Chapter 9 - In which Jules has an unfortunate encounter
Jules caught Aimee by the waist and held her aloft, her outstretched palm holding a piece of freshly cut apple. She giggled as the horse nuzzled her hand and then delicately took the fruit from her. As Jules lowered her to the ground, the horse followed them, the large chestnut animal continuing to huff and breathe on Aimee's head until Jules took her hand and drew her beyond the reach of the harnessed animals.
"Can I give them another?" asked Aimee, staring at the horses in joyful amazement.
"No, I think we're ready to go." He straightened to see Rebecca climbing up the verge to the road and Passepartout following with a tremendous picnic hamper swinging from his clasped hands. "You see?" Aimee peered around him, her face falling in disappointment.
"Besides, you'll make the horses sick, giving them too much apple. You don't want them to be sick, do you?" Jules poked her lightly in the stomach with a finger and she laughed. "Come on, into the carriage."
It was a large, misshapen box carriage with an ancient family coat of arms barely visible on one side. Jules opened the door and lowered the steps, but Aimee was so small that he had to lift her into the body of the carriage. Rebecca took his hand and offered a gracious, "Thank you," as he helped her inside, which pleased him no end.
Looking around, he thought that Passepartout had vanished, then heard a noise at the back of the carriage and went to investigate. Passepartout was struggling beneath the enormous picnic hamper, trying to lift it into place.
"One minute, Passepartout. I'll help."
"Is not being necessary. I have almost - getting - it--"
With a grin, Jules grabbed a handhold and swung himself up onto the roof of the carriage. As Passepartout pushed, he pulled, wrapping the leather baggage straps around the wicker monstrosity until it finally slipped into place. "There!"
"Whew!" Passepartout swiped his sleeve across his forehead. "I should not have been packing so manys chickens," he announced.
Jules nimbly climbed down the side of the carriage and landed at Passepartout's feet. "I heard clinking. Those wouldn't be wine bottles, would they?"
"And maybes a touch too much wine," amended Passepartout. Then, as Jules turned to head for the open carriage door, the valet caught his arm. "Master Jules, you are maybe forgetting somethings?"
Jules stared at him blankly, until Passepartout withdrew a small gold clip of franc notes from his vest pocket. "The money you have been borrowing from Master Fogg."
"Oh." The two hundred francs Fogg had offered to loan him the night before. Jules sighed and shook his head. "I don't need it now, Passepartout. We're not taking Aimee to the foundling home. Hold onto it and return it to Fogg for me when we get back."
"But we are going to be shoppings. You cannot be shoppings without moneys. Besides--" Passepartout reached out, took Jules' hand, and placed the money clip smartly onto his palm, "Master Fogg has been making you a loan. It is a deal. He will not be taking moneys for two weeks."
The money clip was gold, with the letters 'PF' engraved upon it and, ironically, worth perhaps a hundred times the bills it contained. Jules found himself smiling at the incongruity of it, as well as the thought of the old sock sitting in the corner of his jacket pocket that held the last few coins of his savings.
What did it matter, really? Say he spent twenty or thirty francs to buy Aimee some things - he could put the rest of the money away and return the full two hundred when Fogg expected, in two week's time.
"All right," Jules relented, getting a large grin from Passepartout. But he carefully removed the gold money clip and handed it back to the valet. "But do me a favor and give that back to Fogg as soon as possible."
Passepartout took the money clip, clapped him on the shoulder in answer, and then they climbed into the carriage and were off.
The carriage driver had obviously been paid well enough to exhibit an amiable temper, for he never complained at the frequent starts and stops. In fact, the carriage often followed them at a distance as they shopped their way through the busy, fashionable streets or met them at the far end of highly trafficked and impassable lanes. Aimee seemed to share Rebecca's fascination with endless yards of brightly colored ribbon, delicate lace, or bolts of cloth of all color and description, while Jules cast desperate glances toward Passepartout in hopes of some sort of rescue. At one point he dozed off from boredom at a milliner and awakened to find himself bound to the chair by several hundred yards of bright blue ribbon, which Rebecca told him, unhelpfully, truly brought out the color in his eyes.
The stops became routine - afterwards, he and Passepartout would struggle out to the carriage laden with boxes. The carriage driver would watch with amusement as Jules scrambled atop the flat roof of the box coach, catching the boxes and parcels tossed to him by Passepartout. Seeing Aimee watching, Jules took a risk and somersaulted from the top of the box, bowing shyly in response to the applause of Aimee and several bystanders, then coloring as he received an additional smile and a raised eyebrow from Rebecca.
"Fool," she'd commented lightly. "You could have bashed in your skull. And then where would we be?"
He'd nodded his agreement, but grinned at Passepartout behind her back.
It was just that kind of day.
Lunch was spent in the park, on a blanket spread upon the grass. Passepartout alternated between serving them, eating with them, and running after Aimee, who seemed determined to feed her portion of lunch to all manner of park wildlife including rabbits, squirrels, leashed dogs, and other children. She was wearing a round straw hat with ribbons trailing out the back that Rebecca had explained was more for Spring, than Autumn, but was too adorable to leave behind . . . or was often wearing it, before the hat took flight with every passing gust, much to Aimee's delight.
It was after having retrieved Aimee's hat from a tree that Jules returned to the blanket and dropped onto it, then rolled over on his back to look up at the sky. It was blue and cloudless and the sun seemed to warm even the chilliness of the autumn breeze. "This is perfect," he sighed.
"Are you sure you don't want any more chicken?" asked Rebecca solicitously.
"No! I couldn't eat another bite." Propping himself up on his elbow, Jules surveyed the wreckage of lunch and grimly noted that they'd eaten less than half the food they'd brought with them. A hamper like that could have fed him throughout the month of December, as cold as his room remained during the winter. "Did Passepartout think he was feeding an army?"
Rebecca chuckled. "He likes to be prepared. You're known for having a hearty appetite, but he wasn't certain about Aimee. And if Phileas had decided to join us--"
"Is he?" asked Jules, suddenly alert. He sat up and scanned the park surrounding them, but saw no sign of Fogg.
"I very much doubt it. I left a note asking him to join us, but his business will probably keep him in the city all day."
It was an honest, civilized excuse, and they both seemed to recognize it as such. Jules dropped back to the blanket, his fingers intertwined and his hands behind his head. "It would be wonderful to have more days like this."
"Oh, I agree," answered Rebecca, tidying up the remains of their picnic. "The weather's perfect."
"Not the weather. Like this." He gestured toward the air. "No one chasing us or trying to kill us. No leaping from buildings into moving wagons--"
"Now, you've only had to do that once," chided Rebecca mildly.
"And missed."
They both laughed at that.
"I suppose," said Rebecca, "that your classes do grow a little tiresome."
"They're the only place I get any sleep." Jules sighed in contentment. "I could stay here forever."
"Oh, don't say that!"
He leaned on his elbow again and looked up at her cry of mock horror. "Why?"
"Because it would be so incredibly dull, wouldn't you think?" She leaned toward him, placing her elbow on the blanket, and pointed to a uniformed man and a young woman pushing a pram as they walked along the path. "Look at them."
"They look happy enough."
"Hmmmn. Mister and Misses Possum, ready to bed down for the winter's hibernation." When he started to laugh, she slapped his shoulder. "Come now, I'm serious! Most of the people in the world have no idea what's going on around them. And, what's worse, they don't care! There are marvelous things, thrilling things, dangerous things out there in the world . . . and they'll never know."
The well-equipped couple suddenly seemed incredibly mundane in his eyes. As Jules scanned the rest of the park, he began to view the inhabitants as Rebecca had described them. "You're right," he answered quietly. "No wonder the League of Darkness is able to accomplish so much - no one pays attention. If a government falls on the far side of the world and it doesn't affect the cost of bread, why should it matter to them?"
"It shouldn't - that's how they can live their lives with some sense of normalcy and security. And that's why we do what we do, so it never has to."
Passepartout was running toward them, Aimee close behind. Having learned from experience, Jules flipped over, curling himself into a ball. When Aimee pounced on him, they rolled off the blanket and into the grass, neither the worse for wear. Passepartout was admonishing Rebecca for not leaving the straightening up to him, but Jules only had eyes for Aimee's smile. He picked her up in his arms and whirled around until they were both dizzy.
The hamper was a good deal lighter as Jules and Passepartout packed it onto the rear of the carriage. After Aimee was mollified by allowing her to feed the horses a few carrots, they headed back to the Aurora at a leisurely pace. Aimee was curled up on the seat beside Rebecca, drowsing lightly. Rebecca brushed her hand continuously through the child's hair and mirrored Jules' contentment with an easy smile. Even Passepartout was sitting and, for once, doing nothing, having been convinced that he belonged inside the carriage with them, instead of up with the driver or hanging off the rear footman's perch.
Jules watched the Paris afternoon amble by through the windows of the box carriage. The dream-like quality of it never ceased to amaze him, how the squalid life of a student could be so easily transformed when his well-to-do, adventurous friends arrived. They were traveling streets not too far from his rooming house and--
"Rebecca! That's the perfumery!"
Startled, Rebecca stared at him.
"The perfumery you asked about - where I bought the scented soap Aimee liked?"
"Oh, yes." She tapped the ceiling of the carriage imperiously, jolting Aimee into full wakefulness. "Passepartout, have the driver stop for a moment. I'd like to make a purchase."
They'd traveled halfway down the street before the carriage driver managed to bring the horses to a safe stop. Like a captain marshaling her troops, Rebecca took charge of the expedition and marched them to the perfumery. Both he and Passepartout were stopped dead in their tracks by the smell just inside the door - Jules didn't remember it being that intense. But then, he'd arrived in the early morning when the door had been open and the shop was being aired. Now, it was if the air within the shop was itself a living thing, heavy with conflicting scents.
The shop girl was the same one who'd served him before. Jules smiled at her but she ignored him, her full attention on Rebecca's detailed instructions. He shared a look with Passepartout, who shrugged sympathetically - so much for the memories of pretty shop girls. A casual glance past Passepartout suddenly struck him cold.
Aimee had wandered away to examine a variety of colored glass perfume bottles. She had at least four in her arms, in addition to her doll, and was taking a fifth off the shelf when Jules spotted what she was doing. As he opened his mouth to say something, Passepartout placed a finger to his lips, warning Jules not to startle her. Passepartout mimed moving around the far side of Aimee and that Jules should openly approach her.
They managed to rescue four of the five bottles. The fifth slipped through Passepartout's hands, splintering into fragments when it struck the floor.
"Oh my," said Rebecca, turning at the sound of the crash. She fixed a stern gaze on both Jules and Passepartout. "Is being my fault," said Passepartout quickly.
The shop girl sighed. "I shall clean it up directly, Mademoiselle. I'm afraid that it must be added to Mademoiselle's bill."
"Of course, but you needn't trouble yourself," said Rebecca. Reaching over the counter, she took the broom from the girl and held it out for Passepartout. "We've made the mess and we shall clean it up. Yes, Passepartout?"
Accepting the broom from her, Passepartout managed a weak smile. "Yes, Miss Rebecca."
Jules cleared his throat and took hold of Aimee's hand, intercepting her before she could head back to the shelf of bottles. "I think it would be safer if we waited in the carriage."
"We'll only be a few minutes," promised Rebecca.
The last sounds they heard from the shop were the crackle of paper as the girl wrapped Rebecca's packages, and the soft sweeping of the broom. Jules took a huge breath of air as soon as they were outside, relieved to be free of the over-scented shop.
"Was Passepartout bad?" asked Aimee, her hand clasped in his as she skipped along beside him.
Jules glanced down at her, realized that she didn't understand her own culpability in the matter, and shook his head. "No, it was an accident."
The stalls lining the streets were doing a brisk trade this afternoon, the weather having brought both the buyers and sellers outside. It took a few seconds for the smell of the perfumery to clear his nostrils, but he quickly found that replaced by the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread. Despite the fact that he'd stuffed himself at lunch, he found his mouth watering.
Aimee jerked away from him suddenly, crying, "My doll!"
He lost her for a heartbeat in the busy street then saw her no more than ten paces away, chasing a scruffy boy who looked little older than herself. Jules pushed his way through the crowd without hesitation, calling, "Wait! Aimee! Stop!"
The children dashed in and out of the shoppers as if it were a game, ducking under the corners of carts, and through the most impossibly small spaces between passing pedestrians. Aimee may have been small and thin, but she was fast, although not quite as fast as the boy. They passed the coach and kept going, turning at the corner onto another boulevard.
By the time Jules had arrived at the corner he had lost them in the crowd. An object went airborne - her hat! - and tracking it back by sight he saw her duck down an alley. There were muttered oaths, accusations about his lack of legal parentage, and outraged squeals, as he became socially agnostic, trampling the aristocrat, the bourgeoisie, and the underclass in his haste to reach Aimee. He ran into the alley.
She wasn't there. Washing hung from lines high above and there was trash strewn along the edges of the stone walls. He walked the length of it and took the first turning down another passageway. They were little more than walkways between buildings, sometimes widening for the width of two men walking abreast, but more often than not barely the width of one man alone. The sky seemed distant and far away and the shadows too deep and close for his liking. As much as his nostrils had been assailed by the strength of the scents in the perfumery, he wished them back in place of the stench of refuse and urine that lingered there, even with the cool weather.
Jules didn't know Paris as he knew Nantes - he had no idea of his location. The inset building tiles that had once held street names had been chopped free or scraped clean, the better to confuse the gendarmes chasing a thief or looking for the lodging of a petty criminal. It had taken no more than eight turns to have passed from the bustling commercial street to this sewer of a back alley. Shutters were closed and doors barred more often than not and this at the height of the afternoon. Only at night would there be any life to this place, where shadows could hide the poorest passions and the greatest depravity.
It made him want to retch.
A terrified sob, followed by his name . . . the scream echoed throughout the maze of stone buildings. His steps quickened again. "Aimee!" Jules cried, repeating the call two or three times at the very top of his lungs.
He never saw the punch coming, the force of the blow in his gut nearly doubling him over. Before Jules could straighten himself, a fist slammed into his face, hard enough to knock him against the alley wall behind him. The vague memory of Phileas warning him not to lead with his chin echoed in his head. Instead of trying to straighten up, he ducked, and heard the satisfying crunch of a fist slamming full tilt into the brick wall where he'd been the moment before.
This time he identified Aimee's screams, which were now continuous - to his left. He turned his head and saw her being held by the old man who'd tried to sell her to him . . . Dondre. He had one hand wrapped in her hair and the other around the girl's chest, holding her high enough from the ground that her feet dangled.
A shadow fell over Jules - his attacker. The man had at least six inches on him in both height and width. Jules tried to duck away, but this time the brute was ready, catching his shoulder and slamming Jules into the wall. He was turned and gut punched again.
At some point he slid down the wall. His legs had stopped trying to hold him up long ago, but the force of the blows had kept him erect. When they were gone, gravity took hold. What existed of the world was shadow or red. Throughout it all, Aimee continued to scream his name and to cry.
She was crying.
A boot the size of a hansom cab collided with his chest, resulting in a 'crack' that took his breath away. Curling up instinctively despite the pain in his chest, he tried to protect himself from the relentless attack of that boot and managed somewhat. He didn't know whether the thug had stopped pummeling him or whether he'd lost all feeling in his knees and legs. Taking a breath through his nose was impossible - the air was wet and bloody. Taking a breath through his mouth was like falling face first onto a steel spike.
A hand touched his face, his chin roughly jerked upwards to get his attention as other hands patted their way through his clothes and pockets. The money Fogg had lent him was retrieved and he heard the jingle of the coins in the sock as well.
"So," said the old man's voice, "you made good with my girl. Little wonder, the way you've got her all cleaned up. Was wondering why she wasn't the draw no more. You ruined her - she's a weeper now. But there's them that likes the weepers, and they like 'em clean. So I owe ya for that."
Jules fought to focus on the face and saw the heel of a boot hovering directly over him. "Should I finish him?"
Aimee was still crying.
He asked God to make them take her away from here before they killed him.
"No," said Dondre, and the heel lowered. Jules could see the old man now, not so old as dirty and unkempt, he realized dimly. "He did me a favor cleaning the girl up. Between the money on him and the clothes on her, we'll do well for a bit. Leave him. Maybe it'll teach him not to be takin' another man's property."
"Jules!" screamed Aimee, as if her heart were breaking. "Jules!"
He wasn't certain whether it was the echo or memory, but he continued to hear her screams. The sounds kept him awake and he tried to stay that way, but the blackness kept closing in on the edges of his vision, accented by the tiniest sparks of light flitting in and out like fireflies. Pain wasn't identified with any particular part or organ, but as a state of being, a dull numbness.
He hurt. It felt worse than when Fogg has worked him over. Not that Fogg didn't know how to inflict pain, he just knew something about instilling fear. No matter what he did to you, the look on his face always told you there was worse on the way.
Jules wanted to laugh - here he'd been beaten to a pulp, was trying to stay awake, and all he could manage was to compare the methods of the unimaginative thug that had thrashed him with Fogg's own brutally efficient process of reducing a man to a quivering mess. That was him, all right, visionary and wunderkind extraordinaire.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He tried to move his hand and found it was shaking. A wave of pain ran through him as he took a breath and then it radiated outward to every part of his body. A scream erupted and died deep within his throat, emitted as no more than a gurgle.
Find me.
Find me before I die.
"Here he - Good God! Passepartout, go for a surgeon."
"But Miss Rebecca, I am not knowing where to--" A brief pause. "I bring one. And I get the Aurora."
"Go man. Go!"
Jules was certain his eyes were open, but he couldn't see her; there was too much red, too many shadows.
"Reb-ba-ba--"
Her fingers were soft on his cheek and her voice whispered, "Sssh," in his ear.
It was harder to hold on. His body felt cold and he started to shiver. The pain in his chest flared and spidered through him again, but he could also feel her hands on him, holding him.
"D-d-d-die?" Jules asked.
"No." Her lips brushed his ear. "You're not going to die. We won't let you."
"G-g-g-o-o-d."
And the pain settled into darkness, at least for a little while.
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End of Chapter Nine
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