Fri, May 18 2012
Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels
Unlike Passepartout, who seemed to hover invisibly, always ready to lend assistance if need be, Fogg merely stepped to one side of the salon, watching as Jules pushed himself up from his chair. It was hard enough to stand for a few seconds, his knees incredibly stiff and threatening to collapse beneath him if he didn't lock them in place. He'd noticed that feeling passed once he started moving, if he continued to move.
Their pace around the deck was measured, Fogg walking leisurely along beside him, making no comment if he were forced to grab the handrail for support. Nor did he seem to offer any assistance, which was something of a surprise, although Jules suspected that if something had gone wrong Fogg would have intercepted his fall before he could hit the deck or do himself further injury. It was cold outside without his jacket, the bracing wind retaining more of a bite as their altitude increased, and yet it helped to be cold, helped him to concentrate on something other than the ache of movement. After their first circuit, Fogg removed his own coat with momentary assistance from Passepartout, claiming some nonsense about feeling confined.
They talked, but what they talked about he couldn't say - casual things. Jules couldn't much remember if they strolled the circuit of the Aurora five times or fifteen times during the brief walk. He realized after the fact that Fogg had picked up the pace just as they had begun to argue about something of no real consequence. He'd been forced not only to defend his point, but also push himself to match the pace set by his friend or risk not being heard above the wind.
The argument continued through luncheon, the topic moving from transport to the effects of military campaigns on the commerce of nations, and perhaps back again. After luncheon had settled, they left the table to be cleared and walked the perimeter of the cabin in the same pattern as before. Jules' legs ached and he felt chilled by the time he returned to the salon, but his range of motion had markedly improved. Passepartout placed a blanket around his shoulders and delivered both a cup of hot chocolat and a small bowl of warm soup, both of which proved better than the fare offered at the café.
Jules was not entirely certain when he fell asleep. His shoulder was shaken and he started awake to find Passepartout leaning over the chaise lounge and grinning at him. "Time to be waking, Jules."
"Are we there?" He yawned, stretched his arms and, delicately, shifted his legs from the lounge to the floor.
"We are having arrived, yes."
Passepartout leaned down to place his shoulder beneath Jules' arm, helping him to stand. He grabbed the table for support, but there was no real pain attached to the process of initial movement after waking - the first time that had happened since the assault. A few steps were awkward, slow, but he was moving unaided across the cabin in a matter of minutes.
Fogg descended at the spiral staircase, checking his cuffs. "Verne - good to see you up and about. Are we ready, then?"
"The Aurora is secured, master," announced Passepartout, as he helped Jules into his jacket. "I will be planning supper upon your return."
"No, you're to come with us." Fogg hesitated a moment, as if a sudden thought had struck him, and cleared his throat. "If that's amenable to you, Passepartout."
"Oh yes, master. I would be most interested in seeings the littles girl again."
"Excellent."
Jules leaned his back against the wall and shook his head in wonder - Fogg had changed his clothing entirely. It was late afternoon, and the dark blue suit he now wore was the height of fashion for the hour. Only the ash walking stick in his hand seemed out of place . . . until Fogg tossed it to him.
"Here, Verne. Something to aid your steps."
He caught it awkwardly, then held it in both hands as he looked it over. It was a solid enough stick, with no discernible ornamentation, although the knob at the top was most certainly made of gold. That was enough to give Jules pause. "No, I'll just get it dirty. What if I left it somewhere?"
"It can be cleaned. And replaced easily enough." Fogg continued down the stairs, retrieving his dark walnut stick with the silver handle from Passepartout, along with his hat. "Try it. You'll be glad enough for the use of it on the way back. Even with Passepartout lighting our way, it's bound to be pitch dark."
With a nod of acquiescence and a shared look of commiseration with Passepartout - trying to change Fogg's mind once it was set would have been a Herculean task at best - Jules hefted the stick in his hand and followed Fogg out of the cabin.
It wasn't too long a walk from the field where the Aurora had been moored to the edge of town, but Jules was glad to have the use of the walking stick before they'd gone more than a hundred steps from the airship. The sunlight was fast fading to the west. He tried to keep pace with Fogg's longer stride and, failing that, found that Fogg slowed his steps sufficiently to accommodate his limitations. Passepartout walked behind them, a bundle beneath his arm and the unlit lantern swinging from his right hand.
"You never did tell me the name of Dr. Picot's friend," noted Jules, as they finally stepped clear of the dirt road and began to encounter the cobbled paving of the city streets.
"I thought it wise not to ask." When Jules stared at him, Fogg met his glance briefly, then looked away. "And wiser still to continue that practice."
He lost a step in disbelief and then hurried to catch up again. "But if we don't know his name, how can we keep track of Aimee?" And then, "Oh," as he began to realize what exactly it would mean to walk away, never looking back, never reminding her of how she had come to her new life. Destroy the bridge, wasn't that what Fogg had said? At the time he'd thought the words over-dramatic and yet now, when they meant something, there was a weight to them that threatened to crush some part of his soul.
His heart beat faster, less from the exertion of the trek than from the tumult of emotions he was experiencing. As Fogg led them up one street and down another from the outskirts of the town to its heart, Jules nearly called halt on two separate occasions. Could he bear to see Aimee and know that this would be the last time? Wouldn't it be better to return to the Aurora now? He could beg off on his inability to continue; surely Fogg would release him from this obligation?
The last time he'd seen her, she'd been held captive in Dondre's arms. Aimee had been crying, screaming his name . . . he'd been unable to save her. Hardly a final image he wanted to preserve for the rest of his days. If he could only assure himself that she would be happy . . . .
He'd begun to suspect that many of the streets were beginning to look familiar because Fogg was leading them in circles, the better to confuse their final destination. Darkness had finally fallen by the time they reached a small house on the corner of a common street, yet it was not to the main entrance that Fogg led them, but a side door.
"Is a dispensary," noted Passepartout quietly. "The doctor's patients would be waitings there."
"Not at this time of night." Fogg cast a glance over his shoulder at them. "But we're expected."
He had barely rung the small brass bell that hung from doorframe before the door opened. This doctor was no adherent to Parisian court style as had been Dr. Picot - his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and an apron hung over his shirtfront and down to his trousers. His hair was blonde, long at the back and slightly unkempt. There was a wary expression in his brown eyes as he nodded once to Fogg, then stepped inside, indicating they join him.
The room was clean, smelling faintly of acid solutions and sulfur. Whitewashed walls, decorated with framed pictures and drawings, gleamed in the faint light of the gas lamps. A tumble of chairs and wooden benches had been pushed to one side of the room, giving it a hollow, empty feel.
The doctor, if that was who he was, studied them carefully. Jules suddenly felt awkward in his less than pristine clothing, especially standing beside the immaculate grandeur of Phileas Fogg, who had removed his hat upon entering.
"I received your message, Monsieur Fogg," said the doctor in a quiet tone. "But I'll admit it confused me. You had agreed, the three of you, there was to be no further contact. If you've come to retrieve the child, I assure you, monsieur, that I will fight you--"
Fogg placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder - the man's face had flushed and he'd obviously spent the last several hours in an agitated state. "We've no intention of taking the child from you." When the doctor glanced again at them in turn, Fogg added, "Let me introduce Monsieur Verne - he's the one who found the child. And my valet, Passepartout."
Jules stepped forward to take the man's hand and saw some recognition of his identity in the doctor's eyes. Instead of a handshake he was drawn into the other man's arms. "God bless you, Monsieur Verne. God bless you for what you have done."
There wasn't much Jules could do but accept the embrace, as dizzying as it was, then struggle to retain his footing as the doctor released him and turned to take Passepartout's hand in greeting with a friendly, "Monsieur."
Fogg lifted his hand near his mouth, but couldn't quite hide the smile caused by Jules' consternation at the sudden effusion of affection from the doctor. "Dr. Picot informed our friend of the part you played in saving the child, Verne."
"Forgive my rudeness, Monsieur Fogg, but after we had discussed what was to be done and then to receive the telegram that said only that you were to arrive this evening?" He glanced over at Fogg, eyes contrite and yet still suspicious. "You appear at my door with two men I have not met. What was I to think?"
"I should beg your pardon most humbly, and do," said Fogg. "It was thoughtless of me. Verne was indisposed when we were last here; his final encounter with the child involved dire circumstances. I thought he might have a chance to see her, one last time?"
Jules took an awkward step forward, the throbbing in his lower legs and knees stilled to insignificance when compared with the insistent, nervous rhythm of the heart in his chest. "Please?" he asked anxiously. "Just to see her. And if not that, to know she's well and happy." Catching the doctor's arm, he added, "Is she all right?"
The question he dared not ask - 'Does she think of me?' - would remain unanswered.
"The wounds of her body have been healing, yes," said the doctor, placing his own hand briefly over the grip Jules had on his arm. "We've been cautious in feeding her - she eats little, but often. My wife has taken to sleeping with her, but she wanders at night. I often find her curled against my back in the morning. She's beginning to understand that we have no intent to strike her. Raymond--Dr. Picot--" he corrected, seeing their lack of recognition of the initial name, "and your friends had warned us of what we might expect. We have not been disappointed in the challenges, or in our small successes. Her laughter is our greatest joy."
"You'll be able to help her?"
Jules started, hearing Fogg's quiet and almost-too-steady voice behind him - he'd been concentrating entirely on the doctor's answer. He looked back to the doctor for confirmation, knowing that there was so much not being said . . . and yet was unable himself to find the words to ask.
The doctor paused, then nodded. "I believe so. We're doing all within our power to give her the happiness she's been so long denied. If there's anyone you might call upon to help Aimee, I ask you to send him to me. I have no professional pride in this matter - only a firm resolve to aid my daughter, in any way I can."
Daughter.
It stunned Jules for a moment - a word of ownership, of belonging. Though he'd wished with all of his heart that someone might use that word to describe Aimee, it could not help but remind him how much in his world had been changed by the events of the last two weeks, how much he had lost.
"Forgive me, gentlemen - you had caught me at my preparations for tomorrow's patients." The doctor lifted his apron from his neck and folded it over his arm, then led them to a door set in the far wall. "This leads to my office and laboratory. There's a window from which you may view the interior of the greenhouse. Aimee has chosen that as her play area - her dolls are kept there now."
"Does she want for anything, doctor?" asked Fogg. Clearing his throat and looking away, he added, "Please forgive me, for the last thing I want is to insult you, but if there's any need--?"
"I would forgive you any insult, Monsieur Fogg, for the debt I owe you in having brought Aimee into our lives. Save for time, care, and love enough - which are in no small supply in this household - she has no needs the income from my practice cannot meet." He hesitated a moment, a shadow in his eyes. "When our daughter, our first daughter, left us, she was but a year or so older than Aimee. My wife couldn't bring herself to part with the child's things. Aimee adopted the collection of dolls immediately." He smiled sadly. "I suppose I must relearn their names all over again."
They followed the doctor across the room. His hand on the doorknob, he hesitated once more. "There will be no lights within, so that we might not be seen from below. I must ask you to be quiet, monsieurs, to speak only in whispers - sound carries from this room so awkwardly sometimes."
"There will be no outbursts," promised Fogg, casting a death-filled glare at both Passepartout and Jules, who nodded their assent to the restriction.
Thus it was in a somber mood they headed up the staircase and to the second floor. The doctor's office was divided between a desk and something akin to a laboratory, which normally would have drawn Jules' immediate attention. He smiled to himself as they passed by the racks of glass piping, catching Passepartout's covetous glance at a piece of equipment. Fogg, undistracted by the promises of science, passed them and was the first to take his place at the window.
"A glass house," Jules whispered, but not too loudly, for neither Passepartout nor Fogg would know what the phrase had meant to Aimee.
The roof of the greenhouse was just beneath them - were they acrobats they could easily have opened the window and stepped out upon it, although Jules would have wagered only Passepartout could have successfully navigated the apex of the steeply sloped roof. The plants within had been trimmed back for the approaching winter and the glass, although tinted, was clear paned and not hand-blown. There were gas lamps within, making it easier to view the silent tableau.
The doctor's wife was pretty, but not uncommonly so, with dark ringlets pulled back from her face. If Jules were pushed to make an opinion or comment, he would have decided that her clothing was not this year's fashion, but perhaps belonging to the year before. It was attractive, at any rate, and suited her. She was kneeling beside a miniature, white-enameled table upon which had been set a child-sized china tea set. Small chairs ranged around the edge - he could count at least seven dolls, some of which were lying on the table itself. Across the table was seated Aimee, diligently pouring tea for her dolls.
She was speaking - he could see her lips moving. Her hair was clean and curled and trimmed. The smock she was wearing actually seemed to fit. Her face was scrubbed and she was smiling, laughing as the doctor's wife reached across the table to tickle her. Dolls were scattered as she scrambled over the other chairs to reach the woman and climb into her lap.
From this distance he couldn't see the detail of the china or hear the child's words, but imagination would fill that in later. This gave him something to build on, something to remember.
"This was a good day for her," said the doctor very softly, from beside Jules. "They have not all been good. They will not all be good. But she's ours now and we'll care for her as best we can."
There were no words for the moment - his throat was blocked and he couldn't speak them. But he grasped the doctor's upper arm and smiled his thanks, hoping that his expression could be seen in the light from the greenhouse below. Wiping his forearm across his eyes, he turned and saw Passepartout also had moved away.
"The littles girl will be happy," he said, in a very quiet voice, as he approached Jules. His eyes, too, were glistening. "She will be very happys."
Only Fogg remained at the window. Perhaps he had greater strength of will than any of them, for Jules knew he could bear to see no more without his heart breaking. He watched as the doctor approached Fogg and touched his arm gently. "Monsieur?"
"I would like," began Fogg, then he paused to clear his throat as he, too, stepped back from the window and turned his full attention on the doctor. "I'll speak with her, before we leave."
"No," said Jules softly, a chill seizing his heart when he saw the determined look on Fogg's face. Using the cane, he all but stumbled in his haste, moving between Fogg and the bewildered doctor. "No. We agreed."
Fogg wouldn't look at him, turning his face back toward the window. "A few words. What harm could they do?"
"No. It's wrong. We can't."
The cane was knocked out of his hand by an unexpected blow - it clattered to the floor and rested there. Jules should have fallen, but that Fogg grabbed the shoulder of his jacket, holding him on his feet. "By what right do you deny me this?" Fogg hissed, glaring at him imperiously, with cold and angry eyes. "There's no reason--"
"We agreed," repeated Jules softly, filled with a sudden, intense anger in the face of Fogg's obstinacy. "Do you think I don't want to go down there to hug her and hear her laugh? That I don't want to say good-bye? How dare you think you have more right than - than any of us!" He pulled his shoulder from beneath Fogg's grasp, managing to stay on his feet well enough without the cane to back up a step. "It's still true, what you told me; we're part of her past, not her future. If what we did, if what happened, is going to mean anything, we have to walk away. We have to walk away."
Jules' voice, although quiet, had echoed to the very rafters of the small room. His anger kept him on his feet, kept him facing Fogg - which he knew any man with half his sanity intact would never have done. His breath came in gasps, as if he'd run a mile. And still he would have struck Fogg if the man had taken a step toward the window again.
Fogg was watching him with careful eyes, as if gauging his resolve. The moment of cold anger had gone, replaced with even colder civility. "Passepartout, if you'd be so kind as to give that parcel to the doctor. It's for the child. A parting gift - money to be set aside for her dowry . . . and a d-doll."
There was the crackle of paper wrapping as Passepartout handed over the parcel. Jules stood immobile, less afraid to move than unable to move, for the anger hadn't completely left him. Fogg continued to watch his eyes, but said nothing.
"Who shall I saw it's from, Monsieur?" asked the doctor, his own voice indicating this episode had shaken him.
"Say only that it's a gift from a friend - that will suffice. No--" Fogg continued to stare at Jules, hadn't looked away, hadn't blinked. "I gather the child asks after Verne - Jules?"
His heart stopped, waiting for the answer from the doctor.
"Yes. Often. But Monsieur--?"
"You will tell her--" Fogg hesitated, a faint smile on his lips, "You will tell her that Jules had to go away, far away. But that he's sent this doll to her, to replace the one that was lost."
It was taking more of his will to simply stand in place. Jules couldn't let this happen. Better that she not remember, better that she forget them all.
Better that she forget him.
"Fogg--don't--"
Even he could hear the half-hearted note in his own protest.
"If she remembers something of this," said Fogg softly, "better that it be you." He raised his voice, saying, "Would you have any objections to that, doctor?"
"If that's your wish."
"I don't think it should be otherwise."
And then Passepartout's voice, from behind them, "Master? If we are to be leavings--?"
"Yes. Quite." Only then did Fogg look past Jules again, toward the doctor. "I'm sorry, doctor, for having inconvenienced you and your family - my regards to your lovely wife. You must know that we're grateful, will always be grateful, for what you've done for the child. Rest assured that unless you ask for our help - which will be given at any time, under any circumstances - you will never see or hear from us again."
"I think," said the doctor nervously, "that would be best."
"Indeed." Fogg cleared his throat, adding, "Gentlemen, we've overstayed our welcome. Verne, Passepartout?"
Jules very much felt like collapsing to the floor - without that anger to sustain him, he was almost afraid to move. Fogg retrieved the cane and pressed it into his hand, then caught hold of his arm with such a supportive grip that Jules guessed it might have taken some amount of explosive to wrest himself free of it.
"Can you manage the stairs?" asked Fogg, as Passepartout and the doctor were arranging a light for the lantern.
"Yes." Jules wasn't as certain as he sounded, not with his knees shaking and his weight all but resting on the cane and Fogg's arm, but he wasn't about to let Fogg know that. Taking the steps slowly, he managed better than even he had expected. There was only the space across the room and to the door to be traveled, and then he rested against the portico railing as Fogg shook hands with the doctor.
The young doctor turned to Jules, clasping his shoulder with a firm grip. "Never worry for her welfare," he promised. "She'll be much loved."
After the door had closed, only Passepartout's lantern seemed to shed any light; dark clouds skidding over the moon obscured what little starlight should have been visible. The route back to the Aurora was less circuitous this time, shorter by at least three-quarters of an hour, and still it was a difficult journey for Jules. There was silence among them and not such a comfortable silence, either. It didn't seem entirely wrong to accept Passepartout's help as he entered the cabin, or to collapse on the chaise lounge without even removing his coat.
Phileas, of course, doffed his hat, cane, and gloves, those going to Passepartout immediately. His jacket followed so that he was in his shirtsleeves. Jules lay flat on his back with his feet on the lounge, too weary to feel guilty about the mud from his boots scraping off on the cushions. He didn't much care what Fogg was doing and stared up at the ceiling of the salon, listening to the clink of crystal - the decanter - and liquid being poured.
The memory of the look in Fogg's eye, that anger aching for release, sent a chill through him. He couldn't quite believe it - he'd stood up to Fogg, and survived. Not only that, he'd stood up to Fogg . . . and won.
And then Fogg was standing over him, a glass of . . . something in his hand. "This will help."
"For medicinal use, only?" Jules asked, then winced at the sharpness of his own words. Swinging his legs from the couch and to the floor, he took the offered glass and looked up. "I'm sorry. That was rude."
Fogg cleared his throat and lifted his own glass toward the light as if inspecting the contents. "But not entirely undeserved. I owe you an apology."
"No, you don't--"
"Yes, I do," said Fogg sharply, seating himself in the chair he'd given to Jules earlier. "You forgive too easily, Verne."
The liquor was sharp, burning as it went down his throat. "Another--" he coughed at the sudden fire in his chest, "another flaw in my character."
"Hardly. If anything, I've found your character insufficiently flawed."
Jules considered the comment for a moment, staring at the brown liquid - what was it, scotch? - and wondered whether he should take the words as a compliment or a condemnation of his youth. He took another sip of the stuff and found it went down easier the second time, particularly if he didn't try to breathe immediately after drinking. "You weren't thinking."
"I struck a cane from your hand."
"You were upset."
Fogg swallowed the remains of his own liquor, slammed the glass on the table and stood up. "Damn you, man! At least allow me to apologize. Stop making excuses for me."
Jules blinked, then set his own glass down on the table very carefully - the scotch was going straight to his head. "All right - I accept your apology for knocking the cane out of my hand. And for grabbing my jacket. And for shouting at me." Considering the glass again, he picked it up, took another sip, and decided that he might not want to be entirely conscious at that. "Is that all?"
"No. I need to apologize for dragging you here under a false pretext."
Jules nearly dropped the glass to the table in surprise; the fumes that had been making him light-headed suddenly seeming to disappear. "You wanted to give me a chance to see Aimee one last time?"
Fogg had begun to pace. "Yes, of course."
"But . . . there was another reason." It would have been easy to have by-passed Paris completely and gone directly from London to Dijon. Why make the stop, why take the chance of letting one more person, particularly one who couldn't lie worth a damn, in on a secret trip which would only anger Rebecca?
It was starting to make sense.
"You wanted me with you when you went to see Aimee," announced Jules, staring at the liquid in his glass again as he puzzled out the problem. Startled, he stared up at Fogg, speaking his thoughts aloud. "You didn't trust yourself to adhere to the rules you'd set down. You wanted me . . . to stop you?" It was enough of a shock to cause him to upend the whiskey down his throat, swallowing the fiery stuff before squeaking, "You thought I could stop you?"
"A slight correction - I knew you could." With a sigh, Fogg retrieved the decanter and set it on the table after calmly pouring another scotch for each of them. "Passepartout would have tried to cajole me from the mistake - it wouldn't have worked in that situation. Rebecca, of course, would have cheerfully knocked me into next midweek . . . and may yet, if she ever gets wind of this." Fogg sipped at the second scotch, the glass finally resting in his cupped hands. "But you," he pointed toward Jules, "would likely try to talk me around out of common sense, which might have succeeded. The one thing I hadn't expected from you was that surge of righteous anger. Never underestimate a man fueled by righteous anger, Verne - he's a dangerous opponent."
Jules looked down at the second glass in front of him. It might have been the scotch, but he found himself smiling at the comment. Dangerous? Him? It was so utterly absurd.
As absurd as the normally unflappable Phileas Fogg striking a cane from the hand of an injured man?
"I'll accept your apology," Jules said, pushing away the second glass, "if you'll tell me why."
Fogg raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Why you became so attached to Aimee." He leaned forward, hands clasped together on his knees, and stared at his fingertips. "Aimee reminded me of my sisters. Rebecca - well, she's a woman and with women . . . it's obvious."
"You underestimate Rebecca," Fogg warned softly.
He dismissed the comment with a wave, having warmed to his subject. "Passepartout has such a sense of fun that he's like a child himself sometimes. But you--" He stared at Fogg for a long moment, then shook his head. "I was certain you'd want nothing to do with her, and I was wrong," he admitted quickly, seeing Fogg's brow furrow. "Then I was certain it was because of what had been done to her, that you were angered that 'gentlemen,' men of standing and property, could do something like that to a child. I still think that's part of the answer, but I can't figure out the rest of it. I can't figure out why."
Silence fell between them. Jules watched as Fogg turned his head, staring across the room as if considering the matter. He suspected that he'd pushed too hard and that he wasn't going to receive any answer, for Phileas Fogg could be a very private man.
Then Fogg leaned forward and pushed the second glass of scotch back toward Jules. "Drink."
He hesitated, then picked up the glass and weighed it in his hand. Whether Fogg was trying to get him drunk to avoid answering the question or had realized that his questions were an attempt to distract himself from the throbbing pain in his legs, he couldn't say. In any case, the drink seemed to be required before he was going to get any type of an answer, so--
It burned, much as the first one had, but there was less unpleasantness about it. Finishing, he turned his head and coughed violently for a second or two, then placed the empty glass upside down on the table.
"Your--" another cough, "--turn."
Fogg did him one better, tossing the liquid down the back of his throat as if it were water. Jules was not at all surprised to see the man completely unfazed by the action. Then Fogg folded his hands elegantly upon his knee and fixed Jules with an unwavering gaze. "You said that you have three sisters and a brother, all younger?"
"Fogg, it's not fair to answer - to answer a question - with a question." Damn Scotch.
"Answer - three sisters and a brother?"
"Well . . . yes," he managed, without tripping over his tongue too badly.
"And that was all?"
Remembering how full the household could seem when they might be home on holiday, Jules found the question didn't make sense. "All? That was more than enough! How could there be more?"
It was his friend's serious demeanor that sobered him and the softly echoed question, "Indeed, how could there be more?" before Fogg rose and walked away, toward the observation window.
How could there be more? Families were extended when many generations and branches gathered beneath one roof - that would increase the number of children. Then there were the distant relations that were acquired from misfortune. Rebecca had mentioned something of having grown up at Shillingworth Magna as a ward of Fogg's father, Sir Boniface, which led him to believe that her immediate family might have perished in an accident or illness. He didn't know how old she'd been at the time, but now wondered how that must have been for her. Death was so difficult for children to--
Death.
Children.
It was so common. He'd never thought about it because his family was among the lucky ones - all of the children born had survived infancy. There'd never been a need in his immediate family for a tiny coffin, a small crypt or headstone . . . yet he'd seen so many in other families as he'd grown and never given a thought to them.
Until now.
If time had passed, he wasn't aware of it. Jules found himself slipping down the seat of the lounge. He looked up and saw Fogg standing over him with a faint, rueful smile.
"I didn't . . . know." It was embarrassing - two scotches and he was almost incoherent. If Jules closed his eyes and thought hard, he couldn't remember having seen the first being poured. Had Fogg given him something? Or was he just tired, so tired, from all he'd accomplished today?
Perhaps he'd spoken aloud, for Fogg answered, "You'll be doing far more tomorrow, once Rebecca decides you're fit enough to go hiking."
He fought to open his eyes; his legs were lifted to the chaise lounge and then a blanket was thrown over him. The jets in the gas lamps were lowered and the room seemed to blur like a watercolor left in the rain.
Passepartout's voice, "--Miss Rebecca is being angry--to be so ill and drinking--"
"It dulls the ache," answered Fogg's voice. "Or so I've found."
The words echoed in his brain, even as a pillow was placed beneath his head and his boots were removed. To dull the ache--the ache in his knees, the ache of saying a final farewell to Aimee, the ache of never having known a sister who might have lived a few short hours or days or years. Too much aching for a human heart to bear and yet they all did bear it in their own fashion.
It was the 'how' that interested him. That's where he would find the true worth of adventure - not in his visions, or in the danger, but in his friendships. It was through these friendships that he'd learn to understand the complexities of the human mind and the human heart.
It was through these friendships that he'd learn to write about them.
Jules opened his eyes and tried to say as much to the blurry room, but as hard as he fought, the words came out garbled.
Fogg, whiskey glass in hand and seated in a chair not so far to his right, said simply, "Go to sleep, Verne."
He did, and was free from the tyrannies the visions imposed upon his mind and body . . . at least for one more night of blessed, restful slumber.
End of Chapter Thirteen B
End of the story.
There's nothing to see here. You may all return to your homes. And remember to put out the torches, please.
Thank you.
Chapter 13 | Chapter 13b