MAURICE
- Chapter Two -
Night sprang forth out of the heavens
(Homer, "The Odyssey")
It was a busy evening inside the =Aurora=. Not as busy, though, as the evening outside the =Aurora=. The wind had been picking up for quite some time now, a nasty, gusty wind that blew apparently from everywhere at once and that was, in all likelihood, going to grow into a full-fledged storm.
"It is not good, master. There is only this much speed to use!" Passepartout cried. Phileas, by his side at the steering ball, went to the windows and back, eyeing the weather as though it was a personal enemy.
"Well, then =do= something else, man! Burn something! Don't we need to lose weight, throw some chairs overboard? There must be something we can do to outrun the storm!" Phileas's voice carried a slight edge of uncertainty. He was asking a miracle from his resourceful valet, and he knew it. Yet the frustration was too big for him to bear alone.
"No, master," Passepartout explained patiently. "The ship has to be this heavy or we are not steering well. This is the fastness it gets for now, Master. The winds are cross."
"I'll bet they are," Phileas grumbled, and turned to the table where Rebecca, braced against one of the walls, was working feverishly on the decryptions. Normally the gondola of the =Aurora= was as stable as a barge, but tonight, with the ship being forced to its top speed in what looked like an impending gale, everything rocked and shook as if the dirigible was the frailest of skiffs.
"Anything new?" Phileas asked as he approached his cousin. Rebecca took the pencil from between her teeth and made a note.
"There's some more data about the double-agent," she said, grimly. "Mostly rendezvous places in Paris and Calais. They sent him orders to assassinate Jules in a way that would not raise the Service's suspicions. Oh, to think that he's been aware of Jules's connection to us for so long..." Rebecca checked herself on time. She couldn't afford rage now.
"Passepartout says we can't go any faster," Phileas said. "He estimates we will be in Paris tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow!?" Rebecca's head snapped up from the documents.
Her expression was so intense that Phileas made an unconscious placating gesture with one hand. "It took us almost three days to get here!" he said. "If we stop for nothing in the world, the weather doesn't delay us, and the =Aurora= can hold this pace, we might make it in that time."
"Well, then, let's get down, send a cable to Chatsworth!" Rebecca's hands moved in the air as if sending the telegram herself. "This is =Jules= we're talking about, Phileas!"
"I =know=!" he all but shouted. "But the cable will take half a day to reach Chatsworth, and he'll take at least a day to send someone, and another day to get there, and meanwhile we'll be hopelessly delayed. We're Jules's best hope right now. Keep working on those files. Anything they were planning for Jules will be there."
"I don't need you to tell me what to do," Rebecca hissed. Phileas stood still as a rock for a moment, against the heaving background of the gondola. Rebecca recognized the instinctive change in balance, the body poised for attack, the utter, coiled stillness of his whole frame: Phileas was angry. She took a breath to say something, to apologize. But Phileas's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
"It's all right," he said, softly. "I'm going to relieve Passepartout. Carry on." Phileas left her and went to the steering ball, where Passepartout was trying to keep the ship stable. The valet looked tired, and Phileas patted him on the shoulder. "Go get some rest," he told him.
"Master, I can..." the valet's protest was cut short by Phileas's raised hand.
"No, Passepartout," he said, gently but firmly. "You can't. Now it's the time for you to rest a little. We will need you if the weather gets worse. We'll take turns: first you, then Rebecca, then me."
"I'll go make some tea for you, before," the Frenchman said, as a compromise, as Phileas took the steering ball and began to check the controls.
"Thank you."
Passepartout turned, then stopped, and went back to Phileas's side, his face anxious. "Master... We are arriving in time for Jules, no?"
Phileas looked for a moment into the worried face of his valet. Passepartout hadn't asked a single question, bless him, since they'd arrived at the =Aurora= at a gallop and told him to get it airborne right this very minute, man, this very second if not sooner, and plot the fastest route to Paris. He'd heard their somewhat confused account of the danger that threatened Jules while laying out a course, and had not wasted a single moment in preparing the ship for the journey. Now that the course was laid and the ship going as fast as it was possible, he could worry. And he was.
"Yes, we are, Passepartout. I give you my word, we are."
Passepartout smiled, with absolute confidence in him. Phileas's smile was a little sad; his word had not been honored before. Fate had made a perjurer of him too many times. Not by any fault of his own, perhaps. But if he insisted on flinging himself against steel walls time and time again, why should he be surprised if the outcome was a painful one?
_But not this time. Please, Lord, not this time._
He grasped the steering-globe firmly with his long hands, and set the =Aurora= on her course with all the determination of one setting the paths of the stars.
* * *
Jules's social views were suffering a heavy attack after the first hours of Maurice's presence in his life. He returned from his lesson to find the garret clean and tidy, his meager possessions in perfect condition, and all the windows scrubbed. The panes were made of cheap glass, full of bubbles and imperfections, but stripped of its decade-old coat of grime, the glass let the soft orange light of the Parisian sunset into the small room, where it shone off everything that could possibly be persuaded to shine. A chipped mug in the windowsill held a little spray of daisies and marigolds. The floors had been scrubbed, the cobwebs eliminated from the nooks and crannies in the old ceiling, and his bed linen had been hung to dry over a makeshift clothesline that ran from side to side of the room. A small cot had appeared next to the door.
"Good evening, s- Jules," Maurice said. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, much like Passepartout, except Maurice's waistcoat was an unobtrusive grey instead of the black-and-yellow stripes of his French friend. He was stirring something that smelled wonderful, in a small cauldron over the stove.
"Maurice, good evening. You've done wonders with this place. I never thought it would be possible, but you have proven me wrong."
"Thank you, s-. Um. Thank you. I hope you will find everything to your taste. I haven't touched your papers; I know that scholars don't usually like anyone to touch their work. But in case you want to archive something, I got this."
He produced an old wooden crate. It had been cleaned up, and any possible splinters had been removed. Jules was still somewhat taken aback by his new status as "scholar".
"Oh, good idea, yes, this will do very well. This is, this is all wonderful. Even flowers!"
"I got them from the florist girl when I went down to buy some groceries. The stems were broken and the flowers were not suitable for a bouquet anymore. I hope you don't mind."
"No, not at all, not at all."
"Since the situation is... somewhat unusual, I cannot possibly retire to my quarters for dinner. I thought I might serve you dinner first."
"Nonsense," Jules said promptly, and was shocked to realize that he had sounded exactly like Phileas. "I believe I have two plates and certainly two forks. We can share the knife. But you will dine with me."
It was a good dinner. Maurice had prepared a chicken casserole, and they also had bread, fruit and cheese. A simple enough meal, nothing that would cause Jules any social discomfort. They didn't have wine, but Maurice prepared a pot of coffee and they sat together to drink it. The valet seemed to have come to terms with his bizarre master and relaxed somewhat. Jules only had to remind him about the 'sir' bit once every hour or so.
"You have a slight accent," Jules remarked when they were drinking their second cup of coffee. Maurice smiled his incongruously shy smile.
"Yes? Yes. I'm Belgian, you see," he said, in a slightly apologetic tone that Jules found odd.
"Oh? Where from?" The coffee was a bit weak, but good, and put Jules in mind of Passepartout's excellent coffee. He wondered if he could keep Maurice, and if Passepartout would get along with the young man.
"Knokke."
He had never heard of it. It had a good sound, though. Perhaps it would make a nice location for one of his stories. "Is it nice?"
"Yes, very. But small." Maurice's attention was fixed on his cup of coffee. He stirred it, quite unnecessarily, and took a sip.
"So, do you prefer the city, then?" Jules prodded gently.
"It has advantages for people in my profession," Maurice said, and then rose to take away the cups and the coffee pot. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Jules rebuked himself for his curiosity. It must not be proper, either. He wished he had paid more attention to the way Fogg conducted himself around his staff at Shillingworth. Even with Passepartout, Fogg rarely started any idle chitchat, and if he had any curiosity about Passepartout's past or his background, he never showed it. To hide his little gaffe, Jules stood up and went to get his coat, only to find that Maurice had anticipated his intention and was handing it to him.
"Are you going out?" the valet asked, giving the coat a light brushing that, in Jules's opinion, the garment didn't deserve at all.
"I usually go to the café for a glass of wine with my friends. Would you like to come?"
Jules could almost guess Maurice's response before it even started. "Oh, it wouldn't be..."
"Proper? Come on, Maurice. Don't worry yourself with all this propriety nonsense. Come and meet my friends. Enjoy this assignment while it lasts."
"Very well... Jules."
Maurice seemed uncomfortable all the way to the café. He insisted on walking half a step behind Jules and walked strangely hunched, head down, hands in his coat's pockets. Jules wondered if he was ashamed of being seen in the company of his master. Or maybe he just didn't like people.
He started turning a corner and was startled to find Maurice's hand on his arm.
"This way is shorter," the valet said, pointing to a dark alley half blocked by rotting wooden crates.
"Well... Yes, but it's not very... nice," Jules finished lamely. He'd made a point of avoiding dark alleys since his friends pointed out, quite vehemently, that no good thing could ever happen to him in a dark alley. They were right, too. Explaining all this to Maurice would be extremely complicated, however. And long.
"We'll cut a good five minutes off the route," Maurice insisted. "I, um, found out this mor- afternoon."
"I don't like the looks of it," Jules said, but, to his surprise, Maurice didn't move.
"It's all right, Jules," he said. "Come on. I'll take care of you."
Maurice went straight into the alley and Jules followed him, swearing to himself.
* * *
End of Chapter Two
- Chapter Two -
Night sprang forth out of the heavens
(Homer, "The Odyssey")
It was a busy evening inside the =Aurora=. Not as busy, though, as the evening outside the =Aurora=. The wind had been picking up for quite some time now, a nasty, gusty wind that blew apparently from everywhere at once and that was, in all likelihood, going to grow into a full-fledged storm.
"It is not good, master. There is only this much speed to use!" Passepartout cried. Phileas, by his side at the steering ball, went to the windows and back, eyeing the weather as though it was a personal enemy.
"Well, then =do= something else, man! Burn something! Don't we need to lose weight, throw some chairs overboard? There must be something we can do to outrun the storm!" Phileas's voice carried a slight edge of uncertainty. He was asking a miracle from his resourceful valet, and he knew it. Yet the frustration was too big for him to bear alone.
"No, master," Passepartout explained patiently. "The ship has to be this heavy or we are not steering well. This is the fastness it gets for now, Master. The winds are cross."
"I'll bet they are," Phileas grumbled, and turned to the table where Rebecca, braced against one of the walls, was working feverishly on the decryptions. Normally the gondola of the =Aurora= was as stable as a barge, but tonight, with the ship being forced to its top speed in what looked like an impending gale, everything rocked and shook as if the dirigible was the frailest of skiffs.
"Anything new?" Phileas asked as he approached his cousin. Rebecca took the pencil from between her teeth and made a note.
"There's some more data about the double-agent," she said, grimly. "Mostly rendezvous places in Paris and Calais. They sent him orders to assassinate Jules in a way that would not raise the Service's suspicions. Oh, to think that he's been aware of Jules's connection to us for so long..." Rebecca checked herself on time. She couldn't afford rage now.
"Passepartout says we can't go any faster," Phileas said. "He estimates we will be in Paris tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow!?" Rebecca's head snapped up from the documents.
Her expression was so intense that Phileas made an unconscious placating gesture with one hand. "It took us almost three days to get here!" he said. "If we stop for nothing in the world, the weather doesn't delay us, and the =Aurora= can hold this pace, we might make it in that time."
"Well, then, let's get down, send a cable to Chatsworth!" Rebecca's hands moved in the air as if sending the telegram herself. "This is =Jules= we're talking about, Phileas!"
"I =know=!" he all but shouted. "But the cable will take half a day to reach Chatsworth, and he'll take at least a day to send someone, and another day to get there, and meanwhile we'll be hopelessly delayed. We're Jules's best hope right now. Keep working on those files. Anything they were planning for Jules will be there."
"I don't need you to tell me what to do," Rebecca hissed. Phileas stood still as a rock for a moment, against the heaving background of the gondola. Rebecca recognized the instinctive change in balance, the body poised for attack, the utter, coiled stillness of his whole frame: Phileas was angry. She took a breath to say something, to apologize. But Phileas's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
"It's all right," he said, softly. "I'm going to relieve Passepartout. Carry on." Phileas left her and went to the steering ball, where Passepartout was trying to keep the ship stable. The valet looked tired, and Phileas patted him on the shoulder. "Go get some rest," he told him.
"Master, I can..." the valet's protest was cut short by Phileas's raised hand.
"No, Passepartout," he said, gently but firmly. "You can't. Now it's the time for you to rest a little. We will need you if the weather gets worse. We'll take turns: first you, then Rebecca, then me."
"I'll go make some tea for you, before," the Frenchman said, as a compromise, as Phileas took the steering ball and began to check the controls.
"Thank you."
Passepartout turned, then stopped, and went back to Phileas's side, his face anxious. "Master... We are arriving in time for Jules, no?"
Phileas looked for a moment into the worried face of his valet. Passepartout hadn't asked a single question, bless him, since they'd arrived at the =Aurora= at a gallop and told him to get it airborne right this very minute, man, this very second if not sooner, and plot the fastest route to Paris. He'd heard their somewhat confused account of the danger that threatened Jules while laying out a course, and had not wasted a single moment in preparing the ship for the journey. Now that the course was laid and the ship going as fast as it was possible, he could worry. And he was.
"Yes, we are, Passepartout. I give you my word, we are."
Passepartout smiled, with absolute confidence in him. Phileas's smile was a little sad; his word had not been honored before. Fate had made a perjurer of him too many times. Not by any fault of his own, perhaps. But if he insisted on flinging himself against steel walls time and time again, why should he be surprised if the outcome was a painful one?
_But not this time. Please, Lord, not this time._
He grasped the steering-globe firmly with his long hands, and set the =Aurora= on her course with all the determination of one setting the paths of the stars.
* * *
Jules's social views were suffering a heavy attack after the first hours of Maurice's presence in his life. He returned from his lesson to find the garret clean and tidy, his meager possessions in perfect condition, and all the windows scrubbed. The panes were made of cheap glass, full of bubbles and imperfections, but stripped of its decade-old coat of grime, the glass let the soft orange light of the Parisian sunset into the small room, where it shone off everything that could possibly be persuaded to shine. A chipped mug in the windowsill held a little spray of daisies and marigolds. The floors had been scrubbed, the cobwebs eliminated from the nooks and crannies in the old ceiling, and his bed linen had been hung to dry over a makeshift clothesline that ran from side to side of the room. A small cot had appeared next to the door.
"Good evening, s- Jules," Maurice said. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, much like Passepartout, except Maurice's waistcoat was an unobtrusive grey instead of the black-and-yellow stripes of his French friend. He was stirring something that smelled wonderful, in a small cauldron over the stove.
"Maurice, good evening. You've done wonders with this place. I never thought it would be possible, but you have proven me wrong."
"Thank you, s-. Um. Thank you. I hope you will find everything to your taste. I haven't touched your papers; I know that scholars don't usually like anyone to touch their work. But in case you want to archive something, I got this."
He produced an old wooden crate. It had been cleaned up, and any possible splinters had been removed. Jules was still somewhat taken aback by his new status as "scholar".
"Oh, good idea, yes, this will do very well. This is, this is all wonderful. Even flowers!"
"I got them from the florist girl when I went down to buy some groceries. The stems were broken and the flowers were not suitable for a bouquet anymore. I hope you don't mind."
"No, not at all, not at all."
"Since the situation is... somewhat unusual, I cannot possibly retire to my quarters for dinner. I thought I might serve you dinner first."
"Nonsense," Jules said promptly, and was shocked to realize that he had sounded exactly like Phileas. "I believe I have two plates and certainly two forks. We can share the knife. But you will dine with me."
It was a good dinner. Maurice had prepared a chicken casserole, and they also had bread, fruit and cheese. A simple enough meal, nothing that would cause Jules any social discomfort. They didn't have wine, but Maurice prepared a pot of coffee and they sat together to drink it. The valet seemed to have come to terms with his bizarre master and relaxed somewhat. Jules only had to remind him about the 'sir' bit once every hour or so.
"You have a slight accent," Jules remarked when they were drinking their second cup of coffee. Maurice smiled his incongruously shy smile.
"Yes? Yes. I'm Belgian, you see," he said, in a slightly apologetic tone that Jules found odd.
"Oh? Where from?" The coffee was a bit weak, but good, and put Jules in mind of Passepartout's excellent coffee. He wondered if he could keep Maurice, and if Passepartout would get along with the young man.
"Knokke."
He had never heard of it. It had a good sound, though. Perhaps it would make a nice location for one of his stories. "Is it nice?"
"Yes, very. But small." Maurice's attention was fixed on his cup of coffee. He stirred it, quite unnecessarily, and took a sip.
"So, do you prefer the city, then?" Jules prodded gently.
"It has advantages for people in my profession," Maurice said, and then rose to take away the cups and the coffee pot. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Jules rebuked himself for his curiosity. It must not be proper, either. He wished he had paid more attention to the way Fogg conducted himself around his staff at Shillingworth. Even with Passepartout, Fogg rarely started any idle chitchat, and if he had any curiosity about Passepartout's past or his background, he never showed it. To hide his little gaffe, Jules stood up and went to get his coat, only to find that Maurice had anticipated his intention and was handing it to him.
"Are you going out?" the valet asked, giving the coat a light brushing that, in Jules's opinion, the garment didn't deserve at all.
"I usually go to the café for a glass of wine with my friends. Would you like to come?"
Jules could almost guess Maurice's response before it even started. "Oh, it wouldn't be..."
"Proper? Come on, Maurice. Don't worry yourself with all this propriety nonsense. Come and meet my friends. Enjoy this assignment while it lasts."
"Very well... Jules."
Maurice seemed uncomfortable all the way to the café. He insisted on walking half a step behind Jules and walked strangely hunched, head down, hands in his coat's pockets. Jules wondered if he was ashamed of being seen in the company of his master. Or maybe he just didn't like people.
He started turning a corner and was startled to find Maurice's hand on his arm.
"This way is shorter," the valet said, pointing to a dark alley half blocked by rotting wooden crates.
"Well... Yes, but it's not very... nice," Jules finished lamely. He'd made a point of avoiding dark alleys since his friends pointed out, quite vehemently, that no good thing could ever happen to him in a dark alley. They were right, too. Explaining all this to Maurice would be extremely complicated, however. And long.
"We'll cut a good five minutes off the route," Maurice insisted. "I, um, found out this mor- afternoon."
"I don't like the looks of it," Jules said, but, to his surprise, Maurice didn't move.
"It's all right, Jules," he said. "Come on. I'll take care of you."
Maurice went straight into the alley and Jules followed him, swearing to himself.
* * *
End of Chapter Two