Before he lost himself to madness, he dropped his gaze to look at the Beast’s garments, forced himself to stare at them, to recognise, and to name to himself, cloth, buttons, laces, seams, gores, pleats. He saw that the Beast was dressed entirely in black, and the clothes were themselves odd, of no fashion the merchant knew. He wore an open, sleeveless gown, of some kind of stiff heavy material overlaid with black brocade and trimmed in black braid, which fell from thick gathers at the shoulders to a great whipping length of hem which roiled out round him like half-opening wings as he paced and roared. Beneath this was a long, soft, but close-fitting waistcoat, embroidered, also in black, but in a pattern the merchant could not make out. Even the shirt beneath it, the ruffle at the collar and wrists were unrelieved black, as were the trunk-hose and the low boots, strapped tightly round the ankles.
The Beast threw back his head and roared a last time; then he spoke, and his voice shook the walls. “1 have fed and sheltered you and your creature when you both would have died in the blizzard else! And you repay my kindness and hospitality by stealing my rose!”
The merchant opened his mouth, but no words came. He leant against the wall of the corridor and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.
“Speak!”
The merchant opened his eyes. The Beast was standing still at last, and now the sunlight streamed in round him; there was a wide channel of light from the doorway to the merchant’s feet, one edge of it sculpted by the shape of the Beast’s shoulder and the fall of his gown. Perhaps that gave the merchant courage; perhaps it was that as the Beast was now standing, he was half turned sideways, and with the wings of the gown collapsed round him, he looked only huge, no longer big enough to obliterate the sky. The merchant wondered where his pony had got to.
“I—I—” The merchant’s voice was a croak, but as he discovered he could again speak, his mind began to race, spilling out frantic excuses. “I am very grateful—I am very grateful—truly 1 am—I know we would have died—we were nearly dead—I am sorry about the rose—I was not thinking—that is, I was thinking, but your house is so grand—I thought you would not miss it—it is just that my youngest daughter grows roses, but the weather this year meant none of them bloomed, and she was so sad, so sad, her roses are her friends, and she is such a good girl, a kind girl, I thought to bring this one to her.. . .”
As the merchant said, “Her roses are her friends,” the Beast gave a little shudder. The merchant saw it in the ripple in the edge of the channel of light, as the Beast’s gown swirled and fell still again. The merchant had kepi his eyes fixed on that track of sunlight as he spoke, and now both edges of the channel ran suddenly straight, as the Beast moved away from the door. The merchant looked longingly out upon the shimmering while driveway, at the border of smooth lawn he could see, and the dark haze of trees beyond, but he knew there was no point in trying to run. The Beast would snatch him out of the air before he reached the door. He wished again he knew where his pony was.
He glanced towards the Beast, who had his back to him, and the merchant was suddenly, unwelcomely shaken by an unmistakable flare of pity, for the Beast stood with his great shoulders and head bowed in a posture unfathomably sorrowful. If he had been a man, and even if that man had threatened his life but a moment before, the merchant would have put a hand on his shoulder. But he was a Beast, and the merchant remained next to his wall. But he wondered .. . and now, perhaps, he hoped.
The Beast turned back towards the merchant, catching the edge of the sunlight again, halving the bright track that led to the merchant’s feet, and fragments of light glanced off the curves and angles of his face as he turned. The merchant’s breath caught on a sob, and he turned his own face to the wall. He did not dare close his eyes—were not the Beast’s footfalls silent?—but he had, just then, confused by pity and dread and daylight, nearly looked into the Beast’s face.
“Your daughter loves roses, does she?” the Beast said at last. Now that he was no longer roaring, his voice was so deep the merchant had to strain to hear the words. “They grow for her. do they?”
“Oh yes,” said the merchant eagerly, looking at the Beast’s feet. “Everything in the garden grows for her, but the roses most of all. Everyone in the town comments on it.” The merchant raised his eyes just lo the Beast’s breast level; his peripheral vision told him the Beast still stood with his shoulders stooped and his head lowered. The merchant was appalled when he heard his own voice saying: “I—I—may I bring you some this summer, to—to replace what I—I stole? Her—her—her wreaths are very much admired. ...”
In the silence following his involuntary words, the merchant heard his heart drumming in his ears, and there was a red fog over his vision that was not explained by the crimson carpet. The Beast stood as if considering. “No,” he said at last. “No. I want your daughter.”
The merchant gasped; a great pain seized his breast, and two tears rolled down his face.
“Stand up, man, and catch your pony, and ride home. I could kill you, you know, and it would be my right, for you have stolen my rose. But I am not going to kill you. Go home and tell your daughter to come to me.”
“No—oh no!” cried the merchant. “No—you may as well kill me now, for I will not sacrifice one of my daughters to take my place!”
“Sacrifice?” said the Beast. “I said nothing of killing the girl. She will be safe here, as safe as you were, last night, till you stole my rose. Nothing comes here that is dangerous—save me—and 1 give you my word she will take no harm of me.”
The merchant, far from standing up, had sunk down, as his knees gave way, and now he bowed down till his fore—
head nearly touched the floor, and covered his face with his hands.
“Nay, you think a Beast’s word is not to be trusted?” As the Beast strode towards him, the merchant, in a final spasm of terror, struggled again to his feet and spread his hands, thinking to meet his death as bravely as he could, but all he feit was the sleek thickness of the Beast’s fur as he forced his huge clawed hand into the breast of the merchant’s coat. He saw the Beast’s great hand closing tight round the rose’s stem; when he opened it again, the palm had been pierced by one of the thorns, and three drops of blood fell softly to the crimson carpet, making a dark stain like a three-petal led flower or the first unfurling of a rosebud.