He looked so exhausted by the events of the day that Belle couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth she was beginning to feel in her heart—that it had only just begun.
Dinner passed in a blur of high-throated laughter and the occasional sneer from Bastien’s numerous aristocratic friends. The immense dining room table all but sagged under the weight of the dishes: tureens of beef madrilène, bisque of shellfish, and cold cucumber soup mingled with heaving platters of beef ragout, scallops smothered in puréed chestnuts, salmon en sel, and ramequins of cheese soufflé. All the dishes perspired in the July evening heat under the glow of a thousand candles, but thanks to the duc’s priorities, the champagne was pleasantly cool.
The only respite she found from the constant inanity of dinner came from her seatmate, Charles Louis, the marquis de Montcalm, whom she quickly discovered was a close friend of Olympe de Gouges, a playwright and activist whom Belle deeply admired.
“Where did you meet the Madame de Gouges?” she asked between bites of ragout.
The marquis dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I believe our first meeting was at a salon hosted by the Madame de Montesson. Olympe was as vibrant as one could imagine, advocating passionately for human rights and against the slave trade. She held the room in her thrall.”
Belle hung on his every word. “I should very much like to meet her one day.”
The marquis smiled. “I am certain that could be arranged, madame.”
The prospect thrilled her. She hadn’t expected to find someone like Charles Louis at Bastien’s dinner, but she was glad she had.
The dinner was a more refined affair than Belle had ever experienced, and it did nothing to prepare her for the barely restrained indulgence that came after. Courses were presented and removed before she even had a chance to work out which of her six forks matched which type of dish, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t have much of an appetite. Her head ached from the weight of the wig Bastien had insisted she wear, proclaiming the state of her hair to be outside the bounds of acceptability after a day of walking Paris’s streets. It was a towering, rolled thing, dyed a shade or two darker than Belle’s own hair, with ringlets framing her face. Her itchy scalp begged for mercy, and Belle did her best with the handle of her smallest fork when she thought no one was looking.
Once the last of the smelly cheeses had been taken away, Belle realized that the excesses of the meal were for show. Hardly anyone ate more than she did, leaving ample room for after-dinner champagne and the heartiest meal of the night—gossip.
Bastien paraded Belle around like an exotic animal, introducing her as a commoner turned princess, evidently a novelty none of the guests had ever encountered before. Explaining to them that she was not, in fact, a princess proved tedious.
“But you’re married to a prince,” remarked a woman with deeply rouged cheeks.
“Indeed I am,” Belle replied patiently. “But I did not take a title when I married.”
“Why not?” the woman asked, her voice high.
“It’s not something I’ve ever desired,” Belle offered weakly, knowing this noblewoman didn’t care to know the true complexities of Belle’s feelings on the matter.
Lio was across the room, surrounded by friends and acquaintances he hadn’t seen since childhood. Her husband had done away with the white paint and wig Bastien had insisted he wear to Versailles, and yet he was still confined to an outfit of his cousin’s choosing, and unused to the ruffles and lace of Parisian finery. His discomfort reminded her of the time Lumière had wrangled the Beast into something of a courtly ensemble.
Even rough around the edges, Lio still looked princely standing there among them, shooting her apologetic glances when he could, knowing she was probably tallying all the absurdities she’d been made to endure thus far. He owed her. She had half a mind to demand he present her with another library for her troubles.
The liquor flowed freely, and the guests, while absurd in their conduct, were pedigreed beyond compare. Lio had spent the dinner whispering names to her under his breath.
That’s the comte de Chamfort. The last time I saw him he was beating a servant with his walking stick for spilling tea when we were boys.
That’s the Mademoiselle de Vignerot, she’s been betrothed to an Austrian archduke since birth.
Belle would have rather been anywhere else. Bastien’s guests were an unpleasant blend of immensely rich and disturbingly aloof. She knew in any other circumstance they would reject her outright because of her status as a commoner, former or not. But she was interesting, and to a roomful of courtiers who spent most of their time in the protocol-laden court of King Louis, being interesting was a far greater virtue than simply being rich or noble. They peppered her with questions about the most mundane aspects of growing up a peasant, and they were utterly enthralled by her answers.
What was it like to make your own bread?
Did you truly mend your own clothing?
You said your father is an inventor? How quaint!
She felt as though she was on display in a museum, but she couldn’t escape their queries. So she fought back the best way she knew how.
“Surely I’m not the only commoner you’ve ever spoken to?” she asked the Mademoiselle de Vignerot, a girl a few years younger than Belle who wore a gown so encrusted in jewels it seemed impossible to breathe in. She had been engrossed by Belle’s tales of peasantry for nearly a quarter of an hour while she fanned herself.
“Madame, we do our best to avoid them,” she confessed with mock sincerity. “Though if they are anything like you, then perhaps we are missing out.” She said it like she knew it wasn’t true, and all the ladies clustered around her howled with laughter. To them, Belle was an oddity: a peasant who was polite enough to dine with them without catastrophe. She didn’t fit with their preconceived notions of how a peasant should behave, so they treated her like a rarity. It was absurd; Belle herself had grown up with many smart and worldly commoners, and met more than a few ignorant and dim nobles in just one night.
She walked away from the gaggle of them and found a hiding place on the other side of one of the pillars that lined the edge of the room. She took some deep breaths and tried her best to convince herself not to run away from the dinner entirely.
“That bad, is it?”
She turned to find she wasn’t the only person hiding from the guests. A tall woman with warm brown skin and tightly curled black hair leaned against the wall with a flute of champagne held close to her mouth. She was close in age to Belle, perhaps a bit younger, but she possessed a commanding posture and wore a dress so simple in its design it only served to make her stand out all the more.
Belle wasn’t often lost for words. “I’m sorry?”
“Your guests.” She gestured around the curve of the pillar. “Monstrous bores, aren’t they?”
Belle’s heart warmed at the insult, but she didn’t know the woman she was speaking to, and an unkindness lobbed at those she found insufferable could quickly turn into one aimed at her. “I’m sorry—” she started.
“You keep saying that.”
Belle cleared her throat and commanded her cheeks not to flush. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”