No Greater Love than This

by Harriet Vane

Rebecca is poisoned in an attempt to lure Jules into the Leaug of Darkness

It breaks down like this. Luis Du Fur and his butler Jean-Maurice along with the doctor belong to me. Rebecca Fogg belongs to Gavin Scott. Phileas Fogg and Passepartout belong to Jules Verne. Jules Verne belongs to history. And the Nuns and the plot in general belong to God. It is well said, and well remembered, give credit where credit is due.

No Greater Love than This

Rebecca had a weakness for strawberries which was well documented. Phileas could remember that, as children, Rebecca frequently stole strawberries from the cooks garden in the summer. She would turn up for dinner with red stains around her lips and, if questioned, would deny being anywhere near the garden with a suspect innocence. The cook had even set traps for young Rebecca, but the girl was wily and never caught. Cook, of course, expected Rebecca to be punished for there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she had stolen the strawberries, but Sir Boniface Fogg was not raising a proper lady, but rather an ingenious secret service agent. He firmly believed that his children should never be punished for cleverness and caution and insisted that they were, as the Americans would say, innocent until proven guilty.

So, when she, along with her good friend, Jules Verne, was paying a visit to the Viscount Luis DuFur of Lyon offered her, and only her, a bowl of fresh strawberries, no one thought anything of it.

"These are wonderful, Luie," Rebecca said, exercising great self control as she ate the berries daintily. "How did you know I liked strawberries?"

The viscount smiled at Jules, knowingly. "Let's just say a little bird told me."

"Jules," Rebecca scolded playfully. "You should know better than to give away a lady's secrets."

"Ah," Luis purred. "You can not blame the young artist. He knows, as I do, that the only truly pure pleasure is to see a lady smile. And how else was I to achieve this ecstasy than through offering you a pure pleasure of your own."

Rebecca giggled flirtatiously, she couldn't help herself. Red juice trickled down her chin and, as she quickly wiped it away her cheeks turned crimson.

Jules was sure that she had no idea how beautiful she was at that moment. He wished he were a poet, so he could write 'Ode to Strawberries.' The comparison was overwhelmingly simple; the sweet red fruit of summer, tender to touch and divine to taste, Ambrosia, a gift of the gods. But Jules was not a poet, so he let the idea settle itself in his mind, along with a thousand other ideas that would never find their way onto paper, and shared in the ecstasy of watching a lady smile.

* * *

"Passepartout," Phileas Fogg said sharply, pulling the valet's attention away from the ruff manuscript, Un Prêêtre en 1835. Fogg burst into the door in a resplendent mood.

"Did you have a good time master?" Passepartout asked eagerly as he helped the gentleman with his coat.

"Wonderful," Fogg said, almost dreamily. "The Marquis de Nois was absolutely delightful and her husband was absolutely absent."

Fogg beamed at his manservant, who was chuckling, despite the slightly shaming tone in his voice. "Master, a married woman?"

"Oh," Fogg scoffed, still in too good a mood to let Passepartout's scorn affect him. "Don't be ridiculous, I was the perfect gentleman."

"As always, master," Passepartout said hanging up the coat and hat as Phileas wandered into the Aurora's sitting room.

"Passepartout," he said, "What are these papers lying about?"

"I'm sorry master," the manservant said, scuttering around him and tidying up the manuscripts. "I being so embossed with the story, I didn't see what a mess I be making."

With disregard born of familiarity, Fogg ignored the grievous assault his servant had thrown upon the English language. "Story?" Fogg's interest was perked. "Is that Verne's writing?"

Passepartout winced, "Yes."

"This looks like a novel." Passepartout neither confirmed nor denied this claim, which was the same as a confirmation. "Verne never told me he wrote novels."

"This being the only one he's finished," Passepartout tried to explain quickly. "And Master Jules not thinking that it's very good."

"What do you think?"

"It's very good," The manservant said in all earnestness.

"Really?" Fogg said, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Wh . . .why do you think that he's never showed it to me?"

"Maybe he's afraid that Master will not like it."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

"He showed it to you."

"I am different, like a friend . . ."

"I'm Verne's friend!" Phileas said defensively.

"No, but, if Passepartout not liking the novel, then Master Jules able to say, 'that's ok Passepartout, I didn't really like it either,'" Passepartout played a very convincing Jules Verne, and Fogg couldn't help but chuckle. "But," Passepartout continued, "If Master says that he does not Like Master Jules book . . ." He didn't finish the sentence, but as Passepartout cleared off the manuscripts, Fogg suddenly felt guilty that he had given young Jules such a judgmental impression.

Fogg took a deep breath, "So, where are Verne and Rebecca of to?" he asked, breaching the subject.

"Ah, Master Jules and Miss Rebecca went out to see the man for Master Jules's Play."

"He found a backer?"

"Yes sir, The Viscount du Lyon, a Monsieur Luis Du Fur."

"Really?" Fogg said, taking a crystal decanter down from it's shelf and pouring himself a three fingers of the golden liquid. "That name sounds familiar."

"That is a funny thing to say," Passepartout said, musingly. "Miss Rebecca said the same thing."

"Humm," Fogg muttered, letting the brandy settle on his pallet. He spared a thought to compare this batch to the stuff Chatsworth had given him last time Phileas had been to the office. He was very please to find that it was both better made and better aged. That having been determined, he let his mind wander over the problem of the Viscount Luis Du Fur. There were several possible places he could have run across a French Viscount. They might have meet briefly at some diplomatic function, but that didn't seem likely, Fogg had a wonderful memory for names and faces. It would have to be something more obscure. It could be some sort of childhood acquaintance, maybe one of their French maids had worked in the house of the Viscount. But that seemed unlikely as well, there would be too much coincidence involved. And then, suddenly, it occurred to him. "Passepartout," he said, panic lacing his voice. "Where are they, can we find them?"

"I don't think so, Master," Passepartout said cautiously. "Master Jules just saying that he was going to pay a visit, Miss Rebecca saying that the name is familiar, then Master Jules inviting her to come too."

"Damn," he whispered, putting down the tumbler and storming onto the deck, because he needed to storm somewhere, and it seemed more appropriate than the sitting room.

"What is wrong master?"

"Luis Du Fur," he grumbled, "I know why that name is familiar."

"Why?"

"He's a known associate of many League of Darkness members, I must have seen his name in dozens of reports."

"But, just because he is being friends doesn't mean . . ."

"No," Fogg snapped. "That is exactly what it means. I should have known immediately. Anyone willing to back one of Verne's plays . . ."

"Master," Passepartout interrupted.

"What?"

"I am thinking that is why Master Jules never let you read his novel."

* * *

Luis helped Rebecca into the carriage. Usually such an act was an unnecessary courtesy, however this time Rebecca was very glad of the assistance. She felt light headed and a little upset to her stomach.

"Are you alright, Rebecca?" Jules asked once the carriage was clattering down the cobblestone street, heading towards the park where the Aurora was anchored. Her eyes were closed and she was leaning her head against the side of the carriage and she looked frightfully pale.

At the sound of his voice, Rebecca's eyes snapped open and she started too look more alert. "Oh, I'm sorry Jules," she said. "I guess I'm just a little out of sorts." she smiled, "Too many strawberries, no doubt."

Jules smiled pleasantly back at her, but couldn't help but notice that the smile brought no color to her face. His innocent worry worked it's way out into a nervous twitch, and he slapped the envelope he was holding in his right hand on the palm of his left.

"What's that?" Rebecca asked, forcing herself to lean forward to get a better look at the envelope. It was long and thin and bore no identification beyond the Viscount's mark impressed in the sealing wax.

"Oh," Jules said, suddenly stopping the twitch. "A letter to Fogg."

"Phileas?"

"Yes,"

"What could Luie possibly want to discuss with Phileas?"

"I don't know, he said it was business and asked if I could courier it."

"Business," Rebecca said softly. The only business Phileas had ever engaged in was the secret service. The family investments were handled thorough a lawyers firm in London. Luis would certainly not have anything to do with that. "Give me the envelope," she ordered.

Jules obeyed without question, but when she broke the seal and pulled out the letter, he felt he had to protest. "Rebecca, that's for Fogg."

She glanced at him, effectually saying, 'I don't care, my cousin's business is my business' and continued to read. Then, slowly she set the letter down on her lap and closed her eyes. Jules wasn't sure, but he thought she might have been trembling and she looked more pale than ever. "Jules," she said, her voice cold and utterly controlled. "Tell the coachman to take us to the nearest hospital."

"Hospital," Jules asked, bewildered, "Why?"

"Because," she continued in her cold hard voice. "I've been poisoned."

* * *

"Master," he suggested with trepidation, "Perhaps you wanting to read the paper."

"Read the paper," he muttered, disgusted. "Will the paper tell me where Rebecca and Verne are?"

"Maybe," Passepartout said, offering the freshly ironed edition. "Read to find out?"

"Don't be absurd," Fogg snapped before storming off another room were he would brood and pace and worry. Passepartout could not help but think that, if his master had the ability to keep his mind occupied when his hands were occupied. For such people life was easy, troubles could be erased by hard work. But Fogg was too smart for that, even if Passepartout could set his master on some menial task, like shining the silver or cleaning the clocks, the gentleman's mind would still be focused solely on the problem and instead of keeping him from brooding, the result would be smudged silver and a poorly cleaned clock.

Three hours of restlessness was eventually rewarded in the form of a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Fogg asked anxiously, knowing full well that the two people he wanted to see the most were familiar enough not to knock.

"Stay here, Master," Passepartout pleaded. "I'll get it."

Fogg nodded vaguely and tried to sit casually in his favorite chair, just in case the visitor was deemed worthy to be brought into the sitting room. But sitting still appeared to be too much for him, so he got up and paced. Three minutes later the door creaked open, Passepartout stood in the in the frame, pale and worried.

"Well?" Fogg breathed.

Passepartout opened his mouth, tried to say something, closed his mouth, stared at the floor, then tried again. After about three false starts which Fogg waited through, to wrapped in suspense to condemn his valet for being inarticulate.

Finally Passepartout held up a slip of paper and simply offered it to his Master.

"What's this?" Fogg asked with trepidation, slowly reaching out and taking the slip of paper from his valet.

"Brought by messenger," Passepartout explained timidly. "It's from Master Jules."

Fogg glanced at his valet, then opened the letter and quickly read over it.

It was unquestionably Verne's handwriting, although Fogg could tell that his hand had been shaking when he wrote it and, quite possibly, crying.

Fogg

I'm so sorry. Rebecca is alright now, at least she says she is, but she's still pale and she vomited in the carriage. Maybe that got it out of her system, maybe she'll be alright. I'm so sorry.

Fogg folded the letter neatly in half and put it in his breast pocket. Paleness and vomiting, she must have been poisoned by the bastard Du Fur and multiple apologies, Jules must know. Many, many questions were unanswered, however. They could be prisoners of Du Fur, they could be at some country inn with some country doctor, they could be at a modern clinic. They could be anywhere. Quickly he assumed they were someplace safe, because he couldn't bear to think otherwise. With that established, he silently he cursed the young man for inattention to detail.

"Is the messenger still here, Passepartout?"

"Yes master,"

"Get the coats, were going back with him."

"Yes master."

* * *

"Jules!" Phileas said crisply.

The young man's head shot up. His eyes were red and his voice was hoarse. "Fogg, Passepartout." He stood up, searching inside himself for something more to say, and finding himself empty.

Verne had not been found in the vicious grasp of Du Fur, thankfully. Nor in some back water inn where Rebecca would be subject to questionable home remedies. Nor in a modern clinic. Instead they had found shelter in the sisters of Saint Francis hospital. One of the nuns, a sister Marie Nicholas had shown them to the room were Jules was waiting.

"Where's Rebecca," Fogg asked, mincing no words.

The younger man glanced at a heavy wooden door behind him. It was closed and gave the very strong impression that it was impassable without a guide.

"Is she alright?" Phileas demanded. "Your message was rather vague on that point."

Verne opened his mouth to answer, again was at a lose for words, and shook his head.

"Then," Fogg whispered, despair thick in his voice. "There is no hope."

"No," Verne said quickly. "Hope there is." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter.

Fogg snatched it, like a drowning man grabbing onto land.

It's tone was, unquestionably more calm than Verne's letter had been. It was the letter of one gentleman to another, discussing casual business, like a fox hunt or a game of cricket.

My dearest Phileas Fogg

Though we have never met in person, I am well acquainted with your exploits, and those of your cousin, the beautiful Rebecca. I am also, naturally, aware of young Verne and his importance. My business is truly with him, yet as his friend and elder, I expect you will be able to influence him on this very vital matter.

It was my pleasure, this afternoon, to entertain your charming cousin. And, as such an opportunity presents itself so rarely, I could not help myself. I poisoned her. Her skin is like porcelain already, I am curious to see how it will look after the poison has drained her of her color.

Do not think me heartless, I care greatly for the lady's well being. A creature so delicate and beautiful ought to be protected. And so, I offer eagerly to you the antidote. All that needs be done to save the lady's precious life is for young Verne to come to my chateau and agree to be my guest until such a time as I feel his services have been sufficient.

Respectfully Yours

Le Viscount Du Lyon

Luis Martian Du Fur

Fogg folded the letter and put it in his breast pocket, next to the one Jules had written him.

"I, I, I'm gonna leave," the writer said, glancing everywhere but at Fogg's face. "I would have left earlier, but, but, I wanted to make sure that someone was here, for Rebecca." He gathered his courage and looked into Fogg's icy green eyes. He quickly looked away, "I'm so sorry, Fogg. I'm, I'm so . . . I'll go now."

"The hell you will," Fogg said, his voice low and solid, like a brick wall.

"Wh,what?"

"You, Verne, are not going anywhere."

"But the letter said . . ."

"I am perfectly aware of what the letter said," Fogg snaped. "Rebecca has been gravely wronged . . ."

"I'm so sorry," Jules said earnestly.

"Do stop apologizing," Fogg sighed. "You had no way of knowing."

Jules was about to apologize for apologizing, but a sister of mercy saved him. A young nun, probably only fourteen, came out of the impassable wood door and walked, nearly silently, up to the men.

"Monsieur Verne?" she asked sweetly.

"Ye, yes?"

"The doctor says that it's alright for her to see you."

Verne took a step forward, so did Fogg, so did Passepartout. The nun suddenly looked as if the eagerness of the three men was more than she was prepared to deal with. "The doctor only said one."

"Excuse me?" Fogg asked politely.

"He said that she could have one visitor. She's very ill, three would be too many. Overwhelm her."

Fogg sincerely doubted that. He could not conceive Rebecca overwhelmed. But it was not good form to argue with a nun. He turned to Verne, his icy eyes melted, begging to be given the honor of being the one. The writer could not turn him down.

"Go on," Jules said softly. "Of all the people in the world, she probably wants to see you the most."

Phileas smiled, then, turned to the nun. "May I have, just a moment?"

Cautiously, the young woman nodded.

"Thank you," he said, before turning to his valet. "Passepartout, take this," he said, extending his walkingstick. The valet obeyed, questioning his masters action with a glance. "And if he," Fogg continued, looking towards Verne, "tries to be stupid or noble and leave before we've had a chance to talk the situation through, hit him over the head with it."

"Yes sir," Passepartout said uncertainly. He would obey his masters orders, everyone knew that. However, he obviously dreaded the prospect more than Jules.

"Monsieur," the young nun said, a bit against at the very suggestion.

Fogg turned back to her and smiled enchantingly, "I'm sorry my dear. Just a precaution, I'm quite sure that such measures will not be used."

The nun looked at him cautiously, nodded and then muttered something that might have been 'follow me' before leading him into the room with Rebecca.

* * *

"Doctor?" Fogg asked, his voice thin with tension.

"Monsieur Verne?"

"No, Fogg." He corrected. "Rebecca is my cousin."

"Ah," the doctor nodded. He looked uneasy, frightened, sad. Without asking Fogg knew the prognosis would not be good. Regardless, he asked.

"And how is she?"

"Dying, I'm afraid," he said with professionalism and decorum. "There is a toxin in her blood that I can't identify. What I think it's doing is attaching its self to the lining of the blood vessels so that oxygen can not get into her system."

"My god," Phileas muttered.

"It is coating the walls slowly, it was good that you came to us immediately. If she had been out on the streets you might not have known anything was wrong for hours and the damage would have been twice as bad."

"Damage? Are you saying you can repair it."

"Monsieur Verne tells me there is an antidote."

"Ye,yes, yes. We believe there is."

"If this is so, I am quite confident that it would be an active agent, not only stopping the process, but reversing it."

"Would you have any way of finding the antidote yourself?"

"Impossible, I am not at all familiar with the toxin. It could take years, and your cousin only has days."

"But she does, indeed have days?"

"Because she came to us, immediately, yes. The toxin, as far as I can tell, works at the same rate as her body's metabolism. If we keep her here, lying still, using a minimum of oxygen, we could prolong her life by hours."

"How long, precisely?"

"It's hard to tell . . ."

"Make an educated guess! If I'm to find this antidote, I need to know how long I have."

"Twenty-four hours, at the least. Maybe as many as forty-eight."

Phileas nodded, "Thank you very much, Doctor. Now, if you don't mind, I would very much like to see my cousin."

"Remember what I told you. Don't excite her in the least."

"I assure you that our conversation is very present in my heart and mind. Again, thank you."

* * *

"Miss Rebecca being poisoned is not being Master Jules' fault," Passepartout assured his friend.

"That's easy for you to say," Jules said sadly. He was staring at his hands and, like lady Macbeth, seeing blood. "You didn't take her to that house, you didn't tell that . . . bastard" he spit out the word, "about the strawberries."

"No," Passepartout said slowly, perfectly aware that he was treading on very thin ice. "Passepartout is not the one who did those things. Still, I am thinking that Miss Rebecca no thinks that Master Jules did those things."

"Wha, what are you talking about? Rebecca knows I did those things."

"What Miss Rebecca knows is that Master Jules took her to a very nice house in the country and saw that she was being given her favorite food."

"But, Passepartout, you don't understand."

The valet nodded his head, "I am understanding perfectly, it is you that is not understanding. You were doing things to make Miss Rebecca happy. She knows this. It's worse for you."

"You're right, I don't understand."

"Now she's in pain and you're in pain. If she dies she dies, and it's over. But for you, if she dies, the pain just gets worse."

* * *

"Hello," Phileas said softly, leaning over what could very well be Rebecca's death bed and speaking to her for, what could very well be, the last time.

"Hello," she replied.

She smiled at him, very bravely, the least he could do was smile back.

"And how are you feeling?"

"Fine, actually," she said. Her voice and eyes were alert. If anything was troubling her it was her position as an invalid, not her actual invalidity. "And how are you?"

"Beside myself with worry."

"Prognosis bad?" She asked bravely.

"Not necessarily. It will take some working but I promise you I will get that antidote."

"Not by giving Jules to that . . ."

Phileas could see the anger in Rebecca's eyes and knew that it could kill her. "No, no, no," he said quickly. "Calm down. We're not so desperate as that yet."

"Don't," she said coldly, "no matter how desperate you get."

"Rest assured that, if Verne tries to run to the slimy little Viscount, Passepartout has full leave to knock his senses out of him with my walking stick."

She laughed, it was still light and joyful, like bells at Christmas time. "You know what keeps running through my head?" She asked lightly.

"Tell me."

"Do you remember that cook, the one who was obsessed with the gardens, and always tried to catch me steeling the strawberries?"

"Ah, yes, German woman, terribly ill mannered, what was her name, Fraugh something?"

"I don't remember, we just called her cook."

"Horribly militant, although the German speaking peoples often are."

"She almost had me that one time too, until you and Erathmus ran through the garden and

rescued me."

"What was it? She found one of your footprints next to the strawberry bush?"

"Yes,"

"So we ran out and marked the whole garden."

"You trampled all over the Herbs, the soup tasted dull for a month."

"But you weren't caught, and that's all that mattered."

"You always took such good care of me. It really wasn't fair."

"Do you know what Father called you when you weren't around?"

This piqued her interest. "No, what?"

"Our Rose," he said with admiration. "I'm afraid that Erathmus and I always regarded you that way; delicate, precious."

"Do you still see me like that?"

"Oh, most definitely," Phileas said with a smile. "However, I have since learned that the rose is the most tenacious flower in the garden and that the thorns are as much a part of the flower as the bloom."

Rebecca giggled, took a deep breath and suddenly became sober. "You know what else I remember?"

"What?"

"Cook always said that some day I would eat too many strawberries and make myself sick," she paused, letting the significance of the German woman's prophesy sink in.

* * *

Verne was sullen in the carriage on the way back to the Aurora. Next to him, Passepartout was morose. Across from them, Fogg was thinking very hard and enjoyed the silence. And when Fogg finally did speak, his voice cut through the silence like a clever. "Verne, tell me about this patron of yours."

"What?" the young man asked, slightly frightened by the sharpness of his friends voice.

"The viscount, you remember him. The gentleman who agreed to back one of your plays and then poisoned my cousin."

"What do you want to know?" Verne asked sheepishly. He would have given anything, even his life, without hesitation to make everything better. But Fogg had taken that option away and so now the writer was desperate to discover another way to pay his debt.

Fogg sighed with frustration. "What is he like? What are his habits, his strengths, his weaknesses?"

"Ah," Jules stuttered. "Wa, well, I, ah, don't really know him."

"I see," Fogg clipped.

"He, ah, came up to me at the café on le rue bastille. He seemed familiar with my work, asked if I had anything new. I told him about the play I've been working on. He asked for a proof so I wrote one up and sent it to him. That was about a week ago. Yesterday he sent me an invitation to his chateau to talk about production."

"He sent you an invitation?"

"Yes."

"Do you still have it?"

Verne had to think for a minute, did he still have it? He had brought it with him to the chateau, what had he done with it after that? He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and was quite surprised to find the formal invitation still there.

He handed it to Fogg, who read over it quickly. When he was done he folded it up and placed it, with all the other scraps of paper to be considered and analyzed at a later date, in his breast pocket. "He invited Rebecca."

"What?" Verne asked confused.

"The letter, it said, and I quote, 'And I beg you to bring along Miss Rebecca Fogg, she sounds absolutely enchanting.'"

"I, ah, guess he did?"

"You forgot?" Fogg offered tenuously.

"Yes, I mean, it just slipped my mind, with all that happened."

"He was planing this," Fogg muttered bitterly.

"I told him about Rebecca when we first met," Jules muttered, his sense of guilt spiraling from heavy to crushing. "I was telling him about how she performed in The Maid of Orleans he was so interested, I, I didn't even think."

"How much did you tell him?"

"I, I don't know," Jules said. He had grown pale, paler than Rebecca, and was looking at his hands again. "That she liked strawberries, that she was, was close to her cousin and that she was the most beautiful and intelligent woman in the world."

"You didn't tell him about the service, about our work?"

Jules licked his lips, "Nnno." He glanced up, hoping that would earn him some small favor.

"Well that's something," Fogg muttered. He was too busy contemplating the implications of all this new knowledge to support his friend emotionally.

Passepartout, however, was paying very close attention to the emotional state of the young man. "Do not worry master Jules," he said softly so that Fogg did not hear. "Things will work out."

"How can you say that?"

"Because," the little man said. "Goodness protects those with courage, Miss Rebecca, Master and even you, all have courage."

Jules was about to ask what that was supposed to mean, but decided that maybe, instead of analyzing it, his spirit would better if he accepted it.

* * *

"His objective is clear," Fogg said briskly. He was pacing back and forth in the sitting room, Verne was standing awkwardly in the corner looking longingly at the door where Passepartout was standing, ready to jump at his masters orders. "There has to be a way to manipulate this situation, there must be something he values more than," Fogg stopped talking and turned his frighteningly intense eyes on Jules, "you."

The writer shook his head. "I don't want to fight," he said. "Just let me go. It'll save Rebecca."

"No," Fogg said, very quietly. "You don't know what your suggesting."

"I do!" Jules insisted. He was always fighting for equal footing when he was with Fogg, and he enjoyed the challenge immensely. But the situation was too vital to fight for equal standing and fight for his point of view. "I understand perfectly, it's my freedom for her life. It should be my choice!"

"No, you don't understand," Fogg insisted. "This is not just you, it's your mind, it's your vision, it's your genius. In their hands it would . . ." his voice trailed off as his gaze fixed on an indiscriminate point beyond Verne's shoulder, however, the young man knew that his friends eyes were fixed internally.

"Passepartout," he said quickly. "Fetch my good sword make sure that it is was sharpened and oiled."

"Yes master," the valet said, slipping out of the door way.

"What are you thinking, Fogg?" Jules asked cautiously.

The gentleman shook his head, subtly letting the author know that his ideas were, for the time, remaining unspoken. Instead, Fogg pursued the former topics for discussion. "Tell me, Verne," he said, "In your zeal for self sacrifice did you consider Rebecca's opinion?"

"I assumed she didn't want to die."

"She's going to die, Verne, whether she wants to or not."

"WHAT!?"

Fogg continued calmly, "We don't know when and we don't know how, but the one thing we do know, without uncertainty, is that someday Rebecca will die, someday we all die."

"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try to stop it," Verne insisted with a passion.

"No," Fogg said, "you do not need to tell me that. I would give my life to save hers in a heartbeat . . ."

"Then why won't you let me!" Jules interrupted angrily. "Are you so much greater than I that you're worthy to die for her but I'm not!"

"You're not listening," Fogg said. The youth's rashness was making it very difficult for him to keep his temper in check. He walked past Verne, to the crystal decanter and pored himself some brandy.

"You're not saying anything!" Jules argued. "You're talking in circles and not acting! Rebecca is dying and your not doing anything to stop it!"

"I assure you, Verne," Fogg growled. "That action will be taken."

"What?" Verne demanded. "Passepartout is going to polish your sword?! What will that do?"

"Stop and think."

"No, that's not going to save Rebecca."

"You don't know what you're doing!"

"I know exactly what you're doing," Verne accused. "You're making a decision for me that will kill your cousin."

That was to much. Fogg snapped, seemingly audibly. There was the disturbing sound of shattering glass and a second later Verne found himself pined to the wall, Fogg's menacing face hovering slightly to the left of his own.

"You do not understand!" he insisted in a horse whisper.

All thoughts of arguing with Fogg slipped out of Verne's mind. The English gentleman's eyes were sharp and cutting despite the fact that his hot breath smelled of brandy. "You are so enamored with the nobility of self sacrifice, the glory of martyrdom, that you refuse to consider alternatives! There are alternatives! I will find them! Rebecca's death would kill me in more ways than you can possibly conceive. She is all that saves me from darkness!"

Verne was terrified, he wanted to run. He knew that Phileas and Rebecca were close but he had never guessed just how close. What he saw was the casual affections that could only be expected of two people who grew up as brother and sister. But suddenly he realized that, for Fogg, Rebecca was more than a beautiful, vibrant, person, she was the only dollop of real good left in his life. Jules would feel horrible guilt and grief if Rebecca were lost, but Fogg would lose the ability to feel anything else. All the money, the glitter of the Aurora, the precociousness of employing a manservant, those things barely touched Phileas Fogg. Simple pleasures were hardly a salve for near-mortal wounds.

Verne licked his lips and said the only thing he could think that would keep Fogg from killing him. "You're bleeding."

Phileas blinked, "What?"

"Yu, your hand," he nodded to his left lapel were Fogg's right hand was clenched and a brown stain was forming.

Stunned, Fogg let his young friend go and staggered backward. He looked at his hand, shocked and betrayed by his own fragility. "Verne," he said softly, still staring at his hands. "Would you be so good to find Passepartout."

Jules nodded and skittered out of the room. When he came back with the manservant he found Fogg sitting at the desk, chin set, eyes focused, deftly picking chunks of shattered glass out of his hand. On the floor near the window there was the rest of the tumbler, shattered, and the dark stain of the spilled brandy on the rug.

"Master!" the Frenchman practically screeched as he ran up to the desk. "What did you do?"

"Lost my temper," Fogg said, glancing at Verne.

"You're bleeding!"

"I'm quite aware of that, but don't worry, I'm keeping the blood on the blotting paper."

The mess that inevitably followed massive bleeding had not even entered Passepartout's mind. "Stay here," the man ordered his master. "I'll be getting the band-aid, Master Jules, you get the iodine!"

The two men ran out, leaving Fogg to stare at his hand and extrapolate the shards of glass. As he performed this painful task he silently cursed himself for being so stupidly careless. He knew, unequivocally, that the moment of unadulterated passion might kill him, which was not too troublesome, but it might also kill Rebecca, and it would almost certainly result in Verne's being condemned to slavery by the League of Darkness. But he had set on a course of action and he could not let his own stupidity to set him off of it. The hand could be bandaged and he would manage, but getting injured was a damned fool thing to do.

* * *

Fogg looked at his hands. As the three men waited on the stoop of the Viscount's chateau, he tried to determine if his right hand, hidden by a black glove, was visibly swollen. It hurt like hell, but that was neither here nor there. All that mattered was that no one know he was hurt, no one know that he was weak.

"Fogg, this is crazy," Verne whispered. "If you're not going to let me surrender myself to him then isn't it foolish to come here at all."

"Shhh," Fogg said, keeping his voice low and eyes on his hands so that any bystander would assume that he was not talking at all. "The letter stating his demands was addressed to me, making it my business."

"I'm not your ward," Jules said, a little offended that he had not been deemed worthy to receive the demands himself. "It should have been addressed to me."

"I'm well aware of that, Verne, I assure you. At any rate it's just as well he didn't."

"Why do you say that?" Verne muttered, he was sure that, had the letter been addressed to him, the enter situation would have been resolved long before this.

"Because, then I would have no right to step in and save you," Fogg said, and then, considering, looked up. "Well, I might have the right, but I very much doubt whether you would have given me a chance to exercise it."

"What are you talking about?" Jules demanded.

Fogg might or might not have answered the question; Jules never knew, because at that moment the door opened and the viscount himself appeared. Jules and Passepartout were surprised and Fogg seemed very satisfied. The viscount's butler had left them about five minutes before insisting that the Viscount was in town. Fogg had insisted that they would wait. The butler had said it would be fruitless. Fogg had given the butler a note and re-insisted that they would wait. The butler asked if they would come into the sitting room. Fogg said he would not step into that house if Queen Victoria herself requested it. This should have insulted the butler, yet he did not seem to care. He took the note and, apparently, delivered it.

"Ah, Monsieurs Fogg and Verne," the viscount said cordially when the door reopened. "I am so delighted that you have come to visit. Although," he chuckled, "I am slightly insulted at your refusal to enter my lovely home."

"Really?" Fogg asked casually. "Good, for that was its intent."

The viscount was taken aback, "Am I to understand that you wish to insult me?"

"Not very sharp are you?" Fogg committed dryly.

"Sir!" The viscount said, stepping fully out of the door. "I refuse to be insulted in such a base manner."

Fogg's eyebrows shot up. His calm was unshakable and, compared to the fiery viscount, he was twice as imposing as ususal. Jules wanted to say something but he did not dare interrupt the scene Fogg was creating so deftly.

"Do you really? Than perhaps you also refuse to be told that you are a scoundrel without honor, who takes advantage of unsuspecting woman and manipulates innocent men."

"How dare you, sir!" The viscount said, he was red with rage while Fogg, though intense, remained calm.

"Isn't that what you did?" Fogg asked. "Poison my cousin and exploit the best nature of my friend? Play with their lives like pawns on a chessboard? I must say that such actions lack not only honor but courage and, frankly, ingenuity."

"I will not be insulted this way."

"Won't you? I can't see any way around it. All my accusations are wholly true."

"Stop Monsieur," The viscount practically screamed. Phileas obliged him, trying very hard to keep the self satisfied smile off his face. "I will not allow you to say such things without consequence! I challenge you to a duel sir!"

"I gladly accept, sir," Fogg spat.

Because, technically, the challenge was the viscount's, Fogg got the choice of weapons. In less than a minuet, on the lawns of the beautiful chateau, the two men stood, face to face, saber to saber, in a sense, will to will.

"Passepartout," Verne whispered into the valet's ear, because he didn't want Fogg to hear. "Is he crazy?"

The valet shrugged. He knew better than to question his master, it was not safe.

"His sword is dipping," Verne pointed out.

"That being the hand he cut," Passepartout explained. His voice was full of fear. Jules look at the valet and suddenly realized that the immaculate Phileas Fogg might just be taking a risk and that this gentleman's wager could go either way.

"Fogg!" the writer yelled as he ran up to his friend on the battlefield.

"Verne, get out of the way," Phileas growled.

"No, no," the young man said with determination. "You're not going to do this, I won't let you."

"You've no right to stop me," Phileas said with clenched teeth.

"You could die."

"Not bloody likely."

"You admit it's a possibility."

"Anything's a possibility," he said without conviction.

"What will this solve?"

"I'm defending Rebecca's honor."

"Her honor's not in question, her life is!" Jules insisted. "This isn't helping her."

"I beg to differ, if I lose you're perfectly free to offer yourself up as a sacrifice to her."

"Oh," Jules said. "So it's my life you're bargaining with, as well as Rebecca's!"

"Trust me Verne," Fogg said, his patience running thin.

"How can I trust you? Your willing to put all of us on the line for some barbaric . . . nebulous concept of honor!"

"I am a gentleman, Verne," he said. "The definition of which I would be betraying if I allowed this disgusting cur to . . ."

He never got to finish the sentence. The viscount considered that insult one too many. He lunged. Before Jules knew what had happened he was on the ground, wind knocked out of him and the clanging of swords slightly to his right.

"Master Jules," Passepartout's voice said, as the valet's hands pulled him back to his feet. "You alright?"

Jules nodded vaguely, but was quickly distracted by the display on the yard to his left. Truly good fencing is an art: each thrust and counter thrust a deliberate act, each touche a work of genius. This bout of sport was nothing like that. Phileas was defensive, not allowing himself to be open at any time. The viscount was flamboyant in his attacks, daring his opponent to fight back. This was not art, but it could have been chess or maybe poker. Two games which Phileas Fogg never lost. And eventually, it became very clear that he would not lose this game either. Phileas stood still, blocking every attack, the more daring the viscount got, the more impenetrable Fogg's defenses became. The viscount grew desperate and foolish. He threw himself at the Englishman, two strokes later it was over. Luis Du Fur was disarmed on his knees, and Phileas Fogg stood over him ready to behead him, like so many other French aristocrats.

"What do you say now, humm?" the Englishman asked, his hand and voice unnaturally steady. "At the doorway to death, do you want to live?"

"Yes," the viscount whispered.

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to say that a little louder."

"YES!" he screamed.

"You know, that's odd," Fogg said, not moving his sword but glancing away, towards the city. "Because I remember someone else standing at death's door, wanting to live." He tapped his sword on the viscount's shoulder. "Now who was that?" he asked vaguely.

With the erroneous belief that Fogg was actually lost in thought, the viscount moved slightly only to find the sword pressing against his heart instead of his neck and Fogg's piercing eyes fixed once more on his.

"Ah yes, I recall. It was my cousin, Rebecca. I believe you're acquainted."

"Oh," the viscount sobbed, "God."

"I doubt he'll help you," Phileas said casually. "For you see, while I could easily decide to grant you mercy if you pleaded for it, my dear cousin was not given even that."

"The antidote," the viscount stuttered. "I'll, I'll, I'll give you the antidote!"

"Will you?"

"Yes," he said desperately. "Yes, yes! Jean-Maurice!" he yelled, immediately the butler who had answered the door reappeared at it. He seemed remarkably unsurprised to see his master in such a deadly position.

"Oui?"

"There is a brown bottle in the safe in my dressing room. Bring it down here immediately."

The servant nodded, and disappeared back into the house.

"Verne," Phileas said curtly. "Go to the stables and saddle the fastest horse you can find. As soon as Jean-Maurice returns I want you to take that bottle Rebecca."

Jules nodded and, wordlessly ran off to the stables.

"You don't mind lending us a horse for such a noble cause, do you Viscount?"

The man on the ground shook his head, terrified.

"I didn't think so. And I suppose the use of your carriage and driver, for my valet and I, is the least you could do."

"Of course, of course," the aristocrat whimpered.

"I thought as much."

For Phileas it was a painfully long wait. Eventually Jules rode up on a beautiful black mare. He looked uncomfortable on the steed but seemed to command enough skill to get to the hospital in Paris.

"Nice horse," Passepartout said with admiration.

"Do you think it'll do ok?"

"Vary nice," The valet nodded.

"Good," Jules said, trying to situate himself more comfortably in the saddle. "Black horses are usually fast, right?"

Passepartout opened his mouth but had nothing to say. Jules ignorance about equestrian matters bewildered him. Eventually he nodded, which seemed to make Jules relax a little.

A minute later the butler ran out of the house, an average apothecary's bottle in his hands.

"Tell him to give it to my friend on the horse."

"Do as he says!"

The man complied and Jules was off. For the first time since he had heard the name Luis Du Fur his heart was at ease. Everything that happened after this was inconsequential. Rebecca would be alive and Jules would be free, they were really all that mattered.

"Now," Fogg continued. "Jean-Maurice, call the viscount's carriage. My valet and I will be leaving in it."

"Oui," the butler said again, and again disappeared into the house.

"I suppose you'll want mercy now," Phileas said, sounding a little disappointed. "Now that you've redeemed what you had no right in taking in the first place."

"Please," the man on the ground begged. "Please."

The carriage drove up and Passepartout, anticipating his masters needs as all good servants do, ran up to it and instructed the driver to ride as quickly as possible to the Sisters of St. Francis hospital outside of Paris as soon as the gentlemen with the sword entered the carriage.

"I seem to be at a point of decision," Fogg said softly, so that only the viscount could hear. "Now, your life is entirely in my hands. And to tell you the truth, I rather enjoy it. So I think we shale carry on as we are now."

"What . . ." the viscount asked.

"I am going to see my cousin. If she is dead when I get there, or if she dies as a result of anything you have given her, I will come back and take your life. And this," he said as he quickly drew his sword across the viscount's forehead, leaving a line of blood which trickled down his face and into his eyes. "Is so you remember that. Now go."

The viscount did not need any further instruction. He quickly jumped to his feet and ran into his house crying like a child. Phileas was alone on the battle field and the world which had been suspended for so long finally started to revolve again. He sheathed his sword with a shaking hand and tried very hard to breath. "Passepartout," he called sharply.

The valet recognized that it was odd he should be called, and odder still that Fogg was not running to the carriage and then to Rebecca. "Yes Master?" Passepartout asked as he ran up to his master in the middle of the yard. For the first time since the duel ended he was close enough to see how pale and haggard he looked.

"Help me to the carriage."

"What?"

"Help me to the carriage."

"But," Passepartout asked, bewildered. "Why?"

"Because, Passepartout, if you don't I'm afraid I am going to faint."

* * *

Jules, very carefully, lifted Rebecca's head and poured the contents of the brown bottel down her throat through pail and still lips. From the smell of the dark brown liquid the poison tasted much better than it's cure. And for a very long time Jules dreaded that it wasn't going to work. The changing in her breathing was so slight that he didn't notice it until she started coughing. Then he panicked.

"Doctor!" the young man yelled. "Doctor! She's dying! Doctor, help!"

"Oh, don't be silly Jules," Rebecca's voice, slightly rougher for wear, said as her delicate hand rested on his arm. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Re,re,rebcc, Rebecca."

"Yes?" she asked, smiling up at him. She was still pail and week, but her spirit shone through her eyes regardless.

"How do you feel?" Jules finally stuttered, for lack of something else to say.

Rebecca seemed to consider this for a moment. "A little light headed," she finally stated. "And thirsty."

"Right," Jules said eagerly, this was a problem he could fix. Behind him was a pewter bowl and pitcher filled with cool water. The nuns intended, Jules assumed, for the water to be used as a compress incase Rebecca suddenly tumbled into a fever. Jules poured a clay mug thoughtfully provided and then, carefully, helped Rebecca drink it.

Cradling her head with one hand and tilting the clay mug with the other, Jules's entire intellect was focused on the complex equations meant to calculate the proper angel of the mug to Rebecca's lips with the constantly fluctuating variable of the amount of water in the cup. Needless to say, when the door flew open and Jules was startled his concentration broke and Rebecca suddenly found herself very wet. Jules, realizing his error, drew his attention away from the Nun at the door and tried to dry Rebecca off. However, realizing that the sensitive area across her breast was the dampest, he found himself in a gentleman's quandary, not sure which violation of the chivalrous code was more grievous.

"Is all well?" the young nun asked nervously.

"Ye,yes," Jules said, handing his handkerchief to Rebecca so she could attempt to dry herself. "She woke up."

The nun nodded, "Should I get a doctor?"

"Eventually," Rebecca's crisp voice said, bringing brightness to the dreary room. "However, fist I need to discuss a few things with my friend Jules."

The nun nodded and slipped out of the room. Jules had suddenly grown pail. "Look," he stammered. "Rebecca, I can't . . ." the young writer looked at the ceiling, suddenly a lose for words.

"Can't what?" she asked gamely.

"Tell you how very sorry I am."

He looked down at her with tears in his eyes. She looked up at him and smiled beautifully. "Jules, listen very carefully: This Is Not Your Fault," she said slowly enunciating each word. "I'm sure Phileas attempted to explain this to you, but he has a very curt way and obviously let some of the finer points slip."

Jules chuckled softly and let her continue.

"You had the best intentions,"

"I had selfish intentions."

"But not harmfully so," she insisted. "You are not responsible for the sin of others, nor the ignorance of others."

"Ignorance?"

"I should have recognized Du Fur's name, but I didn't. I should have been suspicious of the strawberries, but I wasn't."

"Don't blame yourself."

"No Jules," she said solidly. "I'm blaming Luis Du Fur entirely. And you should too. It was not your actions nor my lack of actions that caused the fruit to be laced with poison. You understand, don't you?"

Jules nodded.

"Good," she clipped. "It's not healthy to be ridden down with Guilt, just look at Phileas. Speaking of which, where is he?"

Despite Rebecca's casual references to her cousin, this was the first time he had crossed Jules mind. It was hours since he had rode away from the chateau, this was not right. "I'm, ah, not sure."

* * *

Three day's latter Rebecca was fully recovered. She was on her feet and, more than that, as prim and proper as ever. This, of course, meant a corset. For the only time in her life, Rebecca found herself jealous of the sisters of mercy and their peculiar brand of freedom.

She was going to leave the Hospital and take up residence in the Aurora, a prospect that was very welcome. The drafty, ancient, stone walls of the hospital were starting to depress her and the soft quite ways of the nuns were getting on her nerves. She longed for the Aurora's warm, wood paneled walls, Passepartout's eccentricities and Jules soft spoken sweetness. But she had something to do first.

Phileas's room was much like hers. Dreary, made of gray stone, filled with only a bed, a table and a stool and, of course, the invalid in the bed. He was sleeping, still and pale as death. Rebecca was sorely tempted to search through the room for something small and light to throw at him, but her better half won out. He deserved to be woken in a more humane manner. She took one of her silk gloves off and walked over to the pewter bole and pitcher on the small table to the right of his bed. She dipped her fingers in the water and then, lightly sprinkled Phileas's head, like a babe at baptism. And while the spiritual aspects of this christening of water were hidden, the physical were quite satisfactory. A notoriously light sleeper, he winced as the droplets hit his face.

"Good morning sleepy head," Rebecca said in a sing-songy voice as she pulled the plain wooden stool up to his bed and set herself so that when Phileas's eyes finally fluttered open, her's would be the angelic visage to greet him.

"Good morning?" He asked, obviously confused.

"More or less," she said casually. "I believe the church bells just tolled eleven. How do you feel?"

"Infinitely better for seeing you."

She laughed and glanced away, "Oh, Phileas, you did an incredibly foolish thing, even for you."

"Really, and what was that?"

"You almost died."

"I've almost died before."

"Yes, I know," she said. Her voice was sharp and scolding in the way only a woman's could be. "Previous acts of foolishness do not excuse current ones, in fact quite the opposite."

Phileas, apparently no longer overjoyed to see his cousin, sighed and looked away.

"Am I to understand you became so angry with Jules that you actually broke a tumbler with your bare hands?"

"Hand," he muttered, "singular."

"I see," she said, the more accurate the story the less she liked it. "And then you thought it would be a good idea to fence with an injured hand."

"Would you rather I let Verne turn himself into a sacrificial lamb?"

"No," Rebecca said, drawing the word out so that the fullness of its meaning could be impressed upon her cousin. "I would rather you stopped considering yourself expendable."

That was not what he had expected, "What?"

"It's horribly selfish of you," Rebecca continued, letting her emotion work itself through a cool and carefully crafted argument. "Did it even slip through your mind that I would not want you to die for me any more than I would want Jules to? Humm?"

He didn't answer her. Apparently, that thought hadn't slipped through his mind.

"I'm not a goddess," she reminded him. "I don't require a sacrificial lamb nor do I desire one, ever."

"Rebecca," Phileas stuttered softly. "I,i,it was horrible to think . . . tha, that is to imagine a world with, without you."

She closed her eyes and tried very hard not to blush. The only time she ever saw Phileas beside himself was when she was in danger. Even in his deepest grief he had total control, but when her life was in question his world seemed to spin out of its orbit. At least, that was the impression he gave her.

"You almost bled to death," she told him, her voice was very soft, very humble.

"But I didn't," he pointed out.

"No," she said softly. "You didn't."

They were quite for a moment. Each reflecting on the precious person they had almost lost. Finally, Rebecca broke the silence. "You'll have a scar, you know," she informed him. "On your hand."

"Oh," he said, tilting his head slightly and rasing his right hand, which was numb. He found it wrapped in so many layers of gauze that the shape and form of this future scar was hidden. "I suppose my vanity will survive this blemish. I'll just have to wear gloves."

He looked up at her and smiled. She laughed and shook her head. All was well.

The End