment.
When the merchant arrived at the docks, he found that his partners, believing him dead, had divided the cargo among themselves.
He had spent days in law courts, arguing with men who had once been his friends, only to find that the cost of the lawyers was greater than the value of the ship.
He was forced to turn back toward his cottage as poor as he had left it, with nothing in his pockets but a few copper coins and a heavy heart.
To make matters worse, a terrible storm blew up as he entered the forest.
The wind howled through the bare branches like a pack of wolves, and the snow fell so thick and fast that the path vanished beneath his horse's hooves.
Night fell, dark and freezing.
The merchant's fingers grew numb on the reins, and his horse shivered, stumbling against the hidden roots of the trees.
"If we do not find shelter soon," the merchant muttered, his teeth chattering.
"We shall both freeze to death before the sun rises."
Suddenly, through a gap in the swirling snow, he saw a light.
It was not the small yellow glimmer of a peasant's cottage, but a great, brilliant glow, as if a hundred candles were burning behind glass.
He guided his horse toward the light, and soon, they came to a long avenue of ancient oak trees.
Strangely, as they rode down the avenue, the wind began to die away.
The snow stopped falling, and the air grew warm and sweet, smelling faintly of summer grass.
At the end of the avenue, stood a palace of white stone, its tall windows blazing with light.
The merchant rode into the courtyard.
There were no grooms, no guards, no stable boys.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of his horse's breathing.
He dismounted and led the horse to a stable door that stood open.
Inside, he found a clean stall, a manger filled with sweet hay, and a bucket of fresh water.
"Well, my friend," the merchant said to his horse, patting its neck.
"Someone is hospitable, even if they are not here to say so."
He walked to the main door of the palace, which was made of heavy oak studded with brass.
He knocked twice.
No one answered.
He pushed the door, and it swung open without a creak.
The merchant stepped inside.
He found himself in a vast hall, warmed by a great fireplace where logs of cedar were burning.
A table was set for one near the hearth, with a plate of silver, a crystal glass, and a roasted chicken that smelled of rosemary and garlic.
"Is anyone here?" the merchant called out.
His voice echoed off the high vaulted ceiling, but no one replied.
He waited for an hour, his stomach rumbling.
The clock in the hall struck 11.
Finally, unable to resist the hunger any longer, he sat down at the table.
"Forgive me, whoever you are," he murmured, and he ate the chicken, drank the wine, and felt the warmth return to his old bones.
When he had finished, he felt incredibly sleepy.
He walked out of the hall and found a small, comfortable bedroom, where a fire was also lit, and a bed of down was turned down, waiting for a guest.
He did not even take off his boots before he fell onto the mattress and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, the merchant woke to find the sun shining through the window.
On a chair beside his bed, someone had laid out a clean coat of fine blue wool, and a silver tray with a pot of hot chocolate and a basket of warm bread.
"This is surely the house of a good fairy," the merchant thought, marveling at the kindness.
He dressed, ate his breakfast, and went down to the stable to get his horse.
As he walked through the gardens, he noticed that while the forest outside was still locked in winter, the palace grounds were in full glorious summer.
The air was warm, and a great hedge of red roses ran along the stone wall, their petals heavy with dew.
The merchant stopped.
He remembered his youngest daughter.
"Beauty," he whispered.
"I have no gold and no pearls for your sisters, but I can at least bring you what you asked for."
He reached out and plucked a single perfect red rose from the hedge.
Instantly, a sound like a clap of thunder shook the garden.
The ground seemed to tremble, and from the shadows of the trees, a figure emerged.
It was a monster.
He was nearly seven feet tall, with the chest of a bull, the paws of a bear, and a face that was a terrible mixture of man and wild beast.
Great tusks protruded from his lower jaw, and his eyes burned with a dark, wild fire.
He wore garments of velvet and gold, but they only made his monstrous form look more terrifying.
"Ungrateful wretch!" the beast roared, and his voice was like the grinding of great stones.
"I saved your life. I opened my gates to you. I warmed you by my fire, I fed you from my table, and I gave you my bed.
And how do you repay my hospitality? You steal my roses, which I love more than anything in my kingdom."
The merchant fell to his knees, his hands clasped in terror.
"Forgive me, my Lord," he gasped.
"I did not mean to offend you. I only took the rose for one of my daughters, who asked for it as a gift."
"Do not call me Lord," the beast growled, his breath hot and smelling of pine and copper.
"I am not a Lord. I am the beast. I do not like compliments, and I prefer people to say what they mean.
You have stolen my rose, and the price for a theft in my garden is death."
The merchant wept.
"My Lord, Beast, forgive me. I have three daughters and three sons. If I die, they will starve in the forest."
The beast stood over him, his shadow covering the old man completely.
He was silent for a long time, his great chest rising and falling.
"You say you have daughters," the beast said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble.
"I will spare your life on one condition. One of your daughters must come here of her own free will to die in your place.
Do not argue with me. If she will not come, you must swear to return in three months' time to face your punishment."
"But," the merchant began.
"Swear it!" the beast roared.
"I swear," the merchant whispered.
He knew he would never allow one of his daughters to die for him, but he thought that by agreeing, he might at least have three months to say goodbye to his children.
"Go to the stable," the beast said, his red eyes narrowing.
"You will find your horse. I have packed a chest for you with gold and fine things, so that your family will not be poor.
But remember your oath. If your daughter does not come willingly, willingly, do you hear? You must return."
Without another word, the beast turned and vanished into the palace, leaving the merchant alone in the morning sun, holding a single red rose that felt as heavy as a stone.
The merchant rode home with his head bowed.
When he arrived at the cottage, his children ran out to meet him, but their joy vanished when they saw his pale face and the tears in his eyes.
He handed the red rose to Beauty.
"Here is what you asked for, my child," he said, his voice cracking.
"But you do not know how dearly your father has paid for it."
He sat them down by the hearth and told them the story of the silent palace, the warm fire, the stolen rose, and the terrible beast.
The two eldest sisters immediately began to scream and cry, turning their anger upon Beauty.
"This is your fault!" they shrieked.
"We asked for things that would have cost only a little money, but you had to be different. You had to ask for a rose, and now our father must die because of your foolishness."
"It was not Beauty's fault," their brother said, their hands on their swords.
"We will go to this palace and kill this monster. We are strong, and we do not fear beasts."
"No," the merchant said.
"The beast is too powerful. His walls are high, and his magic is strong. I am old, and my life is nearly over.
I will return to him, as I swore I would."
But Beauty stood up.
Her face was pale, but her voice was steady, like the quiet water of a deep well.
"No, Father," she said.
"You shall not return to the palace. I will go."
"Never!" her father cried.
"I will not allow it."
"You cannot stop me," Beauty said gently.
"I am the one who asked for the rose, and I am the one who must pay the price. The beast said a daughter must come willingly.
I go willingly, Father. I would rather be eaten by a monster than die of a broken heart, knowing that my father died in my place."
Her sisters did not try to stop her.
In fact, they were secretly glad, for they had always been jealous of Beauty's grace and the quiet way she carried herself.
The three months passed too quickly.
Beauty spent her days helping her brothers in the field and preparing the cottage so that her father would be comfortable when she was gone.
She did not cry, not even at night when she lay in her small bed, listening to the wind in the pines.
She was afraid, of course. She was only 18, and the world was very large and dark, but she had made her choice, and a choice, once made, was a thing to be kept.
On the final morning, the merchant led his horse out of the stable.
Beauty mounted behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Her brothers wept, and even her sisters managed to squeeze a few tears from their eyes with the help of a sliced onion they had hidden in their handkerchiefs.
They rode through the forest in silence, until the trees grew thick, and the snow began to fall.
But just as before, when they reached the long avenue of oaks, the storm ceased.
The air grew warm, and the scent of roses filled the air.
The palace was as brilliant as before.
The door stood open, and inside, the great hall was lit by a thousand candles.
A table was set, not for one this time, but for two.
"Eat with me, Father," Beauty said, trying to smile.
"We must not meet our host on an empty stomach."
They sat down and ate, though every mouthful felt like dry sand in the merchant's throat.
At exactly 9:00, a heavy, dragging footstep echoed in the corridor.
The door opened, and the beast entered.
Beauty gasped, grasping the edge of the table.
He was far more terrifying than she had imagined.
His fur was dark and matted, his tusks gleamed in the candlelight, and his great claws scraped against the marble floor.
She felt a cold shiver of pure terror run from her head to her heels.
The beast stopped.
He looked at Beauty, his red eyes moving slowly over her face.
"Are you the girl who has come to die for her father?" he asked.
His voice was a low, scraping rumble that made the crystal glasses on the table ring.
"I am," Beauty said.
Her voice trembled, but she looked him straight in the eyes.
"Did you come here of your own free will?" the beast asked.
"No one forced you? No one threatened you?"
"No," Beauty said.
"I came because I chose to."
The beast looked at her for a long, silent moment.
"You are very brave," he said.
And for a second, his voice sounded almost sad.
He turned to the merchant.
"Old man, tomorrow morning, you must leave this place. Do not return, or you will find that my patience has limits.
Good night, Beauty."
"Good night, Beast," she whispered.
The monster turned and walked out of the room, his heavy steps fading into the dark corridors of the palace.
Then, the next morning, despite her father's tears and his pleas to let him stay, Beauty watched him ride away down the avenue of oaks, until he was nothing but a small speck in the distance.
When he was gone, she sat down on the steps of the palace and wept.
She was alone with a monster, and she expected that before the sunset, she would be dead.
"But," she thought, drying her eyes with her apron.
"If I am to die tonight, I will at least see the place where I am to spend my last hours."
She walked back inside the palace.
To her surprise, she did not find dark dungeons or blood-stained walls.
Instead, she found room after room of incredible beauty.
One room was filled with cages of singing birds.
Another was warm with the scent of dried lavender and orange blossoms.
Eventually, she came to a door made of rosewood, with her own name written upon it in letters of gold.
"Beauty's Apartment."
She pushed the door open and gasped.
The room was beautiful, with a large window overlooking the rose garden, a bed of blue silk, and a fire crackling in the hearth.
But what made her heart leap was the wall opposite the bed.
It was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of dark oak, and every shelf was crowded with books.
There were plays, histories, poetry, and romances, bound in leather and stamped with gold.
On a small table in the center of the room, lay a book of music, and a note written in elegant, flowing script.
"Welcome, Beauty. You are the mistress here. Your wishes are laws, and you have only to speak to be obeyed.
Tell me what you desire."
Beauty smiled, a small, wry smile.
"I desire nothing," she murmured to the empty room.
"Except to see my father, and to know that he is safe."
As she spoke, she looked at a large mirror on the wall.
To her amazement, the glass cleared like water, and she saw her father's cottage.
Her father was lying in his bed, looking pale and ill, while her sisters were in the kitchen, trying on new dresses and looking very pleased with themselves.
The image lasted for only a minute before the mirror became a mirror again, reflecting only Beauty's own face.
"The beast is strange," she thought.
"He wishes to kill me, yet he gives me books and shows me my father. Perhaps he does not mean to eat me after all."
That evening, at 9:00, Beauty sat down to dinner in the great hall.
She had spent the day reading, and she felt calmer than she had in months.
As the clock began to strike the hour, she heard the heavy, scraping step in the hall.
The beast entered.
"May I watch you eat?" he asked, standing near the door.
He did not come close to the table, and he kept his great paws tucked behind his back.
"You are the master here," Beauty said.
"No," said the beast.
"I told you, you are the mistress. If my presence annoys you, you have only to say so, and I will leave at once.
Tell me, Beauty, do you find me very ugly?"
Beauty was silent for a moment.
She had promised herself she would always speak the truth.
"Yes, Beast," she said gently.
"You are very ugly, but I think you are also very kind."
The beast let out a sound that was half sigh, half growl.
"You are right. I am ugly, and I am also stupid. I have no wit, and I do not know how to speak to ladies."
"A stupid man does not know he is stupid," Beauty said, looking at him.
"Only a wise man can see his own foolishness."
The beast did not answer.
He sat down at the far end of the table, his great head bowed.
He watched her eat, his eyes following her movements with a strange, quiet intensity.
He did not speak again until she had finished.
Then, he stood up, his great bulk cast a long shadow across the room.
"Beauty," he said, and his voice was very low.
"Will you marry me?"
Beauty froze.
The question was so sudden, so absurd, that she did not know what to say.
She looked at his sharp tusks, his heavy fur, and his claws.
"No, Beast," she said softly.
The beast did not roar.
He did not stamp his feet.
He simply bowed his head, his shoulders slumping.
"Then I wish you a good night," he said, and he walked slowly out of the room.
And so, the rhythm of the middle of the story began.
Every day, Beauty was free to do as she pleased.
She spent her mornings in the library, reading of ancient queens and brave travelers.
She spent her afternoons in the gardens, talking to the birds and walking among the roses, which never faded.
She had invisible servants who anticipated her every need.
If she thought of hot chocolate, a cup would appear on the table beside her.
If she wished to hear music, a harp would begin to play in the corner of the room, though no fingers touched the strings.
But her favorite part of the day was 9:00 in the evening.
Every night, the beast would come to the hall.
They would sit by the fire, and they would talk.
At first, the conversations were awkward, but as the weeks passed, they grew longer and deeper.
Beauty discovered that the beast was not stupid at all.
He had read many of the books in her library, and he spoke of them with a quiet, dry humor that made her laugh.
He was patient, and he listened to her talk of her father, her brothers, and even her difficult sisters, without ever judging them.
And every night, at the end of the evening, the beast would stand up, look at her with his dark, sad eyes, and ask the same question.
"Beauty, will you marry me?"
And every night, Beauty would reply, "No, Beast."
He would sigh, wish her a good night, and leave.
It became a comfortable, almost tender ritual.
Beauty began to realize that she no longer saw his sharp teeth or his matted fur.
When she looked at him, she saw only his honesty, his gentleness, and the deep, silent sorrow that seemed to hang over him like a cloud.
And then, for several months, Beauty lived in this quiet paradise.
But one day, she looked into the magic mirror and saw her father again.
He was much worse.
He was confined to his bed, his face thin and white, and he was weeping.
He believed that his youngest daughter had been eaten by the monster, and the grief was slowly killing him.
Her sisters had married.
One to a man who was so vain, he spent all day looking at his own reflection, and the other to a man who was so clever, he used his wit only to make everyone around him feel small.
Neither of them had any time for their dying father.
Beauty went to the great hall that evening with a heart as heavy as lead.
When the beast entered at 9:00, he saw her tears.
"What is the matter, Beauty?" he asked, his voice full of concern.
"My father is dying," Beauty said, her voice breaking.
"He thinks I am dead, and his grief is killing him. If I cannot go to him, I shall die of sorrow myself."
The beast turned away.
He walked to the window, his great claws scratching against the stone sill.
"If you leave," he said, and his voice was so low, she could hardly hear it.
"I shall die of grief myself. I cannot live without you, Beauty."
"I do not wish to leave you forever," Beauty cried, walking to him and laying her small hand on his great furred arm.
He did not move, but she felt his muscles tighten.
"Only let me go for one week, seven days to nurse my father and tell him I am safe. I swear to you, I will return when the week is over."
The beast looked down at her hand on his arm.
"Very well," he said.
"I cannot bear to see you weep. Tomorrow morning, you will find yourself in your father's house, but remember your promise.
If you do not return in seven days, you will find your beast dead.
When you wish to return, you have only to lay your ring upon your table before you go to sleep."
He handed her a small gold ring with a red stone like a drop of blood.
"Thank you, Beast," Beauty said, her eyes shining.
"Will you marry me, Beauty?" he asked, and the question seemed more fragile than ever before.
"I cannot, Beast," she said, her heart aching for him.
"But I am your friend, and I will always return to you."
The beast sighed.
"Good night, Beauty."
The next morning, Beauty woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.
She was not in her blue silk bed, but in a small, low-ceilinged room.
She sat up and saw her old trunk in the corner.
She dressed quickly and ran into the kitchen.
Her father was sitting by the cold hearth, looking older and weaker than she had ever seen him.
When he saw her, he let out a cry of pure joy.
He fell into her arms, weeping, and for a long time, neither of them could speak.
Beauty held him close, telling him over and over that she was safe, that the beast did not hurt her, and that she lived in a palace of wonders.
Within two days, the joy of having his favorite daughter back had restored the merchant's health.
He was able to sit up, to eat, and even to walk in the small yard.
But Beauty's sisters were not pleased.
They arrived at the cottage three days later, wearing their fine dresses and accompanied by an unhappy husbands.
When they saw Beauty, looking more beautiful than ever, dressed in a gown of white silk that the beast had packed for her, their hearts burned with envy.
"Why should she have everything?" the eldest sister whispered as they stood by the well.
"She lives like a queen, while we are married to men who do not care for us. It is not fair."
"I have an idea," the second sister said, her eyes narrowing.
"The beast told her she must return in seven days, or he would die. If we can keep her here for eight days or nine, the monster will grow angry and devour her when she goes back.
Or perhaps he will die of grief, and she will be left with nothing."
So when the seven days were nearly over, the sisters changed their manner.
They began to weep, throwing their arms around Beauty's neck and begging her not to leave them.
"You have only just returned," they cried.
"Do you love a monster more than your own flesh and blood? Stay with us, Beauty, just a few days more."
Beauty was confused.
She had never known her sisters to show her such affection.
Her own kind heart was easily moved, and she began to feel guilty.
"If I leave now," she thought.
"They will think I am cold and ungrateful, and my father is still weak. Surely a day or two more will not matter.
The beast is kind, he will forgive me."
She agreed to stay for three more days.
But that night, the eighth night, Beauty had a dream.
She dreamed she was back in the palace gardens.
The sun was setting, and the sky was the color of bruised plums.
She walked down the path of roses, but the flowers were all dead, their petals black and shriveled.
At the end of the path, lying on the grass beside the fountain, was the beast.
He was motionless, his eyes closed, his great chest still.
"Beauty," a voice whispered in the wind.
"You have forgotten your promise."
Beauty woke with a scream.
She was shivering, and her face was wet with tears.
"What have I done?" she cried, sitting up in the dark.
"The beast is dying, and I am here, listening to sisters who do not even love me. He is worth more than all of us."
She looked at the small gold ring on her finger.
She slipped it off and laid it on the table beside her bed.
"Forgive me, Beast," she whispered.
"I am coming."
She closed her eyes and fell into a deep, anxious sleep.
When Beauty opened her eyes, the sun was shining through the high window of her apartment in the palace.
She felt a sudden, wild rush of relief.
"I am back," she thought.
She dressed quickly and ran down the corridor, expecting to hear the harp playing or to see her breakfast waiting.
But the palace was silent.
The air was cold, and the invisible servants did not answer her thoughts.
She waited all day, her anxiety growing with every tick of the great clock in the hall.
9:00 came.
The clock struck the hour, its chimes echoing through the empty rooms.
Beauty stood by the table, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She listened for the heavy, dragging step in the corridor.
One minute passed, five minutes, 10.
The silence remained unbroken.
"Beast!" she cried, running out of the hall.
"Beast, where are you?"
She ran through the palace, her silk dress rustling against the stone walls.
She searched the library, the music room, the conservatory.
Every room was empty and dark.
Suddenly, she remembered her dream.
She ran out into the gardens.
The warm summer air of the palace grounds felt cold against her skin.
She ran down the path of roses, and to her horror, she saw that the flowers were indeed drooping, their leaves dry and yellow.
At the end of the path, beside the stone fountain, she saw a dark shape lying on the grass.
It was the beast.
He was lying on his side, his eyes closed, his great paws stretched out.
He looked smaller somehow, as if the life were slowly leaking out of him.
Beauty fell to her knees beside him.
She laid her hand against his chest.
His heart was beating, but it was so slow and faint, like the ticking of a watch that had almost run down.
"Beast!" she wept, lifting his great, heavy head into her lap.
"Please, do not die. I am here. I came back. I was foolish and ungrateful, but I am here now."
The beast's eyelids fluttered.
He opened his red eyes, but they were dim and cloudy.
"Beauty," he whispered, and his voice was nothing but a dry rustle of wind.
"You came."
"Of course I came!" she cried, her tears falling onto his furred face.
"I promised I would."
"You were late," he said, and for a moment, a tiny spark of his dry humor returned to his eyes.
"I thought you had forgotten. I could not eat. I could not drink. I did not want to live without you."
"Do not die, Beast!" Beauty begged, her voice rising in a sob.
"You must live. We will live together. I thought I only liked you as a friend, but now that I see you like this, I know the truth.
I love you, Beast. I want to marry you."
As the words left her mouth, a strange thing happened.
The sky above the garden, which had been dark, suddenly erupted with light.
A thousand fireworks seemed to burst in the air, filling the night with stars of gold, silver, and red.
The dead roses along the path stood up, their petals opening in a sudden, brilliant bloom.
Beauty gasped, covering her eyes from the glare.
When she lowered her hands, the beast was gone.
In his place, lying on the grass with his head still in her lap, was a young man.
He was remarkably handsome, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes as bright and clear as the sky after a rain.
He wore the same velvet and gold garments as the beast, but they fit his slender, graceful form perfectly.
He looked up at her and smiled.
"Where is my beast?" Beauty cried, looking around the garden in confusion.
"What have you done to him?"
"I am your beast," the young man said, rising to his feet and offering her his hand.
"A wicked fairy cursed me many years ago, when I was a proud and selfish prince. She turned me into a monster, and she told me I must remain in that shape until a beautiful girl agreed to marry me of her own free will.
You saw past my monster's face, Beauty. You loved my heart, and by doing so, you have broken the spell."
Beauty looked at him.
She looked at his fine, straight nose, his smooth skin, and his elegant hands.
And then she felt a strange, quiet pang of regret.
She was glad he was alive, of course, and she was glad he was no longer in pain.
But as she looked at this handsome prince, she realized she would always half miss the beast.
She would miss the heavy, dragging step in the corridor.
She would miss the great, self-deprecating rumble of his voice.
She would miss the quiet, awkward way he sat at the end of the table, trying to make himself look smaller so as not to frighten her.
"Come," the prince said, smiling as he drew her toward the palace, which was now filled with the sound of music and the light of a thousand candles.
"My court is waiting. We must prepare for our wedding."
They were married the next week, and Beauty's father lived with them in the palace for the rest of his days, surrounded by all the books he could ever wish to read.
As for the two sisters, the fairy who had cursed the prince, turned them into two stone statues, placed on either side of the palace gates.
There, they were forced to watch their sister's happiness, until their hearts, which had been hardened by envy, became soft enough to feel joy for someone other than themselves.
But as the years passed, and Beauty lived in her grand palace with her handsome prince, she would sometimes walk down the path of roses alone in the quiet of the evening.
She would look at the stone fountain, and she would remember the monster, who had been so afraid of his own shadow, and who had loved her with such a patient, quiet grace.
And now, we come to the end of our story, and the beginning of your thoughts.
Here is a question to keep with you as you close your eyes.
How do you learn to see anyone truly, including yourself?
Is it the looking that comes first, or is it the loving?
Do we have to love someone before we can see who they really are, or do we have to see them truly before we can begin to love them?
Think of the beast, and think of his mirror, and let the question go to sleep with you tonight.