TITLE: Nota Bene (5/7) ... Pro Patria Mori (... to lay down your life for your country)
AUTHOR: Blue Fenix
AUTHOR'S EMAIL: the_blue_fenix@yahoo.com
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: AuroraVernealis, Aurora Journals, and Fanfiction.net only
CATEGORY: Het; adventure
SPOILERS: Cardinal's Design, Cardinal's Revenge, Southern Comfort
RATINGS/WARNINGS: R for consensual heterosexual activity
MAIN CHARACTER(S): Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, Rebecca Fogg, Jules Verne, Alexandre Dumas _pere_, Cavois, special guest villain
SUMMARY: Misplaced in time, broke in Paris, and pursued by Cavois, Phileas and friends struggle to regain control of their destinies.
DISCLAIMERS: the usual. Borrowed characters, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I've got no money to sue for.
The shabby streets on the path back to the burned lodging house were far livelier by day than by night. Rebecca paused on one crowded corner, where an Italian was selling used clothes from a wheelbarrow. She bought a pair of boy's shoes for herself with a little of the money Phileas had saved from the fire. Jules was pressing on ahead impatiently; Alexandre Dumas waited for her as she tied the laces tight. "It may be, mam'selle, that the situation is not as dangerous as you fear," Dumas suggested. "Your Mr. Fogg is not a man to shrink from risk, no. But to deliberately sacrifice himself ... he has, I think, more to live for than that."
Rebecca's mouth twisted into a bitter line. One flash of half-nudity, and people spun the most extravagant stories for themselves. "You're sure?"
"Naturally, I assumed ..." Dumas really looked at her this time. "I assume too much, I think. No intent to offend, dear lady."
Rebecca looked up at him, smiling wearily. She did like Dumas. His lumbering flirtation was laced with enough self-directed humor that it was impossible to get angry at him. He was a man of the world, and unlike Jules had no personal reasons to be thin-skinned. There was probably no one in this time who would make a better confidante. Or any time ... who in the world can I talk frankly to except Phileas? "No offense taken, Alexandre." She gave one shoelace a final tug and got to her feet. Jules was barely visible as a bobbing head in the crowd. She began to move, keeping the young author in sight. "It wasn't for want of trying. I think I'm losing my charm."
Alexandre shook his head. "This will happen -- the very day that the moon falls into the sea. I would not claim perfect understanding, but so much is certain. The man adores you, yes?"
"People say that as if it solves everything." Rebecca looked off into the distance. "How much do you know about us, Alexandre?"
He shrugged. "More perhaps than you think. Young Jules and I have corresponded better since our last meeting in Paris. He is very eloquent on the subject of his friends." Dumas smiled, gentle mockery. "One senses a certain amount of hero-worship for both of you. Or more than hero-worship ... valor and beauty are a potent combination in the eyes of an idealist. I don't think it was accidental that he cast you as Joan of Arc in one of his plays."
"Her story didn't end well," Rebecca said. "I'd prefer a little more optimistic model to shape my life after."
"Indeed." Dumas looked searchingly at her. "I was not surprised, you know, to see you together last night. When I first met you and Fogg, I had assumed you to be long-established lovers."
Rebecca kept her expression under control. She'd had the question before. She had a range of answers ready based on how much truth the questioner deserved. All of it, this time, or there was no point in talking to Dumas. "Not lovers; partners. We work together, we fight together ..."
"But not sleep. I see."
"It's complicated."
"Yes." The old author was still watching her. "Some time after, Jules wrote to me of an American lady your Fogg was interested in, a lady who died. I confess that did confuse me."
"Saratoga Browne." It had been easier for Rebecca to support Phileas' tendresse before she realized he'd actually wanted to marry the total stranger. The point had been academic by then. Something like relief at the widow's death, and guilt for her own relief, had complicated Rebecca's emotions for a long time. "She was a good woman, by her own customs," Rebecca conceded. "She was certainly very much attached to Phileas. I ... suppose she might have been good for him. There was no time to tell, really. We all knew her less than four days."
Dumas was too perceptive. "I had seen myself how your friend glowers when any man pays you a compliment. Jealousy on your side, however, I had not seen."
Rebecca's chin came up; a slur on her integrity was not to be tolerated. "I've worked very hard to keep him at arm's length. How could I be jealous?"
"If you mean to persuade me that the human heart is rational, mademoiselle, I must beg to be excused."
The older man's eyes were sympathetic. Rebecca smiled back helplessly at her own folly. "I don't know what to do, Alexandre. I only want him to live -- why does that have to be so difficult?"
"I would say, because that is not what your Mr. Fogg wants for himself. At the least, not to live without a purpose."
They moved another several yards through the crowd, following Jules. Speaking English in the presence of indifferent Parisians was almost like full privacy. "He used to live for his work," Rebecca said. "Or I thought he did. He won't even consider taking that back now. So I thought I could make a difference ..."
"And he took your concern for pity."
Rebecca stopped dead. "How did you know?"
Dumas smiled fondly at her. "Dear lady, I am a poet."
-----
Fogg knew plenty of men of his own social class who complained about tyrannical valets. Normally the complainer was a feather-head with a trust fund whose austere manservant disapproved of collars below a certain height or soft-breasted shirts with evening wear. He'd never had that kind of difference of opinion with Passepartout, but the current battle of wills was making up lost ground. Not that the French valet had attempted any direct opposition to Fogg's tactical planning. Instead he was silently and implacably following Fogg wherever he went. Under normal circumstances, that would have been admirable obedience.
They were moving through the Left Bank at a slight angle to the Seine, toward an abandoned stone building Fogg had visited once before. "Any number of places to get food, newspapers," Passepartout remarked, falsely cheerful. "Only leaving a few minutes, you said ... Miss Rebecca will worry, not back before she wakes up."
Fogg's right hand, down by his side, formed a fist without his willing it. The tale he'd spun for Dumas and Verne in their temporary lair had been a tissue of lies, and Passepartout knew it. Dragging Rebecca's name into the matter was outright vicious. Phileas never expected to see her again.
Rebecca slept as lightly as he did. Phileas hadn't dared touch her to say goodbye. But he'd watched her sleep, an image to carry with him on what remained of his travels. Whatever his "contingent" future self had intended by lending them the time machine had failed. He wouldn't now become that future Fogg. But otherwise, Phileas had no complaints. Saving Dumas' life was a worthy goal. More, fighting Cavois alone would make Rebecca safer, or completely safe. At worst, if Fogg were killed, Cavois would have no motive to torment the others without Fogg as a witness. Rebecca would mourn him. She would probably hate his memory for leaving her, Phileas hadn't deceived himself about that. But she would be alive and well and able to defend herself against further attacks by Cavois. If any. Fogg felt confident he could at least damage the renegade Frenchman in any final encounter, perhaps make him share his death. Who knows, I might even survive. Fogg had no inherent objection to the idea. Which was not the same as being attached to it. Hoping too much was a dangerous weakness that might disrupt his concentration.
Passepartout's presence was the one flaw in the plan. The valet had become more friend than servant after all their shared adventures. His loyalty by now was heartfelt, not an employee's cold duty, and he knew Fogg well enough to all but read his mind. All those factors were comforting under normal circumstances, but dangerously obstructive now. Fogg needed him gone. Worse, Passepartout at least suspected that fact.
They were passing through a better neighborhood now, full of small shops and cafes. "I'm hungry," Fogg said. "Get some rolls at that bakery."
Passepartout looked back at his employer with a wide-eyed, innocent expression that would have been invaluable to an agent. "I will," he said. "Not to lose sight in the crowd, though -- realizing now where we're going. Place where the man Cavois was last time. Half of life living in Paris -- master slipping away, can reach it before you do."
Damn him anyway. The valet would be a hindrance or worse. He could be hurt. He could be captured alive and tortured into revealing Rebecca's hiding place. He could be killed. He probably would, if he saw Fogg in danger and rushed to his assistance. Fogg would have no freedom of action with Passepartout trailing along. He should have argued more vigorously against Passepartout's company back at the empty suite of rooms, but he'd feared that any commotion would waken Rebecca. He only saw two possible choices now.
"Go." He gave the single word a cutting edge. Centuries of ancestral privilege behind it, and an adult lifetime giving orders in the Service. "If you aren't out of sight in thirty seconds, you are out of my employ."
Passepartout flinched but held his ground. "If stopping being your manservant, making free as the air," he said shakily. "Free to do any liking, yes? And not liking that you go to danger alone." He stared back in nervous defiance.
One option down. Fogg's empty stomach gave a queasy roll. Passepartout was agile and strong. Phileas Fogg had seen him handle himself in a fight with remarkable skill. It would be no contest -- Fogg had killed men before with nothing but his hands -- but it would take more than a light tap. The only way to incapacitate the valet long enough to keep him out of harm's way would be to hurt him, probably badly.
Fogg gathered his strength to strike. Passepartout knew him entirely too well, yes, because that thought had come across too. The Frenchman was still staring back, chin elevated a little. Hands down. The passivity of the pose was itself a form of defiance. Fogg could do anything he chose, but he'd have to do it looking into the eyes of a man who was making no attempt to defend himself.
He couldn't. Fogg wasn't accustomed to thinking of himself as someone overly crippled by moral scruples, but he'd run into one now hard enough to leave bruises. It was the wrong decision, rationally. Both of them, or all of them, could die before sunset for his squeamishness. But he couldn't lash out at a friend, not in cold blood. He let the tension go from his muscles. He saw Passepartout recognize the change. "We go back to the others, Master," Passepartout said quietly. "Find another plan. Not doing this ..."
"No." Fogg straightened a little. "Help or hinder, as you like, but Cavois must be dealt with.
Passepartout looked unhappy, but he nodded. "I follow; is all I ask. So long as not asking to not follow."
The conditional surrender was the best he'd get, Fogg knew. "Then try to make yourself useful. We may not have much time."
-------
The last time they'd come to the disused building it had been midnight-dark outside the range of a few lamps. Now, in daylight, there proved to be enough broken-paned windows and missing roof tiles to provide adequate light. Fogg went without hesitation to the room where the suicidal duel had taken place. The wide wooden table was there, though the brass lamps once hanging above it had gone. Months of dust lay over everything. Passepartout fingered a slanting, lead-lined hole in the wall near the door. The only bullet fired in the entire duel had gone there; Fogg's, when he deliberately spared Cavois' life. "Nobody," the valet said. "Nobody even been here since that night."
"Look again. The table's untouched, yes, but not the dust on the floor." Fogg sounded abstracted. Scuff marks on the worn flagstones; too indistinct to merit the name footprints, but still a distinct trail. Fogg's chair, the farthest from the door, had been left half pulled out from the table at the end of the evening. Fogg hadn't been imperturbable then, Passepartout recalled. He'd been so shaken with the nearness of death and the relief of survival that he'd been as giddy as a drunk for hours afterward. The chair to all appearances hadn't been moved a millimeter since that night, but a neat white envelope rested on it now. Passepartout glimpsed the words "Monsieur Fogg" penned on the outside before the Englishman swept it up.
"Is to be naming a different place and time to fight?" Passepartout believed as firmly as his master did that the conflict could end only with either Fogg or Cavois dead.
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Fogg refolded the page with a snap. The valet caught only a blurred glimpse of a few words in black ink. "But it's a message drop. Poste restante at the post office on Rue Sante Rochelle, in the Latin Quarter. Why can't the wretch just send a straightforward challenge?" Fogg's eyes went introspective again. "Unless he has something else to say, and wants to make sure of a goodly delay in saying it ... God, I'm a fool. Back to the flat, Passepartout. We should never have divided the group."
Passepartout had to sidestep quickly or be run down; Fogg was out the door, seeking the exit to the building. The valet scurried to catch up. "Master, if the Cavois is wanting killing you why not send for a duel now?"
"He doesn't fancy the odds," Fogg bit out over his shoulder. "He wants to set the terms to suit himself -- and that means finding a lever to use against me."
-------
Rebecca Fogg and her two companions had partially satisfied their hunger with bread and cheese from a street vendor on their way back to last night's boarding house. The fire had done its work thoroughly. The fire brigade had managed to save the buildings on either side, but the boarding house itself was a charred shell. "There's no sign of your Mr. Fogg, or of his enemy," Dumas remarked. "I think we would see them." The collective Parisian appetite for spectacle was quickly jaded. Only a few passersby were viewing the building or poking idly in the ashes.
Jules' jaw was set. Not far past twenty, he often looked almost childlike in his moments of enthusiasm. He was fully adult at the moment, grim and a little pale. "The concierge across the street said two people died in the fire," he said. "A man asleep on the floor below our rooms, and the landlord's little granddaughter. Because of us. Because we happened to check in here instead of somewhere else." He looked sick.
Rebecca laid a hand on her friend's arm. "Not because of us," she said quietly. "Because of Cavois. Keep that very clear in your mind. And I promise you that there will be an accounting for this along with his other crimes."
Jules Verne did not look comforted. "I know these things happen. I do. But they were willing to bend time to save Alexandre." A guilty glance at Dumas. "I am glad you're alive; I'd have done anything. But why not those people, too?
"I don't know." Rebecca had the uncomfortable feeling that she herself, in some future incarnation, was part of 'they.' "We don't know enough about how time travel works. Maybe it wasn't physically possible."
"We are men, not gods," Dumas said. "The lady is quite correct. Your tender heart does you credit, Jules -- but our responsibility now is to prevent it from happening again."
Rebecca felt ... she never knew how to describe it, a sensation as fleeting as wind brushing her skin. She looked up, in what she knew to be the right direction. Phileas came around a corner a second later, Passepartout scurrying behind him. She breathed easier, seeing him alive and well, and knew he'd done the same for her. Relief held center stage only an instant before anger demanded its turn. "So. The prodigal cousin," she said in a light, knife-edged voice as the other two drew near.
Her chill reception had taken Fogg off balance. "You weren't at the empty house when we went back. I was worried."
"Indeed? I seem to remember being in much the same state myself earlier this morning." Rebecca didn't owe him any time to recover. "How goes the vendetta, then? Is Monsieur Cavois' head on a pike somewhere, checked in the cloakroom of your club perhaps?"
"We haven't seen him. He wasn't at the ... place we fought before." Fogg wouldn't give her the location even now; he'd always played his cards close. Bastard.
"Finding clue, though," Passepartout supplied cheerfully. "Message, is how to get notes from Cavois picked up at a certain post office. It is playing rat and mice."
"I did think I smelt something in the rodent line," Rebecca said breezily. Dumas was beaming indulgently at both of them. Rebecca resolved to cut his throat if the words "lovers' quarrel" passed his lips. "Shall we stand around on the street all day bellowing our private business, or would you prefer finding somewhere more discreet? This is losing its charm."
"Rebecca." She felt Jules' hand on her sleeve.
"Not now." She kept her eyes fixed on her cousin. "Leaving us behind ... if you have any doubts of my professional qualifications, dear Phileas, it's well past time you spelled them out. Do you consider me a liability, then?"
"That's not the point, and you know it," Fogg retorted, his own voice growing sharper. "That maniac ..."
Jules grabbed Rebecca's shoulders from behind. With surprise on his side, his wiry strength was more than enough to turn her ninety degrees. "You mean that one?" He let go with one hand, and pointed.
The young author was right. Cavois stood some thirty yards away, at the street corner, regarding them all with the cold dignity of a snake. He was still dressed in evening clothes. When he was sure he'd been seen he turned in an elegant swirl of cloak and disappeared behind a building.
"Right." Fogg suddenly launched himself toward the distant figure, running full tilt.
Rebecca had her steel rod up one sleeve; she let it drop and pressed it into Alexandre Dumas' hand. "Stay here." She caught her skirt up in one hand and ran after Phileas.
She expected to find Phileas not far around the corner already in the process of throttling the older man. Rebecca had pretty well made up her mind to let him. Instead she saw Cavois disappearing into the distance with an impressive turn of speed. Phileas was pounding along behind with long-limbed athletic grace, but had yet to close the distance. Rebecca spared a half-second's glance and saw Passepartout following close behind her. Since the two authors were keeping out of harm's way for once, she decided not to criticize. "Hurry," she breathed to the valet. They both managed a little more speed.
-----
"They'll be fine," Jules Verne said. "They don't need any more help." Not that it was fair leaving him behind. He was seething with anger inwardly. He'd helped the Foggs, really helped, in situations more dangerous than this. But he could never catch up now anyway, so he might as well put the best face on the matter.
"I understood that you'd never set eyes on this Cavois, even last night at the fire," Dumas said.
"I haven't, exactly. But the Secret Service circulated sketches and descriptions after he tried to kill Rebecca last summer. I saw those." There was more to it. Even at a distance, Jules hadn't doubted for an instant who he was seeing. He didn't want to probe that feeling too deeply. It always irritated him when Fogg took a turn for the mystic; Jules Verne didn't want to imitate the man. "If they catch him at all, they'll have him quickly." He attempted a smile. "Maybe we can sleep in our own beds tonight."
Dumas shrugged. "You forget -- I haven't any."
"Come stay with me, then. We'll sneak you past my landlady. Or you could visit your son, like you'd planned."
"It was much easier being a noted author when there was some money attached to the role," Dumas said. "Take my advice, cher Verne; look to your finances as well as your laurels when your books and plays begin to sell."
"I don't think I'm at any immediate risk," Jules laughed.
A medium-sized carriage and pair pulled up to the curb beside them. "Er, parlais-vous anglais s'il vous plaît?" the man on the box mumbled in an embarrassed and wholly British voice.
Jules had naturally returned to his native tongue in talking to Dumas. Now he grinned and took pity on the poor tourist. "Yes, we speak English. What can we do for you?"
"Thank God for that," the man said. He was well dressed from coat to wide-brimmed hat. His voice was as aristocratic as it was English. He might have gone to the same elite schools and universities as Phileas Fogg. "I'm lost. I doubt there's a straight street in the whole beastly city."
"There aren't many in this quarter, I have to admit." Jules stepped closer to the vehicle. "What are you looking for?"
------
Rebecca was breathing hard but grimly determined not to lose her quarry. Passepartout, beside her, was breathing like a railway engine. Phileas, the fastest of them, was closing on Cavois. In fact, the assassin seemed to be purposely slowing down a little, as if taunting them. He'll regret that. Speeding up further was out of the question. Rebecca made it a point to get regular vigorous exercise, but not this kind. She settled for not losing sight of the two taller men.
Cavois was approaching another intersection, this one a larger cross street with ample traffic both horse-drawn and on foot. A harder glitter appeared in Rebecca's eyes. He'd have to turn or slow down, or both, to avoid being run over.
Cavois was certainly slowing down now. Rebecca read triumph in Phileas' posture, saw him gather himself for a final burst of speed. Then Cavois reached the busy street. He came to a complete stop on the corner, inches from the passing vehicles. Phileas Fogg sprang toward the man -- just as Cavois caught the frame of a passing cab and leaped lightly onto the running board. The driver instantly whipped up his horse. The cab, and Cavois, shot out of reach. Fogg turned the leap into a roll and landed painfully hard on the cobblestones just short of the stream of traffic.
He was on his feet again when Rebecca and Passepartout reached him. Rebecca half expected an eloquent, multilingual stream of profanity. Instead Fogg was stony calm, staring after the vehicle with hard eyes. "We can trace the cab number," Rebecca offered, trying to catch her breath.
"No." Fogg brushed street dirt off his clothes. "No point. If I make one more blunder, I'd like you to shoot me for the common good. Cavois had help. Therefore, he could have had more help. And our friends ..."
Rebecca turned back toward the burned lodging house. "God in Heaven."
Passepartout leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, and coughed. "Cannot run any more," he gasped.
"We'll walk," Fogg said tonelessly. "I'm afraid there's no point in running."
There was a crowd gathering again in front of the gutted lodging house. Fogg pressed through it with a ruthless use of elbows, the other two trailing behind him. Alexandre Dumas lay flat on the cobblestones. Rebecca's steel rod was clutched in his fist. There was a trace of blood on it -- the old bear had lost none of his fighting instincts -- but he'd gained only a moral victory. The splashes of blood on the stone, too much blood, came mostly from an open gash on his forehead.
He stirred faintly when Rebecca bent over him. "Dear lady. My fault. Didn't think ..."
"Hush." Rebecca didn't dare shift the big man's head into her lap. She tore a piece from her skirts and pressed it against the open wound. The blood-sticky surface under her fingers seemed solid, at least. "They didn't break your skull. It must be bone clear through."
Dumas started to smile at the joke, and winced. He was deathly pale. "Jules."
Phileas Fogg crouched beside Rebecca. He didn't look around the crowd. He didn't need to; the young man would never leave a friend bleeding on the ground. "Verne is gone. They've taken him."
Tears trickled from Dumas' eyes. "I should have known ..."
Rebecca felt like crying herself, from weariness and frustration and shock. Phileas looked in little better condition, but there was a hard line around his mouth. "We'll find Verne and bring him back," he said. "We will."