The Butterfly Effect

A/N: “Badin” is pronounced “Bad-ann,” and is French for “playful.”

I should point out that the version of the story is my own – I “borrowed” the character names from the Disney movie, but have made no attempt to adhere to the canon thereof. This is why I posted it in the Fairy Tales section, and not the Disney section.

This Fireplace Challenge is about one small event changing the whole outcome of the story, based on the Butterfly Effect Theory of Complexity.

Special thanks to Epilachna for the beta-work on this story.

Etienne Dulac was a mercer, a dealer in silk cloth. In the course of his business, he had to go to Paris to buy great bolts of it and bring his purchases back in a large cart. Whenever he went on these trips, he would bring back dress patterns; and buttons, lace, ribbons, whalebone and fastenings of every description from the couturiers. These he would sell to the local drapers, haberdashers and seamstresses.

He would also get books and artists' supplies for his daughter Belle, who read voraciously and painted beautiful watercolours when the mood took her.

He lived in a large cottage with Belle and their maid, Marie.

One day, he hitched Marcel the great draught horse to his covered wagon, and prepared to set out, as he did at least five times a year. “Belle, is there anything in particular you want me to get you this time?” he asked her.

“Yes Papa, please try to get me a copy of Sir Thomas Malory's 'Le Morte d'Arthur.' I've been dying for a copy ever since I first heard of it,” she said animatedly, letting Badin, her kitten, drop lightly to the ground.

The little fellow spied a butterfly perched on a flower and went chasing after it, trying to bat it with his little paws.

Smiling at his daughter, whose seventeen year old features had lit up at the thought of a book about knights and chivalry, Mr. Dulac agreed. “If I can find a copy, Belle, I will certainly buy one for you. I presume you want an illustrated version?”

“Oh, yes, Papa!” Belle's eyes were like saucers at the thought of an illustrated volume.

Chuckling, Mr. Dulac replied, “An illustrated volume, then.”

“Oh, thank you, Papa!” Belle replied, hugging him joyfully, as if she already had the book in her hand.

Laughing, Mr. Dulac waved to Belle and Marie, and climbed into the front seat of the cart.

The butterfly stopped at the top of a tall weed and Badin leapt, trying to capture it. The creature fluttered away, landing on the back rail of the cart. Gathering himself, Badin waved his little tail from side to side and his hindquarters quivered for a moment, then he jumped as high as he could, his little claws scrabbling for purchase on the well-worn wood of the cart. The butterfly fluttered inside.

“Goodbye, Belle! Be a good girl for me. Goodbye, Marie. I'll bring you both ribbons from Paris,” he promised, and then he was gone.

Badin was inside the covered wagon, frustrated in his attempts to catch the butterfly, which had flown away.

“Marie,” Belle said later on, “have you seen Badin?”

“What,” sniffed the maid, “that little ball of mischief? He'll show up sooner or later. He's probably outside chasing bumblebees or something.”

“But I've looked everywhere!” Belle wailed. Her beloved little kitten was a gift from her suitor, Gaston Devereux, who often came to call.

“Did you look under your bed?” asked Marie, who was sturdy and sensible by nature.

“Yes.”

“Outside in the garden?”

“Yes.” Belle began to cry, large tears rolling down her face like raindrops. “I have looked everywhere for him! What if he's been hurt? What if a dog got him?”

“Now really, Belle, stop this crying at once. What will Gaston say if he sees you like this, with your face all red like a lobster? You're the prettiest girl in the town, Belle, but you won't be if you carry on like this,” Marie scolded.

Belle ran upstairs and wept, lying down on her bed, her face buried in her pillow. This was so unfair! She had looked everywhere for the kitten but he was nowhere to be found! What if a dog or a fox got him? What if some of the local ruffians had taken him and were being cruel to him or something? The endless possibilities of a horrible fate for her little pet tortured her gentle soul, and she spent the next few hours in her room crying and refused to come out.

A few hours later, Gaston Devereux knocked on the door, lifting the brass knocker and hitting the back plate firmly three times. Nobody needed to go to the window to see who it was – everyone in the Dulac household knew it was Gaston by the sound made when he knocked.

As the door opened, his perpetual grin grew wider as he saw that the person opening it was Belle.

“Good evening, Miss Dulac,” he said gallantly. “I come bearing gifts.” Proffering a brace of hares with a flourish, he smiled politely as she took them from him. “You look particularly enchanting tonight,” he added, “particularly enchanting.”

Could she tell that he did not really mean what he was saying? She looked as though she had been crying for ages. Dare he ask her why?

“Two hares? Why, thank you, Mr. Devereux.” Belle took them and beckoned to him, and he wiped his boots carefully before going inside.

“So... how was your day?” he asked her, making his way gingerly down the hallway. She was always more enthusiastic when he came to call. This time, she looked as though someone had died.

“Badin has gone missing,” she sniffled.

“What, you mean the kitten?” he asked her. He knew she had been pleased with the little furball, but not that she was so attached to him.

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I have looked everywhere and can't find him. I'm worried sick!” she declared.

“Well, you know how good I am at hunting,” he reassured her, “I'll help you find your pet.”

“Thank you, Gaston,” she replied with a watery smile.

Mr. Dulac was a few miles out of town, driving the coach when he felt a small thing nosing its way between the crook of his elbow and his body. “Badin!” he cried, “what are you doing here? Belle will be distraught! Still, it's too late to turn back now, so I'll simply have to bring you with me. You are a naughty fellow!”

Badin just purred adorably, and Mr. Dulac couldn't help but grin. 'Bless the little fellow,' he thought, 'chasing butterflies again, I'll wager.' The thought of his Belle's tears at the loss of her pet nearly made him cry himself, and he was determined to keep the kitten safe and to bring him home to his daughter.

The three day trip to Paris passed uneventfully, and when he arrived in the city, Mr. Dulac spent a day looking for a basket with a leather strap that he could fasten to keep the mischievous kitten inside until he got him home. There were many such baskets for sale in Paris, but the prices were too high for Mr. Dulac. Keeping one hand on the kitten, who was in his pocket, he searched high and low for a hamper basket at a decent price. Mr. Dulac's wealth was due as much to his habit of thrift as to his business dealings.

Gaston was as good as his word, and searched high and low for Badin. He looked in every shed and outhouse, every lean-to and woodpile, to no avail. He used his hunting dogs to sniff for the kitten, but no trace of him could be found beyond the gate of the front garden. “I am sorry, Belle, my love, but I have done my very best. I cannot find him at all. The only thing I can think of is that maybe he saw a bumblebee or a butterfly, and went chasing after it. If it flew into your father's wagon, perhaps Badin jumped in there after it, and was carried away.”

“My father would not be so cruel!” shouted Belle. “If he knew my kitten was in the cart, he would have come back straight away and returned him to me! How could you even think such a thing?”

“But Belle, my darling,” pleaded Gaston, “what if he did not know that your kitten was in the wagon with him? He would have carried him away by accident.”

“Are you suggesting that my father is deaf or that his brains are addled, Gaston? Surely Badin's mewing would have alerted him to the fact that a little kitten was in there with him. Do not talk nonsense!” Belle shouted, furious at the apparent slight to her father.

“But Belle, my most dearly beloved,” begged Gaston, “I meant no offence when I said that he might not know. The noise of Marcel as he clops along...”

Belle turned around and stamped off in a rage. She utterly refused to speak to Gaston for a week.

When his purchases had been made and all of his promises kept, Mr. Dulac began the homeward journey from Paris. Sir Thomas Malory's 'Le Morte d'Arthur' was carefully wrapped in a brown paper parcel and the paints and artist's supplies stored in a balsa wood box. A small box of ribbons sat beside them, and Badin was in his basket, mewing indignantly at his confinement.

“You have nothing to complain about, Badin,” chided Mr. Dulac. “You should have stayed in Belle's arms and not struggled to go free to chase the insects and other creatures. Be a good kitten, and we'll soon be home.”

Looking up at the sky, he shivered despite the warm weather. Black clouds were building up in great banks above him, and the air was heavy and dull. The storm threatening to break soon was going to be violent, and he was a good five miles from the nearest inn. Flicking the reins a little harder on Marcel than usual, Mr. Dulac called, “Get a move on, Marcel, we have five miles to go yet, and this storm is going to be vicious. Giddy up, I say, and we'll be in a warm dry place instead of being stuck out here getting wet.”

Marcel did his best to pick up his pace, but he was getting on in years, and really wasn't up to galloping,though he did move more quickly than his usual sedate amble.

An hour later, the sky was so overcast that the sun was a distant memory, and it was a deeper dark than twilight. The the forest path grew steeper, slowing Marcel down, and big, heavy drops of rain like the tears of a giant began to dot the road. Marcel’s ears pricked up. A buzz was in the air, a feeling of impending doom, and it was making him very uneasy.

“Come on, Marcel, it's not much further now, boy,” Mr. Dulac pleaded.

They were at least a mile and a half from the inn.

Flash! A streak of bluish lightning split the sky. Marcel skipped a bit, but he had seen lightning before. A horrible rumbling sound like a thousand barrels of boulders rolling down a hill at once sent shivers up the spines of both the man and the horse, who whickered pitifully.

“Easy, Marcel,” called Mr. Dulac, trying as much to reassure himself as his frightened horse.

Though it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, it was almost as dark as night, and the rain had become torrential. Visibility, which had been poor already, was reduced to three feet or less. It was becoming increasingly dangerous to remain on the road, which was becoming very muddy.

“Keep going, Marcel!” called Mr. Dulac, hoping they would soon reach the cozy inn, where both horse and man would find shelter and comfort.

Crack! A flash of lightning blinded them both momentarily and struck a tree, splitting it right down the middle. Part of it fell right in front of Marcel, who reared up and bolted, dragging the cart off the road and into the verge. Going around the tree, the terrified horse pulled the cart behind it, the uneven surface tipping it sideways and breaking one of the sidebars. The reins were wrenched out of Mr. Dulac's hands; and with no guidance, the horse ran wild, breaking free of the cart, which was left behind, its contents spilt all over the road and verge; its driver thrown into a ditch, stunned.

The cold water of the fast-filling ditch woke Mr. Dulac, who stood up looking wildly around him. The lashing rain continued to pour down on him, and with no light apart from the fitful flashes of lightning, he scrabbled to gather at least a few of his belongings that were scattered everywhere. The basket with Badin inside, mewing pitifull, he picked up with one hand, and the book Belle wanted he tucked underneath his sodden overcoat in a futile effort to protect it. Gasping, he strained to see what shelter he could find, even for the moment. Up ahead, set well back from the road, was a large old house. A yellow glow in the distance told him that it was inhabited. If the person who lived there would be kind enough to just let him stay there until he had dried off and the storm passed, he would be so grateful! Then he would have to find Marcel, try to repair the wagon and attempt to salvage his goods.

Stumbling, almost blind and cold to the bone, he made his way as best he could to the house and knocked on the door.

It opened a bit too easily, and he wondered fearfully if some skullduggery was afoot in this place. Nonetheless, his ankle was hurting badly and he needed to dry off. “Hello?” he called. “Hello, is anybody here?”

“This way,” called a voice. “Come in.”

Slowly, Mr. Dulac pushed open the door. There before him stood a figure in a robe with a deep hood that totally obscured his face. “H-hello, sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but I've been caught in the storm and my hose bolted and I fell in the ditch and...” he spluttered.

“Fear not, friend, you can stay here,” said the man.

Belle shivered as she looked out the window, not because she was cold but because she was afraid for her father. He was five days later than usual, and she was worried that something terrible might have happened to him. Gaston, her beau, had been her tower of strength. He had done everything in his power to find her kitten, and was most understanding about her distress. Surprisingly, he had not offered her another kitten straight away, but waited for her to accept that Badin had probably been carried off by a hawk or fox before asking her if she wanted another pet.

“Gaston,” she said to him, wringing her fine-boned hands, “I'm worried about Papa. I don't know what to do.”

“I will go out and search for him if you like. Perhaps he met an old friend and was invited to stay at his house. If that is the case, he may be a bit longer in coming back,” he reassured her. “I will be away for a week, maybe more.”

“Would you really do that just for me?” she asked him, her brown eyes wide.

“Yes, my love, I would,” he replied.

Impulsively, Belle wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said with a watery smile. She had forgiven him.

Mr. Dulac woke up feeling rather feverish. His ankle ached, though it had been bandaged. The hooded man came in and sat on a chair beside him. “Eat this,” he said in a soft voice, offering a bowl of cornmeal porridge to the sick man.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Dulac. Eating the porridge, he regarded the hooded man. For three days now he had been in this bed, assiduously tended by the man, who barely spoke to him but liked to sit in the room beside him. The hood was never removed. His face was never revealed.

Badin had been released from his basket and was merrily chasing the spiders, moths and other insects that inhabited the place. The man fed the kitten, who chirruped and purred whenever he approached, rubbing up against his ankles.

Determined to find out who this benefactor was, Mr. Dulac, after eating the porridge, said, “Monsieur, you have been very kind to me, and for this I am grateful. I wish I could do something for you, but before I do I would like to know your name.”

“My name is Henri,” said the man. “There is nothing you can do for me.”

“I am very sad to hear that,” said Mr. Dulac. “What happened?”

“If I tell you that,” said Henri, “you will ask me to remove my hood and show you my face. If I do that, you will consider me to be either an object of pity or of horror. This happens every time a visitor comes to this place, and for that reason I would prefer not to continue with this conversation.”

“You have been very good to me, Henri,” said Mr. Dulac, “and I understand that there is one thing I can do for you: you need a friend, for I have not heard anyone come inside the house. It is clear that you live here by yourself. I will be your friend, and I will never ask you to lift up your hood, since it seems to me that you would rather not.”

Henri looked up, or at least his hooded head moved upwards. “Thank you,” he said. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. I have not asked you for your name because I thought you would leave me as soon as the opportunity arose.”

“My name is Etienne Dulac,” said Mr. Dulac with a little bow as he sat up in bed.

“Henri Dupont,” said Henri, reaching over to shake his hand. “I found your horse and cart, and have brought them to my stables. I picked up the silk and have washed it as best I could, and hung it out to dry in the barn. All of the other things I have carried in here, and cleaned and fixed as best I could. I have to finish working on your cart so that you can go home. Your family must be worried about you.”

“How did you know I had a family?” asked Mr. Dulac.

“Well, you had some haberdashers supplies, but there was a small package of ribbons – not enough to stock a shop with. You also had some artists' supplies. Again, only enough for one person. Then there was the book. Forgive me, my friend, but you do not appear to be interested in tales of chivalry from long ago,” said Henri.

Mr. Dulac chuckled. “You have deduced correctly, Henri. I have a seventeen year old daughter and a housemaid. There is no-one else.”

“And what is this daughter's name, Etienne?” asked Henri, taking a liberty.

“Belle,” Mr. Dulac replied. “And that is what she is…beautiful, sweet-tempered and talented.”

“You are proud of her,” observed Henri, turning his hooded face more directly to Mr. Dulac.

“Yes I am,” replied her father.

“Did you buy her this kitten?” asked Henri.

“No, he was a present from Gaston, her beau. He has been courting her for a year now.”

“Why is the kitten with you?” asked Henri.

“He must have been chasing butterflies again,” said Mr. Dulac. “It's what he does.”

As if on cue, Badin jumped up onto Henri's lap in hot pursuit of a housefly. As his prey escaped him, he turned and purred, rearing up on his hind legs and rubbing against the hooded man.

“What is his name?” asked Henri.

“Badin,” answered Mr. Dulac.

“A playful fellow indeed,” observed Henri.

“Yes he is,” replied Mr. Dulac.

Holding the kitten and petting him, Henri stood up and made an excuse about going to tend to Marcel, the great draught horse. Then he left the room.

Henri was upset. The real reason for leaving the room was that he had not had a conversation that long with another person for years, and he was emotionally exhausted. He went to his room, still carrying Badin.

In his room there were no mirrors. In fact, there were no mirrors in the house at all. He had utterly destroyed them all, save one. Whenever his habitual self-pity got the better of him, as it often did, he would occasionally go to the silver hairbrush that once belonged to his mother and steal a glimpse at his reflection in the back of it.

This was one of those times. Henri was suffering from loneliness and was desperate for a friend. His last one had been a blind man, whom he had begged to never try to touch his face. The man had agreed, and they had enjoyed each other's company for years until he had died. Henri had left a message at the church that his friend had apparently died of old age, and had attended the funeral, standing at a distance.

Animals of every kind were welcome at his house, and he was kind to strangers when he could be, but Henri never could abide it if anyone should look at his face. He put the kitten down on his bureau, and lifting his hood, looked at his reflection in the back of the hairbrush.

Hideous scars distorted his features, their ridges and troughs pulling his mouth out of line. The unevenness of his face meant he couldn't shave properly, so hair protruded from the parts he couldn't reach. His left eye would not close properly, and was always streaming or getting infected. He couldn't see well out of it anyway. These horrific injuries were the result of an accident when he was young, in which he had left a window open in the summer, and a candle lit. A breeze knocked the candlestick over and set the curtain alight. He had been trapped in the room until he was rescued but by then, the damage was done. No-one had been killed and the house was quickly rebuilt, but Henri was no longer a member of village society. He was a recluse who hid from people who might stare out of pity or disgust.

Cruelly, someone had started a rumour that Henri was the subject of a witch's curse shortly after his parents died. Many of the villagers believed it and elaborated further, saying that he was not burned at all but had been transformed into a hideous beast. The proof of it was, they declared, the hood that he habitually wore. They shunned him, fearing that the curse might fall upon them also.

While he had a few acquaintances, he kept them at a distance, and never set foot in their homes. He could not bear it when they pitied him, for then they would try to show kindness to him, and he would be reminded that to them, he was a beast and not a man. He was as self-sufficient as he could be, and avoided people as much as he could. Nonetheless, he was lonely, and deep down, he craved a companion, someone to talk to… just someone to talk to. He did not dare ask for anything more. If Etienne could be persuaded to stay for just a while longer! It was good to have company again.

Badin explored the top of the bureau, batting at each new object he discovered. His tiny tabby body, with the white splash on his chest and face and little white-socked paws, made him look like a dapper little gentleman in a striped morning suit and spats.

All the kitten needed was a top hat, Henri mused. Ah, what a shame he could not ask his new friend, Mr. Dulac, to let him keep the kitten. He was such a playful creature, and when he looked at him with those innocent green eyes, Henri felt his heart melt. While Mr. Dulac was a kindly man with a sensitive disposition, Henri could not help feeling that the mercer pitied him for having to hide under his hood. He never had to hide from the kitten. Badin did not think of him as anything other than a friend and playmate. If only he could keep him! But honour demanded the return of the kitten to his rightful owner.

Petting his little friend, Henri pulled his hood up over his head again. He hated that hood. It had become oppressive. If it were only the kitten in the house, he would be able to take the accursed thing off, but no! Etienne was there, a kind enough man, but Henri could not bear the thought of having Etienne see his face, pat his back or embrace him and insist that he thought of him as a fellow man and not an object of pity, or worse still, a beast. "I am not a beast, I am a man! There was no curse, it was an accident!" he cried, but nobody heard him. Henri was alone. 'It is better this way,' he thought. 'Having Etienne here is good for the time being, but I really cannot bear the thought of him wanting to get to know me better. It would make me feel vulnerable. If I let him know how much I crave company, and then he leaves me, I will be even more alone than before. I need someone to keep me company, who wants to stay with me, and who will not make me feel like I'm less than a man in his presence. I always feel that way around people, but I cannot bear to be alone!'

With a sigh, Henri walked out of his bedroom and avoided Etienne's room. He was not in the mood to be friendly to anyone.

Badin jumped down from the bureau and followed him out, his little tail held high.

Mr. Dulac recovered completely after a few days. His ankle had been wrenched but was now looking much better. Making his way to the stable, he discovered, to his immense gratitude, that the cart had been repaired and his goods gathered, cleaned and packed neatly inside. Belle's new book sat beside the driver's seat, wrapped in brown oiled paper tied up with string. He was ready to leave.

Henri approached him, cradling Badin. The kitten's basket was beside the driver's seat, and as Henri drew nearer, his steps slowed. His shoulders were stooped and his head was held noticeably lower than usual. “Don't forget Badin,” he said, handing him over as if he was the last penny in his pocket.

Mr. Dulac, deeply moved, looked at Henri. “You can keep him, Henri,” he said in his kindest tones. “Belle will forgive me, I am sure. You are well-provided for here in every way, except that you are alone. I will visit you whenever I can, when going to and from Paris. I will buy books and other things for you while I am there, and treat you like a member of my family. I would like to invite you to come home with me, if you would agree to come. I owe you much for your kindness to me, and this is the best way I can think of to repay you.”

Henri stood stock still, Badin still in his arms. “Do you really mean that?” he asked.

“Yes I do,” said the mercer. “I want to give you something I know you will value. If you had wanted my money or any of my goods you could have taken it and said it had been lost in the storm. You not only gathered up my things, you cleaned and packed them for me, making repairs where necessary. You have been a true friend to me, and now I desire to be a true friend to you.”

Henri raised his head and put the kitten down. Then he did the thing he never did, even with those people he had trusted. He raised his hood. If anyone had ever asked him why he had done this, he would have been at a loss to answer them. Henri Dupont looked Etienne Dulac in the eye for the first time.

For a long moment, silence reigned.

Mr. Dulac stood still, his face relaxed. He had been expecting to see something horrible, and the face of the man who stood before him was badly scarred.

"It was an accident," said Henri, "not a curse, there was no witch. Do not pity me. I want no pity, I cannot bear it."

"Why would anyone want to curse you, Henri?" asked Mr. Dulac. "I will be blessing you all the way home. Why would I pity you? You have what many men do not have: a kind and gentle heart. Animals trust you, knowing you would never harm them. I trust you, and am grateful to you for the tender care you gave me when I needed it.”

“And you do not believe it is merely a ploy to bring about the end of some witch's curse? If I took off this hood and went around bare-headed, would you still have me in your house?” asked Henri.

Mr. Dulac understood. The man was trying to drive him away, afraid that the declaration of undying friendship was merely a politeness and nothing more. He was being tested. Determined to pass, he replied, “It is considered rude to cover your head indoors, as a rule. I would make an exception for you if it made you more comfortable in the company of others."

“What about your Belle?” asked Henri, suspicious.

“Some things that are hard to accept at first become acceptable in the end, Henri. If you are willing to be my guest, I will bring you home with me now,” Mr Dulac replied.

“I would rather stay here, where I am most comfortable,” said Henri.

“That is your choice, Henri,” said Mr. Dulac, “but I do not hold you to it. I hope you will change your mind one day. In the meantime, take care of Badin for me. I will tell Belle he is in good hands. I believe you are a good man, Henri, and that there was no witch, and no curse. Do not pay attention to the idle gossip of the fools in the village, for I am sure that even they do not believe the stupid things they say.”

Henri stood still, stunned for the second time that day by Etienne's kindness. Everybody else thought of him as a beast; either an object of pity or the subject of a curse, but never a person who was lonely and needed a friend. For the first time in ages, he felt accepted, and that was very strange to him. “Thank you, Etienne,” said Henri. “Goodbye, my friend.”

Leaving his hood down, he called the kitten to him, picked him up and brought him back to the house.

“Goodbye Henri!” called Mr. Dulac, mounting his seat and, with a shake of the reins, he was off. He understood Henri's need for company, and was glad to have found a way to help him. It was the least he could do.

Belle was at the window, looking out as the sun was going down. A dot appeared on the horizon, growing slowly bigger. Racing downstairs, she rushed out of the door of the house and ran towards it. “Papa!” she called.

Running as fast as her dainty feet could carry her, Belle raced to the covered wagon that rumbled towards her. As she drew near, she saw her father sitting in his seat as usual, and beside him a familiar figure. “Gaston!” she cried. “You have found him!”

When she arrived at the cart, Gaston pulled her up beside him with a brawny arm. She scrambled over him to embrace her father, glad he was home. “Papa! Papa! I'm so glad you are safe!” she cried, squeezing him. “Where have you been?”

Mr. Dulac wrapped his pudgy arm around her and pulled her close to him. “I am fine, my dear,” he replied with a kiss. “I'm just glad to be home.”

The End