I started writing this story at the beginning of the summer, and it has suffered several hiatuses, so I apologize for any continuity errors. I'm trying to press them all out.

The story is mostly based on the song 'Mary's Waltz' by Over the Rhine. It also has some striking similarities to the book 'Paul and Virginia' by Bernardin De St. Pierre, which was serendipitous, not planed. I should probably also add that this is NOT a Mary Jane story, even though my main character is called Mary.

Also, obviously, the characters are not mine, I'm making no money out of this, yadda yadda yadda . . .

Enjoy, and review.

Chapter 1: Guardian Angels

"And did you have a pleasant trip Mademoiselle?" the conductor asked kindly as he put a large, warm hand on Mary's shoulder.

"Yes, thank you," she said. "I don't suppose you could find an honest young man to fetch me a cab?"

"Of course Mademoiselle," The conductor said. "I know many trustworthy boys here at the station." He led her approximately ten yards through the bustle of the station. Mary had never been in a large train station, indeed, the only other train station she had ever been to was the small one in Brittany where she had boarded the train to Paris mere hours ago. That station had been nice, quite, open to the air. The only person there was Monsieur Malay, who's wife was well known for growing the best radishes in the region. Paris was totally different, people were moving everywhere, and talking so loud that they almost drowned out the noise of the trains themselves. But she could still feel them, rumbling the floor beneath her.

"Jean-Dominique," the conductor said, presumably to a young boy. "Find this woman a cab."

"Yes Monsieur," the boy said. He reached out and grabbed the handle of her bag.

"No," Mary said, very quickly pulling the bag towards her. "Please, just lead me out of here, and find me a cab."

The boy looked at her skeptically, but did as he was told.

"Where to?" The cabby asked as the boy helped her into the carriage.

"Do you know of the young playwright, Jules Verne?"

The cabby laughed. "Do I look like the kind of man who would know a playwright?"

Mary smiled at the irony. "I'll have to take your word for it. I'm sure the theater district will be fine."

* * *

"Hey Jules!" Felix said loudly across Thomas's café. "What are you doing here?"

Jules smiled as he approached his friends, "I was planing to get a drink, are there any objections?"

"As you know my friend," Felix said, leaning forward so that Bridgette on his lap had to lean backward. "I am always delighted to share a drink with you. However, I was thinking you might want to share it with the pretty young woman wandering around the theater district inquiring after the playwright Jules Verne."

"What?"

"You heard him Jules," Bridgette said, smiling. "I saw her, very pretty."

"You know, if you hurry, you might still catch her," Felix encouraged.

The young writer looked at his friends, bewildered. A beautiful young woman, asking after him. He was cautious, first of all, the only woman who had ever actively pursued him had turned out to be evil. That aside, he was afraid that it was a joke. Felix was certainly not above that type of thing, however, Bridgette usually was - she was the reason of the relationship, he was the passion. And the thirdly he was excited. A mystery woman combing the theater district for a young playwright she didn't know, his imagination took the idea and ran with it, extrapolating proposition after proposition about her identity and intent. She was wealthy and had been enchanted with one of his plays and wished to become his patron. She was a brilliant young playwright herself, looking for a break and a mentor. She was an actress, unknown but talented, who didn't know where to go, so she tried to seek out the playwright who had a reputation for kindness. She was a fan, a lovely aristocrat, who had been truly inspired by his words. She was everything and everyone Jules had ever fantasized about. He tried to think of a rational, or at least reality-based, reason for this young woman to blindly inquire after him, none came to mind.

"But who is she?" Jules asked bewildered.

"Go and find out," Bridgette urged.

Jules looked at his friends at the table, took a deep breath and made a decision. "I'll be right back."

As he walked out of the café he heard Felix call after him, "Good luck Jules! God speed!"

* * *

Paris has one of the most expansive and confusing theater districts in the world, at least that's what Mary thought. She had never left Brittony and had never been in a town with a theater, never the less a whole district of them. She found people uncommonly rude and the directions she was given were often more harmful than helpful. To make matters worse, The carriages frightened her too. There were so many of them that she feared she would not be able to tell if one was approaching and be run over. However, finding Jules Verne was by far the most important thing in the world at the moment, far more important than her life. If she didn't find him, her life wouldn't be worth anything anyway. Someone, hopefully someone trustworthy, had told her that Verne had opened a play in a small theater across the street: La Stage Peditte. However, before Mary could ask for help crossing he disappeared into the crowed, which left her with the daunting task of crossing the bustling city street alone.

She waited for the right time, when she was sure, or at least mostly sure, she knew where every carriage was, and how fast it was going and that she would be able to get across the street without being trampled. "Oh, Raphael, guide my steps," the girl whispered to her Guardian Angel before stepping into the road. She made it three whole paces before a strong hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly back.

"Are you insane?!" the very concerned voice of a young man asked harshly. He was standing behind her and breathing heavily; he had either had to run to save her, or was extremely upset by her near death. From the sound of his voice, she guessed both. "That carriage nearly ran you over!"

"Jules?" Mary asked excitedly, turning around so he could see her face. "Jules Verne?"

"Yes," he responded, as much an answer as a question.

Mary breathed a sigh of relief, "Oh, Jules, please remember me. I came all this way. I would have sent word but I didn't know your address. And that's why I'm here, I'm trying to find someone who knows you - but no one knows where you live." She paused, he hadn't said anything, he might not remember at all. Or he might be a totally different Jules Verne, neither name was so uncommon that it was an impossibility. "Please remember me," she asked again.

There was a moment as he looked at her; her face, cream colored with delicate features and a horrible blueish purple bruise on her right temple; her body small and perfectly proportioned; her clothes, a dark calico dress and a black shawl with brightly colored flowers; her hair thick and black and bound in a braid that fell to the small of her back. None of it was familiar. Then his eyes wandered to hers and everything made sense. They were large and brown and soft, they didn't focus and they didn't shift, and they didn't look up at him. In fact, they didn't see anything at all. They were opaque windows, but windows none the less, and through them Jules could see exactly who she was.

"Mary," he said, his voice filling with wonder, his hand finding his way onto her face. "You're the one looking for me?" In all his excitement he had never dreamed that this would be the beautiful young woman inquiring after him. That was mostly due to the fact that, while he thought of her now and then, he never thought of her as beautiful or a woman, only as young. And the idea of her in Paris was ludicrous - she was everything Paris was not; quite, soft, delicate, holy, simple, and innocent.

Her left hand had found his face as well and as her fingers ran over his handsome features and soft skin she felt wonderfully assured. "Oh, Raphael didn't guide me wrong."

"Mary, what are you doing here? And why are you looking for me?"

"Do you know someplace safe?"

Jules looked around them, nothing stuck him as dangerous. "There is a café across the street. I'm sure with my help you could get across without being run over by a carriage."

Her hand dropped from his face and returned to the carpet bag she had been carrying since Brittiany. "Jules," she said very softly, "I'm very afraid, please, do you know anyplace safe?"

The young man had not taken his hand from her face, it still rested on her cheek. He was surprised to find that it was damp, she was crying. "Mary," he said softly. "I don't understand. You came all the way . . ."

"Please Jules, someplace alone, and safe."

"Alright," he said, wiping her tears away gently. "Alright. My lodgings aren't far. You'll be safe there."

She took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. "Thank you Jules, I . . . I know I'm asking a lot for just showing up like this and all, but, ah . . ." she started to cry again. It was not a dainty, ladylike cry, the kind of thing which could be taken care of with a polite lace handkerchief, her tears were a mixture of fear and relief and had been held in too long. Jules took a protective step forward and pulled her delicate body closer so she could sob someplace safe.

* * *

Jules was supposed to show up at the Aurora, which was parked on the lawns of the British Embassy in Paris, for dinner at eight. Phileas Fogg, accompanied by his cousin Rebecca and faithful manservant Passepartout, had landed earlier that wet December day and sent a message that their business was in no way dire and his company would be very appreciated at the nightly meal. He had sent back an excited message accepting the invitation, but then, without word, he didn't come.

"I hope he's alright," Rebecca said at 9:35. They had finally decided to eat without their guest, however, no one was hungry. Phileas ate his meal with determination, if not appetite; Rebecca played with her roll and stared out the window; Passepartout glanced at the door every few seconds and wished that Miss Rebecca would finish her soup so he could go into the kitchen and prepare the second course, for no other reason than it would give him something to do with his hands.

"He probably just forgot," Phileas said as nonchalantly as possible.

"Jules is a very responsible young man."

"But he is a young man, Rebecca, And Paris is full of alluring cafés which are filled with alluring women."

"We're talking about Jules Verne, Phileas, not you."

Her cousin laughed dryly, moved to take another bite of his soup, but found he didn't have the stomach for it. He put the spoon back in the bowl and pushed it away from him.

"The next course master?" Passepartout asked eagerly.

Phileas looked up at his cousin, who hadn't eaten more than a few crumbs in the last fifteen minutes, and then turned to the manservant. "I think not Passepartout, why don't you bring us some tea; after that help yourself to your supper."

"Very good master," he said, before grabbing the soup bowls and withdrawing into the Aurora's small kitchen.

"The messenger came back with a reply," Rebecca said, "He was home at noon, we know that."

"Someone claiming to be Jules Verne was at his garret at noon, whether it was him or not is rather the issue."

"Of course it was him, Phileas, an imposter would make up some reason not to come, say he had a prior engagement or was ill or something."

"Not necessarily, he knew another invitation would come soon enough, he might have accepted the first one and . . ."

"And what Phileas, make us suspicious days before necessary. No, whatever happened, happened after noon."

"Do you think I should go pay him a visit?"

"It could be dangerous."

"I doubt it. It doesn't take much to overpower Verne."

"Give him a little credit," Rebecca scolded. "Jules is not as weak as you make him out to be."

"Perhaps not, but he has managed to disappear in the matter of nine hours."

Rebecca sighed, "Right, I'll go with you."

They stood up simultaneously and Phileas was helping his cousin with her coat when Passepartout entered the room with the tea.

"Master," the servant said unsurely, "Are you going?"

"Yes, Passepartout, I'm afraid we are no more interested in tea then we were in dinner."

"But where are you going?"

"To pay a visit to Jules," Rebecca said. She was looking in her purse to make sure everything was there; throwing knives, climbing rope, bottle of acid, and revolver. Satisfied she walked over to the door and waited for Phileas to open it for her.

Passepartout's brow was knit with confusion. "But why when he is paying a visit to you?"

Fogg sighed with frustration at his servant's apparent lack of common sense, "Because he didn't show up."

"Yes, he did."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Phileas asked with a tone akin to disgust.

Almost as an answer to the question there was a loud knock at the door and Jules' harried voice came from the other side. "Fogg? Passepartout? Rebecca?"

"Excusing me," the Frenchman said as he walked past Rebecca and unlocked the door. As soon as it was open a crack, Verne's hand was pushing it further, and as soon as he, and some strange woman, had entered the Aurora, he closed the door behind them and made sure it was locked.

"Fogg, I have a great favor to ask of you," the young man gasped turning to his friend, who's face was painted with bewilderment and more than a little annoyance.

"Well that's mighty presumptuous," Fogg responded incredulously.

Jules was to frightened to realize he should apologize, he continued begging with his voice and his eyes. "Please, lift off. Float around the city, go back to England, it doesn't matter, just get off the ground."

"Is there anything fundamentally wrong with the ground in Paris?" Fogg asked flippantly.

Jules looked at his friend, a man he trusted with his life, and more importantly, with Mary's. The young artist's eyes held everything he had felt over the past couple of hours in layers, surprise, joy, compassion and on the very top level, fear. "We were followed. She's probably been followed since Brittany, Ple . . . please Fogg."

The Englishman tried to rectify his compassion with his pride and found them more or less incompatible. Thankfully, Rebecca spared him the decision.

"Passepartout, lift off."

"Yes Miss Rebecca," the manservant said with relish.

Verne turned to the mysterious girl and put his hand on her face in a way that suggested extreme intimacy to those looking on. "It's alright," he said gently. "You're safe here."



To Be continued . . .