Sat, May 19 2012
The cab had brought Phileas to the Avenue De Lac at top speed. Now, it continued along the street at a normal pace that by comparison felt like a slow crawl. Phileas peered out of the windows on both sides, sliding across the seat like a child. There was more urgency than ever in him and when he finally spotted what he sought, his knocking on the roof of the cab sounded like thunder.
The driver stopped the horses and Phileas leapt out, surveying his surroundings with a practiced eye. The street was deserted. Most of the shops were boarded up and none of the windows showed any light at all. He turned to the driver and gave him precise instructions, using a fist full of gold coins and the promise of more to cement cooperation.
Nothing showed between the boards on the doors of the old theater. No lights gleamed; no sounds from within came to him on the street. Cat-like, Phileas moved along the narrow walkway to the back of the building. Here, the alley’s ground had been churned by the wheels of many carts. A lot of heavy equipment had been moved through this place. Phileas’ pulse quickened at this confirmation of the vision in Arago’s flat.
The two doors in the back of the theater, one man-sized and the other larger for removal of stage sets were both locked, of course. Phileas cursed himself for not bringing Passepartout with him. His valet could pick locks as easily as he could open them with keys. However, he was a fair lock-picker himself. He knelt and examined the lock, extracted a set of picks from his coat and set to work.
It seemed as though hours had passed before he heard the clicks of the tumblers falling into place. He replaced the picks and drew out two guns. In his left he carried a Colt revolver, brought from America. In his right he held what Passepartout referred to as his “six-shooter.” It was not like the Colt, although the Colt was often called that. It was an adaptation of a German design that allowed six bullets to be fired simultaneously. Phileas considered it his favorite.
Phileas inched his way into the dark opening, making no noise at all. He could now hear faint sounds from the stage--the clanking and hissing of machinery in action. Once through the door, he had to force himself to stop and let his eyes adjust. He did not want to stumble over anything and give himself away. He had to make it to a point where he could get a clear shot at Gregory before alerting anyone else to his presence.
As he picked his way over the rubbish scattered around, Phileas listened. Was the Count talking to Jules again? Or worse? That machine – it fitted the description that Rebecca had given to him when she first encountered Jules. It was a machine that did something to the mind and Jules’ mind was far too precious to be interfered with by an unknown. Phileas would have to destroy the infernal device. He carried sticks of black powder in one of his many pockets. But he would need to make sure that Jules was out of harm’s way first. Getting Jules to safety was the priority.
Phileas could now hear the voice of the Count. He appeared to be addressing his minions with barked commands. Was Jules not here yet? All to the good, as far as Phileas was concerned. But, no, he heard the Count’s next words clearly. “I trust you have recovered yourself, Mr. Verne.”
There was no answer from Jules that Phileas could discern. Good man, Phileas thought, as his lips quirked in a small smile. Ever the good student, Verne was remembering Fogg's lessons about the power of silence – especially effective if your opponent tended toward egomania. Just at the moment, though, Phileas would have been vastly relieved to hear the sound of Jules’ voice.
He moved forward, even more carefully than before. If he could hear them, it was not beyond belief that they could hear him, although the hissing valves would cover any sound of footsteps. He was rewarded by a brief glimpse of the stage through the dusty remnants of draperies. The Count was at center, of course, with the light directly above him. He spoke again. “You are still speechless with shock, no doubt. Yes, what you saw was indeed the truth. Your so-called protector and friend made me the monster I am today. I would have died at the hands of the Saracens had he not offered himself for an experiment.”
Still nothing from Jules. The lights on the stage prevented Phileas from seeing anything in the audience area. Right, then, he told himself, let’s concentrate on what we can see rather than what we can’t. With that, he glided up to the edge of the stage at the proscenium arch and raised both pistols, pointing them at the face of the Count. “I think that Verne has had enough for tonight,” he called. “And, I would not move if I were you, Count. You may be able to survive many things, but I doubt you could recover from having that fiendish brain of yours splattered about by bullets.” He moved the Colt the merest fraction of an inch and sent a bullet pinging off the arm of Gregory’s chair.
The two men on the stage started to move, but stopped at the Count’s raised hand. The chair turned very slowly toward Phileas, and stopped. When Gregory spoke, there was a hint of amusement in it that Phileas did not expect and did not like at all. “Phileas Fogg. However did you find this out-of-the-way spot?”
Phileas called out, “Verne? Answer me. Are you injured?””
At last, Phileas heard the voice that had been missing all night. It was weak and tense, but firm. “I hurt my ankle when I fell off the roof, Fogg. Other than that, I’m all right.”
Gregory did not speak. Phileas sent another question out toward the darkness of the audience floor. “Can you come up onto the stage and join me?”
Jules answered promptly. “There are stairs at the side.”
“Then come up here. If anyone tries to stop you, I will put my bullets where they want to go.”
Gregory began to laugh. It was a horrible sound, rasping and breathy. “I did not expect you to find this place, Fogg, but you will find that I am not unprepared.” Without changing inflection, the count continued,”Do it now.”
Phileas jumped out into the light only in time to see the flash of a shot and Jules crumpling to the floor near the foot of the stairs, a red stain appearing at his midsection. He raised his guns again, only to be met with more laughter. “A pretty dilemma for you now. You can hold me here, and with me, my minions, until you faint from exhaustion. Or, you can try to save Verne from bleeding to death. The aim was to wound, not to kill.”
Without waiting for the Count to finish, Phileas ran to edge of the stage and down the steps. Whoever had been in the aisle had fled. He knelt beside Jules. The shot had been to the stomach. He was still breathing, but the eyes that gazed up at Phileas were clouded with pain and shock.
Phileas thrust his pistols into his pockets and gathered Jules up in his arms. He did not even glance at Gregory as he ran back up the stairs and toward the back door. The mocking laughter followed him, but no bullets. No, that would have been too kind. The Count wanted Phileas to try, and fail, to save his friend. Or, to try and succeed, so that Jules could still be used as a window to the future. Either way, there was more fodder for the Count in watching Phileas struggle than in killing him outright. That much, Phileas was sure of.
He ran out of the theatre and straight to the cab that was waiting, as instructed, with its passenger door open. As he pushed Jules onto the seat, Phileas gave a single command and climbed in after him.
The cab took off at high speed. Once inside, Phileas attempted to ease Jules into a reclining position, to the extent that such was possible on the narrow seat of the carriage. Cursing in a soft monotone, Phileas used his cravat as one pad and his handkerchief as another. The bullet had gone through Jules and he was bleeding on both sides.
“Fogg?” Jules’ voice was thin and thready. “How did you find me?”
“Don’t talk,” Phileas ordered. “Save your strength. If you must know, it was a miracle. And we’re going to get another one right now. I hope I haven’t used up my quota tonight.”
---
Passepartout jumped as the church doors banged opened, no doubt from a violent kick by his master. No one could kick doors like that except Phileas Fogg. Passepartout turned and gasped in horror at what his master carried. "Jules!" Passepartout shouted as he ran to them. "What has happened, Master?"
"He's been shot." The words were terse and clipped. "We have to stop the bleeding."
The anxious valet saw that Jules was shivering in spite of the coat his master had wrapped around him, and holding a cravat against the gaping wound in his midsection. Passepartout could not remember what color the cravat had been when he laid it out that morning, but it was now the bright crimson of freshly spilled blood. So much blood. Jules' eyes opened, focusing on him. "Where is this?" he asked in a ragged whisper.
Before he could answer, he saw Jules' face change as he looked up and past him. "Arago… why?" his friend pleaded.
Passepartout felt Arago's presence at his elbow. He looked around at the face of the man that he now understood was centuries old, and saw new pain there. The voice he heard was calm and even, but Passepartout could see the beginnings of tears in the man's eyes. "It would be better to let Jules lie down, I think."
"Please," he inserted, before his master could speak, "Jules will be better over here. Away from main aisle." He indicated a small side altar dedicated to Saint Michel, the Archangel. "I will help you."
"I do not need help."
The tone in his master's voice immediately stopped Passepartout. That very controlled tone told him that Phileas Fogg was reining in his emotions for now, but might more easily let them have the bit in their teeth. It might be better for him if he did, Passepartout realized; but just now, everything centered on Jules, who was bleeding to death in front of them. Mr. Fogg's command was ignored as Passepartout whipped off his coat to make a pillow for Jules' head. His master lowered Jules carefully onto the wooden pew, eliciting a moan of pain at the movement.
"Be still." Such softness, when Mr. Fogg spoke. Jules must be very bad indeed. And his master knew it, too, for he was hovering – almost unwilling to let anyone else close to Jules for fear of exposing him to any more pain. Finally, Mr. Fogg straightened up and spoke, seemingly to no one. "I was led to a theatre. Gregory was there, and a large machine. I tried to hold him and let Jules get away, but they shot. Shot him deliberately so that he would bleed to death.” Mr. Fogg turned and faced Arago. “I brought him here. He needs a miracle."
Passepartout hurried forward as his master relinquished his position. He gently shifted Jules onto his right side as he probed the bullet's exit wound, then frowned. No bullet. Much damage.
He lowered Jules again and removed the blood-soaked cravat. An involuntary gasp escaped his throat as he examined his friend. It was worse than he had thought. This wound was death.
Arago stepped closer to Passepartout but looked directly into Mr. Fogg's eyes. "I can try for a miracle, but only if you do not interfere."
The look on his master's face was one that Passepartout had never before seen. Never. When he spoke, Passepartout was not surprised that his voice sounded desperate. "Do whatever you have to do. Do it now. Don't let him die."
"I will do what is in my power."
Mr. Fogg waited, and then nodded. Passepartout was relieved to see his master sit down near Jules' head. No more challenges. That was good. He, Passepartout, trusted this not-really-a-mortal-man-but-not-exactly-an-angel person. Surely, Arago could do something. Jules must not be allowed to die in this awful way. He must not.
Arago stood beside Jules's midsection for a moment before placing a gentle hand over his eyes. "Peace, Jules," he said. Immediately, Jules' face relaxed into the welcome comfort of sleep. Passepartout stared in astonishment, first at his friend and then at his master, afraid to admit what he saw happening.
He watched in silence as Arago positioned his hand over the sleeping man's heart. He was dimly aware that his master, too, was silently watching; but his conscious attention was held by the rise and fall of Jules' chest as it slowed, then slowed some more. A question formed on Passepartout's lips but he remained silent as Arago entered a state of trance-like concentration.
In a single graceful motion, Arago raised his hand from Jules' chest, shifting his attention to the bullet wound. Here, his hands made no contact. Why not? Passepartout wondered if perhaps Arago had an aversion to the blood and torn flesh, a remnant of guilt from his days in the Crusades. But no, he realized, it was the extent of Jules' wound that was the cause; it was so large, Arago could have placed his fist inside the hole. That was the reason why his hands only lingered above it.
Arago began whispering words in a language unlike any that Passepartout had ever heard before. They flowed into his ears and raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. An odd tingling began in Passepartout's chest. It felt as though his soul were expanding – joining in the lilt and cadence of the chant. He had heard of people, touched by God, who spoke in tongues, with words unknown even to themselves; was this what he was hearing? He shook his head in wonder, focusing on Arago's long, graceful fingers. They… glowed! Passepartout's eyes grew big in amazement and he turned to see if his master, too, beheld this wonder.
Phileas Fogg was watching intently also, but somehow, he did not seem so amazed. Perhaps he was more used to the glowing hands of healers from God. He had seen the Grail glow once before, so perhaps this was not so incredible to him.
His attention returned to Arago, who stood now with palms faced down on either side of the wound. Slowly, the hands drew together before finally coming to rest in the position of prayer. Arago repeated the motion a second, then a third time, raising his voice on the final repetition so that the intensity of his chanting filled the church. The candles burned brighter at their altars in response as Arago began to knit Jules' skin back together.
But the act of faith was arduous; Arago's strength was seeping away. As Passepartout watched, more and more lines showed on the tightly concentrated face. Tears began to journey down the older man's cheeks. Arago was willing Jules's body to heal but the effort was costing him dearly, Passepartout could tell. He looked down at the healer's hands again. The glow was brightening, funneling grace into the wounded man.
Passepartout could not tear his eyes away from the now brilliant glow. It had begun to illuminate Jules' wound as the skin slowly began to regenerate.
A drop of blood fell into the glow and was lost. Another drop came, and another. Passepartout frowned. Jules' wound was still leaking blood, but that was going down, not up. So then where was this new blood from?
Passepartout dragged his gaze back up to Arago's face. The man's eyes were glazed over and small beads of perspiration broke upon his brow before turning into blood. Dear God! Arago was sweating blood!
"Sweet Jesu!" Passepartout muttered in a shaky voice.
If Passepartout had doubted any of Arago's revelations before, he no longer did. This man is truly touched by God. To think that Jules, all unknowing, is the recipient of such a gift: that his 'mentor' is an… an almost-angel! Such a miracle–the wounds heals! Mr. Fogg, he wanted a miracle and so it is! Passepartout’s pulse raced with excitement and he had not realized that his mouth was agape until he went to swallow.
He released a sigh as hope welled up in his chest. Jules would live and all would be well. He turned back towards the sacred glow, which had intensified, rivaling the combined light of all of the church's candles. Passepartout found himself holding his breath in anticipation.
Suddenly, the light flickered. The candles, which only a moment before had burned so brilliantly, now wavered. Something was wrong. The holy light was dimming. Arago's voice was fading and his hands visibly trembled from the strain; his face was carved in pain. The healing slowed – unfinished.
"Dear God… no," Passepartout heard his master whisper.
Arago was silent and Passepartout assumed that Jules' mentor could spare no effort from his concentration, lest he falter even more.
"He is weakening, master. You must help him!" Passepartout implored.
"How? I am no holy man."
"He is not needing your holiness, but your strongness. He cannot help Jules alone. You…you must work together!"
Mr. Fogg stared at him without comprehending, then turned his gaze to Arago, and finally to Jules. "What can I do? I don't know what to do." The eyes that returned to Passepartout were desperate, helpless.
"Come," Passepartout rushed to his master, impatiently tugging him to his feet. "Take his hand, Master!" Passepartout issued the order in a voice that he barely recognized as his own as Mr. Fogg took his place next to an entranced Arago. He nodded as he grasped Arago's fingers.
"Keep the other on Jules. You are the bridge for the power! I know this!" He could hear the desperation in his voice as he tried to encourage his master in what must be done.
Mr. Fogg's eyes searched his for a moment; whatever was needed, he seemed to find it there, for he suddenly stretched his hand out towards the bloody shirt. Pushing it aside, Phileas covered the still-open wound with his hand.
Passepartout continued, "Now you must think as hard as you can – about how much we all need Jules to come back to us. There can be no hiding of hearts. Not now. Let it come and it will save him. It will!" Passepartout knelt down beside Jules' head, hoping to lend his own strength to his friend for the rest of the miracle.
Passepartout watched his master anxiously. His face was so very crinkled in concentration that his eyes glittered and there had never been such glittering before that Passepartout could remember. Then, as though being pulled in, Mr. Fogg's face assumed the same transfixed expression that Arago's face had. The glow, which had been fading and flickering, burst forth with renewed vigor. It spread quickly to his master's hands, illuminating them at it did the wound. And slowly at first, then more quickly, the wound began to close.
Time lost itself. Passepartout had no idea if it was a long time or a short time later that the wound was gone. He could only feel the pounding of his heart as torn skin slowly reached across the wound, knitting together, leaving a jagged scar. Then, even the scar began to fade from a deep red into a barely noticeable pink. He was lost in the wonder of seeing sacred grace granted before his eyes. This was a strange night and a strange world and a more than strange man.
The holy glow faded and with it, the remaining strength of the healers. Arago collapsed to his knees, and Passepartout rushed to catch him before he crumpled to the stone floor. His master swayed, but managed to ease himself over onto the pew beside Jules. All was silent except for the shaky breaths of the two men – until a small groan caused everyone to look at Jules.
"Wh…?" His eyes fluttered opened.
Phileas Fogg smiled his real smile. Not the mocking one, which meant he was amused, but the honest one that showed his happiness. Passepartout always rejoiced in that smile. His master spoke down to Jules beside him on the pew. "Decided to rejoin the living, have you Verne? It's about time."
"I'm sorry…" Jules replied, in a shaky whisper.
"Never mind. So long as you stay." Mr. Fogg’s voice was still soft and gentle, but it was a happy soft, a relieved gentle, instead of frightened. "Let's sit you up, shall we?"
Passepartout looked up anxiously as his master helped Jules up into a sitting position; despite the healing, Jules would still be weak from the loss of so much blood. But Mr. Fogg was careful not to move him too quickly. "Better?" he asked.
"Yes. Thanks."
Relieved, Passepartout returned to clucking over Arago. He managed to ease the older man onto the pew, but Arago now seemed paler than Jules. Paler... and weaker. It must be a hard thing to pass on such a gift, to sacrifice some of your own life for another. Passepartout studied him closely. Arago had visibly aged. The deep creases, those that had appeared while he was healing Jules, were not smoothing out from his face.
Arago had told Passepartout that he could not die, but evidently he could age. This gift had aged him. Three years? Five years? Passepartout was not sure. How much of himself had this man sacrificed to fight the Count? How many times did he have to share his grace if his body was a strong, young knight seven hundred years ago, but was now that of a man of sixty?
Passepartout suddenly understood the great sacrifice that Arago had just made, and when their eyes met, he also knew that this man did not regret the cost. A holy man, indeed.
Jules coughed and that seemed to take all of his strength, for he swayed and would have toppled forward without Mr. Fogg's hand on his arm. His master was in little better shape, visibly trembling from his exertion. His breath was ragged, though Passepartout could see that he was striving to slow his inhalations. It was something Passepartout had seen before, in times of upset.
Passepartout had a supporting arm around Arago's shoulder as he looked from man to man to man wondering where to begin and with whom. He was surrounded by need. Arago was the oldest, Jules the weakest, and his master – the palest. Passepartout had three with hurtings, but only two hands. Even at his most efficient, this posed a problem. Tears welled in his eyes as he was briefly overwhelmed by his own limitations.
First, he glanced at Arago beside him. A small nod indicated that the older man was, indeed, recovering – and quicker than he would have surmised. "Go on," Arago said in a hoarse whisper.
Passepartout needed no further encouragement. He immediately rushed to Jules, placing a gentle hand on his forehead. It was cool to the touch, and though obviously weak, Jules did not appear to be suffering from pain of any sort. Convinced that his condition was stable, he moved to his master's side.
Fogg's eyes were glassy, as though he were still throwing off the last vestiges of his trance. His pupils were dilated, the inner black nearly swallowing the usual brilliant green of his eyes. The tremors were still present, but subsiding.
"Master?" Passepartout asked.
"I am all right. Really." Fogg's voice, for the moment, lacked its ever-present confident tone. "Although, actually, a good glass of brandy would be much appreciated. Any chance of that, Passepartout?"
The valet smiled broadly at his master. If Phileas Fogg was complaining, the worst was over, he knew. "They be having only wine here, master. Not suitable for the drinking of Protestants, I think."
Fogg smiled back. "I sincerely doubt it. Probably not even a proper vintage."
Arago stood, taking the first steps a bit tentatively. His voice, though, had now returned to its steady baritone. "Jules' wound has been healed, as you know. But the blood loss could not be helped. There are limits for me. Though weak, he shall recover."
Passepartout carefully guided Jules back to a reclining position as he watched his master stand cautiously and approach Arago. He had never seen Mr. Fogg have that expression before; it was a mixture of awe and recognition. Recognizing what? Passepartout wondered. That he and Arago had sharings? Similaritivities? For that is what Passepartout thought. Somehow, they were related, this holy man and this cynical fighter. The valet could appreciate that strange bond, even though he did not share it.
The two men looked at each other for a few moments before speaking. It was not a look of challenge and daring any longer – more of an assessing look, Passepartout thought. When his master spoke, Passepartout was not surprised at the respectful tone. "Thank you."
Arago nodded. "There is no need for thanks. All here know that life is precious… and that Jules Verne is precious." He paused as though choosing his words with infinite care, "I would know that you accept this task from me, Phileas Fogg."
Passepartout awaited the answer, hearing only his own heartbeat and the soft breathing of Jules on the pew. Was he aware of what they were talking about? Passepartout did not think so. He saw his master's face change as he spoke with conviction and from his most inner self. "On my honor and by my life, I will protect him. This I vow."
Arago gave him a small smile and a nod of acceptance, before turning to Passepartout, "And you, Jean Passepartout? Will you, knowing what you now know, accept this task?"
Passepartout looked deeply into the clear blue eyes of the taller man, who possessed a serenity that Jean could only wonder at. He would do this. He would help. For, in fact, he felt that such a service was an honor, much like when the Baron had asked him be a friend to Phileas Fogg. Yes, he would help Jules, but not because Arago had asked him. Not even because Jules was his friend. No, Jean would help because he understood his own power, and with power comes responsibility.
He would be a shepherd, not in Arago's way or in his master's way, but in Passepartout's way – he would lead from behind. They would make their decisions, but he would be there. They would their mistakes, but he would be there. He would also make mistakes, but they would be there. It was the only way. To remain in aloneness would surely give the victory to Gregory.
"I will do this thing." His voice was sure and steady.
"Then I release him unto you both and may God be with you. He will have many questions, Jean. Know that you have the power to make him understand."
Yes, I have the power. Passepartout thought as he gave a small nod to Arago.
Arago returned the nod and then bent over Jules, a warm smile softening his serious demeanor, "It is time, Jules. I must go."
Jules' eyes opened. He regarded Arago like a child would a parent. His voice was weak when he asked, "Why?"
In a paternal gesture of infinite gentleness, Arago smoothed some of the hair away from Jules' face, "It is time."
"Will I… will I see you again?"
Arago looked solemnly at Jules, as though sculpting the younger man's features on his heart. "Perhaps…"
"I... You...." A tear leaked from one eye. Passepartout reached out to brush it away, but found that his master anticipated him.
Fogg spoke softly to their young friend. "Verne, don't talk. I told you that before. Rest."
Jules glanced over at him, but then returned his eyes to Arago. "Good-bye," he whispered.
"Good-bye, my friend, Jules."
Arago bowed to Mr. Fogg and rested a light hand on Passepartout's shoulder before turning to walk down the aisle. His back was very straight as he walked away, but Passepartout suspected there were tears they could not see. Just as they could not hear his leaving. For Arago's footsteps, unlike their own, caused no echo on the ancient stones.
---
Excerpt from the notebooks of Jules Verne:
The two days after Passepartout took Phileas and me back to the Aurora are pretty much a blur. Evidently, the shot had caused me to lose so much blood that even with the miraculous healing by Arago, I was far from well. Passepartout, of course, kept feeding me around the clock.
On the third day, I was able to sit up and take notice of things, and the strange dreams I had been having faded away into mist. Some of them were memories, I learned later, but at the time, I was simply glad that they were gone.
One thing I do remember from those blurry days is Phileas coming into my room once with a book. It was the book from the Sorbonne library. When I examined it, I found that the page of woodcuts had been so carefully removed that no one could have told it was ever there. In its place, was a sheet of paper that had a book title and page number written on it. It turned out to be the reference I had been searching for when the whole thing started. With Passepartout's help, I finished the paper and managed to get it delivered to my professor before the deadline.
We left for Florence on the fourth day. Passepartout had cabled Rebecca about the delay and promised us that he would absorb the brunt of her wrath at our tardiness. Otherwise, we might still be in Paris.
Phileas had returned to the theatre where I was held captive. Of course, all the equipment was gone and there was no sign of the Count. He reported this to me, but would not talk about anything else. He said in his wonted Fogg fashion, “You were a bloody mess, Verne. I do not use that word as a vulgarism, but as a description. Shots to that portion of the anatomy bleed like the very devil.” That was all he would tell me of his own experiences that night.
It was Passepartout who related some of what had happened and all that the visions meant. As a student of science, I found some of the story difficult to absorb, but that I am alive proves at least part of it. I have seen the faint scar on both on my front and my back. I should be dead. I am alive and by a phenomenon that cannot be readily explained by scientific means.
I think, though, that Passepartout has kept part of the story from me. I am not sure why. It could be that he does not think I will believe it. Possibly, it has to do with Arago’s instructions. I do not know. I only know that something happened between Arago and Phileas that no one will talk about.
Actually, the most peculiar thing about the revelations was that Passepartout described it all to me in classical Latin. I have been forced to study it for years and I still cannot speak it the way he did. He said it was a gift from Arago. So now, Passepartout speaks fifteen languages, one of them perfectly. We still have not told Phileas. There are too many languages on the Aurora already.
I will miss Arago. I will always be thankful for the gift of his friendship at a time when I felt so very alone. He protected me and prepared me for the assaults that were to come. And although I am no longer alone, thanks to Phileas, Rebecca, and Jean, I hope that we will meet again. At the very least, we four together can carry on his fight. Perhaps we can even be the means by which Arago finds his peace at last. That is my hope."
End of Chapter Eight
Chapter 7 | Chapter 8