Chapter 11 - In which the doctor is in
The smell, choking him.
Pain. Light. Eyes closing, but the pain still there, like a knife in his chest.
Someone holding him down - was he being murdered?
"Steady man, steady."
It was Fogg. He knew it was Fogg. And the hand gripping his - strong and soft - Rebecca?
"Shallow breaths, Monsieur. You have an injury to your ribs."
Jules opened his eyes and saw Fogg's face above him. The gaze that met his was filled with concern and then a smile changed that look to one of relief. "Welcome back, Verne."
"You can release him now, Monsieur Fogg. He seems to comprehend."
The pressure that held him down was gone. Jules stared upward at the ceiling of the Aurora; the moment his brain recognized where he was, his body relaxed of its own volition. He closed his eyes and discovered that bits of him were throbbing unmercifully, but nothing was quite as bad as that sharp, biting pain when he moved like-- He'd thought he was ready for it.
He wasn't.
Jules grit his teeth against the sudden agony and fell to rest precisely where he'd been the moment before. The back of a cool hand touched his forehead and he heard Rebecca say softly, "It might be best not to move much for a little while, until Dr. Picot has bandaged you properly."
Opening his eyes again didn't seem to hurt. Daylight was fading from the cabin, but a lamp had been lit behind her - in the glow, Rebecca looked like an angel. He tried to tell her so, but his lips and mouth were so dry, the syllables wouldn't form.
"You may give him water, Mademoiselle."
He turned his head to find Fogg standing beside a stranger. The man was balding, his black suit well tailored and worth more than it would cost Jules to rent his rooms for a half year, at the very least. The man's trousers were spotted with dirt below the knee; that seemed odd to him.
A glass was raised to his lips, his head tilted slightly. He moved his hand as if to take it, but another hand caught his own and held it fast - Fogg's grip. He drank, slowly, until the glass was taken away. It was easier to breathe and he was quickly finding the limits of it, his heart pounding in his chest at the slightest hint of that searing pain.
"You're a very lucky man, Verne," said Fogg, with a light tone. "Passepartout found the Emperor's own physician to treat you."
It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But the doctor smiled at him, and bowed slightly. "Dr. Raymond Picot, at your service, Monsieur Verne." Then the doctor's expression became more intense and he moved closer, as if peering into Verne's eyes. "Can you speak?"
"Uh - yes. Yes, I think so." It was odd, trying to regulate his breathing and his voice - his words sounded faint, almost weak. "Yes."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Yes. I'm - the Aurora." He saw the doctor look to Fogg for confirmation, which was given with a nod. "Where's Passepart--?"
"On an errand," replied Rebecca.
"Aimee?"
A dark look shared between Rebecca and Fogg told him everything.
She was gone.
The deep breath was unconscious. The agony that shot through his chest knocked him back into the mattress and made another breath not only impossible, but also unthinkable. Pressure returned to his shoulders, holding him down, trying to keep him still and Rebecca urged, "Shallow breaths, Jules, shallow. You have to breathe, damn you, or you'll turn blue."
The idea of turning blue made him laugh, which made him breathe - not too deeply - and the pain eased of its own accord.
"That hurts," he announced, to no one in particular.
It earned him a caress on the forehead from Rebecca and the pressure on his shoulders disappeared again.
"We will get her back," promised Fogg. "But we need your help."
"My help?" He wanted to laugh, but didn't trust the edge of the knife that appeared with that last breath. "Please tell me you're joking?"
"Who attacked you?" asked Rebecca.
They weren't joking. And there was something in Fogg's manner that was vaguely reminiscent of the first time they'd met, when Fogg had suspected him of being an assassin with a plan to kill their Queen Victoria.
Jules remembered, just in time, not to take a deep breath. "Dondre, the man who tried to sell Aimee to me. I don't know the other one, never seen him before. But he was big."
"How big?" pressed Fogg.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Jules tried to remember a face, features. But there were only fists - enormous fists, and the hobnailed boots. Opening his eyes, he said weakly, "He blocked out the sun. At least a foot taller than me, that much wider as well. His fists were like - like -"
And the words went away for a moment, lost in the memory of the blows, fists striking him again and again and--
"Jules?"
He started, barely remembering to catch his breath as Rebecca's hand touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he answered. "What was I saying?"
Fogg moved closer, ignoring Dr. Picot's frown. "You didn't know the second man. Could he have been a boxer, a pugilist?"
"A boxer? Possibly. He was French, probably Parisian. I couldn't get away from him. I couldn't get around him. Aimee was screaming - I saw her. She was crying. I hadn't seen her cry. He hit me. Again he hit me."
He moved his right hand to wipe across his eyes - the movement sent a brief stab of pain through him - and saw that his knuckles had swollen to almost twice their size. No wonder they hurt. He wouldn't be able to hold a pen for days, perhaps a week.
If the visions returned . . . .
Fear made him forget. But Fogg was getting better at reading the signs. Jules grabbed for the hands on his shoulders, using them to steady himself, to ride out the quick flash of agony.
His eyes opened and Fogg was still holding him to the mattress. Jules swallowed and released his own grip, but still Fogg held him there. "Focus," Fogg said, in a tone God himself would not have dared ignore.
"They took the money." He swallowed again, forced himself to breathe easily. "All of it. And what was left in my sock - a few francs. But they took the two hundred."
"Forget the money," hissed Fogg.
"I'll pay--"
"Forget the money." This was accompanied by a slight shove against the bed, then Fogg's hands were off him.
"Monsieur?" warned Dr. Picot. "I do not think--"
Fogg turned away from the bed, hands fidgeting with his coat lapels.
"What did they say, Jules?" He turned to see Rebecca smiling at him. She raised her gaze for a cautious look at Fogg's back, then looked down at Jules again, as if he were the center of her universe. "Tell us everything they said."
"Dondre said - he said--" It was so hard to think. Jules closed his eyes, trying to remember. "He thought that I'd cleaned up Aimee to sell her - that the money had come from that."
"Good God," uttered Fogg quietly.
The comment caused him to open his eyes, but Fogg hadn't turned. "They decided not to kill me - Dondre said not to - because of the money. Because I'd cleaned her up. The money and her clothes meant something to them. It was supposed to be a lesson for me." He turned his face toward Rebecca again. "She cries now. They didn't like that. But they said, they said some of them liked the ones who - who--"
Fogg was there to hold him down, but this time was no accident. Jules breathed deeply to feel the pain. He breathed deeply to remember.
He breathed deeply because he'd failed to save her.
"Stop that!"
The sound of the slap on his cheek was almost as startling as the pain it caused - a different pain, a stinging sensation that awakened battered nerves there. Jules forgot to breathe and turned wide eyes to Rebecca.
Her hand moved toward his cheek again - there was something dark in her eyes for a second when he flinched, but her touch was gentle. "Hurting yourself isn't going to help us find her," she scolded. "We need information, Jules, not a martyr."
Her words stung more than the slap. Jules swallowed again, and Fogg's hands lifted from his shoulders. "There's nothing more to tell."
"How were you lured from the boulevard?" pressed Rebecca. "What made you enter the alley?"
"We were leaving the perfumery, heading back to the carriage . . . a boy ran past and grabbed Aimee's doll. She took off after him and - I couldn't catch them. I could barely keep sight of them." He swallowed and closed his eyes - he knew that Fogg had moved closer to the bed, just in case - but then Jules opened them again, dreading another slap from Rebecca. "The perfumery isn't far from where I found Aimee the other night. They knew I was local; they must have been watching the area for me. Dondre wanted his property back."
"Which means they have no idea we're involved," said Fogg thoughtfully.
"That you're involved." Rebecca rose to her feet as she corrected him. "Lord only knows what they think I had to do with this. And you know the rescue by airship story has spread throughout the slum faster than a winter fever. Someone by now must have figured out that Jules has protection."
"Or important clients."
They were talking above him, beyond him. With the barest sigh, Jules gave up the attempt to remain awake. His lids were so heavy he could barely keep his eyes open.
There was a touch on his right shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw that Fogg and Rebecca had moved to the corner of the room. Dr. Picot smiled down at him in a manner he found incredibly reassuring, considering the man was a stranger.
"Not just yet, Monsieur Verne. I need to survey your injuries - the procedure is far more effective if you are awake. There is still the kidney and liver to consider. And I must bandage your ribs. Afterwards, you will sleep for many hours without pain, I assure you."
The heaviness in his eyelids disappeared at the doctor's words. "Many hours? But . . . I can't! Aimee needs--" He placed his arm to either side and tried to lever himself to a sitting position.
His hands hurt. His knees and shins hurt like the blazes, oddly enough. As he put any pressure on his right side--
"No! Monsieur Verne - do not--!"
There was a muffled oath - Fogg - and hurried footsteps. He could hear, but not see for an instant, pain so intense that his vision collapsed to a small hole surrounded by blackness and filled with brilliant points of light. They winked like stars, increasing in intensity. But when he decided not to breathe, exhaling slowly, the stars began to diminish. He closed his eyes, watching them fade . . . well, like the explosive fireworks in the night sky on Bastille Day.
They were calling his name. Rebecca caressed his cheek. He opened his eyes and found that he'd managed to lever his back against the wall and the headboard. Fogg was deftly drawing the blanket up and over his waist.
It was easier to breathe now that he was sitting upright. "This . . . is better," he said, addressing his comments to the doctor. "But I can't sleep. I have to find Aimee."
"You won't be able to walk for at least a day or two - it will take that long for the swelling in your knees to subside," said Dr. Picot sharply. "Would you have these people carry you? And any unnecessary movement, even after I bandage your ribs, could cause the rib to break. Would you want your lung punctured? It is a horrible death, Monsieur. Most painful."
A stern look and a deliberate shake of the man's head accompanied the warning. He looked away, trying to resign himself to the fact that he was, at the moment, utterly useless to Aimee.
"We will find her," said Fogg again, squeezing his shoulder.
"But you know." Unable to face Rebecca, he stared at Fogg. "You know what they'll have her do."
He'd seen Fogg look upon him as the enemy before and that gaze had terrified him down to his soul. Now, seeing that look and knowing it was meant for someone else . . . it still scared the hell out of it. The man's grip on his shoulder tightened momentarily and then was gone.
"They have money - that will buy us some time, tonight at the very least."
There was a loud crash from the cabin below. Startled, Fogg looked up to meet Rebecca's puzzled gaze, then moved quickly to the door. As he opened it, they heard movement on the stairs, footsteps not unlike that of an approaching army, and Passepartout calling, "Wait! Wait! Is not to be going in--"
"What the--?" Fogg was pushed back as the door opened into him and something ran into the room.
Jules froze, terrified that he might breathe again, then identified the thing as a massive dog. Its paws were almost the size of its massive head, and the tail was whipping back and forth eagerly. It was the color of mud, or possibly covered with it, and it roamed the room with abandon. It moved first to Phileas and Dr. Picot, each of whom backed away in either disgust or alarm. Swinging away from them, and spattering Fogg with a thick rope of viscous drool as its head turned, it then gave full attention to Rebecca. Smart enough to remain seated, she grinned at the canine apparition, patted her lap to call it over, and then scratched the dog behind the ears, her left hand grasping and holding the leather collar around its neck.
Passepartout appeared in the doorway, his tie askew and partially undone. "Very sorrys, master. Bruce is not knowing his own strengths."
"Bruce?" asked Verne. The dog was so massive that if he reached out his hand, he could scratch the head, which rested in Rebecca's lap. He did so and got a paw on the bed for his pain - literally.
When he drew back, Rebecca knocked the massive paw from the mattress and shook her finger in the dog's face, scolding, "Behave! That's an injured man."
The large eyes appeared sorrowful, but Jules realized they must always look that way. It panted, a huge tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Its face was composed of layer upon layer of flesh, rolls of it, a long, wide snout, and large ears that flopped to either side.
Fogg reached down to wipe the drool from his coat, but the instant his fingers touched the muck it adhered to his hand as well. "Passepartout, this is intolerable!"
His valet jumped immediately into service, producing a handkerchief that he used to wipe the matter from Fogg's coat. Before he'd gotten very far Fogg grabbed the cloth from him, continuing the job and then wiping his own fingers.
"Is a blooded hound," explained Passepartout. "After I was giving the carriage driver Monsieur doctor's message, I ask if he was knowing where to find a dogs that will be tracking lost peoples. I told him it was to finds a little girls." Bending past Fogg, he waved at the doctor. "He is very nice man, your driver. Four daughters!"
"Indeed?" Dr. Picot scratched his head, as if puzzled. "I had no idea."
"So he was taking me by the carriage to the man who had the blooded hounds. And they have been loaning us," Passepartout pointed toward the dog, "Bruce!"
"Don't be cross with him, Phileas. It's a brilliant idea. You are truly a marvel, Passepartout," announced Rebecca. Scratching the dog's head and ears, she said to the animal, "Isn't he? Yes he is. Who's a pretty Bruce?"
Handing the handkerchief back to Passepartout, Fogg sighed. "I commend your initiative, Passepartout, but was it really necessary to bring the blasted creature aboard the Aurora?"
Passepartout's eyes opened wide. "But master, he would being lonely."
"The fact is, Phileas, that we now have the means to trace Aimee through those alleys." She glanced over at Passepartout. "The shirt from last night, or the clothing she wore yesterday - anything that might have her scent?"
"I am being sorry, Miss Rebecca." Passepartout's expression was crestfallen. "Those clothes have been already laundryed. Perhaps the bedclothes will be working?"
"They'll smell of me as much as her," sighed Rebecca, still scratching the dog's head. She looked down into its large eyes. "It won't help us any to confuse the poor thing."
Verne had been listening to the conversation, as well as watching as the dog occasionally turned to run a rough tongue over his bruised and swollen knuckles. They seemed to ache less afterward. And the dog's eyes were watching him intently.
"The nightshirt," said Jules softly. He looked up at Fogg. "I gave Aimee a nightshirt to wear, night before last. It's still at my rooming house. Over the chair by the window--"
"Passepartout--"
"On my way, master."
The valet slipped out even as Fogg turned, adding, "And take the blasted dog-- Oh. Damn." He peered out the now empty door, then gestured toward the dog. "Now what are we supposed to do with it?"
"I'll take him downstairs and get him some water." Rebecca rose, still holding the dog by the collar. The animal was tall enough so that she could maintain her grasp on him and stand completely upright. She paused at the door and looked back at Jules. "We'll find her, Jules. Now let the doctor finish his examination and then get some rest."
"I will."
The smile she gave him before she hefted the dog out the door did more for the ache in his soul than any of the doctor's bandaging could have done for his body - Jules was completely certain of that. Unfortunately, the creature shook its massive head on the way out, sending drool flying. Two more strands spattered against Phileas' coat.
"Damn," he repeated. He reached for the handkerchief in his vest pocket, but was handed one by Dr. Picot.
"Monsieur?"
"Thank you, doctor." Fogg wiped at the mess, but it proved to be a gesture of futility. "Verne, I believe that Rebecca's correct - the sooner you're bandaged, the sooner we can get you back to your rooms and--"
"No!" Fogg looked up at him, surprised. "I want to stay - don't make me leave." Jules hesitated, and gritted his teeth, a slightly deeper panicked breath slicing through him. As Fogg approached, Jules held up his right hand, palm outward. "No, I'm all right."
The movement stopped Fogg's approach, but not his studious gaze. Jules looked away, shamed by his sudden outburst, what must seem a thoughtless and panicked protestation on his part. Not that he expected to be left completely alone in his rooms - his friends were not so callous as to think he could fend for himself at the moment or could afford someone to stay with him and would no doubt provide an attendant. But to be set aside for his own safety while they were out trying to find Aimee because he had failed her . . . that he could not bear.
Jules turned his gaze toward the doctor. "Please, don't let them make me leave."
Dr. Picot rubbed his chin with his hand, then glanced speculatively at Fogg. "Is this airship always this steady? I must admit, Monsieur, I suffer from the seasickness, and yet I have felt no discomfort while aloft."
"Smooth as silk more often than not, except in inclement weather." A quick lean toward the porthole and Fogg announced, "The sky seems clear enough. That shouldn't be an issue."
"Then I see no reason why your young friend cannot stay where he is. After I have bandaged his ribs, he should have a minimum of movement for some hours."
Fogg hesitated. "You'd be more comfortable in your own room, Verne. Surely--"
"This is my room." A fainter hint of surprise in Fogg's eyes, better hidden, but still there. "I'll probably be asleep, but if I'm here when you find her, when you bring her back . . . ." He paused, realizing the burden he'd just laid on his friend - 'when' you find her, not 'if.'
That was the question he expected to be addressed.
Fogg didn't answer at first, simply watching him for a long moment. "It's the matter you mentioned before?"
It could have been anything they had spoken about - argued about, if it came to that, earlier in this very room - but he knew that Fogg had centered completely on that brief verbal misstep. It was when he'd protested leaving Aimee with no one to care, to really care for her, when he'd protested at leaving her alone.
His turn to be surprised, stunned enough to do little but nod hesitantly in answer.
"Then you stay, until we find her." And before there could be anything more on that account, Fogg turned his attention to Dr. Picot. "When Passepartout returns, I'll have him prepare a light supper for you, doctor, and arrange a carriage to return you to your home."
"I think . . . I shall presume on your hospitality for a time as well, Monsieur Fogg, if you do not mind. When you return with the child, you may have need of my services." He shot a glance toward Jules, smiling faintly. "And to be most honest, I am curious to see the end of this adventure."
"I would be honored." Fogg bowed from the waist, an elegant gesture between gentlemen that Dr. Picot matched. He walked to the door and then turned, as if irritated. Meeting Jules' gaze, Fogg shook his head despairingly. "And, Verne, do try to get some sleep."
"Good luck," said Jules.
Fogg nodded once, then closed the door behind him.
"Monsieur Verne, can you sit upright without the support of the wall? I should like to bandage the ribs now."
"I can try. And call me 'Jules.'"
"Jules, then."
It was not so much a matter of swinging his legs over the side of the bed, as reclaiming the mattress a small square at a time. With the doctor's help, he was able to shift himself so that his back was to the doctor and his left arm rested on the headboard, against the wall. Bending his knees was incredibly painful.
He found the preparation of plaster for the bandages fascinating, as well as something to keep his mind off his pain. There was a small wire whisk in the doctor's voluminous bag, along with a packet of plaster powder. Dumped into a bowl and with water added, it became a paste.
Seeing his interest, Dr. Picot smiled. "This can be done with flour and water as well," he instructed. "Not as strong, but it will hold a finger steady, or a toe, when one has no other options."
"What would you use as bandages?"
"Strips of cloth. Clean paper, if the cloth was too dirty. Sticks, perhaps. A paper mâche of healing." The doctor's smile turned grim. "I was an army surgeon at one time. There are things one learns among wounded men that are not taught at university or medical academies."
"There are a lot of things I'm discovering aren't taught at university," agreed Jules. He gritted his teeth as the dry bandage was wrapped around his lower ribs. When the doctor had finished and fastened the ends he found the support helped him breathe and sighed in relief.
"Better for you?"
"Much."
The light coating of wet plaster on the subsequent layer was initially cold; he had to fight to keep from cringing as the doctor wrapped it around him.
"When the child is returned, what will happen to her?" asked Dr. Picot.
"What?" Concentrating on not moving, it took him a second to filter the doctor's question. "Oh. She can't stay with me; I'm only a law student. There's not much I can do. I thought the foundling home; Fogg suggested finding a nursemaid for her and renting rooms until he could find a proper family for her." He took an experimental breath, caught an edge of pain, and then exhaled quickly. "I don't know if that's possible now, not in Paris. They might find her again."
"Sit for a moment and let the plaster set. I shall look at your knees and shins, now."
The doctor was incredibly thorough. No matter how Jules tried to hide the pain, Dr. Picot seemed to realize what hurt and what did not. After the plaster had set, he found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling as the doctor poked and prodded his bruises.
"You are a lucky man indeed, Jules, or your attacker was very good at his job. You may pass blood for a day or so and there will be tenderness for some time to come, but your liver and kidneys seem not to have sustained irreparable damage."
The words were as much of a relief as the blanket being drawn over him again. "When will I be able to walk?"
"Within a day or two the swelling should have gone - you will be slow and ache, but you will walk. The rib may continue you to cause you pain for a week, or four weeks. There should be bed rest for the first week at least." The doctor turned from repackaging his bandages at Jules' groan. "That is a problem?"
"I have classes." Jules raised his bandaged left hand to his forehead and stared bleakly at the ceiling. "I'll be sent away from school. My father . . . ." He shook his head from side to side, unable to finish that sentence. "My professors--"
"Will be more than happy to accept a note from his majesty's personal physician that you were injured while under service to the Emperor."
Jules turned his head in astonishment. "You'd do that? But . . . I've done nothing."
"Attempting to save one of his majesty's most defenseless subjects from men such as these and being beaten for the effort?" Dr. Picot shook his head slightly. "I would not call that 'nothing,' Jules."
"Thank you."
The doctor was removing a series of bottles from his bag - tiny things - which were set side by side on the bed table. "It is I who should be thanking you - or, rather, Passepartout - for the assault on my coach. I had forgotten what it meant for my skills to be needed by worthy patients. And you have given me a tale to tell to my most illustrious patient during my next visit."
There was a delicacy in the man's movements, his hands rock steady as he used an eyedropper to transfer liquid from various bottles. Finally, he placed the stopper on a bottle and shook it. The liquid inside was like pearl, opalescent. "Laudanum," explained Dr. Picot, holding the bottle up to the light and peering at it intently. "Enough to allow you to sleep through the pain."
"I don't want to sleep."
"You don't want to release your hold on the pain," corrected Dr. Picot. "Pain is not a punishment, Jules. Pain is a warning from the body to stop, before further injury occurs. Using it to assuage your undeserved guilt in this matter would be an abomination in the sight of God." The stern gaze fixed on him gave Jules more than a glimpse at the man who had surgeoned on battlefields. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Absolutely," whispered Jules.
"Good." The genial manner returned, along with a slight smile, as the doctor cleaned the eyedropper by flushing it in a bottle of clear liquid. Then, quite carefully, he opened the bottle of laudanum and filled the eyedropper to a specific measurement. "Will you take the laudanum willingly, or shall I call for Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg to persuade you?"
That didn't bear thinking about. Jules simply closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue. The laudanum had a chalky consistency, quickly followed by a strong taste of alcohol. It burned on its way down his throat and he opened his eyes in surprise at the fire of it, remembering just in time not to breathe deeply.
A clatter at the nightstand drew his attention - Dr. Picot was replacing the bottles in his bag. "You should sleep well."
"Tell Fogg - when they bring Aimee back, I need to know. Even if I'm asleep . . . ." It didn't make sense. His tongue felt thick and Jules shook his head, trying to think.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and stared up at Dr. Picot. "I have a young son," the doctor admitted. "I'll tell them. Now, sleep, young man. Give your body a chance to heal."
The command was pointless. Jules was about to tell Dr. Picot just that when he realized that his lips weren't going to move. His eyelids began to fall of their own accord as he struggled to keep them raised. His hands were numb.
There was no pain.
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End of Chapter Eleven
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