CHAPTER THREE
In Which Jules Comes To The Rescue
To the untrained eye, the Paris garret was a nice, cozy little place to live.
Romantic one could call it. That is if you were a starving artist or a
romanticist at heart. To the trained eye, it was cramped, musty, and a bit
disorganized. To Passepartout, it was the home of his good friend Jules Verne,
which made it cramped, musty, and a cozy little place to live.
Jules Verne, however, was not happy with it at all, which explained why he spent
half his time on the Aurora. He spent the other half on the Aurora because he
simply adored hanging out with Phileas Fogg and Passepartout, and because he
simply adored Rebecca Fogg. If there had been a fourth bedroom on the
dirigible, he would have asked Fogg if he could move in permanently. But there
wasn't. As it was, whenever they all traveled together, he slept on the couch
in the parlor. Which, if one stopped to think seriously about it, was more
comfortable than the mattress that was currently masquerading as a bed in the
garret.
At this exact moment in time, Passepartout was sitting on that mattress thinking
that very same thing. He had been in that position for a good twenty minutes
while waiting for Verne to finish getting ready for their sojourn into the Paris
nightlife, and his backside was beginning to protest the exposed spring it had
been doing battle with. Of course he had tried to slide down the mattress a bit
to another spot, but the spring seemed to follow him wherever he moved. It was
a very determined little piece of metal coil. Finally in exasperation and more
than a little pain he got up and started to wander around the tiny garret. As
he stood up, he watched with quiet astonishment as the coil shot up through the
mattress and waved victoriously in his direction.
Passepartout fought the urge to grab that mattress and throw it out the open
window. Although he was certain that Jules would not have minded in the least.
Instead he took to examining the newest set of drawings Verne had added to the
growing number pinned to the garret wall. The young man's intellect greatly
intrigue the valet and he was always eager to see what latest invention his
brain had come up with. Together the two of them had actually been able to
construct more than a handful of them successfully.
This particular drawing was exceptionally intriguing.
The paper had been slid sideways so that it was longer in width than height. It
was a drawing of some kind of vehicle, made of metal, perhaps iron, more
probably steel. It was cylindrical in shape, almost like a cigar. Passepartout
couldn't help but think it resembled greatly the giant mole the League of
Darkness had constructed in their attempts to murder the Queen of England. He
had to suppress a shudder as he recalled what happened with that particular
invention. Although Verne had meant for the machine to be used in an
agricultural mode, the League had constructed it as a death machine. That
adventure had almost been the end of Jules Verne...most probably at the hands of
Phileas Fogg.
"It's a submergible." Verne's voice explained from the direction of the bathroom
where he had been holed up for the past twenty minutes.
"It resembling the mole, no?"
"Yes," Verne moved up behind his friend, ever eager to explain his latest brain
child to someone who could truly understand it. "Yes, it does. But instead of
drilling through the earth, this one will travel through the open seas."
Passepartout was astounded and it should on his face. "Under the water?"
"Exactly. Instead of traveling on top of the water where ships are subject to
all kinds of extreme weather This one will travel beneath the waves where it is
relatively calm, even in a rough storm, depending on how far down you wish to
dive."
"But how you be breathing?"
Verne smiled. "You would take the air down with you in tanks. Of course your
submersion would depend upon how much air you can carry or how many passengers
you have on board."
"How is floating? Metal is very heavy. She would be sinking."
"Again, the air on board. The air pressure inside the vehicle would cause it to
be buoyant. To rise back up to the surface, you would release the ballast and
the ship would rise to the top. I haven't got all the details ironed out yet.
I've been working more on the outside design while I've been studying ballast
and air pressure."
Passepartout nodded as he returned his gaze to the drawing. "Passepartout would
very much like to help Jules on this one."
Verne clamped him on the shoulder. "I had hoped you would say that,
Passepartout. I really do need your input on some engineering aspects."
This greatly pleased the older Frenchman. While Mister Fogg simply tolerated
most of his inventions aboard the Aurora, Verne was always anxious to see them.
"Perhaps we spend next day working?"
"That would be good. But tonight we forget such things and enjoy this beautiful
Paris evening. Come, Passepartout, I tell you again. You will simply enjoy
this place immensely. It has a lot of...." he searched for the right word, but
had to settle for, "character."
* * * * * * * *
Character would not have been the particular word Passepartout would have chosen
to describe the place Verne introduced him to that evening. Or perhaps it was
the best word to describe it. It had been the exact word Mister Fogg had used
to describe Verne's garret and somehow this place reminded the French valet of
that same place. It was rather small, cramped, smoky, and very noisy. And the
walls were covered with artistic drawings.
Verne had called it a haven for the artistically challenged. It was the newest
spot in the poorer section of Paris, a place where the artists of the city could
meet and trade ideas. A place where you could admire and be admired. See and
be seen.
One side of the building was taken up by the long bar where tall chairs were
positioned for those who did not want or could not sit at one of the many tables
littering the main floor. Along the wall opposite the bar was a raised
platform, about six feet long and just as wide. This is where the artists were
encouraged to step up and perform. As Verne ushered Passepartout inside, a
young woman was just about to take the "stage".
"Good. We haven't missed her," Verne muttered under his breath.
Still, Passepartout heard him and found his attention being drawn back to the
stage.
She was a very pretty little thing. Petite but too thin for the Frenchmen's
taste. Her long hair was the color of chocolate and cascaded in little ringlets
over her shoulder. She had a tendency to throw it back over her shoulder as she
sang. Her voice was melodic and had a way of lulling the listener. A few
moments after she began, the club went silent. Every patron was hanging on her
every word.
"Isn't she exquisite?" Verne breathed as she finished her song to the rounding
applause of the audience.
"Yes." Passepartout had to agree. "She has a name?"
"Monique." Verne could not take his eyes off the girl as she stepped off the
stage and made her way back to the bar. "Is that not the most beautiful name
you've ever heard, Passepartout?"
"Very beautiful indeed, Master Jules. You liking this Monique very much?"
"I think so, Passepartout. I think so." He turned away then as Monique was
greeted by a young man at the bar.
Passepartout saw the exchange as well as the look on Verne's face. "Oh, but she
be liking someone else."
Verne sighed and nodded. "Claude." was all he said.
Passepartout hailed down a passing waiter and ordered a mug for the table. He
knew he had to change the subject or the night would be a total waste as Verne
moped for the unrequited affection.
"You have heard of the robbery at the Louvre?" he inquired.
The question shook Verne out of his revelry, as Passepartout knew it would.
"You mean the bloodstone?"
"Yes, just like London. There was such a theft at the British Museum as well
two nights before I leaving for Paris."
"Of another bloodstone?"
"Bloodstone of Healing."
"The one in the Louvre was called the Bloodstone of Protection." Verne was
intrigued. "Could they be related?"
Passepartout shrugged his shoulders. "Me not knowing. Both from Egypt."
"I read that Bloostones were usually connected to some form of artifact, like a
scepter or a crown, or a weapon used by Egyptian royalty. But the one here is
on its own."
"The one in England as well."
"So where are the artifacts....?"
He was interrupted by a loud altercation taking place at the bar. Both men
turned as one to find a crowd of people doing likewise.
"You imbecile!" Monique was heard shouting just seconds before the sound of skin
slapping skin filled the air.
"But, mon cherie!" Claude exclaimed. "I did it for us."
"Hah!" Monique laughed. "You did it for you. What do I need with such money?"
With that the crowd parted slightly and Monique stomped through, heading in an
angry huff towards the front door of the tavern. Claude ran after her, catching
her by the arm just outside the doorway. She jerked her arm, but he held on
fast.
"You are hurting me!" she exclaimed. To which Jules Verne found himself jumping
up out of his seat and rushing to her rescue. In a quandary, Passepartout
jumped to his and followed.
With the hour being as late as it was, the streets in this part of town were
almost void of life. Those who lived on this side of the city knew better than
to be on the streets after dark. The artists had very little to fear from petty
thieves as they had no money or possessions valuable enough to steal. As Verne
and Passepartout ran out into the street, they were the only four people in
sight.
Verne instinctively grabbed Claude's wrist, the one that was holding a
struggling Monique. "The young lady says you are hurting her," he exclaimed in
what he hoped was a demanding voice. Somehow it didn't sound quite as
intimidating as Fogg's did when he was angry.
Claude, as expected, was not in the least bit intimidated. Without a word he
released his hold on Monique and turned on Verne. With his free hand fisted he
pulled back and punched the young writer square in the face. Verne went flying
backwards into Passepartout who went flying backwards into the wall. Monique
took off running down the street.
"Monique!" Claude shouted and ran off after her.
Verne, his pride hurting more than his jaw, scrambled up to his feet and went in
pursuit. If he had learned anything from Fogg during their association, it was
how to protect and avenge one's honor. Of course, Phileas Fogg would have seen
that fist coming and been able to block it with something other than his face.
Poor Passepartout had a more difficult time getting back up to his feet. He had
hit the wall rather hard with his left shoulder, which was sure to cause a
bruise later. But that would have to wait. He knew he could not afford to let
Verne confront this Claude on his own. Despite his enthusiastic bravado, Verne
was not a fighter, and the other man was sure to cause some serious injury. The
valet staggered upward and onward in the direction he had seen Verne go.
Monique ran a race through the deserted streets of Paris's lower eastside, until
Verne was sure he had lost her. Claude was no where to be seen either. And all
he could hear was Passepartout's labored breathing as the man struggled to keep
up. He stopped at the intersection of two more alleys and waited for the valet
to catch up.
"I think we lost them." He exclaimed angrily.
Passepartout collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. He was most certainly
not used to this kind of exertion. "It was just a lover's quarrel, Master
Jules...." He wheezed out.
Verne kicked at a rather large loose stone on the street and let out a soft
curse. The pair could be anywhere by now and he made himself look such a fool
in Monique's eyes. What an idiot you are, Jules Verne, he thought. Now he
stood even less of a chance in catching the young lady's eye.
"We go back now..." Passepartout replied. "Get good and drunk. Forget this
even happ..."
Just then a scream broke through the stillness of the night.
Verne's eyes went wide. "That's Monique!" And before Passepartout could stop
him, the younger man was off again.
The scream had come from down the alley somewhere off to Verne's left and that's
the direction he headed. He had no idea how he was going to find Monique, or
what he was going to do once he did. Fortune smiled on him, though, for she
found him rather than the other way around. Just as he was about to give up in
frustration she came running around a corner and smacked right into him. The
force of her momentum sent them both sprawling.
"Master Jules!" Passepartout came huffing up to the pair just as they were
trying to disengage themselves from each other. "Master Jules, you are all
right?"
"I'm fine, Passepartout. Help her up."
Passepartout bent over and gently grabbed Monique by the arms, pulling her up to
her feet. He could feel her trembling beneath his grip and continued to hold
her for fear she would faint if he let go. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket
and pulled him closer. "We must leave now!" she hissed. "For they will find us
surely."
"Who will be finding us?" he inquired.
"They." She glanced back down the alley, saw shadows in the lamplight from the
street, coming closer. She looked back at Passepartout. "They will kill us
like they killed poor Claude."
Verne turned his head and saw a flicker of movement as well. He quickly jumped
to his feet and pulled both Monique and Passepartout into a nearby doorway.
Placing a finger to his lips he motioned for both to be quiet and very still. A
few moments later several figures passed by. If it had not been for their
determined pace, they would most certainly have seen the three pressed in the
doorway. After a few minutes of silence, Monique let out a sigh and fell into
Passpartout's arms.
"Miss Monique." He whispered, shaking her back to wakefulness. "You must be
telling us what happening."
Monique's gaze flashed between the two men who had possibly just saved her life
until they finally settled on Verne, a face she recognized from the club.
"They wanted the stone," she explained. "The one he had stolen for them....from
the museum...." Her face scrunched up as tears welled in her eyes. "They were
supposed to pay him a lot of money for it but instead they killed him...."
Verne was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to follow Claude's
killers. He gently touched the girl's arm. "Who, Monique. Who are they?"
"I do not know. I did not know about the theft until this evening. He said he
had done it for us. So that we would have enough money for me to sing
professionally. He works at the museum so it was easy for him to steal the
stone."
Verne glanced up at Passepartout. "We have to follow them. Find out who it
is."
That was not exactly what the valet wanted to do, but he knew it was what they
had to do.
Monique tightened her grip on Passepartout's label and pulled him uncomfortably
close. "You cannot go. They will kill you, too."
"Not if we be sneaking."
Verne reached out and gently pried the girl's hands off Passepartout's jacket
and pulled her out of the doorway. "We'll only follow them, Monique. You must
find a policeman and tell him what has happened."
"You will only follow them?" she repeated softly, genuinely concerned for their
welfare.
Verne nodded. "Now go."
He gave her a small shove in the direction they had come from, toward the main
street where she was sure to bump into one of the nightguards. She stumbled on,
glancing back only once, but by that time the two had already disappeared into
the night.
* * * * * * * *
"I not so sure this a very good idea, Master Jules." Passepartout remarked as
he and Verne picked there way through the back alleys of Paris's slums. They
had come across the five men that had attacked Claude shortly after leaving
Monique. They seemed unconcerned about anyone following them and kept a leisure
pace.
It appeared quite obvious to both Verne and Passepartout that the men they were
following had no idea they were being followed. They made no attempts to speak
quietly, nor did they ever double back at any point to confuse their tracks.
Once or twice the pair had lost sight of the men, but eventually the men would
betray their position with a word or a sound.
After passing through endless back alleys and poorly lit streets, Verne was
positive they were heading toward the rail station. In a voice barely above a
whisper, he conveyed his assumption to Passepartout.
"We are following?" Passepartout inquired.
"I see no other choice, Passepartout. There are five of them and only two of us
so I highly doubt we could take the stone by force. Even if we did, we wouldn't
know why it was taken. I think if we follow them, we'll find that out and maybe
where the stone stolen from the British Museum is too."
The French valet turned to glance at him, a small smirk on his face. "I think,
perhaps, Mister Fogg's curiosity rubbing off on you, Master Jules."
Verne couldn't help but chuckle. He was right. If this had happened a year
ago, he would have gone off with Monique to find a nightguard and left the
murder and theft in the hands of the police. He simply could not have imagined
running off after the culprits pretty much on his own. That alternative would
never have entered his mind.
"I think, perhaps, you are right, Passepartout."
Leaving the back alleys behind the group finally broke out on a main street just
south of the Rail Station. At this time of night, the streets of Paris were not
heavily populated, but not entirely deserted either. Parisians enjoying the
city night life could be seen exiting carriages while those just leaving work
were heading home. A great potion of these people could be seen heading for the
rail where a train would take them home to the outlying towns. It was with this
last group that Verne and Passepartout merged.
"Can you see them?" Verne asked as he tried desperately to see around all the
taller heads bobbing along ahead of him.
"Yes. There are heading to the rail station."
Verne let Passepartout lead him through the crowd to the ticket office. While
the valet slipped inside behind one of the felons to purchase two tickets, Verne
stayed outside where he could keep an eye on the other four.
"They are going to Calais." Passepartout reported when he emerged a few moments
later. "The train arrives in twenty minutes."
"All five?" Verne had hoped the number would dwindle to a more manageable
number just in case they had to take the stone by force.
"Yes, all five."
"They must be planning on taking the ferry to Dover," Verne mused. "Probably to
meet up with whoever stole the bloodstone from the British Museum."
"We can contact Mister Fogg and Miss Rebecca, then?" Passepartout inquired
hopefully.
Verne grinned and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Oh, Passepartout,
I think we can handle this one on our own."
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