The Name of the Game (In Which Gaston Makes a Bet)

Chapter 3: Analogies/Another Day In Town

Day 1 - Evening

The self-proclaimed Greatest Hunter in all of France sat perched on his hide-lined throne at the head of the room, as per usual. Rounds of jokes were being shot off from every which way as mugs and morales were constantly refilled. Gaston merely smirked at the sarcastic questions that the bar patrons began hurling at him, becoming increasingly ballsy with their alcohol intake.

"So, how'd it go, Gaston?"

"Did you propose yet?"

"Did the sight of LeFou frighten her away?"

"I'm sure throwing her book was a nice touch."

"Didjya see the bosom on 'er? Really somethin' to look at when she's all hot an' bothered!"

"Is it too late to bet on Maurice?"

"Didn't go as ya hoped, eh, Gaston?"

So, they knew that he hadn't made much headway that day. Gaston sighed and rubbed his face, thinking of how to respond. He stood, pausing to mentally prepare his speech.

He wasn't worried. Why should he be? He still had the rest of the week to go.

Piece of cake.

"She's one tough egg to crack, I'll give you that one," he finally replied with a curious smile.

A few men chuckled. Someone yelled, "Hear, hear!"

"But then again," he continued, "A girl's worth is measured by the chase."

Gaston shot a glance in the direction of the Bimbettes Three, but the reference went right over their heads and they sighed desperately in unison at the sight of his pretty blue eyes.

"Belle is like a fine wine," he began, taking on a "sophisticated" tone of voice. His expression shrunk and he shook his head as his train of thought took a hard left. "No, wait. She's more like... a cat."

The entire pub listened intently, each and every one wondering where their idol was going with his rant. But the hunter simply sat back down with a grin; he had no intent of explaining further. It made sense in his mind, so it must make sense to everyone else. LeFou shrugged when they looked to him for an explanation. He was a lightweight and was absent from the tavern most nights; he had only been briefed on the bet shortly after he arrived that evening, tailing Gaston, and didn't know any more than anyone else.

The hunky bachelor sat, sipping his beer, pleased with his clever analogy, until a man in the back broke the awkward silence that had been building in the room: "Well, what do you mean, Gaston?"

Raising a single eyebrow, Gaston rose to his feet again, holding his mug up. A new idea, a new plan, was forming in his mind. Perhaps he had come onto Belle too strongly, when he needed to do the opposite: maintain distance, and make her want to come to him of her own volition.

Now that he'd made his presence known to her, Gaston needed to play the part of aloof and disinterested to make her want him.

"If you chase a cat, it will run from you... but leave it be, and it'll come to you on its own, purring at your feet, eager to lap the cream right out of the palm of your hand."

Gaston pumped his beer in the air. The men began hooting and hollering immediately, almost as if on cue.

"Amen, brother!"

"You sly dog!"

Gaston's booming laughter echoed as his drink was filled and filled again, until the sun broke over the hills beyond the town limits, behind Belle's house.