Some
ripe crossovers to be had with Jules Verne, surprisingly enough--I had to fudge
a bit with dating for this story, I think, but it was too good to resist. Ramses Emerson from the mysteries by
Elizabeth Peters and Jules Verne? Come on!
;-) It takes place in that gap
where Ramses went off by himself to get away from Nefret, and obviously
sometime after when SAJV took place.
Disclaimers: don't own
characters (or historical figures who've been made into characters), make no
money off the story. Now if only I can
figure out how to write that Man from U.N.C.L.E. crossover, I'll be all
set...
Chance Meetings in Dark
Alleys
Jules
Verne, the man thought to himself with a wry shake of his head, you are a romantic.
The author was wandering the streets
of Paris, searching out his old haunts from when he had lived there as a young
man. He hadn't been back to the city in
years, alternating between traveling and his home in the country instead, but
friends were throwing him a party in Paris, and he couldn't resist going back
and seeing how the city had changed.
It was one thing to explore during
the day with friends. Quite another to
walk about at night by himself, especially as a man nearing his sixtieth
birthday. Jules shook his head again,
smiling. No, he never learned. But he doubted anything untoward would
happen to him tonight.
He'd gone past cafés and bistros
where he'd wiled away many hours, and had even found his old garret window to
stare up at. Hmm. Yes, nostalgia was one thing, but it wouldn't
do to romanticize too much--he was
definitely grateful to be out of that attic.
Yet he did miss those times, the excitement and wild adventure and,
perhaps, even the danger. Walking
through these streets was only reminding him that he was no longer as young as
he used to be.
And now he was slowly making his way
back to more respectable quarters of the city, where his friends' home was
located. The street was dark, few
streetlights nearby, and he seemed to be the only person out walking through the
cool air.
"Seemed" being the
operative word. Jules thought he could
hear footsteps approaching, tapping on the cobblestones frantically. He turned around, searching helplessly
through the dark night. By the time the
footsteps were almost upon him, and he could make out the figure sprinting
toward him, it was too late. The other
person crashed into him, and they toppled to the ground.
They both grunted, Jules's body
complaining vociferously, and almost before the other figure had stopped
falling he was on his feet again, dragging Jules up unceremoniously with
him. "What the devil is going
on--" Jules started bad-temperedly asking when he felt a steel grip
clamping down on his mouth and locking the words in his throat. He looked up--the other person was a good
four or five inches taller than him--and vaguely made out black eyes staring
down at him coldly, warningly. Jules's
heart fluttered. You wanted adventure, he told himself bleakly. The other man pulled him down the street
until they reached an intersecting alleyway, down which they turned. He then pushed Jules into a doorway next to
him and held him back as far as he could with one strong arm, the other still
over Jules's mouth.
The man was dressed in dirty rags,
layers of shirts and coats and trousers, all covered in mud and what smelled
like alcohol and other noxious substances.
A cap was falling off silver-grey, straggly hair, and the man's face and
body seemed to be even dirtier and worse smelling than his clothes. He had all the appearance of an old, weak,
drunken beggar, and yet the arms holding Jules and the black eyes he'd glimpsed
for only a moment bespoke of someone much younger and much more dangerous.
Jules calmed himself, telling
himself that if this stranger had wanted him dead, he could have done the deed
already quite easily. The man was
obviously running from somebody; Jules didn't know from whom, but he had the
experience that usually the one running away has very good reasons. He found his curiosity taking over where his
fear had been, and he smiled to himself internally. Yes, he had been
missing a bit of adventure in his life--everyone treated him with deference and
respect, as a gifted writer and an old man.
And he'd never felt like an
old man.
I'm
in an alley again he thought to himself and actually felt like
laughing. He managed to contain his
sudden enthusiasm and instead tapped the stranger's arm holding him back
against the doorway in the alley. The
man, who had been turned awkwardly (yet somehow making the stance appear
graceful) to stare at the road with his entire body tensed, swung around to
stare now at Jules with that same furious intensity.
Jules met the gaze head on and
gestured to the man's hand over his mouth.
The stranger nodded and slowly let go of Jules. Jules stayed absolutely still. A flash of surprise would have gone
unnoticed in the man's eyes if Jules hadn't been paying him such close
attention, and then the man nodded and turned back to the road, waiting with a
patience and complete lack of movement that amazed Jules. The attitude the stranger had adopted
reminded him strongly of Phileas Fogg--he'd seen Phileas move with the same
catlike grace and speed this man had exhibited (another oddity when combined
with his disheveled appearance), had seen Fogg wait with the same uncanny
serenity and fortitude.
What seemed like hours later but was
probably only a few minutes, the stranger stiffened almost
imperceptibly--again, the movement would have been undetected if not for
Jules's own straining senses. A moment
later, Jules heard what the other man already had--more running footsteps. Both men held their breath and didn't move.
A couple people--men, dressed not
much better than the stranger next to Jules--slowed to a halt near the alley
and looked around, breathing hard. They
spoke to each other rapidly; Jules strained his ears, but either they spoke too
softly or it was some argot or dialect he didn't recognize, because he couldn't
understand anything they were saying.
The man next to him appeared to know what was going on, however, judging
by the thoughtful expression on his face that Jules could just make out in the
darkness. The other men finally ran on
down the street.
Jules released a breath at last,
relaxing muscles he hadn't even realized he'd tensed. Many of those muscles started protesting immediately, and he
winced ruefully. You're too old for this, he lectured himself mock-sternly and
looked up again at his bizarre companion.
His fierce curiosity was overwhelming, but first things first, a lesson
he'd learned a long time ago in Fogg's company.
"Are we safe now?" he
asked in a voice barely above a breath.
The other man glanced down at him,
once again seemingly surprised by the little old man he'd accidentally involved
in his predicament, and nodded.
"Quite safe now, Monsieur," the stranger said in perfectly
accented, idiomatic French. Somehow
Jules knew it wasn't the man's native language. "Thank you for being so patient. I must apologize for my rough handling, but I didn't want you to
be caught by those other men."
"I'm all right," Jules
assured him with a smile, "though I'm not sure my back will ever forgive
you. Will you be all right for the rest
of the night? Is there anywhere for you
to go--do you need money?"
He thought he saw a flash of teeth,
as if the other man were smiling.
"You care what happens to a drunken wretch like me, Monsieur?"
Jules held his gaze. "You are no drunk, Monsieur," he
answered evenly, "and I have no idea if you're wretched or not. Do you need help?"
The man paused, considering Jules's
words, then shook his head, his tone subtly changing to become more
serious. "No, I'll be all
right. You, sir, on the other hand, really
should not be wandering about alone at night in this part of Paris, if I may
say so. It isn't very safe."
Jules grinned, unable to stop
himself. "My friends have told me
so many times before," he answered.
"I'll manage."
"In that case," the
stranger held out his hand, "good-bye.
Again, I must thank you for being so cooperative, and apologize for my
behavior."
Jules shook the man's hand. It was a firm, strong grip, if rather
dirty. There were wrinkles, probably
even age spots if the writer could get a close enough look in better light. The man was thorough, Jules had already
realized that. "Good day,
sir," he said.
The man seemed to fade into the
alleyway. Jules didn't bother trying to
follow him. He began his walk again, a
little more quickly this time, deep in thought as he mulled over the evening's
surreal events. He smiled. It had been an intriguing night all round,
he decided. And he wondered if he would
ever find out who that strange man had been.
* * *
The next day Jules's thoughts turned
away from the stranger and the men who had been following him, as he was busy
being the guest of honor at his friends' party. He greeted everyone, drank a small quantity of champagne and
laughed politely, and all the while wished he could loosen his collar and get
rid of his damned tie.
By the time he was getting truly
bored and wishing somebody of interest was at the party to talk to, an English
Sir Something or Other wandered by and introduced a young countryman and friend
of his who happened to be in Paris at the moment, Walter Peabody Emerson,
better known as Ramses and the son of the famed Egyptologist.
"How do you do, Monsieur
Verne," the young Englishman said politely in perfect French, holding his
hand out for Jules to shake. "It's
an honor to meet you, sir. I've enjoyed
many of your books."
He was tall and slender, dressed in
well-cut eveningwear that suited his long, thin figure. His hair was black, inclined to waviness,
and his eyes were the same deep color under thick eyebrows, his nose aquiline. His skin was a natural deep tan. He could have been no more than twenty-three
and was probably younger. His face was
a polite, blank mask.
"How do you do Mr
Emerson," Jules smiled back, switching to English smoothly. "Of course I've heard of your
father--and your mother. They're both
well, I hope?"
Ramses nodded. "They'll be going back to Egypt
soon," he replied courteously.
There was no hint of either unease or boredom in his voice at the
thought of being stuck at this tedious reception for hours to come. "Are you staying in Paris for a
while?"
Jules nodded. "Perhaps we'll run into each other
again," he said with a polite smile, "if you're also staying in
Paris."
"I am going to the Middle East
soon," Ramses said. He almost
sounded regretful. "But perhaps we
will. If you'll excuse me..."
The Englishman weaved his way
through the crowds of people with a catlike grace. Jules watched him go thoughtfully and shrugged to himself in
bemusement. He hoped he'd get a chance
to speak to that young man again later.
And indeed, later he did get another
chance. Jules was standing in a fairly
isolated corner of the room, in need of some time alone to think. He heard a faint rustle and looked up to
find Ramses Emerson standing before him, failing to look nervous. Failing to look like anything in fact; Jules
had never seen such a schooled, expressionless face before. He wondered what the younger man was trying
to hide behind that cool facade.
"I must thank you again, it
appears, sir," Ramses said, sitting down in the chair next to
Jules's. "Why didn't you say
anything earlier?"
Jules half-smiled. "What could I say? Why would anyone believe that I already met
you last night, dressed as a beggar and running away from some rather unsavory
types?"
"It is a difficult
situation," Ramses admitted coolly.
"I'm sorry I didn't realize who you were last night--I probably
wouldn't have come today if I had. My
friend insisted, though, and I was curious to meet you." His thin lips curved infinitesimally
upward. "I was a bit surprised
when I realized I already had," he admitted dryly.
Jules smiled back. "So was I," he said. "I was sure I must have been imagining
things today, but you can't disguise eyes.
And you didn't bother disguising your voice last night."
Ramses shrugged. "I felt sure I'd never see you
again. You were just a Parisian
gentleman, out for a stroll in a rather odd part of town. What were you doing there anyway if I may
ask, sir?" he added, a note of puzzlement creeping into his voice.
"Reminiscing," Jules
replied wryly. "What were you doing there?"
"I suppose I do owe you an
explanation," Ramses said ruminatively.
He paused, quickly collecting his thoughts. "I'd overheard those two men, along with another accomplice,
a few days ago in a cafe I was visiting.
They were planning something I didn't agree with and, fairly sure the
gendarme either wouldn't care or wouldn't believe me, I decided to intervene
myself. Of course I had to go in
disguise," he added, his lips again curling up ever so slightly. "Unfortunately, they found me out anyway
and had split up to chase me when I...ran into you."
"And after you disappeared in
the alley?" Jules asked.
Ramses shrugged. "I slipped away and changed back to my
regular appearance. They won't
recognize me, I assure you. They're not
as observant as you, nor did they get the chance to be." He sounded, if he didn't actually look,
amused.
"A writer's tools," Jules
answered. "I've heard about your
parents, as I said. It sounds like
you're following their footsteps in more ways than one."
The young man's expression remained
particularly blank. "I did what I
thought was necessary."
"Of course," Jules smiled
and stood up. The Englishman followed
suit, waiting patiently for Jules to say more.
Jules held out his hand.
"Since we probably won't meet again--at least, not here and
now--I'll say good-bye to you once again.
It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Emerson."
Ramses shook Jules's hand. "And you, Monsieur Verne."
Jules held the young man's hand an
instant longer, looking up to meet his dark gaze. "Be careful," he said, not entirely sure why. He just kept remembering when he was that
young.
A real--and rare--smile crossed
Ramses's handsome, thin face.
"That is advice my family has always had trouble heeding," he
replied and bowed to Jules before melting into the crowd and disappearing
completely from Jules's sight.
Jules sat down again, needing a few
more minutes alone. He grinned to
himself. A very intriguing young man
indeed.
