Cloaks and Roses: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

Reunion

Louis

***

A letter came in for Louis three days after his talk with Gabrielle. It was from an investigator that he'd payed one thousand francs to search for Isabelle. 

It was June first now. He hadn't seen her since December eleventh. The sight of the letter brought him more hope than he'd felt since the day before Isabelle left. He eagerly opened it, impatient to see what it said.

'Louis,

I've found Isabelle. I know it is her. She is exactly as you described her to be, and I heard her called Isabelle by her companion. I spotted her in the park with Jacques Marquis. It appears he is courting her. Hurry, my friend. It is clear that he loves her, even to an onlooker. She is in a small little cottage on the outskirts of Paris, on the opposite side from where she lived before. It is secluded and not very hard to find. Marquis visits nearly every day. Get there early in the morning or late at night. Good luck.

Francis'

Louis heart stopped. Isabelle was being courted. It had been six months and she had moved on from him. He was too late.

He dropped the letter. He couldn't be.

He ran to his room and grabbed a pouch of gold and his traveling cloak, trying to hold back his emotions. He needed to get there tonight.

"Gabrielle, I've found her!" he called from the foot of the stairs. "I'm leaving now! I love you!"

He ran outside, grabbed a rose from the rose bush, and sprinted to his horse. He didn't even bother with a carriage as he sprinted off into the night.

***

Isabelle

***

The more time Isabelle spent with Jacques, the more it became clear that she would always love Louis. 

But Jacques was honest. He hid nothing from her and didn't take advantage of her before shutting down and refusing to even look at her. She could look at his face and study him openly, because he hid nothing. He could take care of her. He didn't mind that she didn't love him- he just wanted to be with her.

But she wanted to love him before she agreed to marry him.

He departed from her cottage after coffee and scones on the first night of June. He'd taken her to see an opera. She'd never been treated so well by a gentleman.

So why couldn't she love him?

She sat at her table and let herself remember Louis fully for the first time since her birthday.

She pictured his tall, lean frame, cloaked in black. She thought of the way his scarf moved when he smiled, the way he smiled at her often, thinking she couldn't tell. She pictured his beautiful, expressive eyes, and the tender expression in them while he looked at her.

She remembered the time he'd comforted her after her father's funeral, their many discussions, the times they'd laughed together. The way her heartbeat quickened when he looked at her and they way she felt when she was with him.

She sighed, burying her face in her hands.

What was she doing with Jacques?

She remembered the way he'd treated her after their kiss and it suddenly became clear to her: Louis ran from her. Jacques loved her.

She suddenly felt angry at Louis. He'd treated her like dirt after she sacrificed her reputation for him. After she acted so improperly, trusting that he would be there for her forever. And he'd ran without even an excuse.

And she deserved better.

She just hoped she could actually start wanting someone better. She hoped she could start wanting to be with Jacques.

***

There was a knock on Isabelle's door before the sun even rose. She was slightly scared; she was a woman who lived alone. Anyone could be at her door. 

She hurriedly donned a robe over her nightgown and ran her fingers through her hair. She wished she had time to pull it up.

She cracked the door and saw a tall, cloaked figure. Her heartbeat sped up and her jaw dropped. 

Louis Chaput was standing at her door.

He stepped in and she sunk into a chair at the table, unable to believe what she was seeing. She felt joyful and happy, confused and stupefied, angry and sad all at the same time.

But anger was the most dominant.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice shaking.

He knelt beside her, reaching for her hand. She snatched it away.

"You don't get to touch me!" she exclaimed. "After the way you treated me, after six months of crying myself to sleep and missing you, you show up in the middle of the night and-"

Louis cut her off. "Isabelle, please listen to me."

Her mouth snapped shut and she glared at him, chest heaving with anger. "Fine."

He took a deep breath and his hand reached for his hood. She held her breath, suddenly anxious instead of angry, as he pushed it back. He slipped the cloak over his head, leaving the scarf, and her eyes roamed over him.

He was lean, but the muscles in his arms were wiry and he appeared to be very strong. He was tan and his hair was thick, black, and slightly wavy. She felt the sudden urge to run her hands over him, to run her fingers through his silky hair. She blinked, pushing those thoughts away, then she noticed the scars.

They covered his strong looking hands. They were on his arms, all the way up until they disappeared underneath the sleeves at his elbows. They were long and white and jagged. Someone had hurt him, badly. 

"What happened?" she asked, breathless.

"These are all from my father," he said softly. "They come from fire, from pocket knives, from beatings. This one," he pointed to a particular jagged on on the inside of his arm, "is from a vase that I accidentally broke when I was five."

She gasped, her heart breaking for him, and covered her mouth with her hands.

And suddenly all her anger was gone. It was replaced with compassion and love; with a need to comfort him and let him know he was still beautiful to her.

He reached hesitantly for the scarf, and froze. She rose and walked to him, gently putting her hand over his and removing the scarf. He looked down at the floor, self conscious, as she took in the sight of his face.

There was a long, jagged scar that ran from his temple to the base of his jaw. There were two on his forehead, one on his chin, one from his left ear that ran down his neck, beneath his collar. They were horrible scars, but she looked past them.

He was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. He had amazing bone structure: high cheekbones, a strong jawline. His lips were full, his nose perfect. His hair was longish, so it covered some scars on his forehead.

"This is why I ran. Why I left. I'm hideous, Isabelle. And you're so beautiful. I love you so much. But how could I ever expect you to love someone so ugly?"

She melted, her eyes filling with tears. She reached for him, putting her hands on his cheeks and looking deeply into the eyes she loved so much.

"You're beautiful," she whispered.

Louis's face was joyful as he pulled her close and claimed her mouth with his.