Sat, May 19 2012
It had taken a very long time and many drafts for Jean Passepartout to complete his letter of resignation from the British Secret Service. The first few said too much and the second too little. Spying was not, in Passepartout's opinion, an honorable profession. He had not enjoyed that aspect of his life much in the past few years and had considered resigning many times.
He shifted on the bench, concentrating on his breathing, trying to ignore the weight of the letter in his left breast pocket. It pushed against his heart from the outside in, forcing him to focus on every deliberate breath. It was only paper, so said his head, but his heart knew better. His heart knew the weight of his thoughts had slowed his actions. Rest would elude him until the shackles of his duty snapped with the delivery this paper.
As he sat there listening to the rhythmic beat of the clock, his father's voice whispered through his mind, repeating a childhood lesson. "If the time comes when you can no longer live with the life you have chosen – vanish! You have the talent."
There were only two things that had stopped him from vanishing before now: Phileas Fogg and his beautiful ship. Both were lost to him.
It was time to vanish.
The Baron von Breslau had told him only to watch over Phileas Fogg, that he was important to the Queen of England, and especially that he must not be allowed to destroy himself. Passepartout had never met someone like his former master, someone with so much sadness and bitterness within. It had stiffened his resolve to save Mr. Fogg from that ultimate sin. No one deserved to spend the rest of eternity in the depths of Hell and especially not a man who suffered so keenly.
Passepartout shifted again. He needed to be moving on, not sitting. He picked up an apple from the bowl of waxed fruit on the table next to him and tossed it lightly. He caught it forehand and backhand and repeated. The inner office door remained stubbornly closed. He tossed the apple higher and caught it with his chin. The clerk at the desk cleared his throat loudly. With a sigh, Passepartout returned the apple to the bowl and looked again at the inner door again.
It was to this office that Passepartout had brought his reports when in Paris. He didn't like this place. Deep within the bowels of the embassy building, he fancied it smelled of arcane knowledge and dark secrets. Passepartout had not told all he knew in those reports. He had struggled with his conscience and decided that it was no business of the Service that his former master had terrible nightmares and that he often drank himself into a stupor to avoid them. Passepartout had not written of the strange conversations that Mr. Fogg had with himself – or at least someone that Passepartout could not see.
Sometimes Rebecca could bring Mr. Fogg out of his black moods and that had been a relief. Now, just thinking her name brought Passepartout pain and anger. She should have told him about the League. She should have told Mr. Fogg about Erasthmus. She should have confessed about the marriage and that Erasthmus still lived. Passepartout found that his fists were clenching hard enough to drive his nails into his palms and shook his hands to stop it. It no longer mattered what Rebecca should have done. She hadn't. So many lives destroyed with those lies.
There were writing materials on the table as well as the bowl. Passepartout crumpled two of the sheets of paper into balls and juggled them. It was too easy. He added the ink bottle. That was a bit more difficult, as he had to account for the different weights. He was about ready to add the pen when the clerk's exasperated voice interrupted, "Mr. Passepartout, please!"
Passepartout nearly dropped the bottle, but caught it with a wild sweep of his hand. He replaced it on the table. The paper balls he put into his outside pocket.
That hadn't proven to be enough of a distraction – his thoughts returned to Fogg, whom he'd been unable to help. Jules Verne had been the one who had really awakened Phileas Fogg. After Jules had come into their lives, Mr. Fogg had come to be a different man: interested in living instead of dying. There had been less and less that Passepartout had needed to hide in his reports. He wished now that he had been more circumspect about Jules. No doubt those reports had been passed on to….
The door opened. Passepartout did not recognize the man who left the room. He stopped briefly to speak to the clerk and left without glancing Passepartout's way. The clerk looked over at Passepartout and said with a relieved sigh, "You may go in now."
Passepartout retrieved his letter from his inner pocket, and then strode through to the inner office. Mr. Wheelwright was sitting behind his desk, his lean appearance a decided contrast to Sir Jonathan's. Passepartout stepped forward and placed the letter on the desk. "Mr. Wheelwright," he said respectfully, "I have come to submit my resignation."
"Don't be ridiculous. You can't resign like that." Wheelwright picked up the envelope and appeared prepared to tear it in two.
"Wait!" In the time it had taken for him to shout, Passepartout had plunged across the desk, scattering folders and papers in his wake. He held the bottom of the envelope. Wheelwright appeared to be stunned, whether at his temerity or his speed, Passepartout was not sure. The other man carefully released his hold on the envelope, leaving Passepartout sprawled across the desk like a fish who had jumped from an aquarium. Passepartout slid back until his feet reached the floor and he could stand. He straightened his coat and bowed slightly. "My apologies, sir," he said. "This letter took a long time to compose. It is not nonsense. I am most serious."
"I see that your reflexes have improved, Passepartout, if not your use of the double negative."
Passepartout knew that voice. He turned his head to find an elegant and composed Baron von Breslau standing behind him. It had been over three years since Passepartout had seen him, but little about the man had changed. He twisted the rest of his body to match his head and bowed. "Sir, you are here."
Von Breslau returned the bow with an ironic smile. "It would seem so. Shall we sit down and discuss recent events? After you have returned the desk into some semblance of order, that is."
"Never mind about that." Wheelwright rang a bell and the clerk came into the room. "We have had an incident. Take the papers and sort them, Parker."
As the clerk gathered the debris, Passepartout felt eyes burning through him. He would not be on Parker's Christmas list this year. He could take no time to apologize with the Baron and Wheelwright waiting for him. He sat down in the remaining chair and waited for someone to speak.
Once the papers were gathered and the clerk gone, Wheelwright asked. "Is it true, this news from London? About Phileas Fogg?"
"Yes, sir." This was something Jean had been prepared for. "He was killed in the line of duty."
"A shame. He was a good agent, as well as a gentleman. I worked with him." Wheelwright shook his head.
Passepartout stole a glance at von Breslau. He appeared to be listening intently, but there was no expression on his face.
"All right," Wheelwright said, "tell us. Not all the details, just the outline. The details will go in your report."
In a low but steady voice, Passepartout gave a summary of the events in the warehouse. He told of removing the body and of Jules' frantic insistence that the body was not dead. There had been witnesses to that and Passepartout had no intention of giving the Service any contradictions to wonder about. "He was very distraught, sir, and insisted on us taking the body to London. I was reluctant to do anything that might injure Mr. Verne further. He had just witnessed his friend being tortured repeatedly and then killed. He was not completely sane, I think."
"I doubt I would be either," Wheelwright remarked.
There was no sound from the Baron. He had become a statue – only his eyes showed life. "No," Passepartout said to Wheelwright. "It was to be expected. We went to London in the airship and Her Royal Majesty sent her own physician out to see. Mr. Verne went inside the palace to for an audience with Her Highness and returned to hear the doctor pronounce Mr. Fogg beyond hope of saving. He… did not take the news well. There were many comings and goings, some of which I do not remember as I was seeing to Jules – Mr. Verne, that is. Finally, Queen Victoria graced the... us... with Her presence and gave to me personally my instructions. She also told me to tell no one what I was supposed to do, and you see that I must respect that."
With a sigh, Wheelwright answered, "Yes, we must respect that. It's vexing though. How can we expect to protect the young man if we don't know where he is? I assume the Queen still wants him protected?"
"Her Majesty assigned five agents to be his guard, sir. Mr. George Hampstead is in charge of the detail. He will be coming to Paris periodically to receive information from the drop boxes. You can address them to the Sofitel." Jean had already deposited the package containing the keys and Jules' notebook into one. It wasn't that he did not trust the service; however, he did believe in taking no chances. That notebook was full of information that might be of as much use to the British government as it was to Count Gregory.
"I see." Wheelwright leaned back in his chair. "Do you have any questions, Baron von Breslau?"
The Baron moved his head to look at Passepartout. "Did he speak to you before he died?"
Passepartout shook his head. He did allow his own grief to color his answer. "No, sir. Not to Passepartout. He spoke only to Mr. Verne. He… he expressed concerned for Jules' suffering, sir."
"I see." The Baron looked again at Wheelwright, and it seemed to Passepartout that he was more pale than before. It could be his imagination. Why had he wanted to know Mr. Fogg's last words?
Wheelwright took up the conversation again. "And now you want to resign from the service, Mr. Passepartout?"
"Yes, sir." Passepartout held up the envelope but did not release it. "My special assignment was to report on the activities of Phileas Fogg. That assignment is now over. You no longer need me."
"I'd say that deduction is premature." Wheelwright held out his hand for the envelope and Passepartout surrendered it, keeping a wary eye on it. Wheelwright did not open it, but instead placed it under a paperweight on his desk. "At any rate," he continued, "I cannot authorize your resignation. That acquittance must come from the Head Office. What I can do is offer you a leave of absence. After you finish your report, of course."
The Baron moved again. He asked Passepartout, "What is to be done about the Aurora?"
The name brought an overwhelming pang of regret to Passepartout's heart, but he answered in a steady voice. "She is to be stored here by Her Majesty's orders. She declared Mr. Verne to be Mr. Fogg's heir. The ship…." He could not bring himself to call her by name. "The ship belongs to Mr. Verne now. He will claim it when he is recovered."
"And when do you think that will be?"
"I do not know, sir." That, at least, was an honest answer. Even with the healing power of the Grail, Jules had not been whole. "I think it may be weeks, perhaps months."
Von Breslau nodded. "I wanted to be sure about her welfare."
Passepartout felt the need to offer some comfort. "I took her to some of her favorite places, Baron. She will be sleeping with nice dreams until her master comes back."
Wheelwright harrumphed and they both turned back to him. "Well, Mr. Passepartout, get to work on that report. Once you have finished, I will forward your request on to London."
It was a dismissal. Passepartout rose. The Baron stood also, which brought Wheelwright to his feet. Von Breslau bowed. "I cannot intrude upon your hospitality any longer, Mr. Wheelwright. You have been most kind. I have an appointment in the city which cannot be delayed."
Wheelwright looked disappointed, but nodded. "Shall I send one of my men with your package when it arrives, sir?"
"That will not be necessary, though I thank you. I'll have my manservant come later to fetch it."
Passepartout hurried to the door and held it open. Glad to escape from the office at last, he started across to open the other door and collided with the clerk, who was apparently intent on doing the same. Passepartout's hand was on the knob underneath, so the clerk favored him with another dagger-like glare and sat at his desk again, rattling the papers unnecessarily as he stuffed them back into their folders. "Wait a moment, please." The Baron's voice now had an almost-amused tone. "Where are you staying in Paris, Passepartout?"
"A hotel." Passepartout gave him the name. He had no permanent residence in Paris. He supposed he could take up residence in Jules' garret, but the idea was less than appealing.
"Come and stay at the villa then. We can discuss old times."
The invitation surprised Passepartout, but did not shock him. He had been more than a servant in the Baron's household, responsible mainly for the supervision of the… He still could not bring himself to refer to her by name. "Thank you, sir," he said. "If it is not too much of an imposition."
"Not at all." Von Breslau seemed to be making his mind up about something. "If it wouldn't inconvenience you too much, I would appreciate it if you could wait here for my package. It is being sent by special courier from Queen Victoria. I'd feel better… trusting it to you. Curiosity is a strong motivation here for meddling. I don't want it meddled with. Would you do me this favor, Passepartout?"
"Of course." The knowledge that the Baron trusted him still after so much time was a balm for his wounded spirit. "I will wait for the package. And stop any meddling."
The Baron spoke to the clerk, who again favored Passepartout with a glance of frustration and annoyance. Passepartout edged back toward the door and opened it. When the Baron turned back to Passepartout, he made an elegant bow. With a low-voiced, "Until later then," he left the office. Passepartout followed him before the clerk had time to look up.
Sir Jonathan Chatsworth could not stop himself from pacing. The expected summons from the Queen had been delayed too long, in his opinion. He had used the time to his advantage, but always there had been the niggling in his mind. What had that upstart Verne told Her Majesty? What did she believe?
He knew that Rebecca Fogg had not been sent for. She had delivered her report of the events directly to the Queen before Sir Jonathan could see it. That had added to his worry. How had she managed to get it past him? Who was delivering her messages?
At long last, the door opened and the secretary called his name. The man's face revealed nothing, but then it seldom did. Chatsworth straightened his attire and entered the audience room.
The Queen was surrounded by several men, as well as her ladies. Sir Jonathan knew two of them slightly and, of course, the Prime Minister was an acquaintance. The man's presence increased Chatsworth's anxiety. What was going on? Obviously, this was not to be a private audience, but surely Her Royal Highness was not going to take him to task publicly? Chatsworth felt his palms go damp as he bowed.
She acknowledged him with a nod, but did not invite him to sit. "Sir Jonathan, we have called you here to announce your promotion in rank."
Of all the things that Chatsworth had expected, this was not one. Not at all. He blinked. "A promotion, Your Majesty?"
"A promotion, Sir Jonathan. We are appointing you second undersecretary to Our Ambassador, Sir Henry Farthington."
One of the strangers bowed to Chatsworth. "So pleased to have you on my staff, Sir Jonathan."
Chatsworth was bewildered now. He strained to remember where Sir Henry was posted. The name was unfamiliar. He bowed automatically while his brain raced through the current affairs of Britain. His attention snapped back when the Queen spoke again.
"As you are no doubt aware, Sir Jonathan, relations in Capetown and the rest of South Africa are vitally important to the Crown. When Sir Henry requested additional staff, We immediately thought of you."
Was it his imagination, or was there a touch of dry amusement in the Queen's voice? Surely not. Then the full import of what she was saying struck him like a blow. Capetown! South Africa! "This is… most unexpected, Your Majesty," he said, bowing again to gain some time to think.
She remained expressionless. "Of course there will be a rise in your salary commensurate with your new position. There is no need to thank Us. We are putting you in a position that is as vital to the Crown as your present one. We trust that you will serve Us well."
"Yes, Your Majesty." It was all he could think of to say. South Africa?
"Naturally, Sir Henry is anxious to return as soon as possible. We trust that a fortnight should suffice for you to prepare yourself to sail. There is tension between Our subjects and the Boers which must not be allowed to drag Britain into a war. You will leave on the =Lady of Oceana= two weeks from today."
"But… but… but, Your Majesty, what about my present position? Who will replace me?"
"We have chosen someone and you will meet with him before you leave. That is all, Sir Jonathan. We refer you to Sir Henry for the preparations you must make."
The audience was over. It was all that Chatsworth could do to set one foot in front of the other to get out of the room without breaking down. The hallway had never seemed so crowded, but he managed to find an alcove with a bench. He sank down on it and tried to think. He was being sent to the other side of the world. Promotion notwithstanding, he was to be removed forthwith from London – from England. It was… unthinkable. It was… unbelievable. It was… punishment.
Punishment. That was the truth of it. He, Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, was being punished because of that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Phileas Fogg. Even dead, the man plagued him. Chatsworth had never fathomed the relationship between the Queen and Fogg – a more unlikely pair of people he could not imagine. Rebecca, yes, that he could see. She was the Queen's god daughter. But Phileas? The man had spurned serving his country in the Secret Service, but she… she had acted as though Phileas and not Sir Jonathan was the more trustworthy.
He felt a slow burn of anger and resentment growing in his belly. How dare the Queen ship him off to the other side of the world just because Fogg had walked into a trap and got himself killed? It was ridiculously unfair. He was not responsible for the man's safety. No one in the world would take that job on.
Except for Jean Passepartout. The stray thought took his mind down another path. He had not questioned the appointment at the time; the entire office had been in chaos after Sir Boniface's death. And no help to be had from his reprobate son either. Of course, Chatsworth had been aware that Erasthmus Fogg had been a member of the League of Darkness (that stupidly romantic name for a very pragmatic organization) in Prussia. He had personally handled all communication from that quarter. Erasthmus, who Chatsworth had come to think of as Sir Boniface's "real" son, had known what he was about. Chatsworth had not been briefed on what his assignment was, but Sir Boniface had trusted him to carry on. So carry on he had. Until he came back to England to kill his brother.
Why had Passepartout been assigned to watch Phileas Fogg? Because the Baron von Breslau had insisted, that's why. The Queen had been very definite that the Baron's plans were Her plans. But, Passepartout had failed, failed more miserably than Chatsworth had. Fogg had died on his watch after all. Was ===he=== being sent to the other side of the world? As far as Chatsworth had been able to discover, he was still in France. No doubt watching over that oddity, Jules Verne.
Jules Verne was the biggest unknown in this equation. How had an obscure Frenchman gained so much influence with the Queen of England and Scotland that he could request and be granted a private audience with no warning at all? That had to be more of Fogg's doing as well. Damn the man to hell!
Chatsworth stood. There were things to be done. There were traces of his past he did not want to leave for his successor, whoever that was to be. And, he had only two weeks to prepare. Fourteen bloody days before he had to leave his homeland and travel to the dark continent. It was not fair. Not fair at all.
The only bright spot in the whole thing was that Count Gregory would be unable to use him any longer. Unless he was interested in the behavior of the Boers or the blacks, there was nothing more that Chatsworth could do for him. That was at least one missive he would be relieved to compose.
End of Rebirth: Part 2
Rebirth: Part 1 | Rebirth: Part 2