*.*.*

Miss Moneypenny smiled. Verne had been such a romantic. She moved on to Rebecca Fogg, who at least from her cable and most of this first journal entry, seemed to be a very crisp, no-nonsense sort. There was no picture of Rebecca Fogg in the chest . . . there hadn't been of Jules Verne either. Perhaps in a later chest. Miss Fogg's journal entry was dated the same as Jules Verne's.

*.*.*

The cable . . .

To British Secret Service Headquarters, Paris.

Pass code key XXm5678. (Decoded message.) Involvement of Count Gregory confirmed. Facilities Bonander Auvergne site for animal breeding. Arrive Paris tomorrow early morning. Signed, Rebecca Fogg.

From Rebecca Fogg's journal . . .

I shouldn't have left Phileas alone in Paris, that much is clear, and especially shouldn't have set him after Cynara Bonander.

After five days of scouting in Auvergne, I have deduced three things:

First, this is a Count Gregory design. The extensive buildings, railroad spurs and developments bespeak the oceans of money only the League of Darkness can produce.

Second, I inferred only after long study. The Count's current breeding projects are a prelude to a greater goal: an army of perfected warrior beings. Such a long-term plan would be sensible for someone with already 500 years and the expectation of at least 500 more. This plan I deduced in part from a charnel house, the contents of which went unburned one night after I blocked ventilation. Earlier in the day I had watched it filled with bagged bundles. Opened these revealed themselves as grotesque nearly human carcasses. Babies, children, adults, most of them with their heads bashed in, failures one assumes. The sadness of it lay as thick as the stench.

Of the third deduction I remain unsure. The Bonander clan may be involved. I could not gain access to their chateau but in the household trash discovered medication bottles and envelopes labeled "pour assurer la conception" and "pour attirer des hommes."

I must consult with Phileas. Count Gregory may have set Cynara Bonander as a baited hook. If so, should we strike it and follow where it goes?

How easily I forget Phileas's civilian status. Perhaps it would not be wise to put him on such a perilous course. Danger fascinates him so. He plays with his own death as a cat with a mouse. And to tell him Baroness Bonander serves the League of Darkness is more like to send him in hot pursuit, rather than cry him off. If I warn him, will he listen?

*.*.*

Miss Moneypenny glanced at the clock. It was past noontime. Should she pause for a quick bite? No, she just couldn't! The story beckoned, and the next item for entry came from the Phileas Fogg journal! And oh my God the way it began!

*.*.*

In flagrante delicto, "while the fire is blazing." What a ridiculous, polite euphemism for an impossible situation! Not that Rebecca intended to foozle my lovemaking. She would never be so uncouth. I knew that then, and I know it now. So why did we quarrel? The harshness of her words has shaken my heart. My hand still trembles as I drink this brandy. And I don't much care for the labels she assigned me. Libertine I may be, but coward goes too far. I left the Service because I detest its falseness, as she well knows. And I would give my life for her. She knows that too.

My own denunciations scarce bear repeating. Wildly free Rebecca has always been, but "graceless and unnatural" and "uncivilized wanton" were cruel words to use. I would to God I had not said them.

And when Passepartout stumbled from his bed into the middle of our row, I accused him of causing it through careless disregard of his duties. The look on his face as I said those words!

I wonder if for Rebecca this recalled her tryst with Bran Everley. I hope not so, it was long ago and she very young, only seventeen. If Everley had been other than a stable hand, I might even have left them to it. But seeing her on the hay underneath that brute, I assumed the worst. It was fortunate I had only my riding crop to strike him, or I might have broken other than his arm. I suppose it is much to ask that she forget it. I never shall. For three months after she spoke to me only through Erasmus and spent her every free hour with Everley. Cynara's passions are nothing compared to Rebecca's.

The Baroness spoke not during my confrontation with Rebecca but clung to me throughout, as though to claim as much of me as she might. Perhaps we should not have retired to my cabin so soon, but I could not bear to see Rebecca go. And she took all her clothing with her! I tell you truly I am afraid.

After the sound of Rebecca's departure faded, the Baroness and I sat in my cabin, eyeing one another. I poured a tall brandy and drank it down while I thought. Had I been unwise to take this assignment into the boudoir? Had Rebecca tried to signal me a warning? Did she entreat me to end this romance for fair reason? Did I want to? My mind jerked about like a fresh horse on a lead. When Cynara tried to kiss me, I pulled away.

Cynara said, "I see your cousin has not left after all. She's still here with us, isn't she? Perhaps you would prefer her in your bed."

"She is my cousin, Baroness. Nothing more . . . or less," I answered. I went to the door and continued, "I shall see if your coachman has returned."

Should I seek Cynara again? That seems not the question. I must locate Rebecca and apologize for the bitter words spoke this morning, not 'til then shall I rest easy again.

Now it appears Passepartout departed with Rebecca and I have not yet breakfasted or even had my coffee! Devil take Jonathan's paranoia! I should not have obeyed Rebecca's strictures and kept my two most trusted friends in the dark. I'd best get myself over to Verne's hovel. I'm sure that's where Rebecca went and I hope Passepartout with her.

*.*.*

After glancing through the next document for entry, Miss Moneypenny decided she might have to change her mind about Rebecca Fogg. The poor woman did not seem to know herself all that well.

*.*.*

I await Passepartout who seeks temporary storage for my trunks. If he fails, we shall take them to Jules, not as secure from Phileas, but a place nonetheless. I have a few minutes to examine events and discover the workings of my heart.

Why did I let this happen? Why didn't I just shoot that female serpent or roundly tell Phileas of the danger I suspect? Why did I leave?

This is not like me. I am straightforward. I am bold. I take no foolishness from others. I have no fear.

Then why am I in such turmoil? Why did I leave Phileas unprotected and careering headlong on his stubborn, perilous course? Why?

When I arrived at the Aurora, there was no carriage, horses or Passepartout to advise me that Phileas entertained the Baroness. I might have spared us this humiliation if I had but waited for morning to update Phileas, or if I'd done or undone a thousand things. But that is past and I am left with images. Of the sharply defined muscle Phileas hides beneath his elegant clothes. Of the fine hairs on his chest and the dark, smooth skin, and his . . . other parts. I shall not be able to touch him again without that memory. I shall not be able to look him in the eye without seeing what I should not have seen. Or wishing what I should not wish.

And Phileas was not pleased. Although he did not call me unnatural, graceless, and uncouth until I provoked him by demanding the Baroness's immediate departure, and that to her very face. Would I toss out my Lieutenant Price if Phileas broke in on us at our pleasures and that commanded? Or stop a new flirtation only because my cousin asked? I have never done so from my earliest years. Even when he beat Bran Everley into the ground I held my freedom as worth his anger. Perhaps he values his own much the same.

I tried to warn Phileas of his danger but I'm not sure he comprehended or even cared. To defend him I must follow through on this mission and uncover what truth may be had. Until then his best protection is Passepartout, whom I must send back straightaway. I wish Jean had not accompanied me, but I could not forestall him without yet another battle. At the time, that was more than my heart could bear.

And here comes that good man looking glumly. Almost surely his report will be a failure to find storage. A trip to Jules's garret is now required.

*.*.*

Miss Moneypenny's missed lunch had developed into a missed teatime as well. She took a short break, and on the way back ran into QR5 in the hall. She begged the man to bring her a sandwich and coffee. Fortunately, QR5 had a crush on her. In a few minutes, a turkey on white and a tall coffee, black, sat next to the chest. Miss Moneypenny took a bite, the Jules Verne journal in her hand, as she considered how much to enter. This section was quite lengthy. She decided to include it all.

*.*.*

It is late afternoon. I can scarcely bear to write of where I am and what I now do. A day ago it would have been just another adventure. Today it is agony.

We, Passepartout, Rebecca and I, hide next the Bonander townhouse, in an unused attic fortuitously placed. We observe who comes and who goes from that house. Rebecca has told us that Clarice's uncle, one Mabius Bonander, follows Count Gregory. Rebecca seeks to learn more of him. Clarice still breathes behind the door I see out this window. I stood down there just a few hours gone by. If I had but recognized her danger, I would never have left her alone!

Rebecca listened sympathetically as I tried to convince her I should spirit Clarice away. I would use some excuse, I said. We'd go riding or shopping. Anywhere but there! I cried. She pointed out that Clarice was safe if our observation went unsuspected and if I took her away it could put all on alert. Finally I accepted as hard as it was.

Rebecca sleeps, having cat-like made herself comfortable on the bare floor. Her heavy skirt serves as her blanket. Everything Rebecca wears seems to have a second purpose. Passepartout stands watch and I soon replace him. Jean has reported observing two arrivals, a tradesman at the back door and a fair-haired, humpbacked man at front. The tradesman only has left.

I ought to sleep, but my heart lets me not. I shall write down this day as I usually do.

Earlier, just a few short hours after I finally crawled into bed, I tumbled out again to answer a demanding knock at the door, hurrying lest the resounding thumps awake my landlady, a notoriously light sleeper. Jean stood on my landing precariously balancing a trunk strapped to a trolley. Miss Rebecca stood next to him. Drooping lids concealed Rebecca's eyes and her tightly pinched mouth invited no questions. She looked tired and, moreover, discomposed. I stood aside to permit them entry, conscious of my mostly disrobed state, although I rather think Rebecca little noticed.

"Jules," she began, "I have a favor to ask of you. I need to store my trunks for a short while. A few days at most. May I impose? Please?" Passepartout stood in the background, also distraught, but awaiting my consent before bringing in the first trunk. As if I could refuse Rebecca! I was confused, of course, but willing to assist any adventure, and readily agreed. Quickly pulling on my shoes and shirt, I went to help Passepartout.

While Jean and I hauled up the stairs a carpetbag and three more trunks emblazoned with the Fogg monogram, Rebecca opened the first trunk and withdrew some clothes. Early in our acquaintance I learned how casual Rebecca can be about disrobing, however, it remains a revelation whenever encountered. As Jean made coffee and I sliced cold bread, Rebecca stripped to a thin half chemise and donned her fighting outfight - a silky, clinging garment not unlike a man's underwear, over which she donned a leather girdle hung with her various weapons. Finally, as she was to mingle with Parisian citizens, she buttoned on a plush red skirt. The weight of all this must be considerable. Near thirty pounds, I judge. Perhaps it is one reason she exercises so often.

"Now which of you will assuage my curiosity?" I asked as we all sat down to a light breakfast. "And where is Fogg?"

Passepartout looked at Rebecca, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. "Mr. Fogg best tell. You ask him." Jean said, his voice harsh and tight. I stared at Passepartout, but his eyes avoided mine. He had neglected to name Fogg "master." I began to suspect a serious disagreement.

Rebecca sipped coffee. She looked at me for a moment over the chipped rim of the cup. "Jules, I would ask another favor of you. Will you promise me to be steadfast in your friendship to Phileas?"

"Of course I will, Rebecca. How can I not? But tell me, have you two been fighting again?" Rebecca's love for her cousin has more than once coaxed a promise from me I later regretted.

She squeezed my hand but ignored my question. "Good," Rebecca said. "I don't want to worry about him while I'm on this mission." She dipped her crust in coffee to soften it (my larder was very bare this morning!) then told Jean and I of her latest assignment.

As always it was fascinating. Last week British operatives intercepted a cryptic communiqué. Rebecca could not tell us the exact content, but based on it Sir Chatsworth had originally sent her to France to look for animals.

"Animals?" I said. "What kind of animals? Horses? Dogs?"

"Unusual animals. Extraordinary even. The communiqué spoke of an Austrian monk named Gregor Mendel who apparently is doing some fascinating work on heredity. We feared Mendel's theories had fallen into the League's hands and something monstrous resulted. After my trip to Auvergne, I know it may be something human or nearly so."

"My God," was the only reply I managed.

Having finished her repast, Rebecca stood up to leave. She picked up Jean's carpetbag from atop her trunks and offered it to him saying, "Do not follow me in this. It is not what you think. You must go back to Phileas. His life may depend on it."

"Why worry you, after names he said?" Jean replied. "If he not apologize, I find new master or maybe go back to circus."

"Please return to him. Please, dear man, for me?" Rebecca asked again.

Passepartout made a face and said, "No, for today I go with you. Tomorrow, I tink about it. Let him make his own coffee for a while." He kissed Rebecca's cheek.

I echoed Passepartout, "We all go with you, Rebecca. You also need someone to watch your back."

My heart near stopped when she told us our destination, but Passepartout smiled, saying, "We will capture us a Baroness!" We are here, and I await what shall happen, not patiently, not easily, but I wait.

Passepartout just straightened up. "It is my master!" he cries. Rebecca wakes straightaway and I must put down my writing. I'm sure action nears as danger generally follows Phileas about. Time to grasp the pistol Rebecca assigned me. Clarice, oh Clarice! Mon dieu nous protegent!