1862, Paris, Latin Quarter, the intersection of Rue Monge and Rue Des Ecoles
Three years ago Professor Franchot had told Verne how fortunate the Romans were to be dead. They didn't have to suffer his Latin -- while the good professor, on the other hand, did.
Verne had always done well with living languages, like English, that he could practice by just visiting a café. With Latin he'd struggled. Dead dialects were so, well, dead. But he'd written out a few of his favorite Latin mottoes and tacked up them among the other oddments on his walls. His favorite had been a quote from Horace, "Aut insanit homo aut versus facit" -- he's either going crazy or he's writing a verse.
At the moment Jules Verne was doing both.
Despite the half bottle of wine he'd drunk at Nadar's party a few hours ago, or perhaps because of it, words tumbled off Verne's cold fingers and onto the paper. He shivered with the divineness of it all -- the inspiration, the passion, the icy temperature of the room.
#The day whispers frost to the night ...#
Across the room the bed's ropes creaked as its occupant shifted. Burgaud had once again forced him out of bed. Not that his new roommate was a big man or pushy; more of a mouse, and actually even a little shorter than Verne. Verne glanced up from his song lyrics as Burgaud shifted, but his bedmate's blue eyes were still closed. He had merely rolled over. The short brush of his silver blond hair made a bright contrast to the yellowed pillow cover, individual hairs glistened in the lamplight.
Pulling his blanket closer about him, Verne rubbed his nose and looked around the room. A rank odor underlay the room's usual cold musky mold and tickle of dust. Something dead had begun to decay in a wall, or perhaps the chamber pot needed to be emptied and cleaned. Of course, with the two of them there, the pot was used twice as often. Tomorrow they would swap chores. It would be Burgaud's turn to dump slops while Verne was to fetch the fresh water. He decided to wait for morning.
For much of this term Verne's life had followed the old pre-Count Gregory rhythm of class and study, an ordinary one-two beat. Boringly ordinary, almost like walking. Over the two past years Verne had gotten used to a living at a dead run. Associating with the Foggs required one to be fast on one's feet. Verne glanced wistfully at the window, rather hoping for the glare of Aurora's navigation lights and Phileas Fogg striding down her gangplank to whisk him away to a crisis of earth-shattering proportions.
Verne hadn't seen the Foggs for nearly two months. He missed them.
#Supple evening slips from my hand ...#
Verne had not been able to sleep in his own bed in two days, ever since he had agreed to share expenses with Burgaud and the little freshman had moved in. The appartement had only the one bed. That meant the two students shared, at least until Madame Ludek the landlady could be persuaded to install another. And she'd probably want to raise the rent for the additional furniture, so for now they made do. Even splitting the rent could help only so much, and Burgaud had paid just enough for the remaining three weeks of the semester, with promises of more after the Christmas holiday.
When the necessity of sharing had been put to him, Burgaud had hesitated a moment but then agreed readily enough to bundling on the narrow mattress, recounting how until a few years ago he'd shared a bed with his three brothers -- two of them at the head and two at the foot -- until they'd all grown so big they kicked each other out.
As eldest son, Verne had never slept with anyone at home, but he'd thought he could manage, especially if it meant halving the rent. He'd been wrong. Every time Burgie – he'd insisted on being called Burgie – rolled over, Verne woke up. In two days Verne had slept no more than three hours.
#The deep hours of tomorrow call to my #... my what?
Verne threw down his pen. The rest of the song had vanished. Something about the endless circle of time, wasn't it? He gazed morosely at his shaded oil lamp, the wick burning at full since they could afford it. Also, for the first time in months he had a thick stack of fine paper under his hand and a large full bottle of ink. If he were hungry, there was bread, wine and cheese in the cupboard.
He hadn't eaten so well since his last trip on the Aurora, when Passepartout had prepared that wonderful rack of lamb. Even Fogg had conceded his valet a "well done." And Passepartout had been unable to resist replying: "But is rare, master!" They'd all laughed at the horrible pun, even Fogg. When had that been? Before the beginning of the term, nearly three months ago. They'd been returning from Russia and, unlike tonight, it had been most wonderfully warm.
Verne decided that he'd like a bit of cheese. Just to settle his stomach from the wine. He should eat while he had the food, and this song looked like a dead set of lines. Maybe a bit of the good cheese would rekindle the magic. With the boning knife one of Madame Ludek's prior renters had filched from a butcher, Verne cut a generous slice of mimolette from the orange ball. The glorious mild tidbit melted in his mouth, with not a hint of mold or decay. Verne sighed in gustatory bliss and sliced another.
Nadar had made it sound so reasonable -- a roommate to help with the rent, a bright fellow too young for bad habits. And Verne had needed the money to finish out the term. He could get more from pére at Christmas, but until then his pockets were to let. Felix could be so persuasive. "Look at the boy, Verne, he won't even eat his share of the food." Verne wondered where Nadar had found Burgie and what benefit he'd derive. Nadar did nothing without a personal and usually pecuniary motive. If the man were not such an artist with that magic camera of his, Verne would have thought the man lacked a soul. He certainly lacked morals.
Unfortunately, this arrangement with Burgie was not going to work out. Verne's younger brother Paul was more mature than his new roommate. At least Paul was no longer shy about his body. Burgie pulled the curtain every time he used the chamber pot and had even demanded that Verne turn away while he changed to his nightshirt and climbed into bed. It seemed childish when the narrow bed brought them so close together that Verne could feel Burgie's sharp elbows pressing his back.
And that was the crux of the matter: Two people absolutely could #not# sleep on that bed. Not when one of them was Verne. He was too used to rolling about freely and flinging out his arms. This whole business made him feel squeezed.
Still ... it would be hard to give up the little luxuries -- the extra lamp oil, the paper, the cheese -- even for the sake of regaining his bed and his privacy.
And it wasn't Burgie's fault. Actually the little fellow was quite sweet. He'd been thrilled to find a place to stay after his former roommate had married and moved out. Last night when Nadar offered a toast to their new arrangement, Burgie had thrown his arm around Verne's shoulders and addressed him as "tu." Burgie had seemed a little drunk, but the chummily intimate personal pronoun had surprised Verne, who had never "tu'd" anyone in his life outside his family ... except Passepartout, of course. And he and Rebecca sometimes used "tu" when Fogg wasn't about.
That last memory gave Verne a warm glow. If only Rebecca could see him as a man ... She treated him more like a brother -- and a baby brother, at that. But it was the middle of a chill night, and he needed any warmth he could get. It wouldn't hurt to fantasize a little. If only he were sleeping with the luscious Rebecca, her red hair fanned over his arm, her lips yearning to reach his ...
The next line of his song floated into Verne's mind. Feverishly, he dipped pen in ink and applied it to the paper.
# The deep hours of tomorrow call to my heart ... #no better,# sing to my heart of ...#
1862, Paris, Rue du Mont-Cenis
"Well, you cannot go to Verne's appartement like that, Yvette," Franz had pointed out. He was right, of course, and there was no help for it. Desperate as Yvette was to fly to the aid of the Foggs, the barest essentials of accoutrement would still require at least a half hour of hard work.
First, there were the pantalette and the chemise, all over the naked skin. Well and good. Next, while she could still bend over, there were the stockings and the shoes. That required the long-handled shoehorn and the buttonhook, both of which unfortunately were mislaid. Franz and she both had to hunt for them for several minutes. Fastening the sixteen shoe buttons one by one stole still more time, and proved an effort when her hands trembled so.
She had a bad moment when an evil smell floated through the room, but it was just Franz about his business. She lit a candle and it quickly dispersed.
The corset took the longest, even with Franz interrupting his shaving to help her pull and tie. His fingers slipped on the strings in his haste. He took the time, however, as he always did, to put his own special, complicated knot at the bottom and to kiss the back of her neck. "You're mine," he reminded her. "I've tied you to me." Franz could be so distracting. And really, to suggest that a lady her age had another lover! Such a flatterer. Maybe they could take just a few minutes ... No, her corset was already on and Franz nearly dressed. She knew from experience that it would be dreadfully uncomfortable for them both. She pushed him back and blew a kiss.
"Hurry, love."
The final pieces went on with good speed – the corset cover slipped on quickly over her head; and she simply stepped into the stiffened crinoline that stood in a corner of the bedroom like a huge birdcage waiting for an occupant.
"Yvette, love, are you ready enough? Shall I fetch a cab?" Franz asked as he helped her finish the fastenings of her burgundy dress, she using the hook and he his fingers to slip the little round buttons through their loops.
Franz had cut himself in two places while shaving with his straight razor. Small beads of blood welled and Yvette dabbed at them with a towel, nodding impatiently in answer to his question. "Yes, go. Georges should be at his stand by the hotel. He owes me for that last séance with his dead Aunt Ive. He has the black and silver affair with a bay horse, one white stocking on the left fore. Perhaps you've seen him? No? Well, he does prefer the daylight crowd." As he left, Franz acknowledged her final words with a hand wave.
With fierce swipes of her brush Yvette half-tamed her gray streaked hair into a bun. She hid the resultant calamity under a large hat trimmed with black ostrich tips. Slipping on her jacket, she had just picked up her black gloves when Franz returned. He panted from his run up and down the stairs.
While Yvette pulled on her gloves and buttoned up her jacket, Franz took a moment to lean against the wall and catch his breath. When she looked to be ready, he held the door open. "Yvette, your cabman won't wait long!" His breathing had slowed down but he still felt a little light-headed.
Georges had turned out to be a rather surly middle-aged man. As Yvette had promised, he'd been pulled up before the hotel one block down. When Franz crossed the street to hail him, a coal dray pulled by two grays nearly ran him down. In the chill morning the team's breath had puffed white. They'd so resembled dragons breathing fire that Franz had looked for the flames. Their driver had cursed an equally thick cloud of foul words.
Georges had agreed to come only after Franz invoked the name of Aunt Ive.
As Yvette was about to leave, she stopped and turned back. "The address! I must find Jules Verne's address!" She opened the top drawer of her highboy and riffled through a rat's nest of scrap paper and cards.
"Yvette!" Franz rasped. Georges might take off at any moment. A cabman wouldn't lack for customers on a morning like this -- chill with a threat of rain.
A cry of triumph. "Here! Here it is!" She held up a small card and started toward the door, but halted abruptly once again. "Wait one moment more! I must go prepared for the worst." She ran back to the highboy, her skirts bouncing up and down with her long, un-lady-like strides, and pulled out the bottom drawer. From a welter of chemises, pantalettes and corset covers she lifted out her crystal ball, a perfectly milled quartz orb as big as Franz's fist and as clear as fine glass. She slipped it into a black velvet bag.
Franz waited at Yvette's door, alternately peering down the flight of stairs -- to confirm that Georges was still there -- and looking up and down the hall in case Yvette's neighbors should wake and thrust out their heads. He wasn't so much exasperated by her delays as afraid -- afraid of Lazarus, afraid of whom his next victim would be. Yvette had been but one. Lazarus would not stop at one. Lazarus had never stopped at anything.
Phileas Fogg had executed the man Lazarus had been and was probably in the greatest danger. Vengeance seemed to be a fire that burned quite as brightly in Hell as it did on the corporeal plane. But Lazarus would strike whomever he could, however he could. Rebecca Fogg, Jules Verne, himself, they were all in jeopardy.
Yvette halted at Franz's side and placed a gloved hand on his arm. She saw past his knitted brows and pinched eyes and into his dread. "Don't worry, Franz. Lazarus must obey God, as do we all."
"Of course, Yvette. You and I, we've stopped him before." Franz gave her a quick kiss and took her hand. They sped down the stairs.
1862, Paris, the Latin Quarter, the intersection of Rue Monge and Rue Des Ecoles
Burgie didn't want to get out of bed. Verne had tossed for hours last night and kept them both sleepless until the small hours. Waking up had not been a pleasure.
Yes, there it was again: Someone pounding at the door of the appartement. A husky male voice called, "Monsieur Verne, are you there?"
Burgie sat up, moving carefully in case Verne still slept -- although that seemed unlikely given the racket. As it turned out, the care had been less than pointless. Jules Verne hadn't even been in bed. He sat at the table, his head resting on his folded arms, one of the thin blankets wrapped around his shoulders. Verne's eyes were firmly closed, but in the gray morning light Burgie could see his eyeballs shift back and forth under shadowed lids. A scowl moved around the sleeping face, furrowing his forehead and twitching his lips. Verne seemed deep in a dream. It didn't look like a nice one.
It must still be an unholy early hour. #Surely too early for callers,# Burgie thought, #even in this decadent excuse for a city.# Soft daylight nipped and tucked through a thin curtain that covered most of the large window. A drop of condensation ran down the cold glass. Perhaps eight o'clock. A full day not yet at its full strength.
The door rattled again. The callers were being most abominably loud. Verne's landlady Madame Ludek would be here at any moment. Burgie glanced at Verne again. "Verne?" #No, much too shrill. Don't forget your pitch.# "Verne?" An octave lower. #That's better.#
Verne still hadn't stirred. Too much wine, most likely.
Burgie debated the merits of waking Verne versus answering the door. The latter seemed more expeditious and by far the wiser course since Madame Ludek in the grand tradition of all landladies had a viperous tongue.
Quickly slipping on trousers, Burgie buttoned up the fly while stumbling barefoot up the three steps to the rattling door. A young, heedless student wouldn't bother with tucking in the nightshirt, so Burgie left it hanging out. It bunched up under the braces. While breath didn't steam in the chill, it came damn close; and Burgie wished this young, heedless student had paused to slip on a pair of socks. The floor was enough to frostbite one's toes. Too late now. Best chalk it up to artistic sacrifice, like the butchered hair, and dispense with these callers and get back to the bed.
A husky woman's voice spoke the names "Fogg" and "Passepartout" on the other side of the door. Burgie hurried to lift the latch and pull it open.
When Verne didn't answer the door at once, Yvette grew frantic. Franz tried to point out the earliness of the hour, but Yvette would not be comforted. "I'm not sure this is the right thing," she exclaimed for the third or fourth time. "What can young Verne do? It is Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg and Passepartout who are in the gravest danger. Perhaps we should try to cable them in London."
The door opened behind Yvette. She stopped speaking and spun around with a rustle of her wide skirt. The entry framed a young man with pale hair. Much shorter than average height, he stood on small, bare feet and looked as though he might contract a chill to his soul through the floorboards. Clearly he was none too pleased to answer the door on such a frigid morning.
Yvette panicked. Were they at the wrong address? Had Verne moved? "You're not Jules Verne. Where is Jules Verne?"
Franz's laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Yvette, calm down."
Despite his half-robed state, the blond young man had pretty manners. "Madame, Monsieur Verne sleeps. I am his new roommate, Burgaud Burdett. If you would like ... " Burdett's high tenor voice verged on soprano. The cold must have put a chill on his throat.
With a sharp movement of her shoulders, Yvette moved past him, her boned crinoline forcing the boy back and away from the door. "He is here? He sleeps? We must wake him immediately! He cannot sleep unprepared! Lazarus will steal his wits!"
She was down the three steps and half way to Jules before the blond youth spun about. With an exclamation of anger, he started after her. Franz stayed him with a hand and a plea. "My apologies, Monsieur Burdett. But this is urgent. The Lazarus spirit is most malevolent, and Yvette intends Monsieur Verne no harm. She only means to wake him. I am Doctor Franz Draquot. This is Madame Yvette Soretsky."
Burdett's head wavered between Franz's introductions and Yvette attempts to shake Verne awake. "A malevolent spirit, you say? You mean a ghost?" The boy's voice had been even, but his eyes were as round as coins and his face very pale.
Franz nodded gravely, "Indeed, a ghost." The boy needed the truth, and Franz was pleased to see Burdett remained steady.
Yvette deposited her crystal ball on the table, the quartz clunking solidly on the oak through its black velvet bag. Pulling up a chair, she sat down next to Verne. She patted his exposed cheek and whispered entreaties for him to awake. Verne did not respond.
"Mon dieu!" Yvette cried. "Franz, Lazarus has him even now! I can smell his evil! He is here!"
Verne reacted violently to the name of Lazarus. His arms flailed across the table in a blind sweep. He knocked a small stack of closely written paper to the floor. A large bottle of ink followed. Thick sinuous snakes of black ink ran across the cursive writing and onto the floorboards.
Verne thrashed about. He came perilously close to oversetting the table and dumping his guttering lamp and Yvette's crystal ball alike on the floor. She leapt up and snatched them away and stood back in frustration. Franz hastened to join her, followed more slowly by Burdett. Yvette's eyes pled with Franz. Love had done what it could. It was time for the doctor of ethereal science to make a cure.
Very similar events had occurred just a few hours ago, when, in her frenzy, slender Yvette had nearly overcome him; and Franz knew Verne possessed considerably more muscle. "We must prevent him from harming himself." Franz indicated for Yvette to set down her burdens and take one of Verne's flailing arms. He grasped the other. They had to hold on tight as Verne became more and more agitated. "Do you have any water?" Franz asked Burdett, who stood an arm's length away. The boy spun quickly on his bare feet and fetched a sloshing tin bucket from a dark corner.
"Is he having a fit?" Burdett asked, but Franz had not a moment to deliver a professional opinion. With one hand he let go of Verne's arm to reach for the bucket and said, "No. We need to wake ... "
He didn't finish the sentence. Whatever nightmare Lazarus inflicted on Verne reached a crisis. His eyes blindly open, Verne attempted to surge to his feet. He successfully pulled out of Franz's one-handed grip, but Yvette didn't yield her handhold. She pulled back hard to prevent an escape. Too hard. She over-balanced and together she and Verne tumbled to the floor.
Verne's chair flew out, striking Franz in the shins with a side stretcher. It nearly knocked him to the floor. He cried out in pain and staggered.
Burdett, who stood further away, hopped back to preserve his bare toes from being smacked by the falling chair. He swung the water bucket out at arm's length in a wild attempt to balance.
The chair landed on the floor with a rattle of ancient, dry oak.
Some of the loose sheets of paper on the floor had scudded away from the falling bodies. Others clung to Yvette and Verne, tenuously adhered to their clothes and skin by wet streaks of ink.
Verne's nightmare had apparently proceeded to violence. Rolling onto Yvette, he buried his knees in her puffy crinoline and throttled her. His eyes were empty of either sense or hope. Wordless despair keened past lips drawn unbearably tight. The hands around Yvette's throat squeezed tighter and tighter. Yvette's arms struck the floor in fruitless efforts to rise. Her eyes bulged.
Franz limped a few steps closer to Burdett and snatched the water bucket from his hand. "Stand back!" If this didn't work, he'd have to strike Verne down – but that would leave the boy still vulnerable to Lazarus's horrors and dangerous to them all. Verne needed to #awake#! Franz tossed the half-bucket of chill water into the mad face.
Verne's fingers dug into the uneven scars of Gregory's disgusting throat. The brutal half-metal face laughed up at him. In a few seconds one of Gregory's guards would cut Verne down, but he wanted to die in this position, with Gregory in his grasp. He squeezed and squeezed ...
Instead of the searing pain of a bullet, Verne sputtered from the shock of a cold bath. Icy water ran through his hair, filled his ears and dripped off his chin. He raised one hand to wipe water off his face. Strong hands captured that arm and locked it behind him. "Burgett, if you would grasp his other arm, perhaps we can pull him away from Yvette."
Burgett? Burgie had been murdered with the others ... "On the count of three – one ..." Beneath him the Count's monstrous raw head blurred into that of a woman wearing a comically bedraggled hat trimmed with sodden ostrich feathers.
Yvette Soretsky.
Absurd. They had died, all of them – the Foggs, the students at La Sorbonne, every householder in the city ...
"... two ..."
He recognized the voice, a near-asthmatic wheeze. He'd listened to it lecturing on ethereal science for hours: Doctor Draquot. The doctor was dead too. Every Parisian man, woman and child ... every living creature ... every soul ...
Verne's heart pounded wildly. He sobbed. Nearly a million people must have died.
"... three." With rather more leverage applied to his right arm than his left, Verne was pulled back and up, away from whomever lay on the floor. He reluctantly staggered to his feet. He felt a chair against his calves. He sat down.
He didn't fight or even look to his captors. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to know why they hadn't killed him. He'd wanted to die, and they hadn't obliged. He sat in the chair and concentrated on breathing. In, out. His lungs continued to function, no bullet yet. In, out.
"Ici, Verne. Your towel." Burgie's squeaky tenor was followed by the feel of coarse cotton against his face.
The voices, they were all so perfectly imitated. Surely even the League wouldn't go to such lengths to fool him? Not now, when it didn't matter, when he'd die within minutes. And what was one more death among a million? Verne opened his eyes and looked.
Before his chair Burgie stood on bare white feet proffering a dingy gray towel, the very same one Verne had used daily since arriving at Madame Ludek's. His mother had embroidered the initials "JV" at one end and given it to him in a gaily-wrapped box when he'd left Nantes for his first year at La Sorbonne. Burgie's brows were knitted in concern. His fair skin looked bluish, and this room was damned cold.
Burgie … alive. He looked further. Madame Soretsky sat on the floor, straightening her hat and wiping water from her face. Sopping paper clung to her dress here and there, and her hands were splotched with black ink. With each swipe of her face she left streaks. The madame, Burgie, and -- he looked to his right -- yes, Doctor Draquot held his arm. The good doctor looked into his eyes, nodded and let go.
Sooty Parisian daylight crept through a steamed window. Verne had long and intimate acquaintance with every brick, bare board and curl of pealing plaster around him. He seemed to be in his appartement, not Count Gregory's lair. But the Count had made Verne's eyes lie to him before now. He needed one more confirmation. One wet, shaking hand reached out and touched Burgie's chest. The small warm body felt solidly real. Burgie stepped away with a clearing of the throat. Verne's hand left a smear of ink.
Real. Burgie was real. They were all real. He sagged and Burgie steadied him with a hand. "I saw ... I thought I saw Paris die. Everything. Gone." But it wasn't. It had been a lie after all. Verne's hands flew to his mouth as he tried to suppress the great sobs of relief that threatened to choke him. He gasped, "Oh God … oh God." Tears ran down his face and he rocked in his chair.
Burgie kept a light, reassuring touch on his shoulder and after a few moments Verne's composure began to return and he noticed that Doctor Draquot had helped Madame Soretsky to her feet and into the other chair. He was whispering to her and patting her hand. Their presence could only mean one thing. "Lazarus?" Verne managed to croak as he wiped his eyes with his towel.
Burgie had only one thing in mind -- warm socks. At the moment the most important thing in the world -- more important than this mission or the homeland -- was a pair of dry, warm, woolly socks. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Burgie pulled on the thickest pair from the drawer. Luxury. Toes began to ache with returning sensation.
Verne, the doctor and the madame were engaged in a vociferous discussion regarding the Lazarus ghost. Something fantastical about the poisoning of dreams. But this had been no rêve à deux, or rather quatre, and all three seemed worried about the Foggs; that caught Burgie's attention. Burgie's assignment had been to report anything regarding Phileas Fogg; and until today there had been nothing. Verne hadn't even so much as mentioned the name, although the briefing had made it clear that he and the Foggs were very good friends.
Verne repeatedly apologized for the ruin of Madame Soretsky's couture. The hat and dress didn't look couture to Burgie. More like a copy of a popular Worth imitation of two seasons ago. Maybe three seasons. Burgie had been in training for two years and had had little time since to study the latest fashions. Besides, Verne's trousers and shirt had also been ruined by the ink and water, not to mention Burgie's nightshirt. Only Doctor Draquot had escaped without a blot.
Verne picked up the paper on the floor as he talked. With it he sopped up what water and ink he could and stuffed the whole soggy mass in the tin bucket. Occasionally he peeled a sheet off the floor and held it up to the light. Some of these he set aside on a dry piece of floor. He shook his head over others and threw them in the bucket.
The floor near the table looked to be alive with black beetles and baby snakes. There would be hell to pay -- or at least the damage deposit -- when Madame Ludek saw the stains; not that such pedestrian matters need concern Burgie anymore when this assignment seemed to be progressing into a whole new phase. That made Burgie happy. There would be significant information for the next cable to London and a wonderful opportunity to be noticed in a positive way.
Moving in with Verne had been an ambitious gambit and resulted in endless complications, such as sharing the man's bed, but it looked as though the risk would soon pay off. It had stretched Burgie's powers of disguise to the utmost, but such things looked good in one's record. This would be the first entry in Burgie's. It almost made the sacrificed hair worthwhile. Almost. Burgie's hair had been clear down to the waist. And as beautiful and soft as fine silk. Everyone had said so.
"The fact remains, Doctor Draquot and Madame Soretsky, that you cannot leave for London right now – and I can. And you #will# agree that time is of the essence?" Verne asked earnestly from his kneeling position on the floor.
The doctor had wrapped Madame Soretsky with the one dry blanket they had left – Burgie's, from off the bed – but she still shook like the last leaf on a winter tree. Madame Ludek didn't burn a high enough fire downstairs for the flue to warm Verne's room a great deal, and what heat there was radiated out the thin roof. "Bring me my b-b-ball, Franz, if you please. It's over there."
She gestured to Verne to come sit beside her. Between chattering teeth she said, "Doctor Draquot, his magnificent machine sucked all the energy from Lazarus. The monster c-c-can't steal bodies anymore, so he steals dreams." The doctor placed a black velvet pouch in her hands. She held it out to Verne. "Open it. Take the crystal into your hands. We must learn if Lazarus threatens Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg."
Verne held up both hands in denial. "Madame Soretsky, I am sorry but …"
"Take it. It must be you. The crystal must vibrate to your heartbeat. Many times you have dreamed in the same house as the Foggs, no? I have not. And this is all about dreams. Take it out of the bag, Monsieur Verne."
The doctor added his own exhortation. "She succeeds many times where I fail, Verne. Science doesn't have every answer, and some things we must do on faith. It's worth a try if you care what happens to your friends." The doctor paused. "Trust me, this time there are no hidden wires."
Verne looked at the doctor and licked his lips. His serious face settled into etched lines of resolve. "Well, as long as there are no wires, I might as well try." An ink-stained hand reached into the bag and pulled out a clear ball of what seemed to be glass.
Yvette stroked the backs of Verne's hands, but carefully avoided touching the ball. "Hold it close to your heart, Monsieur Verne. Caress it softly like a lover. There, see? It knows what you want. It is a good crystal. I have filled it with much love. Your touch brings it alight." A pinprick of white floated inside the ball, or did it? Burgie wasn't sure.
Verne moved his hands to hold the ball before him like a viewing lens. Encircling it with only his thumbs and forefingers to permit the light to pass through, he gazed into its depths with a frown. The heads of all four leaned close. "Do you see them, Monsieur Verne?"
Verne's face transformed. "Yes, I see Fogg. He's with Rebecca." He laughed. "They're fighting with pillows!"
"Fighting?" Burgie asked. It must be Phileas Fogg of whom Verne spoke. Burgie could see nothing within the ball.
Verne looked up and laughed. "A mock battle, Burgie! A pillow fight! Fogg's fine! Rebecca's fine!" Verne looked into the ball again and gasped. "It's changing. It's nighttime! Oh no! Oh god! Rebecca!" Verne stood up so fast the back of his head smacked Burgie in the chin.
After that matters proceeded rather rapidly, with Verne vowing to leave for the coast on the next train out of D'Orsay station. If he made it, he'd catch the evening mail packet across the Channel.
Burgie tried to detain him, protesting that if Verne left now, he'd fail his contract law class, not to mention the third-level French history (although that class had no final and, as Verne pointed out, the required paper had already been written and turned in). Verne had frowned. "Burgie, I've repeated Professor Homére's law class so many times, I think I could teach it myself. He'll pass me just to make sure I don't come back. I'm making him look bad as an instructor."
After that Burgie kept quiet. Short of an abduction there seemed no way to prevent Verne's journey; and Burgie had no orders to abduct, just observe and report contacts with Phileas Fogg.
The doctor took Madame Soretsky home in a carriage. Promising to apprise them of future events, Burgie had requested and received the addresses of both the madame and the professor's laboratory. They hadn't seemed to take it amiss, and Burgie had the beginnings of a plan. It might even result in a promotion. One hoped.
Ink had soaked through every layer of cloth Verne had been wearing, requiring him to strip to the skin. Discreetly circling the table to present a back to the disrobing, Burgie sliced some cheese and bread for a petit déjeuner that Verne could carry away. But a mirror hung at just the right angle to observe, and the eyes #would# look, seemingly of their own accord. Burgie sighed and tried to focus on slicing bread. Verne would soon be out of Burgie's sphere of interest. It would be most unwise to become attached.
Verne didn't have many clothes. Half were now an ink-stained ruin and the other half he was donning. Thus he had no need to pack. Things moved faster and faster: A flurry of last minute instructions and apologies for leaving Burgie to deal with Madame Ludek, a quickly dashed cable for immediate dispatch to London, a retrieval of pound notes from behind a loose brick in the wall, two of which he left for expenses and the cable -- "At full rate, please, Burgie. I want Fogg to get this by noon" -- and Verne was out the door.
A shower of heavy raindrops fell on the roof over Burgie's head, sounding much like a fall of lead shot. Burgie leaned out the window, watching for the last sign of Verne. There he was! running head long, trying to make the eleven o'clock train. Verne stopped half way down the block, turned and waved to Burgie, then continued his sprint up Rue Monge in the direction of the Seine. The rain shower seemed to chase him.
Burgie pulled out the cable Verne had left to send Fogg. Striking a lucifer on an exposed brick, Burgie put the flame to one edge and let go of the paper. The small wisp of fire drifted through the raindrops and down to the street. The last bit floated for a moment over the head of an old woman on her way to market before it was consumed.
Closing the window, Burgie knelt and retrieved a blank sheet of paper that had strayed far under the bed. At the table she dipped a pen in the last dregs of ink in the bottle and began to write a new cable:
"Lazarus threatens Fogg. Verne bound London. Request two men to assist me Paris immediately. Hilda Burgetta Von Rolt."