Fri, May 18 2012
| TITLE: | The Third Suit: Suit and Service |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Susan M. Garrett |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Novelette, Humor |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas Fogg, Jules Verne, Rebecca Fogg, Passepartout |
| DESCRIPTION: | Passepartout |
| STATUS: | Complete |
"Passepartout, if you would be so kind as toWhat in heaven's name is that?"
It was Phileas Fogg's voice that addressed him and Phileas Fogg's boot tips that he could see when he turned his head and peered out from beneath the small steam boiler under which he was working boot tips that would need an extra buffing tonight and perhaps a trip to the boot maker soon for repairs. But Passepartout put that thought on the list of daily tasks which he carried about in his head and looked upward at the bolt he was currently tightening, managing something like, "I am almost having finished, master," around the handle of the screwdriver clenched between his teeth.
The boot tips moved to the left, then the moved to the right a few paces. Passepartout could not help but be distracted by them and the bolt was being obstinate . . . so he shifted the bolt from his 'immediate' list and slid himself out from beneath the machine, head first. Unfortunately, the boot tips had moved again and he collided with them; he found himself grinning up at his master, Phileas Fogg, who was staring down at him with perplexed curiosity.
It was a look he'd seen often from his master in the past, particularly when one of his mechanical devices was involved. His master might be a demon at cards and other games of chance, but he was at best a novice with any non-lethal mechanical device. The [lethal] ones, however . . . .
It was not something Passepartout considered lightly, or at all if he could help it. He accepted the offer of a hand up more than most employers would have done, considering the greasy state of his hands placed the screwdriver on the flat top of the barrel-like device, then passed his master the rag that he'd left there.
Phileas Fogg accepted the rag with a frown, wiping the oil stains from his black leather gloves. "What is this, a new sort of cannon?"
"Oh, no, master, is much better than cannon." Passepartout made no attempt to keep the pride from his voice as he gestured toward the thing he had contrived from iron and copper tubing. There were four gauges at the top, against a short smokestack at the rear and the clawed, castored feet at the bottom left him just enough room to crawl beneath it to make adjustments. The top of the barrel reached nearly to his mid-chest. All in all, a beautiful thing, or would be once he had cleaned it properly.
Before he could further enlighten his master, Miss Rebecca appeared in the doorway to his workshop, wearing her best crimson 'going-out' jacket and matching hat. "Phileas, we are going to be [late]--" Her voice fell away as she entered and caught sight of his creation. "Oh my, Passepartout, you really [have] outdone yourself this time." She walked directly to the machine and placed the flat of her hand against the iron barrel.
Jules Verne, who had entered behind her, did not say anything at first but soon released a long, low whistle as he, too, approached the machine. "Passepartout, it's fantastic!"
"Thank you, Jules." Passepartout gave his friend a slight bow as he basked in the glow of the compliments. He made an effort to remain in place and fought the urge to chase the writer's hands away from the delicate gauges as much as his master was hopeless about mechanical things, Jules was quick and clever. This was still too new a discovery for Passepartout to see his friend making adjustments to his work even before he might think of them himself. That would come later.
"If it's a cannon, it's not very portable," noted Miss Rebecca.
Phileas Fogg made a sound of annoyance low in his throat. "Anyone with an ounce of common sense could tell it isn't a cannon, Rebecca. Really!"
"Then what is it?" She fixed her cousin with a challenging glare, as she rose from studying the base upon which the iron barrel was set.
Passepartout looked quickly from one cousin to the other, wondering whether to be amused or concerned such familial bickering between the cousins often started with a light-heart, but could grow serious. His master stared blankly at the infernal device for a moment, then gestured toward him. "I'm certain Passepartout would be happy to give you the particulars . . . ."
"Whatever it is, it's steam-powered," noted Jules, rising to his feet after having examined the back of the machine. "Small unit, concentrated steam I see, the pressure valve is here." He looked up at Passepartout with a grin. "The heat produced by the initial coal fire boils water, which creates the steam . . . and the steam continues to boil more water, right?"
"Is correct." Passepartout matched his friend's grin Jules' quick assessments never ceased to amaze him. "The point is to be boiling the water and moving the washer board."
"The . . . washer board?" asked Miss Rebecca, her eyes narrowing. "But how do you fire it?"
"It's not a weapon." Jules was back at the gauges again, his fingers testing solder, then tapping at the glass and making the dials jump. "It's a cleaning device. For dishes?"
"Clothings," Passepartout corrected. He forced himself to turn and face his master he was [not] going to tell Jules to stay away from the gauges. "Is a clothings washing machine."
"Is it?" asked his master, with as little interest as if he'd announced the iron and copper contraption to be a previously undiscovered species of yellow-throated mong-warbler. "How fascinating."
It should not have been unexpected for Phileas Fogg to lose interest the moment the invention was revealed as a domestic appliance; his master had been to the kitchen in the terraced house on Saville Row on only two occasions in Passepartout's recollection, both dire emergencies, and had never been to the scullery once. As long as his meals were served on time, his decanter was full and dusted, and his attire cleaned and pressed to perfection, Mr. Phileas Fogg gave no real notice to the effort that produced his meals, kept the terraced house clutter-free, and allowed him to present himself to the world as an elegant man of leisure. Passepartout knew this. Passepartout had accepted this within days of having entered Mr. Fogg's employ. In many ways it made his work that much easier.
Thus he was able to hide his disappointment at the response by turning away and raising a finger to his mustache, as if to set it aright.
"It [is] fascinating," said Miss Rebecca, turning back to her study of the rivets which held the iron barrel together. She spoke with such a strong tone that Passepartout wondered whether he'd fooled her at all.
"Can you imagine the work hours such a device would save?" Jules' eyes widened as he ran his hand along the weld of the copper piping, but Passepartout suspected that his friend was seeing far more than a simple machine. "People women would be freed from hours of drudgery. Think of how the time saved could be spent in more worthwhile pursuits."
Miss Rebecca straightened, with a faint smile on her lips. "I should think Jules, practically speaking, that someone would simply find more drudgery with which to fill those hours. Still, a marvelous invention. Once you've established a working patent, Passepartout, I do hope you'll let me become one of your first investors."
Phileas Fogg snapped shut the watch he'd been consulting, his eyes suddenly alert. "Investors? Surely you don't think there's anything to be gained from this folly?"
Passepartout found himself the subject of his master's attention . . . and also, Miss Rebecca was giving him a look and waving her hand at him, as if her swinging reticule was signaling for him to take up where she had left off.
"Is no folly, master," said Passepartout, with as much authority as he could muster. "Every house must be doing wash or having wash sent out to be doing for them. Is like food or water washing must be done."
"Hotels." Jules walked toward them from around the far side of the machine, trailing his fingers along the cold iron, that slightly unfocused look in his eye. "Hospitals. Think of the time and man-power that could be saved at institutions!"
"Industrial applications, as well," breathed Master Fogg, nodding slightly. "Yes, Verne, I do see what you mean. If you could mass-produce such a machine, the return would be substantial." Master Fogg lifted a hand so unexpectedly that Passepartout flinched slightly when it landed on his shoulder. "Well done, Passepartout. As Rebecca says, I do hope you'll see your way clear to allow us to invest in your patent, once you've gotten everything straightened out." Master Fogg paused and lifted his chin slightly, as if overseeing the entirety of the machine. "You have ah tested it?"
"I have only finished building it. And I should have to wait until tomorrow, if we are staying, because there is no washing to be done."
"Not quite," said Miss Rebecca, biting her lip in a roguish manner as she pointed a finger toward Jules. "Your suit."
His eyes suddenly very focused, Jules met her gaze without a hint of flinching. "You said 'Jump!'" he accused.
"I said, 'Stop!'" she countered. "I would never instruct you to leap from a farmhouse roof into a pile of manure without a very good reason. Since those two Prussian agents had already been disarmed, you were perfectly safe."
Not having been present at the incident in question, Passepartout had pieced together most of the story from having assisted Jules in an immediate bath and several subsequent hair-washings upon his return to the Aurora. That Miss Rebecca bore some culpability in the matter was clear, or she would not have been so eager to help refill the water tanks aboard the airship so that Jules could be rendered acceptable to society. Her side of the story was that she [had] tried to stop him, was incredibly relieved that he hadn't broken his neck, but since all had ended well was not above using the incident for a bit of fun.
"You [do] seem to be making an awkward habit of pitching yourself off rooftops," agreed Master Fogg. He turned innocent eyes toward his cousin, adding, "And I can't think where in the world he might have picked up such a trait. Can you, Rebecca?"
Miss Rebecca's eyes narrowed and Passepartout cleared his throat, knowing that he should intervene before the matter escalated beyond anyone's control. If they did not go to the luncheon at the embassy as they were supposed to, they would clutter up the Aurora all day, preventing him from checking many, many items from today's list. "The suit is tied in a bag, hanging from the railing. I was thinking that airing it might help, but--?" He shrugged his shoulders there was no dishonor in being defeated by such a massive pile of manure.
"Luck's with you there, Verne; the way that bag must smell, I doubt anyone would dare steal it. It's probably kept away a good portion of the local wildlife as well."
Jules' smile at Master Fogg's comment was half-hearted at best. He turned his attention to Passepartout. "It's beyond hope, then?"
If Master Fogg or Miss Rebecca had requested such a task of him, he would have refused. Not that he would not have thought twice about laying down his life if one or the other had been in deadly peril . . . but they had clothing enough and income to purchase more. Jules did not. Though he had a great heart and shared all that he had, he took very little. To lose so much clothing all at once, even such a dreadful suit as that one, would be a hardship and he would not accept replacement for it.
"I will do my best," he promised.
Jules smiled, saying, "Thank you, my friend," quite softly, as if accepting both Passepartout's understanding of his situation and the courtesy he showed in not mentioning it aloud.
Miss Rebecca took charge of the situation, placing her arm over Jules' as if his invitation to escort her had already been spoken. "I'm sure Passepartout will manage anyone who can so completely remove bloodstains from silk should be able to handle a little manure."
"And now we [shall] be late," announced Master Fogg, having opened his watch again, consulted it, and shut it with an impatient snap that would have shaken lesser beings to immediate action. He walked to the door, opened it, and gestured toward the hallway. "After you, Rebecca. Verne."
"Don't run a full test of the mechanism until I get back," Jules called over his shoulder, even as Rebecca assumed the actual burden of escorting him to the doorway. "I have a few ideas about the gauge connections"
"We may want a late supper when we return, Passepartout," instructed Master Fogg from the doorway. And then, as the others had slipped away, he half closed the door and walked back to Passepartout's side, his eye on the door to the passageway the whole while. "About that suit--?"
"Yes, Master," agreed Passepartout. "I shall be trying the clothings washing machine. The color is so light, I may be having to dye it"
"Even that wouldn't be enough to save the wretched thing. Thank heavens he had that misadventure yesterday I was afraid he was going to wear it to the embassy luncheon."
Passepartout stared. "But the invitation for the ambassador's luncheon was delivered only this morning?"
"When one catches a few spies and returns a nation's secrets, thus keeping a sovereign nation's relations with Great Britain on the pleasant side, the ambassador usually invites one to luncheon in gratitude. One wonders what the Prussians were thinking sending out those two fools Verne could have taken them on by himself and never have fired a shot. The luncheon was a foregone conclusion, really. It's apt to be incredibly boring, but the wine should be exceptional." Master Fogg rubbed the side of his nose with his gloved finger absently, as if stating a universal truth. "The situation has saved us for the moment, but there's still the matter of the final disposition of the suit. You're going to [attempt] to clean it?"
"So I have promised Master Jules, yes."
"Ah." Master Fogg bit his lip, as if contemplating the translation of a distinctly difficult Latin text passage. "Your machine is still in the . . . experimental stage, as it were?"
"Yes . . . ." Passepartout watched his master's eyes, already knowing what he was thinking.
And knowing, too, that he could not do what his master would ask. To intentionally ruin the suit after having promised Jules that he would save it? No, that is something that he could never do to his friend. This was not a matter in which lives hung in the balance. To break such a promise, even a small one like this, would be wrong.
"So if something should"
"Phileas?" came Miss Rebecca's call, through the open porthole.
"Yes, I'm coming," bellowed Master Fogg in answer, but his voice was quiet again as he turned to Passepartout. "It's not unexpected that something might happen to the suit during the attempt to clean it?"
"Yes," answered Passepartout. "The happening is that it will be cleaned."
He didn't want to appear to misunderstand his master's intent, but neither was he about to break his promise to Jules. He had only the hope that his master wouldn't order him to do the thing.
"No, no. Of course it will be cleaned, if the machine is working properly," said Master Fogg. "I understand that. But if something else should happen to the suit--?"
"It could," admitted Passepartout . . . and Master Fogg's expression brightened. "It could [not] be cleaned the first time. And then I would be trying again. With more forcings, maybe. Or to be adding more lye soap to the washing water."
Master Fogg drew back for a moment as if astonished. He pursed his lips and turned his gaze to the side of the room, as if attempting to control his temper.
"After all," said Passepartout softly, "I have [promised] Master Jules that I would do my best to clean his suit. On my soul I would not be breaking such a promise, when there is no real reason for it to be broken."
There was a sudden stillness in the room, like the moment of hesitation when a storm hovers on the verge of the horizon and the impending cloudburst seems to retreat back into itself, revealing unexpectedly clear skies. So did Master Fogg's expression change, even as his lips were paused to give the order Passepartout did not want to hear . . . but the words were never spoken aloud. Instead, his lips curled into a slight smile and Master Fogg nodded. "Then you must keep your promise to Verne. I wouldn't ask any less of you."
A strange pride in having made the situation so completely understood stopped Passepartout for a moment. A lesser master would have ignored his wishes and ordered him to destroy the suit. A greater master would have understood and yet have made the order anyway, for such a man could never be confident enough in his own position unless it was constantly reinforced by confirming the placement of the people who served him. But Phileas Fogg was a man who seemed confident in only one thing his own position. So confident that he could befriend a social inferior like Jules Verne and never think but to treat him like an equal. And equally confident enough in himself to hear a statement of simple truth from a valet without treating it like a defiant challenge to his own authority.
"Thank you, master," said Passepartout, and meant it.
His master did not reply, but removed his watch and checked it again in a gesture so practiced and familiar that it covered all manner of awkward moments. "We [will] be late. Damn." He stalked toward the door, calling, "A late supper if you please, Passepartout something light."
"I will be finding something suitable, master."
Master Fogg paused at the door and half-turned with a smile. "I'm certain you will."
Master Fogg sped from the room. Passepartout moved to the porthole and watched. His master's stride meant that he quit the lower cabin within seconds and joined his friend and cousin on the embassy lawn. From there it was a matter of who could hurry without seeming to hurry and Passepartout smiled to himself as Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg contested one another for the lead in the race, with Jules having to take two steps to every one of their running strides while laughing all the while.
The laughter did not carry far and died away. Passepartout stood alone in the near-silent airship. Although her boilers still churned, the Aurora at rest was a peaceful place; he knew every sound that she might make and could identify each one without thought. She came to life when the others were aboard, but when it was just the two of them, himself and the Aurora, he had peace enough to think.
The idea of a light supper sifted around in his head until it came to rest upon the proper list. Passepartout walked over to his new invention and patted the top of it gently. He paused for a moment as he picked up the screwdriver that he had placed there earlier, feeling the slightest sense of unease at the back of his mind.
Something was wrong - there was a blank spot on a list. Whether it was something he had not done, or something he had done and not remembered doing, he could not say. He gave the matter a moment's attention and when it did not resolve itself he dismissed it from his mind. There were many daily duties before he could begin the proper test of his machine and that in itself would take some time.
He was alone on the Aurora. It was time to get to work.
The suit was contained in a cloth bag, suspended from the tip of the broom pole. Passepartout held it arm's length and still his eyes watered beneath the degassing mask. As he made his way up the spiral staircase to the Aurora's upper deck, he decided that keeping Jules and Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg away from all manure piles was a very important thing. He would have to talk to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth about the importance of this thing. And maybe Prussian agents, too, although any Prussian agents who ended up in manure piles got only what they deserved.
If not for the stench of the bag's contents, Passepartout would have removed the degassing mask when he paused at the doorway to his lab. As it was, he peered blearily through the misted glass in the eyepieces of the mask and his chest swelled with pride at the sight of his invention. He had blacked the iron barrel carefully a silly thing to do while it was still being tested, but it looked more impressive now and the brass fittings shone with the strength of the rubbing he had given them while he'd waited for the steam to build and the water to heat. The dial hands on the gauges were resting well within the safety zone he had carefully marked with dye even as the washings machine huffed and puffed to itself. It was a very beautiful thing and would have brought tears to his eyes . . . had the unfortunate state of Jules' suit not already done so.
But the smell was not to be borne willingly for much longer. Passepartout continued to hold the broom handle away with one hand and made his way to the lab table, where he slipped his free hand into a heat-protective mitt as best he could. Returning to his invention, he used the metal tongs to lift the hot metal lid from the center of the barrel and viewed the interior cautiously.
The soap he had added to the near-boiling water in the iron tub before going down to the rail to retrieve the suit had been churned into happy bubbles a number of them rose through the opening and one large one popped before the degassing mask. He smiled in response to it, and to see the washing board working so well; he had chosen to use a cog and gear design that repeated the up and down motion even as it journeyed the circumference of the washing tub . . . something that he could not wait to show Jules. In addition to showing Jules a cleaned suit, if his machine worked as well as he hoped.
Passepartout drew the bag containing the suit closer by slipping his hands along the pole -- it remained suspended over the bubbling opening in the iron tub as he considered his problem. The cloth of Jules' suit was not honest cotton or strong wool or even shiny silk. Nor was it colored quite white, nor quite the shade of old newspaper, but the shade of a not-quite-brown eggshell making pretense at being a not-quite-white eggshell. The vest could easily be compared to rusted iron. Were the suit not in the state in which it and Jules had been brought to him, he would have considered washing each piece in separation from the other and rejoining them all at the end.
But the suit [was] in a very smelly way and there were still many duties on his list, including constructicating the 'light supper' that his master had requested for later that evening. So when Passepartout lowered the entire bundle into the iron tub, he did so with some small amount of apprehension.
The iron washings machine seemed not to much like the idea either, for the trickle of bubbles was replaced by a blast of hot, stinky steam that reached Passepartout even through the gaseous mask. His eyes watering, he carefully set the iron lid back into place with his gloved hand. The broom he placed against the wall and the gaseous mask was lifted slightly as he stepped back; he could still see venting steam from the top of the grate in the iron tub cover. Even though it seemed slightly greenish-yellow, there did not seem to be much smell to it. With a flourish, Passepartout removed the mask and bowed to his creation.
"I am thanking you for being such a beautiful washings machine."
The lid set into the top of the iron tub rattled slightly it was enough of a reply to make his smile widen. He patted the top of the lid, remembering just in time to use the heat resistant gloved left hand instead of his right hand, confirmed the adjustment of the iron brake on the bottom castors of the drum, then checked his watch. "Ten minutes," he announced to himself, as well as to his invention, "and then Passepartout will be checking the results of the washings machine. And if there is some bluing to make Jules' suit more white than not, it can be added then."
The machine bubbled and hissed, the dials still hovering within the safety areas he had painted on them. It was not a sad sound, but very happy, in that way that well assembled and cared-for machines are likely to sound when they are left to do the jobs for which they were made. Passepartout was content to leave the machine for ten minutes; it would take him that long to sweep the lower deck, hang the carpet over the rail for an airing, and scout his pantry to assure himself that everything he expected to use for his master's supper would still be in the place he had last left it.
Ker-thud.
Passepartout looked up, brow furrowing, and stared at the galley ceiling. He knew every sound the Aurora could make, from the chuff-chuff-chuff of her rotors, to the ting-ting of the mooring lines against the flagpole, even to the kerthunketa of the rear engine when it needed more than a bit of finessing. There was no such sound as a
Kerthud.
Yes. That.
He replaced the glass on the counter and hung the drying towel on a hook. The apron was slipped over his head as an afterthought as he concentrated on the rear stairs that led to his workshop
Kerthud. Kerthud.
For he had swept the floor, had hung the rug over the railing and had beaten it to within an inch of its weft, had created a menu for the light supper requested by his master
Kerrr
And had forgotten completely about the washings machine.
THUD.
Passepartout placed his hand on the doorknob of the workroom door and swallowed. He began to turn the knob when
Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud.
Whoosh.
It was the latter sound that brought a cold sweat out upon his skin. Yet Passepartout gathered up his courage and opened the door to the workroom.
The familiar surroundings were made strange and unfamiliar by a dense cloud of wet, whitish steam not scalding, thankfully, but with the warmth of the tropics to it and the viscosity of a London fog. His shoes splashed in puddles of water and he looked down in surprise to find water spread about as he walked, not deep, but in this place or that. Passepartout took step after step through the cloud, eyes wide, his hands held out before him as he tried to feel his way through the mist. It must be here. Unless the solder had failed and it had broken apart, but then the water would have covered the floor instead of having settled in pools. For a slow leak, there might be one connection that had failed, or a bolt might have loosened if it had not been properly fastened . . . .
Then he remembered the bolt that would not turn and Master Fogg's boot-tips and leaving the bolt. That was the thing he had not remembered. That was the error he had made. Jets of steam and water were escaping through that unfastened fastening. Suction would pull the metal plate into place, then steam would burst down beneath the machine, lifting it upward just the barest bit before it dropped back to the deck. That was the sound it was making, like a
Kerthud.
Passepartout froze for an instant, listening intently he could hear the hiss of the steam engine in the washings machine, but he was engulfed by the white mist. It was to his left . . . no, perhaps his right?
Kerthud.
And it would be hot. Very hot. Hot metal and hot water and hot steam all boiling.
Kerthud.
He began to back away in the direction he hoped he might find the door. If he left the machine alone, it would whoosh all of the water from the base onto the floor easily mopped up, what did not leak through to the salon and galley below. And if the jumping of the machine did not break the floor of this room and crash into the salon or the galley. Not such a matter to stay outside until the fire in the boiler died when it finally tipped over and the water put out the fire in the boiler. Unless the water boiled away or whooshed to the floor and the fire did not die, but spilled out across the floor and Master Fogg returned to find his beautiful airship burning like a paper lantern . . . .
Kerrrrrrr
Passepartout knew that he could not leave this thing. He must stop it. He must bring water, cold water, in a bucket and throw it over the machine until it dowsed the fire in the boiler. He could get that water from the galley when he reached the laboratory door.
THUD.
He [should] have reached the laboratory door by now . . . .
Whoosh.
A spray of hot water splashed across the lower leg of his trouser. Gasping in surprise and pain, Passepartout stepped backward and struck his shoulder against the wall, the edge of a porthole catching the upper armhole of his tiger vest. He was not where he thought himself to be in the room; the steam was too thick to see. If he opened the porthole, some of the stream could escape.
But then, the machine rolled slowly toward him out of the white mist a great, black and copper creature hissing stream. A gauge had popped from its place and hung askew like an evil eye, fixed upon him. Another 'whoosh' and the thing picked up speed, heading directly for him!
Passepartout leaped to one side, slipped in a puddle and crashed to the drenched floor even as the machine slammed into the wall of the workroom. Through the stream haze he saw it careen away, still heading toward him. It was alive! It was trying to get him!
Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud.
The soles of his shoes slipped on the floor as he made his way to his feet and toward the shadow of his workbench. He placed his hand upon the surface, found himself grasping a long metal pipe, then turned to face the metal monstrosity, holding the pipe in the air as if it were a fencing saber.
"En garde!" he declared, lunging toward the misshapen creation.
His thrust struck the popped gauge, sending it bouncing up and down madly on its connecting wire, as if it mocked his pitiful attempt to stop it. A sudden hiss of steam from its base simultaneously obscured it from his vision and caused him to take several steps backward, coughing. The edge of a worktable behind him prevented his complete retreat. When the smoke cleared, he found the thing had moved closer he could feel the heat coming off the iron barrel in waves and was nearly blinded by the sweat that dropped into his eyes.
Passepartout grabbed a dirty work towel from the table and tied it around his head, then picked up the pipe from the workbench again and brandished it like a Samurai sword, letting loose a string of high-pitched syllables as he rushed forward. The pipe bounced off the metal barrel and the steam stacks ineffectually, clanging with such a sound that after a few minutes he had to stop his ears were ringing.
Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud. Whoosh!
Another cloud of steam rose around the metal creature.
"You are not getting away from Passepartout so easily!" he cried, thrusting the pipe at the metal barrel as if it were a dagger, passing the end of it neatly into a space in the grill.
The washing machine seemed to shudder, causing him to grin . . . but he frowned almost immediately as he tugged at the bar, which wouldn't move. It was stuck inside the grill, jammed against the rotating metal washing board inside the barrel of the machine.
A groan arose, the ghastly sound of metal pressed beyond its best endurance, and yet Passepartout did not dare relinquish his end of the pipe. The washing machine seemed to be . . . eating it, drawing it in through the grate a bit at a time. He was pulled closer and closer, the metal pipe growing first warm, then so hot beneath his hands that he was forced to release his backward tug upon it.
His shoes slipped. He fell to the floor. And watched in horrified awe as inertia pushed the washing machine away from him. The bar disappeared completely into the barrel of the metal giant even as the monster was swallowed by the mist. The groaning continued, the blackened metal now beginning to glow red from within as the heat inside it grew. As long as the plate at the bottom continued to flip down and the steam was allowed to escape, it would prevent the pressure from building. But if that plate stuck in place or melted shut and the steam pressure continued to build, it would be like stopping the mouth of a cannon. There would be an explosion, [such] an explosion . . . .
Ker-THUD.
It moved faster now the brake must have been disengaged during its thudding; Passepartout could hear the wheels as they rolled back and forth across the wooden floorboards of the work room. He scrambled to his feet and headed for the place where the door to the main staircase might be. The sheer bulk of the thing would keep it from passing through the doorway and even then it could hardly follow him down the stairs.
Whoosh.
He slipped again in the water, righted himself, and lunged for the barest outline of the doorknob glimpsed through the mist. It turned in his hands and he fell through the open door, into the upper hallway. He landed on his hands and knees on the dry Persian carpet serving as a hall runner, the mist dissipating around him into clear, cool, dry air. Taking a deep breath, Passepartout murmured a quick prayer to the patron saint of valets and fools St. Efficacious, was it not?
Ker . . . thud.
His heart stopped in his chest. Blind panic caused him to flip over, so that he faced upward and could see the doorway behind him.
Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud. Kerthud.
It was a red-black shape in the mist, perhaps three feet from the door. The eye gauge swung up and down and he found himself following the path of the thing until he was dizzy. Had it run out of steam? Had the boiler gone out? Would there be no further?
Whooooooosh.
It came for him again, even faster than before. Passepartout rose to his feet and placed his hands on the wrought iron rail of the circular stairway even as the washing machine barreled through the doorway. The crash of the wooden doorframe behind him drowned out the sound of the metal wheels on wood and then carpet as it continued to roll forward. He vaulted the outer rail and landed on the steps, then turned.
The runner for the upper hallway had been pushed slightly over the upper step. Seizing it, Passepartout yanked it as hard as he could, nearly flipping himself from the stairway in the process. He managed to maintain the barest hold, his wet hand fingertips sliding along the iron railing, the hard metal of the steps grating along the silk back of his tiger vest as he slid around the curve of the steps.
The rug sailed up and out of his hands, suspended in mid-air above him like an Arabian flying carpet for an instant. Passepartout reached up and managed to pull it over himself, even as he heard the horrible metallic scream of his creation. His pull on the edge of the rug had tipped it over and its vital fluids rushed down over him in a deluge, but he was protected from the worst of the heat and scalding water by the Persian hall runner. Only when the thundering flood had abated to an occasional trickle and drip did he dare pull his head from beneath the rug and peer upwards, toward the top of the staircase.
The steamy white cloud that had followed the metal monster from the room was beginning to settle, gravity pulling the weight of it earthward and causing it to dissipate in spots, but it was still quite dense. The boiler fire in the belly of the beast would have gone out once it had toppled, the water having put an end to that danger. The floor above him would be too wet to burn, thankfully, even in proximity to the rapidly cooling iron. The heavy iron barrel was lying on its side, teetering on the very edge of the upper step . . . .
Directly above him.
Moving the thing by himself one tortuous inch at a time had led him to set it on casters in the first place. Passepartout knew exactly what the barrel weighed. And knew, too, that even a glancing blow from the iron barrel on its way to the floor would be enough to break a bone. Should it land on his head, his skull would be laid open like an over-ripe melon.
He moved . . . or tried to. There was no vaulting over the side of the stairwell because he was caught within the heavy wetness of the long rug from the upper hall that had shielded him so well earlier. Now it threatened to entrap him, pinning him beneath the barely balanced iron barrel, which was even now tilting just a little bit more over the edge
With a burst of panicked strength, Passepartout tugged the edge of the rug from around his feet, but the pull sent just enough of a shudder through the iron circular staircase that it shifted the weight of the barrel . . . for the worse. He managed to lift his legs over the rail, hoping to drop to the floor below, but the rug caught him. He flipped in mid air and slid down the circular stairwell, landing head to the floor and back to the iron steps, which worked the silk from the back of his waistcoat like a demented cheese grater. He came to rest wrapped almost completely in the hall runner, on the first few steps from the floor. It left him in a perfect position to watch the barrel fall toward him, as if in slow motion.
It bounced against the stairwell and a , breaking into two halves along the weld, cracked open like an egg. One great black portion of it flew away, like a one winged bird, as the bottom also slipped out and flung itself to one side. The other half banged down the steps toward him, slamming against the handrail and the steps, shaking the staircase it time it struck. But it somehow fell with the great arc of the half circle open-side down, sliding down the remainder of the steps as easily as skies slipped across the snow, slipping toward him, over him.
The clang, as it struck the floor around his head, deafened him. Passepartout felt his teeth chatter in his head as the metal rang around him, but finally even that stopped. And there was, for a moment, silence.
He tried to move his arms, but the rug had been firmly pinned to the stairwell by the half-barrel. Passepartout had learned something about movement of muscles during his time in the circus, but with his legs and arms pinned by the carpet wrapped around him and the barrel wedged tightly in place, he was unable to shift any part of his body to his advantage.
"Help!" he cried, the barrel ringing with the echo of his words. "Is someone to be helping me? Please?"
The end of his call was rather pitiful and less forceful than when he had begun, its echo died away rather quickly. With a sigh of resignation, Passepartout found himself craning his head to peer up through the body of the barrel, to where the tops of his now-badly-scuffed shoes waved back and forth at him. Beyond that was the staircase. And the ceiling.
There was no help for him here. There would be no help for him until his master returned and then oh! only heaven would be able to help him then. This was a crisis, but it was a crisis he could do absolutely nothing about. So, weary, drenched, burned in spots and scraped in others, Passepartout did the only thing it was possible for him to do.
He hummed a lullaby under his breath and, lulled by the echo of the barrel, soon fell into a deep, if slightly soggy, sleep.
The bells of Notre Dame were ringing inside his head.
Or, at least, that was what it sounded like. Passepartout groggily managed to pry open an eyelid and tried to raise his hands to his ears to drown out the infernal metallic din . . . but came wide awake when his hands would not obey him. It took him a moment to realize that what he was hearing was banging on the outside of the metal half tube that surrounded his upper body and what he was seeing were friendly faces whose features were drawn in shadowy concern as they peered in at him.
"Phileas, stop that racket [instantly]!" demanded Miss Rebecca, but then she was peering back into the tube. "Passepartout, are you hurt?"
"Master?" He blinked, the brief glimmers of light blocked off by the shadowy faces at the other end of the tube. "Are you being here?"
"Of [course] it's me, you idiot." Master Fogg sounded annoyed, but it was the kind of annoyed blended with relief. "Are you in pain? Have you broken anything?"
"Not broken. Just scraped down in bits," he said, pausing as he took a breath. "A little bit singed on the ends, too."
"Not to worry, Passepartout," said the voice of Jules, which seemed strained with some effort. "We'll have you out of there in a "
The metal tunnel groaned and then lifted, Jules' legs and a crowbar coming into view first. His hands and chest were next and the crowbar fell away as he and Master Fogg each grabbed for a portion of the barrel and lifted it up.
"Gently, [gently]," called Master Fogg, "or you'll damage the"
Klang!
"Floor. Well, I suppose that's as good a place as any for it for the moment"
"Sorry, Fogg."
There were still only voices for a moment, and shadows, as Passepartout blinked, stunned by the light from the gas lamps after spending so much time in darkness. He was lifted down from the stairs and to the floor as Miss Rebecca called, "Careful!" but his heels still struck the edge of the lower step.
Something that looked like it might be Master Fogg frowned down at him. "Are you quite sure you're all right?"
"Yes, master," he said, with more assurance than he felt. "But if you could be unwrapping me?"
Miss Rebecca and Jules knelt down on either side of him and patted the rug, as if trying to find a way to free him. "You might help, Phileas," she chided.
"I think you're doing quite well as it is. And what is that he's wrapped in? Surely not--? Do you know what it's going to cost to replace that Persian hall runner? Passepartout, I must insist that come out of your wages directly."
"I am being sorry, master, but"
Miss Rebecca and Jules succeeded in freeing him. Between them they managed to get him up to a seated position, Miss Rebecca supporting his back.
Jules held up his palm before Passepartout. "How many fingers do you see?"
"Is three. And one is having ink stains."
"That should do for the moment," said Miss Rebecca, grinning across at Jules, then down at Passepartout.
Passepartout matched her grin, until he looked past her and to the rest of the salon. He had not seen so much damage since their last forced landing! A chair was broken to kindling, the other half of the metal barrel lying across it. There were small pools of water, bits of wet ash, and fragments of white everywhere. "I must be fixing these things," he announced, tried to rise to his feet . . . and then fell back to a seated position and might have fallen down to the floor completely had Miss Rebecca not caught him.
"Easy, Passepartout," she said, propping him up as she knelt behind him. She gestured Jules toward the decanter a movement he obeyed hurriedly then smiled wanly at Passepartout, her eyes lit with concern. "You were lucky your skull wasn't crushed, you do realize that?"
Swallowing, Passepartout stared at the broken chair, then took the glass Jules offered him gratefully. After two small sips and a gulp, he closed his eyes. "I am realizing that very much, thank you." He opened his eyes to find her fingers on his cheek and winced as she touched his skin.
"Not [too] bad of a burn. I should think we'll have you up to snuff in no time." She looked around behind her. "But you [should] be off this wet floor, I think"
"Leave that to us, Rebecca," said Master Fogg. "Verne?"
Passepartout was about to protest that he could do that himself, but even as Master Fogg and Jules placed a hand beneath each of his arms and helped him to his feet, he nearly fell between them - a sharp tingle in his feet and legs protested the rush of blood to those previously pinned extremities. They helped him to the banque and it was very much of a relief to be sitting upright. Jules took the glass from him and refilled it Master Fogg's very best brandy then pressed it back into his hand, saying, "What happened, Passepartout? Was the pressure gauge misaligned?"
"It was only that I was missing a bolt," said Passepartout sadly. "The screw was too loose."
Jules sat down beside him with a look in his eyes that Passepartout well knew determination to fix a problem. "It was only your first test. The next time"
"There will be [no] next time," announced Master Fogg, leaning over both Jules and Passepartout. "At least not for that monstrosity. Passepartout, I absolutely forbid you to build any more domestic appliances. Forbid it. Absolutely." He reached down and took the glass of brandy from Passepartout's hand almost absently, sipped at it, then used it to gesture at what was left of the salon. "Henceforth, I think you should dedicate your inventing talents to something far less destructive. Likelike"
"Cannon?" offered Miss Rebecca, who was attempting to roll up the sodden Persian rug.
"Yes, cannon," agreed her cousin. "And armaments. That sort of thing. Safe as houses. Hmm?"
When Master Fogg looked at him, waiting for his agreement, Passepartout merely nodded in confusion . . . but when he saw Jules grinning, he knew that it was not a lack of understanding on his part, but a difference in translation on the part of Master Fogg.
"At the very least," said Jules, his grin fading, "don't test anything else when you're alone. Rebecca is right you could have been seriously hurt, my friend. Or killed."
"I will be agreeing with you there." Passepartout looked forlornly toward the glass of brandy Master Fogg had taken from him, sighed, and started to rise to his feet. "Oh, there is so much of mess. And Miss Rebecca, you are getting your skirts wet on the carpeting!"
Jules placed a hand on his shoulder, easing him down to the banque which was just as well, since his legs were wobbling. "Passepartout, your back"
"Is nothing." Passepartout sat up straight and threw back his shoulders, barely managing to hold in the hiss of pain the move produced. "Is all right."
"It's [not] all right," countered Jules, concern coloring his tone. "Rebecca, I think you should have a look at this."
Miss Rebecca lifted the water-logged carpet from the floor, thrust it into Master Fogg's arms. Ignoring the faint, "Oof!" and muttered complaint from her cousin, she took Jules' place beside Passepartout on the banque. "Let me see."
Passepartout looked up at Jules and grit his teeth together as Miss Rebecca gently touched places on his back that were hurting at some he could even feel her fingers against his skin, which meant the satin backing his waistcoat must have torn, even down to his underdrawers. Something else to come out of his wages. It was just as well Master Fogg paid him as outrageously as he did.
"I don't think it's as bad as it looks, Jules," said Miss Rebecca, from behind him. "Lean forward just a bit, Passepartout thank you. Mostly abrasions. You're going to have some nasty bruises. And one or two of these are still bleeding. Those should be attended to immediately, I should think." She rose to her feet, then placed her hand beneath Passepartout's arm. "Can you walk under your own power? Just up to your workroom?"
Passepartout hesitated a moment, looking down at the floor, then hunched his shoulders slightly. "Is not the walking that is the problem, I think. The workroom is not all . . . together."
Miss Rebecca shook her head and said, "Surely not as bad as all that?" But when Passepartout looked away, she added, "Ah. Something to be handled later. Let's get you cleaned up and put to bed you can use Phileas' room for a much-needed nap. And perhaps Jules will be kind enough to run into town and see if he can scout something edible from one of the local bistros?"
Jules was cut off in his agreement by Master Fogg, who announced, "Well, that's all right, but who's going to clean up this mess?"
"I should think you've already gotten a start on it, Phileas. If you'd throw that carpet over the side rail to dry, you could get started on sweeping up this mess."
"Sweeping?" Master Fogg dropped the carpet on the floor, then stepped over it, toward Miss Rebecca. "Now see here"
"Yes? Phileas?"
There was a look that Miss Rebecca got in her eye when nothing in God's good creation could stop her. Passepartout had learned early on that when Miss Rebecca gave him that look, he should say his prayers and then do as she asked, for there would be no moving her from her thoughts. He did not envy Master Fogg being on the receiving end of that look. And, for one brief moment, he thought that Master Fogg might ignore it. Even Jules was making a motion with his hand behind Miss Rebecca's back, trying to warn Master Fogg that no matter how sweetly her words had sounded, he was treading on a very slippery slope.
After a moment, Master Fogg seemed to realize his error. "I shouldn't think," he began, after a slight pause and a brief shrug of his shoulders, as if setting the line of his coat aright, "that the carpet is really worth saving."
"You may be right," agreed Miss Rebecca. "But as Passepartout is bleeding right now, I would suggest we address the matter later. Jules to the bistro. Phileas the broom."
Master Fogg looked blank for a moment. "The broom?"
Jules laughed and headed toward the galley, "I'll get it, Fogg. I know where Passepartout keeps it."
"You might want to bring a mop as well," called Master Fogg, looking down at his feet and carefully stepping out of a puddle of water. "It's a damned good thing you didn't test this while we were aloft, Passepartout. I suppose we're lucky that thing didn't send burning coals flying through the cabin."
"No, just flying chunks of iron," corrected Rebecca. "[Large] flying chunks of iron."
Passepartout lowered his gaze to the floor again, embarrassed at having caused so much devastation, but Miss Rebecca's light touch on his shoulder caused him to look up she was teasing, not scolding. She met his gaze with a slight smile. "Let's get you set to order, hmm?"
He nodded after a moment's hesitation and rose to his feet, using her arm to steady himself. No matter how awkward it was to be the person cared for instead of the person to be doing the caring for, the scrapes along his back stung enough for him not to question Miss Rebecca's thoughtfulness. His legs seemed to hold him and any dizziness had passed he communicated that much to her with another assuring nod and a quiet, "Is all right now."
"What's this?" Master Fogg picked up a white-colored scrap from the floor and examined it. "Almost as if it has been . . . melted. It seems to be everywhere. Passepartout?"
The denial was on his lips, just a second before his brain recognized what Master Fogg held in the palm of his hand - other bits of which had covered the cabin like an erratic snowfall. The realization weakened his knees and he might have fallen back had not Miss Rebecca's firm grip on his arm steadied him.
"Is . . . Jules' suit." The words escaped him in a gasp and he glanced around the room with panic-stricken sight. Everywhere he looked, there were bits of the suit the bookcase, the table, the floor, the lamp . . . there was not an inch of surface not speckled with the tiny reminders of his failure and his guilt. "Oh . . . no."
Miss Rebecca patted his shoulder with her free hand, careful not to remove her support from his arm. "Don't give it another moment's thought, Passepartout. It was an accident Jules will understand. These things do happen in the course of scientific inquiry, or so I'm told."
The writer in question entered the salon through the galley door carrying a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. "I couldn't find the push broom, Passepartout, just the sweeper." Seemingly without thought, he handed the broom to Master Fogg, then turned to face Passepartout and Miss Rebecca. "Jules will understand what?"
The words were said without guile or even concern that was the way of Jules. There was information that he was missing. Needing to know was all with him. Needing to understand.
"Your suit . . . has been desmolished," Passepartout said sadly, forcing himself to meet what he knew would be Jules' disappointed expression. "I am sorry I have failed in my promise to clean it."
But Jules expression wasn't disappointed. Surprised, perhaps, particularly when Master Fogg took his hand and pressed the white scrap of cloth into his palm with the solemnity that one would observe for a holy relic, but there was nothing of disappointment about him. He held the fabric up to the gaslight and peered at it with a critical eye. "There's nothing to be sorry about, Passepartout. You said you'd try your best to get it clean and you certainly seem to have done that. There's not a speck of manure on this. Or" he glanced around the room, "Or on the hundreds of other bits of it left, I suspect."
"Passepartout [will] replace it, of course," said Master Fogg, with such a severe expression that Passepartout might have taken him seriously had he not brushed by his valet and added softly, "In lieu of the cost of the Persian rug, I should think."
If Miss Rebecca had heard, she gave no sign, other than her head bowed slightly and she looked away as if trying to fight the smile that hovered about the corner of her lips.
Jules, however, seemed distraught at the prospect and now pushed the handle of the mop into Master Fogg's free hand as if to ready his own hands for combat. "No, that's not necessary"
"Of course it is," answered Master Fogg, with enough force in his tone to set even Jules' righteous objection back a pace or two. He gestured toward Passepartout with the handle of the broom. "I'm certain Passepartout feels badly about the situation you'd be doing him a wrong if you didn't let him make it right. Isn't that so, Passepartout?"
"It is as you are saying, master."
"There. And that's settled," announced Master Fogg. He fixed a self-satisfied gaze on Jules and raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you be off in search of our supper? It's been several hours since that most excellent luncheon, and I doubt Passepartout's eaten a thing since breakfast."
"Um yes, of course. I'll be back as soon as I can." As if stunned by the speed and the manner in which his protests had been so thoroughly routed, Jules took a preemptory step toward the door and paused again to glance back at them.
"Your coat!" called Master Fogg. He shifted the mop and broom into his left hand, lifted Jules' leather coat from the back of a chair, and tossed it toward him. Jules caught it, muttered some form of thanks, and headed out of the cabin at a run.
"I do hope you're prepared for a loaf of stale bread to go with your sherry," said Miss Rebecca, as she carefully led Passepartout to the galley door presumably they were going to use the rear stairwell. "I doubt Jules has sufficient funds on his person for anything more elaborate."
"Is all right," Passepartout told her. "Master Fogg was putting money in Jules' pocket when he throws him the coat." Glancing over his shoulder, he added, "Is perhaps more than is good Master Jules might get an idea in his head to purchase another suit from a bad tailor. Or he might not come back with proper foods. I should be going with him."
"[You] should be going upstairs so I can clean those scrapes," said Miss Rebecca sternly, as Passepartout made an attempt to escape her grasp and head back to her cousin, who was examining the broom and mop with a bewildered expression. "And let Phileas work this out on his own. He should have sense enough to figure out how to throw a carpet over a rail and sweep up."
Still unconvinced, but knowing that his resources were too depleted to even attempt to stand up to Miss Rebecca, Passepartout relented meekly and accepted her assistance up the stairway and to his master's room. He allowed her to help him remove his tiger vest, shirt, and even the upper part of his under drawers so that she might administer to the wounds on his back. He drew the line on anything further and had regained enough of his composure to stand his ground on the matter. When Miss Rebecca insisted that he change into his nightshirt while she waited so that he could alert her of any problems, it seemed a passable compromise.
Other than bruises on the backs of the legs and thighs the damage limited by the long-wearing material of his trousers and burns at the backs of his ankles, he reported that all was well. Even then Miss Rebecca would not be satisfied until he had seated himself on Master Phileas' bed, a blanket draped over his lap for the sake of modesty, and submitted his ankles to her care for a light bandage.
"Just to keep it clean," she informed him, tying it off with a complicated looking knot. "I should think wearing the bandage for the next day or two beneath your stockings will serve quite well. And with any luck you'll avoid blisters." Rising to her feet, she brushed her hand against her skirt in dismay, then turned her head to survey the rear of it. "It appears I may be in need of some maintenance. And I know Phileas' attire shall look a fright if he's put any energy at all into bringing order out of that chaos. My apologies, Passepartout, I'm afraid I've added to your duties, instead of lessened them. I do hope you can forgive me."
"Forgiving you?" Passepartout stared at her in amazement. "You are to be bandaging me, and sending Jules out to be finding things for supper, and telling Master Fogg -- [Master Fogg!] -- he must be cleaning up the mess Passepartout made . . . and you are asking me to be forgiving you?" He caught her right hand and bowed his head, touching his lips briefly to her knuckles in the manner of a salute. "[I] shall be bearing the burden of gratitude."
"Yes. Well." Miss Rebecca seemed unusually flustered, but then slipped her hand out from his grasp after a second's pause. "Your only burden for the moment is to rest. I'm sure we can sort out whatever Jules can forage from one of the local establishments. I'll send him up when he returns, to see if you're awake."
"Is a good idea," agreed Passepartout, "because Jules has been designing an air pressure tube and we were thinking of ways to not be making it a weapon. Is possible if we should be heating air, it could be used to dry the carpeting on the rail and possibly saving a replacement."
"Hmmm." Miss Rebecca's lips twisted into an odd smile before she turned toward the door. "Perhaps it would be best to send Phileas up here to check on you instead." She paused in the doorway. "I think we have had enough of inventions for the moment, Passepartout, particularly labor-saving, domestic devices. Wouldn't you agree?"
Passepartout was about to answer when there was a crash from the lower level. That was followed by an indistinct -- if high-volume -- oath and a call of, "Passepartout? Damn! Rebecca?!"
"I believe that's your master's voice," said Miss Rebecca, with a sigh. Passepartout had already risen to his feet, but she waved him back to the bed, adding, "It's all right I'll handle him. Go to sleep, Passepartout." There was another crash from downstairs. Miss Rebecca touched her fingers to her forehead for an instant, then smiled wearily at him. "And try not to dream up any new inventions?"
Passepartout didn't dare answer for he could not promise what dreams he might or might not have - but nodded and smiled. It seemed enough of an answer for Miss Rebecca, who closed the door. Passepartout leaned forward to turn down the lamp, then crawled carefully beneath the bedclothes. He could not lie comfortably on his back, but rested on his side, only then even noticing the varieties of pain from his scrapes and bruises. They were not so bad, merely annoyances that could be borne easily as he drifted off to sleep. Odd that he had slept for so long that day and was still so tired. But there was a difference in his mind between sleeping in peril and sleeping at his ease.
Where else could he be more at ease? Had any other valet, any other servant, created such devastation in so short a span of time, he would have been looking for a new situation. Yet with these people, with Master Fogg and Miss Rebecca, there had been no hint, not even a whisper, of finding other service. Jules did not carry any anger toward him for the destruction of what would be a pricely suit of clothes and had been prepared to fight Passepartout over recompense for the loss. He had been bandaged by Miss Rebecca and was sleeping in his master's bed while his master -- [his] master cleaned up the mess he had caused.
Incredible. Not the least because tomorrow, all would go back to, "Tea, please, Passepartout?" and "If you would be so kind, Passepartout?" and "You are an idiot, Passepartout!" Which was as it should be, given God's grace. And which was the way he most liked it.
And if the door had opened after a time and a shadow had fallen across him, accompanied by a soft voice that said -- with quiet disbelief -- "Passepartout, you [are] an idiot," and then, a moment later, "Sleep well, my friend," it did not much matter if the voice was real or was part of his dream. For he could dream of no better life than inventing the imaginings of his friend Jules or fighting beside Miss Rebecca, or being the folly of Mr. Phileas Fogg, of London.
The End