DISCLAIMER: Phileas, Passepartout, Jules and Rebecca, etc. are the property of Talisman Crest Ltd. (Although I would say Jules probably belongs to the ages now.) Everyone else is a figment of my over-active imagination.
THRENODY
Brouillard Chatsworth leaned against the forward rail of his steam yacht Viento, fixedly watching the waters of the Atlantic stream below. There were times when his great height and strength served Brouillard well. This was not one of them.
Jules Verne, Brouillard's godfather, watched him in concern. What he had just told Brew had been both hard to say and hard to hear. To lose his mother, no matter how long she'd been ill with cancer, and then learn this so soon after. Perhaps it had been unwise to tell him after all. Unfortunately, sixty years had not endowed Verne with sufficient foresight to prevent the error in judgment.
Brouillard sighed. "Jonathan Chatsworth wasn't my father then? I always did feel like a cuckoo in a robin's nest. Me, with all the look of the Foggs, amongst those little biddies. Do you know I am at least six inches taller than every one of my cousins?"
"Sir Jonathan wasn't your father. I'm not even sure why Rebecca married into the Chatsworth family. She certainly had other options. I or a dozen other men would have been delighted to husband her," Verne paused. "I would say she felt a marriage to Chatsworth would be her best chance to take control of the Secret Service." They both smiled at that. Rebecca's firm hand had guided Service operations for many years, albeit indirectly through her husband. Verne continued, "I think, too, she wanted someone who wouldn't take Fogg's place in her heart."
Brouillard's eyebrows expressed his appreciation of that. "Did he love her too, then? Love child sounds so much more genteel than bastard, don't you think?"
Verne touched his godson's muscular arm, "I don't think any man ever loved a woman more than Phileas loved Rebecca. He died before you were born, or you would be a Fogg."
"Yes, of course, but you'll forgive my skepticism, Oncle Jules. There always seems to be a convenient 'if only' clause in these circumstances." They stood in silence for a few more moments. "I'm sorry about Oncle Passepartout's funeral. Mother's illness, you know. I couldn't get away."
"He understood, Brew," Verne told him. "And it was a most magnificent spectacle. Passepartout would have loved it."
Brew smiled faintly. He missed Oncle Passepartout almost as much as he missed his mother. He said, "Shall we go in now? The fog gathers and I'm not enamored of it as mother is . . . was."
Even though it was yet mid-afternoon, Verne poured them each a glass of cognac from the salon's liquor cabinet. The necessity for this sad journey weighed on him. Here in the salon where Rebecca's funerary urn awaited fulfillment of her final wish the proximity of pain made it difficult to breathe. Soon the Viento would arrive at Ile de Sein, that strange island in the Baie de Trespasses, the bay of the departed. Two thousand years ago the druids buried their dead on the Ile de Sein. Two hundred years ago Ile de Sein wreckers buried shipwrecked dead. Death seemed close there. When the wind blew over the island, it brought death's cold. When the fog crept in, ghosts crept with it and they traveled there to add another.
Verne asked Brouillard, "Did your mother explain her final request, the scattering of her ashes on Ile de Sein close by the menhirs?"
From where Brouillard sat at the starboard forward window, he could see the thick Atlantic fogbank stealing up on them. In a few minutes they would anchor leeward of the Ile de Sein. "No. No, she did not. Her solicitor told me in private the day she died. So I could order the cremation, do you know? The funeral was beastly hard without a casket. Everyone asked." Brouillard arose and moved restlessly around the cabin. "Damn," he said in an emotion-choked voice. "This feels like the whole bloody thing all over again. I don't know if I can endure until 3 in the morning."
"Would you like to know how your father died, Brew? Would that help any?" Verne asked.
"You mean cousin Phileas? Yes, pass the time. Tell me your story, Oncle Jules. I'm all anticipation." Brouillard settled back at his starboard vantage post. They heard the rhythm of the Viento's engine slow, pause, and reverse as the yacht came about, then the rattle of the anchor chain.
Verne began, "How old are you, Brew? Thirty-five? Well, then about 35 and a half years ago, your mother, Phileas, Passepartout and I arrived on Ile de Sein. We were running away, I'm ashamed to say. But we had good reason. In Paris a great evil named Lazarus had been after Phileas' soul."
"No, Brouillard," Verne said when the younger man seemed about to say something, "I am serious. His very soul. If you had seen some of the things I've seen in my life . . . my fantastic novels are not half as wild as reality."
"I'm sorry if I seemed to doubt, Oncle Jules," Brouillard reassured him. "Do go on."
"Like you, Brew, Phileas never ran away from a fight. He was very unhappy on that flight. He and Rebecca had been arguing, yelling at each other at the top of their lungs about some silly thing. Tea, I think it was. Rebecca told me later that Phileas had proposed marriage, and she'd turned him down. At any rate, he paced around the Aurora in a rage. I think that may have been the opening Lazarus needed, that and proximity to this horrible ghost-ridden island."
Brouillard nodded, "I've seen the Aurora at the Royal Museum. Marvelous contraption."
"Yes, contraption indeed. We had many exciting times aboard her. It was a shame the Crown reclaimed her when Fogg died. Near broke what was left of Passepartout's heart. More cognac?" Verne asked as he held the bottle out to Brouillard.
When they had replenished, Verne resumed, "As the Aurora came closer to the Ile de Sein, Lazarus became stronger and stronger. He took over Phileas's body and manipulated him as a puppet to attack the rest of us. One moment I was preparing a midnight repast in the galley and the next I knew I was laying on the deck with the stench of our medicine chest ether in my nostrils. The Aurora's engines were quiet. Lazarus had landed her on the island."
"Of course, at the time, I didn't know any of that and the ether made me too light-headed to think clearly. Looking about I discovered that Rebecca and Phileas were gone, but I found Passepartout out cold in the observation cabin. As I tried to revive him, the Aurora shifted on her skids. Lazarus hadn't tied her down and the wind was dragging her. I left Passepartout as he started to sit up and went outside to stake her down."
Verne arose and walked to landward side of the boat and opened a porthole. A soft capillament of fog obtruded. "No, I suppose you won't be able to see the menhirs until we boat over there. But it was clear that night. They're two fingers of rock up on a hill, about 8 feet high each. You've got long arms, so you might be able to completely encircle one. That night they glowed from the inside like beastly lanterns. Lazarus' doing, I presume. I could see Phileas and Rebecca outlined against them. Fogg waved around his antique Roman gladius, a kind of giant knife with a blade about two feet long. Rebecca was tied to one of the menhirs. I started running up there. I don't know what I intended to do. I didn't have any kind of weapon on me. Fortunately, Passepartout was better prepared and followed with a pistol."
Verne paused to once more refresh his glass of cognac. Brouillard declined a refilling. The younger man looked thoughtful. His mother had told him many stories of the early years of the Agency and of her cousin Phileas, but he'd never heard this one.
"When we arrived out of breath, Phileas stood there chanting and holding the gladius straight up in the air. There were some sort of sparks coming out of it and running up and down the menhirs. Rebecca shouted at us to stay back, that Phileas was possessed by Lazarus. Passepartout took aim, ready to shoot if necessary, hoping that it wouldn't mean killing Fogg. In another second, he did shoot him when Lazarus put the gladius to Rebecca's throat. Jean got Lazarus in the leg and he should have fallen immediately but instead he just sort of twitched and swept his hand in our direction. We two fell over immobilized. Lazarus raised the sword again to stab Rebecca in the chest. She looked Phileas bravely in the eye and begged him to fight Lazarus, to think about what he was doing, and about their child. Phileas just stood there wavering for a very long moment, then the sword came down. I think both Passepartout and I yelled, 'No!' but the sword didn't go into Rebecca."
Verne put down his drink and retrieved his handkerchief. Although his voice was steady, his eyes had begun to tear. "Phileas stabbed himself in the abdomen. I believe it was the only thing he could think of to stop Lazarus. He pulled up on the blade and made the cut deep and long. I can't imagine the pain. But whatever magic Lazarus had worked on him wouldn't let him die in the normal way. He didn't fall over. He dissolved into a vapor, Brouillard, into a mist with red sparks scattered around as if Phileas still fought Lazarus even after death. Eventually the sparks died out and the fog just hung there for the longest time before the wind blew it away."
Brouillard was mesmerized. "How did Mother take it?"
Verne wiped his eyes again and sighed deeply. "How do you think, Brew? Haven't you ever wondered why she named you with the French word for 'fog' or about her obsession with foggy days and fogbanks? She never stopped looking for him," Oncle Jules responded. "I know you two were as close as a mother and son can be, but Phileas had her heart and she never gave it again to another."
Brouillard twisted around to look out again at the surrounding mist. "Tell me something, Oncle Jules," he asked, "did Mother ever tell you why she turned down Fogg's offer of marriage?"
"She didn't have to, Brew. You know how she was. Always able to take care of herself. I daresay she ran the Chatsworth family with an iron fist and kept the Secret Service effective for the Crown. But I think Phileas would have eventually convinced her. They loved each other very much. He just didn't have enough time."
"The tyranny of time. Yes, I know." Brouillard's gaze returned to the cabin and rested on his mother's funerary urn. "I think it might be wise if we have something to eat now, or all that cognac will give you an awful head when we go ashore. Let's go down to the galley and see what cook can put together."
After a simple dinner, Brouillard convinced his godfather to take a nap, faithfully promising to awake him at one o'clock for their trip ashore. He settled himself in a leather chair. In his hands was a picture his mother had given him on her last day of life. It showed herself and cousin Phileas in the stiff, formal pose favored back in those days.
The look of the Foggs. Brouillard definitely had it. In fact, barring the antique clothes, a stranger might have assumed the man in the picture was he. Oh, Maman! he thought, Why didn't you ever tell me? Did you think it would matter? Hot tears slowly seeped down his face. Putting the picture aside, Brouillard went out on the cool deck and rested his hands on the railing as he had earlier in the evening. The fog was so heavy. It felt calming against his forehead. It softly wrapped him in white, not dissolving from his body heat, but gathering to him. It felt oddly comforting. His mother had so loved a foggy day. When Brouillard was little, he and his mother had often wandered about London when the fog settled in. It held sweet memories of her.
As promised, Brew woke his godfather at 1 o'clock. Two of the yacht's crewmen were lowering a small skiff over the side. Although the Viento was anchored only a hundred feet from the beach, the yacht's captain was worried the two men would lose their way in the fog. "The island is due west of us, Mr. Chatsworth," he said. "Just keep on that compass heading, and I'll fire flares in the right direction every few minutes until you let me know you're ashore." The captain handed Brouillard a compass and a shielded hand lantern. The funerary urn was already in the boat. Brew had dressed in rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes since he would jump into the water to pull the skiff ashore.
The trip was uneventful. The flares arced over them like arrows pointing the way and when their hull began to scrape the stony bottom, Brew jumped into chill water up to his waist. The bottom rapidly shingled up to a stony beach. Brouillard shouted their arrival to the boat and then helped Oncle Jules disembark with the urn. After taking a moment to towel himself dry, Brew asked Oncle Jules, "Which way?"
Verne gestured west, up the beach and uphill. As they walked, their hand lantern lit fog on two sides, but behind them all the way back to their landing boat and ahead up to a distant point of rock, the fog thinned out completely, forming a tunnel of clear air. The two mourners looked at each other uneasily. "It's him," Verne whispered. "He's waiting for her."
Foggy tendrils entwined the menhirs at the top of the hill. They shifted slowly and dreamily with small gusts of wind.
Awkwardly Verne bent arthritic knees, then placing the funerary urn on the ground began to work the stopper out. Brouillard stood beside him, shining the hand lantern on the moving pattern of fog over the dark, stern menhirs. "How shall we do this?" Verne asked when he had the stopper out.
Brouillard smiled a little. All the little awkwardnesses of reality. "Why don't you put it down for a moment? Let's think."
Verne leaned the urn against one of the menhirs and stepped back. "I suppose we could scatter the ashes on the ground, but . . . " he began. Brouillard stopped him with a gesture toward the urn. An exploring filament of fog had dipped into it. A flow of mist followed, carrying Rebecca's ash out of the urn and into the evening air.
"I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me," Brouillard quoted. "I think they found their own way." He and his godfather stood entranced as the fog entwining the menhirs became thick with ash. When the urn was at last empty, the ash-laden fog drifted higher and higher into the night. Soon they lost sight of it in the twinkling of the stars. They looked around. The entire island as well as the ocean all the way to the horizon shone in the moonlight. The fogbank had disappeared.
The two men, the younger and the older, turned back to the beach. Brouillard's arm grasped that of his godfather. "Tell me, Oncle Jules," he said as they walked back, "how did you ever convince Sir Jonathan that my father was dead without a body to show?"
"It wasn't easy, I can assure you," Verne answered him and so talking they returned to their lives.
THRENODY
Brouillard Chatsworth leaned against the forward rail of his steam yacht Viento, fixedly watching the waters of the Atlantic stream below. There were times when his great height and strength served Brouillard well. This was not one of them.
Jules Verne, Brouillard's godfather, watched him in concern. What he had just told Brew had been both hard to say and hard to hear. To lose his mother, no matter how long she'd been ill with cancer, and then learn this so soon after. Perhaps it had been unwise to tell him after all. Unfortunately, sixty years had not endowed Verne with sufficient foresight to prevent the error in judgment.
Brouillard sighed. "Jonathan Chatsworth wasn't my father then? I always did feel like a cuckoo in a robin's nest. Me, with all the look of the Foggs, amongst those little biddies. Do you know I am at least six inches taller than every one of my cousins?"
"Sir Jonathan wasn't your father. I'm not even sure why Rebecca married into the Chatsworth family. She certainly had other options. I or a dozen other men would have been delighted to husband her," Verne paused. "I would say she felt a marriage to Chatsworth would be her best chance to take control of the Secret Service." They both smiled at that. Rebecca's firm hand had guided Service operations for many years, albeit indirectly through her husband. Verne continued, "I think, too, she wanted someone who wouldn't take Fogg's place in her heart."
Brouillard's eyebrows expressed his appreciation of that. "Did he love her too, then? Love child sounds so much more genteel than bastard, don't you think?"
Verne touched his godson's muscular arm, "I don't think any man ever loved a woman more than Phileas loved Rebecca. He died before you were born, or you would be a Fogg."
"Yes, of course, but you'll forgive my skepticism, Oncle Jules. There always seems to be a convenient 'if only' clause in these circumstances." They stood in silence for a few more moments. "I'm sorry about Oncle Passepartout's funeral. Mother's illness, you know. I couldn't get away."
"He understood, Brew," Verne told him. "And it was a most magnificent spectacle. Passepartout would have loved it."
Brew smiled faintly. He missed Oncle Passepartout almost as much as he missed his mother. He said, "Shall we go in now? The fog gathers and I'm not enamored of it as mother is . . . was."
Even though it was yet mid-afternoon, Verne poured them each a glass of cognac from the salon's liquor cabinet. The necessity for this sad journey weighed on him. Here in the salon where Rebecca's funerary urn awaited fulfillment of her final wish the proximity of pain made it difficult to breathe. Soon the Viento would arrive at Ile de Sein, that strange island in the Baie de Trespasses, the bay of the departed. Two thousand years ago the druids buried their dead on the Ile de Sein. Two hundred years ago Ile de Sein wreckers buried shipwrecked dead. Death seemed close there. When the wind blew over the island, it brought death's cold. When the fog crept in, ghosts crept with it and they traveled there to add another.
Verne asked Brouillard, "Did your mother explain her final request, the scattering of her ashes on Ile de Sein close by the menhirs?"
From where Brouillard sat at the starboard forward window, he could see the thick Atlantic fogbank stealing up on them. In a few minutes they would anchor leeward of the Ile de Sein. "No. No, she did not. Her solicitor told me in private the day she died. So I could order the cremation, do you know? The funeral was beastly hard without a casket. Everyone asked." Brouillard arose and moved restlessly around the cabin. "Damn," he said in an emotion-choked voice. "This feels like the whole bloody thing all over again. I don't know if I can endure until 3 in the morning."
"Would you like to know how your father died, Brew? Would that help any?" Verne asked.
"You mean cousin Phileas? Yes, pass the time. Tell me your story, Oncle Jules. I'm all anticipation." Brouillard settled back at his starboard vantage post. They heard the rhythm of the Viento's engine slow, pause, and reverse as the yacht came about, then the rattle of the anchor chain.
Verne began, "How old are you, Brew? Thirty-five? Well, then about 35 and a half years ago, your mother, Phileas, Passepartout and I arrived on Ile de Sein. We were running away, I'm ashamed to say. But we had good reason. In Paris a great evil named Lazarus had been after Phileas' soul."
"No, Brouillard," Verne said when the younger man seemed about to say something, "I am serious. His very soul. If you had seen some of the things I've seen in my life . . . my fantastic novels are not half as wild as reality."
"I'm sorry if I seemed to doubt, Oncle Jules," Brouillard reassured him. "Do go on."
"Like you, Brew, Phileas never ran away from a fight. He was very unhappy on that flight. He and Rebecca had been arguing, yelling at each other at the top of their lungs about some silly thing. Tea, I think it was. Rebecca told me later that Phileas had proposed marriage, and she'd turned him down. At any rate, he paced around the Aurora in a rage. I think that may have been the opening Lazarus needed, that and proximity to this horrible ghost-ridden island."
Brouillard nodded, "I've seen the Aurora at the Royal Museum. Marvelous contraption."
"Yes, contraption indeed. We had many exciting times aboard her. It was a shame the Crown reclaimed her when Fogg died. Near broke what was left of Passepartout's heart. More cognac?" Verne asked as he held the bottle out to Brouillard.
When they had replenished, Verne resumed, "As the Aurora came closer to the Ile de Sein, Lazarus became stronger and stronger. He took over Phileas's body and manipulated him as a puppet to attack the rest of us. One moment I was preparing a midnight repast in the galley and the next I knew I was laying on the deck with the stench of our medicine chest ether in my nostrils. The Aurora's engines were quiet. Lazarus had landed her on the island."
"Of course, at the time, I didn't know any of that and the ether made me too light-headed to think clearly. Looking about I discovered that Rebecca and Phileas were gone, but I found Passepartout out cold in the observation cabin. As I tried to revive him, the Aurora shifted on her skids. Lazarus hadn't tied her down and the wind was dragging her. I left Passepartout as he started to sit up and went outside to stake her down."
Verne arose and walked to landward side of the boat and opened a porthole. A soft capillament of fog obtruded. "No, I suppose you won't be able to see the menhirs until we boat over there. But it was clear that night. They're two fingers of rock up on a hill, about 8 feet high each. You've got long arms, so you might be able to completely encircle one. That night they glowed from the inside like beastly lanterns. Lazarus' doing, I presume. I could see Phileas and Rebecca outlined against them. Fogg waved around his antique Roman gladius, a kind of giant knife with a blade about two feet long. Rebecca was tied to one of the menhirs. I started running up there. I don't know what I intended to do. I didn't have any kind of weapon on me. Fortunately, Passepartout was better prepared and followed with a pistol."
Verne paused to once more refresh his glass of cognac. Brouillard declined a refilling. The younger man looked thoughtful. His mother had told him many stories of the early years of the Agency and of her cousin Phileas, but he'd never heard this one.
"When we arrived out of breath, Phileas stood there chanting and holding the gladius straight up in the air. There were some sort of sparks coming out of it and running up and down the menhirs. Rebecca shouted at us to stay back, that Phileas was possessed by Lazarus. Passepartout took aim, ready to shoot if necessary, hoping that it wouldn't mean killing Fogg. In another second, he did shoot him when Lazarus put the gladius to Rebecca's throat. Jean got Lazarus in the leg and he should have fallen immediately but instead he just sort of twitched and swept his hand in our direction. We two fell over immobilized. Lazarus raised the sword again to stab Rebecca in the chest. She looked Phileas bravely in the eye and begged him to fight Lazarus, to think about what he was doing, and about their child. Phileas just stood there wavering for a very long moment, then the sword came down. I think both Passepartout and I yelled, 'No!' but the sword didn't go into Rebecca."
Verne put down his drink and retrieved his handkerchief. Although his voice was steady, his eyes had begun to tear. "Phileas stabbed himself in the abdomen. I believe it was the only thing he could think of to stop Lazarus. He pulled up on the blade and made the cut deep and long. I can't imagine the pain. But whatever magic Lazarus had worked on him wouldn't let him die in the normal way. He didn't fall over. He dissolved into a vapor, Brouillard, into a mist with red sparks scattered around as if Phileas still fought Lazarus even after death. Eventually the sparks died out and the fog just hung there for the longest time before the wind blew it away."
Brouillard was mesmerized. "How did Mother take it?"
Verne wiped his eyes again and sighed deeply. "How do you think, Brew? Haven't you ever wondered why she named you with the French word for 'fog' or about her obsession with foggy days and fogbanks? She never stopped looking for him," Oncle Jules responded. "I know you two were as close as a mother and son can be, but Phileas had her heart and she never gave it again to another."
Brouillard twisted around to look out again at the surrounding mist. "Tell me something, Oncle Jules," he asked, "did Mother ever tell you why she turned down Fogg's offer of marriage?"
"She didn't have to, Brew. You know how she was. Always able to take care of herself. I daresay she ran the Chatsworth family with an iron fist and kept the Secret Service effective for the Crown. But I think Phileas would have eventually convinced her. They loved each other very much. He just didn't have enough time."
"The tyranny of time. Yes, I know." Brouillard's gaze returned to the cabin and rested on his mother's funerary urn. "I think it might be wise if we have something to eat now, or all that cognac will give you an awful head when we go ashore. Let's go down to the galley and see what cook can put together."
After a simple dinner, Brouillard convinced his godfather to take a nap, faithfully promising to awake him at one o'clock for their trip ashore. He settled himself in a leather chair. In his hands was a picture his mother had given him on her last day of life. It showed herself and cousin Phileas in the stiff, formal pose favored back in those days.
The look of the Foggs. Brouillard definitely had it. In fact, barring the antique clothes, a stranger might have assumed the man in the picture was he. Oh, Maman! he thought, Why didn't you ever tell me? Did you think it would matter? Hot tears slowly seeped down his face. Putting the picture aside, Brouillard went out on the cool deck and rested his hands on the railing as he had earlier in the evening. The fog was so heavy. It felt calming against his forehead. It softly wrapped him in white, not dissolving from his body heat, but gathering to him. It felt oddly comforting. His mother had so loved a foggy day. When Brouillard was little, he and his mother had often wandered about London when the fog settled in. It held sweet memories of her.
As promised, Brew woke his godfather at 1 o'clock. Two of the yacht's crewmen were lowering a small skiff over the side. Although the Viento was anchored only a hundred feet from the beach, the yacht's captain was worried the two men would lose their way in the fog. "The island is due west of us, Mr. Chatsworth," he said. "Just keep on that compass heading, and I'll fire flares in the right direction every few minutes until you let me know you're ashore." The captain handed Brouillard a compass and a shielded hand lantern. The funerary urn was already in the boat. Brew had dressed in rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes since he would jump into the water to pull the skiff ashore.
The trip was uneventful. The flares arced over them like arrows pointing the way and when their hull began to scrape the stony bottom, Brew jumped into chill water up to his waist. The bottom rapidly shingled up to a stony beach. Brouillard shouted their arrival to the boat and then helped Oncle Jules disembark with the urn. After taking a moment to towel himself dry, Brew asked Oncle Jules, "Which way?"
Verne gestured west, up the beach and uphill. As they walked, their hand lantern lit fog on two sides, but behind them all the way back to their landing boat and ahead up to a distant point of rock, the fog thinned out completely, forming a tunnel of clear air. The two mourners looked at each other uneasily. "It's him," Verne whispered. "He's waiting for her."
Foggy tendrils entwined the menhirs at the top of the hill. They shifted slowly and dreamily with small gusts of wind.
Awkwardly Verne bent arthritic knees, then placing the funerary urn on the ground began to work the stopper out. Brouillard stood beside him, shining the hand lantern on the moving pattern of fog over the dark, stern menhirs. "How shall we do this?" Verne asked when he had the stopper out.
Brouillard smiled a little. All the little awkwardnesses of reality. "Why don't you put it down for a moment? Let's think."
Verne leaned the urn against one of the menhirs and stepped back. "I suppose we could scatter the ashes on the ground, but . . . " he began. Brouillard stopped him with a gesture toward the urn. An exploring filament of fog had dipped into it. A flow of mist followed, carrying Rebecca's ash out of the urn and into the evening air.
"I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me," Brouillard quoted. "I think they found their own way." He and his godfather stood entranced as the fog entwining the menhirs became thick with ash. When the urn was at last empty, the ash-laden fog drifted higher and higher into the night. Soon they lost sight of it in the twinkling of the stars. They looked around. The entire island as well as the ocean all the way to the horizon shone in the moonlight. The fogbank had disappeared.
The two men, the younger and the older, turned back to the beach. Brouillard's arm grasped that of his godfather. "Tell me, Oncle Jules," he said as they walked back, "how did you ever convince Sir Jonathan that my father was dead without a body to show?"
"It wasn't easy, I can assure you," Verne answered him and so talking they returned to their lives.