Sat, May 19 2012
Shots. The sounds echoed and magnified in Jules' head, growing in volume and intensity until they overwhelmed his senses. He wanted to flee, but he could not get away. Something was holding him down. Holding him still. Chains? Were the chains here? He tried to pull at them, thrashing to free himself. Whatever held him was inexorable. He could not get away. He could not get away....
Finally, something else threaded its way into his awareness. The hellish cracks of the guns faded away before this calm, quiet sound. It gradually formed words he could understand. Words of reassurance. A voice he associated with protection. "Verne, it's all right. They can't reach you here. You're on the Aurora. You are safe."
Phileas. It was Phileas who was restraining him, using nothing but his strength and the force of his presence. No chains. There were no chains here. But safe? Not safe. "Fogg," he whispered. "I'm afraid."
"I know, Verne," came the voice in the same even tone, one that was honest--not mocking. "So am I."
Then it was better. Jules was not alone. He was not insane. He was on the Aurora. No chains. No guards. No guns. He could breathe again.
Even after the spasms and tremblings of the attack ceased, Jules was reluctant to withdraw himself from the sanctuary created by Phileas' arms. It was not safety he felt there; real safety no longer seemed an obtainable goal. It was instead a sense of connection--a break in the terrible isolation he had felt since waking up in that strange bed where his living nightmare had begun. He wanted to cling to that connection, as a child might cling to his mother's skirts to keep her within easy reach.
Unfortunately, he was no longer a child, however much he wished to be able to retreat into the simplicity of childish thoughts. He was a man. The black fear had receded, leaving him exhausted but not paralyzed. Jules straightened slowly, freeing himself by degrees, until he could lie back against the pillows once more and look up at Phileas.
Phileas was studying him. "Better? For the moment, anyway?"
Jules nodded. "Did this happen to you? These... fits?" It was not the right word. He did not know how to describe what happened to him when the fear overwhelmed everything and he became unable to think. It was too close to madness.
"Oh, yes." Phileas' expression grew thoughtful as though he were trying to recall more exactly that unhappy period in his life. "Perhaps my devils were not precisely the same, but I, too, had spells of blind, unreasoning panic. Even while I was at Shillingworth Magna, protected by miles of empty countryside and an army of servants, I had them. They are unpredictable, Verne. You think you're all right, then something--a word, a sound, a glance--and they come over you without warning."
Jules did not want to accept this. "How long? How long do they go on?"
"I don't have an answer for that. In my case, they continued for several weeks. It was a trial to my father and a strain on Erasmus." Phileas shook his head and added, "They will diminish. They will eventually stop. This I can promise. What I can't give you is a timetable."
A call from the guard below reached them through the window. Phileas left Jules and crossed to it. "It's Passepartout with the lantern," Phileas reported, peering out and down in the fading light. "There are three men with him, two of them supporting a third. Wounded, perhaps. Passepartout seems all right, at any rate. We'll know when he comes up."
Jules knew what he should say, but the words would not form themselves. He knew that he was as protected as he could be here in the Aurora's workshop. They were floating above the ground, so no concerted attack was possible. Anyone or anything coming after him would have to get through Phileas first, wherever he was on board. Jules knew all this. Yet, the thought of being alone this close to the place of his torment made his mouth go dry with dread.
He felt that his hands were clenched in tight fists. Looking down at them, he saw the bandages on his wrists. They were clean and white, but they reminded him of the shackles he had been forced to wear--was still wearing, at least in a part of his mind. This abnormal fear was somehow worse than the chains. He had to rid himself of it. "Fogg," he said, his voice barely audible. He shook his head and repeated louder, "Fogg."
Phileas turned away from the window. "Yes, Verne? Do you need something?"
"No. That is...." Jules took a deep breath and spoke quickly. "I think you should go down. They may need help." The sentences did not sound as firm as he wanted them to do, but they were out, at any rate.
"Are you sure?" Phileas came to the side of the bed and looked down at him keenly.
Jules spread his fingers out on the quilt and told them to stop trembling. "No, I'm not sure," he said softly. "But I want to try." He looked up to meet that questioning gaze. "If you would just leave the door open, so that I can hear, I think… I hope that will be enough."
A moment's more hesitation, then Phileas gave Jules' shoulder a light pat. "Good man," he said. "I'll be back shortly." He crossed to the door and opened it, securing it as he would have done had the Aurora been in full flight. His eyes met Jules' one more time. "I will come at once if you call," he said.
"I know," Jules replied. "I... I'll call if I need to."
Once he heard the tread of Phileas' footsteps on the stairway, Jules got out of the bed and crossed to the window. He could not really see clearly in the twilight, but he could make out the figures that Phileas has described. He leaned forward, straining his eyes to reassure himself that Passepartout was uninjured. As Rebecca must be, in spite of those shots. Nothing would have persuaded Passepartout to leave if she were hurt.
He repeated this to himself, and realized it was far easier to think of Rebecca than it was to see or hear her. Her voice especially affected something in him. Whenever she spoke, he could hear only the silky tones of... the other. He thrust that violently away. Thinking about that would cause the panic to return. Concentrating on the sounds below, he tried to deduce what was happening.
The men were out of sight under the gondola now, and Jules could hear the winch working. His fingers were cold from resting on the sill and he rubbed them absently as he stepped back from the window. Nightshirts had no pockets, except for a tiny one to hold a watch. Jules wondered if his watch was back in his Paris flat or whether it had vanished with his clothing. It was a minor concern, but it brought with it a wave of depression.
The sound of the winch stopped and he could hear voices. The words were not discernible, but he thought they were speaking French. Not Passepartout then, since the valet made it a point of honor to speak his unique brand of English to Phileas at all times. Jules wondered what they were saying. He tried to listen, but the sounds of people moving below echoed through the corridor; he could not make out the words. He strained to hear more and it occurred to him--suddenly--that he could go down and find out.
The idea would not have seemed radical before, but it did now. Jules realized that since he had been abducted, he had not actually gone anywhere of his own volition. Even his trips to the facilities on the Aurora had been suggested by Phileas or Passepartout, and one or both had gone with him. He returned to the bed, but did not lie down; instead, he sat and considered.
His feet were still tender, and his back stiff and sore, but the weakness and lassitude from the morning had dissipated somewhat as his system cleansed itself of the drugs imposed on it during his captivity. The open window let in the night breeze and he shivered slightly, but there was in him a peculiar reluctance to get back into the bed. What he wanted, he realized, was to go downstairs.
The dressing gown he had been using was lying across the foot of the bed. Jules stood and slipped it on. It was an old one of Phileas' that Passepartout had cut down for him, or at least, that was what he had been told. The garment did not appear "old", even by the exacting standards of Phileas Fogg. He tied the belt around his waist and put his cold hands into the pockets. Passepartout had placed slippers for him just under the edge of the bed and Jules put them on. They were soft-soled, and felt more comfortable than the wooden floor on his bare feet.
Jules moved to the door and stopped. It was harder than he had imagined it would be. Leaving the workshop so abruptly seemed a foolhardy and unnecessary thing to do. Here, he was as safe as the Aurora could make him; unless the enemy had developed wings, there was no way to get into this room without going through the main salon where Phileas was. The League's airship had a loud and distinctive motor that could be heard miles away in this clear mountain air. They could not reach him here in this haven.
His reason told him that the downstairs was as secure as the upstairs. His fear told him that this was the only place where he was protected. And then, the voices came again, louder but still unintelligible. That last point decided the issue. He steadied himself against the doorframe and stepped across the threshold.
Once in the corridor, he kept one hand on the wall as he made his way forward. Walking unsupported was not difficult, provided he ignored the pains in his feet and legs; however, touching the Aurora seemed to give him some sort of anchor amid the chaos of his thoughts. The walls were real and familiar, as was the handrail on the stairway, cool and soothing under his fingers. He grasped it firmly and made his way down to the floor of the main salon.
Through the windows at the front of the salon, he saw a figure on the outer deck. The long barrel of a rifle in the man's hands was silhouetted against the dim light, and the sight caused Jules to gasp and retreat up a step--then, he realized that it must be one of the guards that Phileas had told him about. He berated himself for his foolishness, and waited until his breathing slowed back to normal. Once it had, he continued down the steps and turned toward the bustle of activity at the rear of the salon.
Stretched out on the dining table was a man in a uniform with a bloody bandage on his shoulder with another, dressed similarly, hovering over him. The one standing was speaking French at a rapid pace to his supine companion-it was this voice that Jules had heard upstairs. The gist of the conversation seemed to be that "Louis would be fine" and "Alphonse would fetch a physician." All of the other sentences were restatements of these basic themes.
These voluble reassurances had masked the slight sounds of Jules' descent, so that Phileas and Passepartout were unaware of him as they quietly conversed near the basket. The valet was gesticulating and a particularly animated movement turned him enough to meet Jules' eyes. He stopped and stared. "Master Jules? What are you for doing out of bed?"
Jules shrank back a bit at the sharpness of his tone. He knew that Passepartout meant him no harm, but the bark in the voice recalled other sharply spoken questions and threats. Phileas reached out and caught his arm. "Steady on, Verne," he said softly. "Did you want something?"
The support of Phileas' hand and his calm words chased away the growing tendrils of anxiety. Jules swallowed to moisten his dry mouth and said, "What happened? Where is... where is Rebecca?"
Passepartout spoke again, but this time he used the same even tone that his master had: calm, quiet, and honest. "The house is being almost deserted, Jules. Almost. One guard we found. Just one. He shot the Swiss man as you see, but all will be well. Is fleshy wound, not serious, not bad."
Jules didn't even glance at the table. "Rebecca?" he insisted.
"She is unhurted. Competently fine. Truly." Passepartout took Jules other arm and began herding him very gently back toward the stairway. "She has her hunches up high."
Resisting the pull, Jules looked up at Phileas. "I wanted... I needed to know," he said, by way of both explanation and apology.
"It's as Passepartout says, Verne," Phileas replied, nodding in such a way that Jules was sure that Phileas had heard the unspoken plea. "The place has apparently been abandoned. A physician is being sent for. Rebecca has things well under control." He looked pointedly at the valet. "Passepartout will fetch you a chair if you want to stay down here. You should not be standing for long yet. We do have some work to do."
Passepartout promptly fetched Phileas' desk chair and, before he could speak, Jules found himself sitting in it. "Sit, sit, sit," Passepartout ordered genially. "Are you shivery? Do you need blanket?"
Jules shook his head. He was not feeling cold. He was not sure that he could categorize his feelings actually. He was aware that Passepartout had moved away to assist the wounded man, but he was concentrating on his surroundings, absorbing anew the warmth and beauty of the Aurora in the lamplight. Leaning forward in the chair, Jules put out his hand to stroke the brass on the landing basket with his fingers as it waited, on the deck to be lowered again. Such a marvel of engineering her fittings were, with even the smallest details attended to, and yet made with a grace and style that belied their very practical nature.
So completely had Jules opened his senses to experience the Aurora that the unexpected scent hit him with the force of a slap. Passepartout was saying, "Miss Rebecca's soap is very so sweet but it is handily here, Master."
Cinnamon. A ewer raised to a bare shoulder glowing in the firelight. Jules shook his head to chase the vision away and tried to focus on Phileas' voice. "I don't suppose that the poor devil will object to smelling a bit flowery under the circumstances. Let's get that bandage off."
The sound of water in a basin. Jules leaned forward to grasp the landing basket with both hands, using it as an anchor to the here and now. He would not think of fingers moving through foam and soft mocking laughter. He would not think of it. He would not.
A call from below broke through the mists of his mind. He looked down through the partially open aperture to see a man with another of the Swiss guards. The man was young, dark with a beard like Passepartout's, and Jules could see even in the dimness that he was carrying the requisite black bag. The doctor that Alphonse was to fetch, he assumed.
Jules got to his feet and pushed the lever to open the trap door fully. He was maneuvering the basket into position when he heard Passepartout. "What for are you doing now, Jules?"
"The doctor is here." To Jules' surprise, his voice sounded natural. "I am bringing him up."
Phileas and Passepartout exchanged looks and then Phileas gave one of his more theatrical sighs. "Of course you are, Verne, just like that. Never mind that you can barely stand." He came over and removed Jules' hands from the basket. "I appreciate the help, but you are getting cold. Please go on up with Passepartout, now. I'll be there directly to give you as complete a report as I can."
The movement had eased away some of Jules' tension and he allowed Passepartout to herd him back upstairs. Jules almost forgot his aches and fears in the exercise of deciphering what English word the valet actually meant to use in his scolding about the "foolishly hardiness" of coming out into the cold air when he had a warm bed to rest in.
Reality came rushing back, however, when Jules saw the discarded pages on the floor, once Passepartout settled him down onto the bed. He reached down to gather them up before Passepartout could see what they were and thrust them into his notebook. The valet ignored the activity, for which Jules was grateful. He sat back against his pillows while Passepartout fussed over the blankets, arranging them more to his satisfaction.
"There," he exclaimed at last. "Now you will be staying there until it is day again. Then, if I, if Passepartout, say that it is warm enough, only then can you rise up. You do not know how this cold can make you sickly. Do you need tea?"
"Fogg made me tea," Jules said, unable to keep a note of astonishment out of his voice.
"He did?" Passepartout's eyebrows rose. "Unceasing wonders can be found even here then." He smiled at Jules. "I must be gone for now, but I will coming back soon. I will send the master up at once."
Jules nodded and Passepartout went out the door. Once Jules could hear him going down, he brought out the notebook and slowly extracted the two drawings from it. They were both face down, Phileas' on top. Slowly, reluctantly, Jules turned the page over to look at the sketch.
It was as he remembered it. The spotted "cheetah" still sat in one corner, looking up at the branch whereon the "panther" reclined. Now that Jules could study it more closely, he could see that the face of the animal did have a suggestion of Phileas' elegant appearance, even though the lines were amateurish. So that look had always been with him, even at Jules' age and younger.
He turned his scrutiny upon Phileas' addition. The monkey was perched on a branch above the panther, placed so that the panther seemed to be looking at him expectantly. The artwork was unquestionably superior to the original drawing--Phileas had a neat hand. Jules touched the notebook in the monkey's paws with its tiny "JV" on the cover. He could not say whether the face actually resembled his own, but the notebook was unmistakable. Phileas had deliberately drawn him into what was essentially a family portrait, a precious memento of his lost brother. Why?
Jules Verne was used to being an outcast. A misfit. Someone who did not belong. His father thought him addle-pated, his brother Paul thought him weak and foolish. His mother and sisters regarded him as an exotic and not-entirely-welcome menagerie exhibit. Oh, they loved him in an abstract and detached manner; he knew this. That did not change his lack of acceptance. They did not respect him. They barely knew him.
His friends in Paris--artists and Bohemians all--liked him well enough; but they also did not know what to make of him. He had always felt as though he stood on the outskirts of the circle, communicating with those inside but not really part of them. His visions, his ideas, his beliefs had always isolated him from those around him. Rejection was the response he expected. He had learned to deal with it. It was a normal state.
Now, he stared mutely at evidence that told a different story. Phileas' words came back to him: "It is a bond between them." A bond of brothers? Could Phileas really think of him on the same level as Erasmus? Worldly, wealthy, sophisticated aristocrat Phileas Fogg and poor, naive, foolish republican Jules Verne? Brothers? It was ridiculous, wasn't it?
Jules' fingers traced the line of the bandage under his chin. Fate, Phileas had said. Fate had drawn them together at a time when Phileas had given up on life and Jules was just learning what it meant to live. Fate had interlaced their futures so that they were each fulfilling a need in the other. Jules remembered what Passepartout had said about the heart. He had not really believed it. Not then. But, now....
He was too exhausted and confused to consider all the implications, but one thing he knew with a sudden ferocity. The sketch belonged to him now. He would not give it back. It was proof of something important. He could not decide just what, but that did not matter. Jules was going to keep it.
Which brought his mind to the other drawing, the one he had made. In order to hold onto the one, he had to surrender the other. It was more than a barter. It was now a duty. Something he owed to Phileas, in spite of the pain it would bring. Jules was still afraid; nothing in his thought processes had driven away the fear hovering at the edges of his mind. But now he had a duty. The fear would have to wait. As he waited. For Phileas
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Phileas dealt with the strangers on board in his efficient way, removing them as soon as humanly possible. Jules would rest better without unknown people around. Of course, the guards remained on station. Phileas was too suspicious of places that appeared "abandoned" to relax completely. Once the landing basket had been returned to the deck of the Aurora and the winch locked off, he went out on the deck with his spyglass to scan the woods himself. No activity could be seen anywhere.
Hearing Passepartout coming down the stairs, Phileas postponed his surveillance for more pressing concerns and went back inside. When he saw the look on his valet's face, however, he wished he had found somewhere else to be. Passepartout did not wait until he was all the way down the spiral stairway before pointing an accusing finger--shocking manners in the normally correct and deferential valet, but Phileas knew he was due for a scolding and braced himself "You! You let Jules up when he has been having much shivers?" Phileas tried to answer but Passepartout was having none of it. "I cannot go from the ship for even an hour without you undoing all of my soup? Where do your brains living, Master?"
"Here now, Passepartout," Phileas protested. "Surely I can't be held accountable for what happens when I'm not in the room? Verne himself sent me down here, and then followed me of his accord."
"You are here. He is here. There is no accordian!" Passepartout poked--actually physically poked--Phileas with his finger to emphasize his next words. "Jules must rest. Rest. Not walking around."
"Yes, yes, I know. But, it's a good sign, don't you see? He came down on his own." Phileas was still somewhat surprised that Jules had managed it; he was not an invalid, but to make the mental step of leaving a place where he was protected and coming out into a more exposed area was quite a leap forward.
Passepartout heaved an exasperated sigh. "Yes. Is good for that. Yes. But is bad for coldness. Bad for Master Jules to get chattery with goose bumples."
"Oh, for God's sake." Phileas gave a sigh of his own. "I'll go put a hot water bottle in the bed. Will that relieve your mind?"
"Yes, Master! It would do that!" He added with a note of warning, "Be careful you are not to be spilling it. Be mindful that I am the valet, while you are only the Master!"
Phileas had to clamp his lips hard to keep from laughing. Instead, he replied, "I will remember that, Passepartout. You have my solemn oath."
Passepartout gave him a suspicious look, but then nodded. "Very good. Now I go back to help Miss Rebecca."
After Phileas had lowered Passepartout in the basket, he went into the galley and filled the hot-water bottle as he had promised. He hurried up the steps and into the workshop, saying cheerfully, "Passepartout is certain you will catch something dreadful if I don't put this in the bed immediately, therefore I..." He stopped when he saw that Jules was waiting for him, his eyes shadowed with fear and strain. "Verne? What is it?"
Jules looked down at the papers resting on his notebook. "I need to know," he said. His voice was steady, but so quiet that it seemed a whisper. "I need to know if you meant this."
Phileas crossed to the chair and sat down. He looked at the sketch while he considered. He knew that this was a defining moment. He also knew that any word that was less than honest would send his friend skittering back into the dark. As difficult as it was for him, he had to let all the barriers down and let Jules see. "Yes," Phileas said. He paused until Jules looked up at him. "I meant it. I mean it. I think of you now as... family. Someone I can trust, like Erasmus, to watch my back."
A spasm of something passed through Jules' body. Relief? Fear? Joy? Phileas was unsure just what it meant as Jules eyes were now closed in reaction. It had never been very difficult for Phileas to read Jules' emotions through the windows of his remarkable eyes. When they reopened, they were even more revealing than usual in the lamplight. Phileas could see the desperate need for reassurance. He spoke again, his words light, his tone anything but. "You see, in many ways Erasmus was... my better half. Where I am reserved, he was outgoing. Where I was hesitant, he was courageous--often to the point of stupidity, but courageous, nonetheless."
The words were holding Jules. Phileas persevered, though the embarrassment of speaking of such deep emotions was almost unendurable. "But, really more than anything, where I was despondent, when I let myself wallow in despair and self-doubt, he was... joyful. He loved life in a way that few do and when I lost him... I lost that. You are not Erasmus, Verne. I would never burden a fellow human being with that weight. However, you are similiar--the way you see life, the way you view hope, your sense of wonder. They are precious and I doubt you have even the vaguest idea of how very rare it is to find them. I would do anything to protect that and I consider myself unimaginably fortunate to be given... this second chance."
Jules' reaction was less than Phileas had hoped. There was no relaxation of the strain in the tense body. He continued to meet Phileas' gaze steadily, but his voice now trembled as he spoke. "You are offering me something that I've no right to. Not until you know. And I can't accept it until you do know. Even though I want to. I'm still afraid. I'm nothing like Erasmus. I'm a coward."
"You are no coward. You've been brutalized and it's affecting you, but you are not a coward." Phileas kept his voice even with an effort. "What is it I need to know?"
Slowly Jules drew out the other sketch. He held it so that Phileas could not see. "This. She wore this. She said it came from her mother who took it from her father. Only she said dam and sire, like a horse breeder would. And it explained so much...." He met Phileas' gaze again and drew a deep breath. "She told many lies, but I think this was the truth. It's what you need to know." He gave Phileas the picture.
Phileas looked at the drawing. Like all of Jules' work it was clean and economical with no extraneous lines. It was a picture of a woman's right hand with a ring on third finger. The ring was the obvious focus and Phileas studied it. When he recognized it, he felt himself go numb. The Fogg crest? Where could this woman have gotten a ring with the Fogg crest? Not just a ring, but a seal ring. There were only two in existence, one in his safe in London, the other in a locked drawer in his study at Shillingworth Magna.
How? How? He must have spoken the words aloud, for Jules' answer came in a frightened whisper: "Her mother stole it from her father. She said her father was Boniface Fogg."
Sir Boniface... had a daughter? His own half-sister? Phileas' mind reeled away from the idea, even as he registered the tone of Jules' voice. It anchored him. The thread holding Jules together was so fragile it could be snapped with any wrong movement. Phileas forced his horror and bewilderment away and focused on the immediate problem. He could not--would not--hide his reaction from his friend, but he could and would draw Jules back to safety.
Phileas put the sketch behind him on the table. Later. It was for later. He turned back to Jules. As he feared, Jules' eyes were shuttered again, as Jules retreated into himself once more in anticipation of anger and accusations. "Well, Jules," Phileas said, "our bargain is complete. I have my picture and you have yours. That is, if you still want to keep it."
Whether it was his unaccustomed use of Verne's Christian name or the unexpectedness of the words, it had the desired effect. Jules' eyes widened and he looked, really looked, at Phileas. "What?"
"I have offered it to you and told you what it means to me. The offer still stands. It is for you to accept or to return. I hope you still want it, though of course I can see that you might not want to be associated with anyone named Fogg." He leaned forward to emphasize his next words. "If you can bring yourself to forgive my association with a name that has caused you so much injury, you would be doing me a great kindness."
For a moment, Phileas thought that Jules might faint. His face was utterly devoid of color and his lips moved soundlessly. Had he pushed too hard? Phileas had half-risen from the chair to do something when Jules moved. He opened the notebook in his lap and carefully placed the jungle drawing between two pages. He closed the book and tucked it under the pillows. That done, he faced Phileas again.
Jules' color had not returned, but his eyes were no longer shadowed with fear. "I will keep it, Phileas. Thank you." He hesitated, then with a shy tentative smile, held out his hand. "I will watch your back."
Phileas took the hand and shook it. For the first time since they had brought Jules out of that hellish place, Phileas was sure that he would recover. It would be a long road, but they would traverse it. When he released Jules' hand, he smiled. "Now, Verne, if you please, put this thing under your covers, so that I may escape another scolding from my valet when he returns."
Jules took the hot water bottle and slid it out of sight. He settled back against the pillows. He looked exhausted, but not tense, Phileas decided. The room felt brighter even with the gathering night outside. "Would you make some more tea, Fogg?" Jules asked.
"Very well. One more pot. But don't expect this to become a habit."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Rebecca was very glad to see the lamps shining through the Aurora's windows. She could not remember ever feeling this weary. The entire episode in the house had depressed her and now the notebook that she carried in a pocket of her cloak seemed to weigh more than a hundred pounds. She dreaded what she would find in its pages, but knew that the responsibility for reading it was hers.
Passepartout walked quietly beside her. The guards and Charles had been left behind to comb through the building for any remaining clues and to deal with the local authorities. At any other time, Rebecca would have handled it, but just now she did not feel able to cope. Too much had happened--too much for her to absorb with her accustomed aplomb. Too many implications to consider at once. Her head spun with the whirl of her thoughts and she stumbled.
Passepartout's arm at once steadied her. "Be easy, Miss Rebecca," he said kindly, "we will be back in the arms of our Aurora soon."
"Yes, Passepartout." Once she had recovered her balance, she moved forward again. "I don't think I will be staying up late tonight."
"None of us will be wanting for to have a formal dining party," Passepartout agreed solemnly.
She could not help but smile at this. "No, I think not. Even with white tie and tails optional."
The guard on the ground called for them to stop and they did so, letting him inspect them. When he waved them past, Rebecca went to stand under the gondola, waiting for the basket to be lowered. "Will Phileas bring us on board?"
"I am hoping not. He should be up in workshop seeing to Master Jules. Keeping him in the bed and not walking all over the earth in the freezing."
The basket came down in jerks. Rebecca heard Passepartout swear in French at this indelicate manipulation of his equipment. It did show that Passepartout was right in one thing. Phileas must be up with Jules and the guard was handling the basket controls. She hoped they would make it on board without a spill.
As it rose, she asked the question she did not want to ask. "How is Jules, Passepartout?"
A gleam of white teeth in the darkness showed that Passepartout was actually smiling. "I am thinking he is better, Miss Rebecca. The master, he was very pleased that Jules rose up out of the bed and came down the stairs. He did not thinking of the coldness, only that Jules came by himself."
"That does seem to be an encouraging sign." Rebecca caught at the ropes as the basket gave a particularly energetic swing. She tried to blot out the sudden vision of Jules recoiling from her with horror, but it stubbornly remained. That woman in the house had called her Tamar and spoken of entrapping Jules again. The implications of that were too terrible to think about. She shook her head. She would not think about them. Not now. Not until she had rested and was better able to face them.
Passepartout patted her shoulder. "Do not fret so, Miss Rebecca. It is going to be all better soon."
"Is it?"
The basket arrived with both inhabitants still inside. Passepartout waved the guard away with an impatient gesture and offered his hand to Rebecca to help her out. He examined her critically in the light of the salon and shook his head making "tsk" noises. "You must get resting soon. You are exhausticated."
Rebecca nodded, lacking even the energy to smile at the strange word. Her feet felt as heavy as the book in her cloak as she mounted the stairway. To her surprise, the door of the workshop was secured open instead of closed. She peeped in cautiously, not wanting to upset Jules.
Phileas was sitting beside the bed, with a glass of what she presumed to be his favorite port, studying a piece of paper. Jules appeared to be asleep. She tapped her fingernail lightly on the doorway to signal her presence. Phileas looked up at her and she was appalled at how haggard he seemed. Passepartout had told her that Jules seemed to be better. Had something happened?
Phileas put a finger to his lips and leaned closer to Jules. "Verne," he said softly, "they have returned."
Jules stirred and blinked sleepily. His eyes went to Rebecca and she waited tensely for his reaction. There was no recoil, no fear in the face against the pillows, and for that she was very grateful. He spoke in a low steady voice, tinged with fatigue but not distaste. "Are you all right?"
The true answer to the question was no, but Rebecca did not want to worry him. She was so relieved to see him actually looking at her without strain that she did not want to do anything that might change that. "I am unhurt, though a bit tired. May I wait and tell you more about it in the morning?"
Jules nodded and his eyes drifted nearly shut. "Passepartout?" he asked, opening them again.
"Here, Master Jules." Rebecca had not heard him come up behind her, but he was there at her side in the doorway. "I also am unhurted."
"Good." Jules was asleep again almost instantly.
Phileas stood without his usual grace. His movements were stiff, as though he had aged quite suddenly. He placed the paper he had been holding in his pocket. Rebecca stepped back to allow him to come into the hallway.
Passepartout glanced at the bed and back at Phileas, a question plainly there. Phileas shrugged. "A bit of laudanum in the tea. Not much, but I wanted him to sleep. He needs to sleep."
"And so do you, Master," Passepartout said sternly. Rebecca was so used to hearing the valet speak with deference to Phileas that this note caught her off guard. She stared at Passepartout. Passepartout returned her gaze solemnly. "And you also, Miss Rebecca. You must needs sleep now."
"But we need to talk," she protested.
"In the morning will do." Passepartout had turned into granite, immovable. "Only in the light of day will we speak of the evil we found."
Evil. Yes. The evil of that mad woman, the cell, and the unknown Tamar. Again Rebecca became aware of the weight of the notebook in her cloak. She sighed. "Perhaps you're right. I am too muddled to make sense out of anything tonight."
Phileas signaled his agreement with a toast of his glass. "It will keep." Rebecca saw his hand reach into the pocket where he had put that paper. She wondered what was on it to cause him so much pain. "And, my dear cousin," he continued, "since you look quite as limp as I know I feel, I think we must heed Passepartout's orders."
Any other time she might have argued. This was not any other time. She turned toward her bedroom. Behind her, Passepartout said, "I will bring you hot water."
She did not look back. With a nod she went into the sanctity of her room. It looked so normal in the lamplight. Phileas must have lit it before they arrived. He was always attentive to details like that even though she ragged him constantly about his carelessness. Tonight she was touched by the gesture as she seldom was.
Rebecca slipped out of her cloak and removed the notebook from the inner pocket. It seemed to vibrate in her hands and she hastily set it down on the bedside table. A knock on the door announced Passepartout with the hot water. She called to him to come in and sat on the bed to tug her boots off.
Passepartout set the basin of water on the dresser and crossed to the bed. "Would you be liking some aid, Miss Rebecca?"
She nodded. "I seem to be very clumsy tonight, Passepartout."
The valet knelt and removed the boots with his careful hands. "You are very brave lady, Miss Rebecca. No one disputes that. But just now you are a tired and sad lady, too. The tired and sad part of you must sleep now so that the brave part will be ready for tomorrow."
"I will sleep. I promise you I will." Rebecca stood and stretched. "I only have one more thing to do and then I will sleep." Her hand touched the notebook.
Passepartout frowned at it and then at her. "That came from the house?"
"Yes."
"It will be not good. I can tell you this."
"I know. But, Passepartout, it is my duty to read it. There may be things we need to know. Something to help Jules."
Passepartout studied her. "Very well," he said at last, as though she had asked permission. "You may read, but you must also sleep." He went to the door. "If you need something to help, I will be with Jules."
"Thank you."
She bathed and changed as quickly as she could. The night air was brisk, but that was not the reason for her haste. Now that she had made up her mind to do so, she wanted to get the duty out of the way. Hopefully, what she read would not send her screaming down to the workshop to beg for laudanum. She arranged her pillows to support her and reached for the notebook. With a deep breath, she opened it and began to read.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Passepartout marched back to the workshop, prepared to do battle with his master over staying with Jules. Jules is sleeping, he would argue. What does it matter that you are across the hall in your own bed? Passepartout will call you if you are needed, he would say. He would be firm. He would put his master in the bed by force if he had to.
Mr. Phileas Fogg was seated once again, sipping the port while he looked at the paper. Passepartout did not know what was on the paper to upset his master so, but it had to be something connected with the evil in this place. Even here in the Aurora, Passepartout could feel the malevolent influence of the house of horrors. He was determined to banish it, but for that he needed to be alone. The master would not understand and would think him foolish. Therefore, he must be persuaded to go to bed.
The master looked up as the valet came in. "There you are, Passepartout," he said. The voice was not his usual smooth one. It was rough with fatigue and emotion that was uncharacteristic for the calm Englishman. "I wonder if you would mind taking over for me here at least for part of the night. I know that you must be very tired, but I am... I am weary."
Passepartout switched what he was about to say without a pause. "Of course, Master. You must sleep. And I am not tired. Or not very much tired."
"Thank you." Passepartout watched with concern as his master rose slowly. "If you need me, of course I will come. But I rather think Verne will sleep through the night."
"That is all to the good, Master. Do you need me to help you with your clothes?"
"No. Stay here." Phileas crossed to the door. He turned for a last look at Jules asleep on the bed. "Watch over him, Passepartout."
"I will watch, Master."
Passepartout waited until the door across was closed. He moved to one of the many drawers of his tool cabinet and eased it open. The box was there, as he knew it would be. He crossed himself and opened it, revealing a rosary. It was his most precious possession, the beads perfectly formed silver roses with a cross of gold supporting the suffering Savior. He brought it out carefully and kissed it. "Maman, I will need your strength tonight," he said quietly. "There is much praying to be done."
The End
Chapter 25 | Chapter 26