"Le Duo"

Beauty and the Beast

Disney owns 'Beauty and the Beast' and its characters.

…

The reality of war had reached the sleepy little town. Village elders lined the rough wooden table in the town hall with scrolls of paper and ink wells; each one carefully logging the name and birth date of each recruit. The war with England and Prussia had been raging for six years. Residents of the quaint and idyllic village- few of whom could even read a newspaper- had until now remained ignorant of it.

Now there had been threats of invaders- brutal armies who threatened to storm their beautiful village and slaughter the innocents.

"They will run off with your children! Come after them at night!" the mayor, Monsieur Germond, had proclaimed that morning. There was no turning back; the town would have to offer up its young men for battle.

Gaston was seventeen, soon to turn eighteen. He stood in the recruiting line with a smirk on his face, clad in his best red jacket with gold waistcoat. "This is it! This is the year we will become heroes, Lefou!"

"Yeah, Gaston! Heroes, you and me!" Lefou replied in the most confident voice he could muster.

"But mostly me!" Gaston added.

Lefou's eyes lit up with pride at Gaston's courageous attitude; he tried to mirror his eager smile. He was nervous, but he couldn't let Gaston know that. As long as Gaston was with him, he could do this. He would be brave.

"Of course," Lefou said with an uneasy laugh; fiddling with his bow tie. It was black, not the dark pink or red he favored. The somber and uneasy news of today required it. The two boys finally had to part company. Gaston was next in line.

"Young Gaston, the hunter! Now, I don't need you to tell me your name, as we all know it!" the recruiting elder at the table greeted him.

"Ah, but I will give it to you, anyway. Gaston Luc de Soleil."

"Son, your surname is 'Legume,'" the man replied.

"From now on I go by my mother's maiden name- 'de Soleil.' And I hope you know the right way to spell it!" the teenager added, a bit of impatience in his voice. He watched carefully as the man wrote his preferred name clearly with his quill pen. He couldn't read or spell much himself, but he knew when his name was misspelled. He did not want it to be incorrect, by chance he gave his life for France and it would be permanently inscribed on a granite obelisk.

"'de Soleil' is spelled with a lowercase 'D,'" Gaston told the recruiter, leaning over the table. "But hold on...make it capital instead. I never liked that." The man nodded, and scratched his quill. Gaston slowly spelled out the rest of his surname.

"I believe...that it ends in a 'Y', not an 'L,'" Lefou piped up from behind him. Gaston whirled around and gave his friend a scowl.

"Have you ever had to spell my name out before?" he sneered at him.

"Uh, I suppose not. It's too complicated," said Lefou. Gaston turned back to the recruiter.

"Your date of birth?" the man continued.

"September 13, 1744." The man wrote down this information, then he glanced up at the boy with an apologetic look. "Next of kin?"

Gaston scowled. "None."

The man left that part of the form blank. "Merci, Gaston. Next!" he called.

Lefou approached the recruiting table. "Name?" he was asked.

"Étienne-Jacques Lefou. Don't forget the hyphen. You know, the line thing."

"Date of birth?"

"April 1, 1745."

The elder gave the boy a slightly condescending smile. "April Fool's Day."

Lefou smiled nervously. "Yeah," he said with a little laugh. "My great-great Grand-Pere was a great Jester for the King's Court, so Maman was proud to have her own 'royal Fool' born on-"

"Next of kin?" the man interrupted in a curt tone.

"Uh...Jacques Lefou, my father." A feeling of sick dread hit him in the stomach. He knew why the man wanted Papa's name.

"Thank you, son. Next!"

Lefou put a hand over his mouth to quell the nausea as he searched the crowd of young men for that familiar red coat. As soon as he saw Gaston, he rushed to his side and put a hand on the taller boy's shoulder.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Lefou said nonchalantly.

"But we haven't done anything yet!" Gaston exclaimed with a cocked eyebrow. "You're not scared, are you?"

Lefou's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Oh, no! Not scared at all!" he said, his still-boyish face breaking into a silly smile.

...

"Fire!"

Gaston obeyed; he fired. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he watched the soldier he'd chosen- by virtue of unfortunate eye contact- take his bullet to the face.

One second, this other boy had a face, and the next; he had none. What remained was a scarlet mess that reminded Gaston of the innards of a butchered deer.

One down, and more to go.

His feet propelled him forward to a faster march; his comrades of France alongside him in lockstep. He rushed faster, a near-run, always certain to be a few steps in front of the rest. He cocked his musket with a snap, and with eager hunter's eyes he saw yet another with his back to him, retreating. Coward!

He shot from behind. It penetrated the mid-neck, the upper spinal column. Perfect. The enemy dropped like a sack of boulders to the ground. He reloaded for a third shot, noticing that many of his comrades were down. Their moans of pain found his ears, urging him further as he continued to engage.

Two more down by his hand within the next thirty seconds. That made five so far, and all were clean kills. He saw one of them aiming in his direction, and he immediately ducked. A high pitched whistle sounded as the pellet went above his head and hit some poor fellow behind him. He heard him scream and fall with a thump.

He kept marching forward. Another was engaging him; foolishly rushing to him with a bayonet. Gaston swerved and ducked. He grasped his musket with both hands and thrust it upward so the bayonet was knocked out of the soldier's hands.

With a growl, he used the butt of his gun to hit him in the stomach and knock him to the ground.

"Bonjour!" Gaston roared, high on adrenaline and thirsty for victory. He pressed the end of the musket between this fellow's wide blue eyes and fired. The eyes went blank, the forehead paled beneath a fresh spray of blood. "Au Revoir!" he added quietly.

He had no time to add this one to his count; he was approached yet again by two more enemies aiming in his direction. A burst of fear came to him for a split second, followed by the wheels in his head turning out a strategy. He yelled out and collapsed to the ground, falling on his face and playing dead. He heard boots approach him as he lay there, giving his temple a swift painful kick, then walking away. A gunshot sounded, and the unfortunate wearer of those boots was taken down.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire! It is a victory!" the General shouted from a distance. Today, at least, was a success. The enemy soldiers were in retreat.

Gaston stood up after a long while, his entire face smeared with blood- not his own- that had been pooled in the grass. It was time for the medics to tend to the injured. He wiped his face with his handkerchief and scanned over the faces of those who remained standing. Approximately half of the regiment who had marched- fresh and healthy- only a half hour before were still up and about. The entire engagement had lasted a pathetic twenty-five minutes, before the enemy surrendered and the General declared a cease-fire.

"Captain, oversee the injured! Find the medic!" General Poulain barked out to Captain de Soleil. Gaston saluted, and scanned the troops for his oldest friend.

Lefou had taken the job as medic in the regiment. It suited the boy; he had a caring way about him and a surprising talent for making elixirs and medicines. He was a brewer's apprentice before the war, so mixing medicines was a skill he'd quickly learned, along with the cleaning of wounds and a knowledge of hygiene.

"Lefou!" Gaston shouted out to the assembly of stumbling, weary men still up and walking around. He glanced to the left, then the right.

Gaston finally spotted one man walking who was stouter and shorter than the rest. He rushed towards him from behind. When the man turned around, Gaston saw it was an unfamiliar auburn-haired boy with freckles and frightened green eyes. It wasn't him.

"Lefou!" Gaston hollered as his eyes scanned the dying and the dead, writhing in the blood soaked field. Damn it!

Gaston stomped around frantically, ignoring the horror of what he was seeing. Finally, he spotted a soldier lying face down- a short man with a rounded build. Gaston recognized the coffee-colored mop of long hair strewn in the grass, one stray curl blowing in the breeze but the rest of his form...still.

"Lefou!" Gaston yelled in panic, dropping to his knees. No. You can't take him from me, too! he thought in a prayer directed to a God who he felt did not exist anymore.

A pale hand slowly raised in greeting. Relief washed over the face of Captain Gaston de Soleil.

He pulled on Lefou's beige overcoat frantically, not knowing where his injury was. Blood was everywhere, but it was the blood of many men- all mixed together. Once Gaston lifted the coat, he saw that a bullet had grazed Lefou's left side. His white shirt was soaked with blood.

"Auughh..." Lefou stirred to life, a muffled moan of pain leaving his throat as Gaston turned him over on his back. "Gaston...you saved me again-"

"I...didn't save you. And I don't know what to do for you! Is there another medic around I can fetch?"

"Take the flask from my pocket," Lefou whispered, his eyes scrunched in pain. Gaston reached into his pocket and found the flask of 'Brillance de la lune,' a beverage that Lefou had brewed himself from distilled corn. "Pour it on my side."

"This is a drink, you dolt!"

"It'll help with infection, Gaston...It's gonna hurt and I'm gonna scream, but do it anyway!"

"Fine," Gaston growled. He uncorked the flask, tugged the bloody shirt up and dumped the contents on what was apparently a bullet graze. Lefou's fondness for cinnamon rolls and cheese croissants and rich cuts of meat had, basically, saved his life. If he had been leaner it would have penetrated a kidney.

His injured friend gave a high-pitched scream. Gaston took off his thick leather glove and shoved it in his mouth.

"Bite down on it!," he ordered. Lefou obeyed, biting on the glove which muffled his screams of pain as Gaston poured most of the corn liquor on his wound.

"Don't use it all up, Gaston!" Lefou said suddenly. He pulled the glove out of his mouth, a grimace on his young face. "It's valuable!"

"Fine! I won't!" He stopped pouring and corked the bottle, stuffing it back in the coat. "You seem all right now," Gaston said with a satisfied smile, overly proud of his ability to do something that was usually Lefou's talent, not his.

Lefou smiled. "It's only a flesh wound."

"Of course. Étienne-Jacques Lefou, the man of iron. Indestructible," Gaston proclaimed. "Who better to have at my side?"

"Nobody better!" Lefou started to laugh weakly. "But again, no one's better than you!"

"True, my friend." Gaston said with a smirk. He grasped Lefou's hand, squeezed it, but quickly let it go. Lefou was looking up at him 'that way' again, that dewy-eyed adoration similar to the looks Gaston received from all the girls back home. He gazed up at Gaston as if he had hung the stars- as if he were a god himself.

And why not? I deserve it!

Gaston gave Lefou a nod of assurance. All was right in the world, for now.

"So...do you have the roll of bandages on you? You're the medic, Lefou! You've been ordered to have it on hand," Gaston said.

"Yeah. Check my right pocket. There's a first aid kit."

And so there was. Gaston took it and set to work, unrolling and taping bandages on his friend's side. All around them, the newly dead were being carted off to a ravine down the river. Gaston saw Lefou craning his head to look around at the dead soldiers.

"Oh...no...no! Gaston, have you seen Denis? Is he alive? Or Jean-Baptiste? Where are they?"

Gaston moved his body so that Lefou could see nothing but his own form leaning over him. "Do not look around!" he commanded sharply.

"But-"

Gaston put his face down as close to Lefou's as he possibly could, locking eyes with him. He touched his cheek in a gesture of assurance. "Look at me, Lefou. Don't look anywhere else! Just look at me."

"Okay. B-but what about-"

Gaston touched Lefou's lips with his finger. "Shhh...only me."

Lefou nodded; his eyes began to calm as he focused on his friend. "Okay."

As Gaston carried his friend on a stretcher he noticed- again- that Lefou was trying to look at the dead men on the ground. He tried to shield his vision from the sight of a particularly mangled soldier by leaning over his face and blocking him again, but he was a second too late. Lefou gasped in horror.

"Who was that? Gaston-"

"Keep your eyes on me, or else close them!" Gaston shouted. The wounded boy immediately fixed his eyes upon his Captain and quieted.

"We're both alive, and we have each other, Lefou. That's all you have to care about now."

"Okay, Gaston. 'Le Duo,' right?"

...

In a makeshift infirmary tent, Gaston stayed by Lefou's side as his shallow bullet graze was cleaned again and bandaged. The smaller man screamed as more of his own alcohol sterilizer was poured on it. Gaston found himself holding Lefou's hand, allowing him to squeeze it so hard that his fingernails dug into Gaston's palm, drawing blood. Lefou's eyes remained locked on Gaston's face during the ordeal.

Later, Gaston had to head back to his base, leaving Lefou behind. "Good night, Lefou. Now you just rest up."

"What will you be up to tonight?" he asked in an exhausted voice.

"Sleep, probably," Gaston replied, with a smirk on his face. "At least after I check the rounds and make certain everyone is accounted for."

"You know, you shouldn't associate with the widows outside camp, Gaston. They're hurting enough. They'll fall for you and you'll just abandon-"

"Is that your business?" His tone was threatening.

"No, but-"

"Then it isn't. What I do to relax and keep my sanity in this hellhole is what I like to do. Just like you like to play darts and horseshoes, and brew your...medicines out of corn. So just close your eyes and go to sleep."

"I don't think I can, Gaston! Every time I close my eyes, I see that man with no leg, and all that blood everywhere, and I haven't heard from my other friend Denis, can you please just check if he's here? I-"

Gaston's fists were starting to clench in impatience as Lefou babbled on about his other friend, with whom he often ate meals and played cards. This Denis fellow was starting to be a bad influence. Lefou was spending way too much time with him. Gaston saw them sitting close together once, and the other man was reading a book to him. Teaching him strange ideas, for certain. The audacity!

"I will check on him IF you promise to go to sleep. I'm checking right now." He fixed his face into a softer, more caring expression and caressed Lefou's forehead. "I am going to inquire on it right now. Watch."

Gaston left him and walked along the cots to find the head medic, Lieutenant Delacroix. They saluted each other.

"What is the count? Gaston asked.

"We are down thirty-two men, Captain. Fifteen D.O.A., and seventeen wounded. All wounded are here," reported Delacroix.

"Question, Lieutenant. Where is Private Cloutier?"

"Cloutier has a bullet in the thigh, but he will survive. He is over there," the man replied. Gaston frowned, and walked over to check on Private Denis Cloutier.

"Ah, bonjour, Private. I wanted to send you greetings from Étienne. He's down on the other end of the tent with a flesh wound," Gaston said to the pale-complexioned young man with a bandaged-up leg. He flashed him a reassuring smile.

Denis's face lit up with relief. "Thank God! Captain de Soleil, can you give him this?" He took a piece of jewelry out of the pages of his nearby book and handed it to Gaston. It was a necklace with a tiny, green peridot stone.

Gaston cocked one eyebrow. "What kind of a gift is this for a man?"

"It was my mother's. But I want Étienne to have it. It's a peridot, and it is said to protect the wearer against having nightmares. Étienne told me he has them all the time."

Gaston nodded. "That's true. But why him? You must have dozens of other friends and comrades who suffer nightmares as well, Private. Even I, a fearless Captain with twenty-seven kills under my belt. It's a hard fact of war."

An abashed look came over the young patient; his pale face pinkened and he searched for words. "Well, because we...talked about it so much. He's the only one besides me in this regiment who...who believes in it. Precious stones' powers, I mean."

"Very well, then. I will pass on your gift to Private Lefou." He gave the man a nod, pocketed the necklace and sauntered back over to where Lefou lay, a worried look on his face.

"So, is he okay?"

"Yes. Cloutier is alive...at the moment," he said. Lefou sighed in relief.

"Oh, thank God, yes! Gaston, one more thing. If Denis is okay, I have something to give him. Can I-"

"Good night, Lefou." Gaston cut him off abruptly and began to walk away.

"But Gaston!"

Gaston turned around and sighed. "Private Cloutier is severely injured and it doesn't...look good for him. I don't want you to get distracted from your mission. Others are not as strong...remember, you have me. You have us." He pointed his finger at Lefou, then at himself. "Le Duo."

He watched Lefou's concerned face relax into a soft and reverent smile. "I know...yeah. Us."

Gaston turned again to leave, visions of drinking, revelry, and voluptuous dark beauties who spoke no French but understood the language of lust filling his mind. Though still a teenager, Gaston looked and came across as much more mature than other young men his age. Before he left the infirmary tent, he stopped again before the bed of Private Denis Cloutier. He took the peridot necklace out of his pocket and handed it back to him with a frown. He leaned toward his ear and lowered his voice.

"Private Lefou does not accept your gift. It is inappropriate. He told me so, and I completely agree." He watched the young man's face crumple with a look of sadness mixed with a bit of dread.

"I-I'll just take it back then. I just wanted to help out a friend in need," he said in a despairing voice. Gaston gave no reply; he turned on his heel and strolled outside to the welcoming chill of the evening, where the smell of blood and bodies was finally beginning to waft away. He caught sight of the General again.

"Captain! Care to go for a drink over in Strasbourg?" the General asked him.

"Sir!" Gaston saluted the man. "Oui, I could use a refresher." The two recovered and mounted their horses, for a night of merriment.

Lefou tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he thought about the man with his leg severed on the field, and the visions of carnage from the other battles he'd witnessed beforehand. Now that he had experienced being shot and lived through the pain, he tried to convince himself he was not afraid to die- but he still was.

He tried to replace the images of blood, entrails, brain matter strewn in the grass, and bloody pulps where limbs once were with the handsome face of his best friend. Gaston would never leave him behind. He was a hero, and he would march off to do much more killing than Lefou cared to for the cause of France's security- but he would always come back to him.

...