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Jeux de Hasard - Part 2
The building looked more like a gentleman's club than a casino, with no beckoning lights, music, or common street custom that usually attended such places. The sign above the door was well painted, the gilt shimmering in the gaslight lamps, which stood to either side - Jeux de Hasard.
A glance of confirmation at Verne, who nodded slightly, and they headed up the steps.
It had not been Phileas' intention at any point of the evening to let Verne know of the sense of impending dread that had awakened him at some godforsaken hour of the morning. He'd sat bolt upright in bed, a wave of anger, horror, and impotent rage still lingering from the dream, if that's what it had been. There'd been no cry from him to awaken Passepartout or the other servants, but his breathing had been labored, his heart pounding with unexpected fury in his chest. He'd sat there for some time, abed in his nightshirt, and tried to reconstruct the dream to discover why this nightmare should prove different than any of the more common ones that afflicted his sleep.
There was no context in which to place the image - turning at a cry, an unknown voice holding warning, only to see Verne crumble to the ground. There had been no movement from his friend, no speech, and only a ghastly pallor that had come over him like a fog drifting in from the sea. There was even a memory of some sensation, of the warmth of life already having been drained from the body in that second's fall, touching a hand that was as unfeeling and insensate as any inanimate object. And then rising, filled with righteous anger and fury, raging against himself for having been deluded, for having trusted--
Who?
At breakfast, Rebecca had returned from a late meeting with Chatsworth and had tentatively requested the loan of the Aurora and Passepartout for what she claimed was a tedious responsibility that was urgent enough to be handled immediately. He'd all but shocked her with his simple agreement - yes, she could take the airship and his valet with no questions asked, but she must first deliver him to Paris. Extraordinary, his acquiescence, and she'd pressed him on it, but when he would give no detail - for there was no detail to give - she'd returned to her own dire concerns regarding the fate of nations.
Passepartout had been more difficult to shake, and yet that had been accomplished as well. There were questions about where to dine, was Verne's good suit aboard and could it be prepared, the club to be notified of his arrival. Those details, at least, could be understood, dealt with in a timely manner, and put to one side.
It had all gone according to plan. Dinner had been superb and the young author had taken full advantage of the experience. To follow such a meal with a visit to a place of gaming he would not have considered a danger. Until he had finally broken through the cab driver's provincial French enough to complete the payment for the hire, turned, and found that Verne had disappeared.
His heart had gone into this throat at that moment, to find his plans in such disarray and to lose sight of Verne so easily. Had the carriage passing on the other side of the street taken him? He'd left his hat in their cab - Phileas confiscated that immediately. And then to see Verne running toward him across a street, with a carriage heading in their direction?
There'd been no harm done - he'd pushed the young man to the side of the street in more than enough time, but had let his anger at himself get the better of him. Verne's description of his encounter with this missing mentor did little to soothe his nerves. That was followed upon by Verne berating himself for not being more careful, for not doing as he should.
It occurred to him that Verne would need to be watchful of his own life, should this formless, dread forecast come into reality. And so Phileas said what he'd not intended, saw the alarm flare in Verne's eyes, then watched that ingenious mind trip from conclusion to conclusion as easily as a child used stepping stones to cross a brook. Unnerving, how Verne could rightly catalogue the intent of his actions, pulling motive and result from thin air with only the barest of evidence. He could become an investigative genius, an asset to any intelligence service or the very devil of an adversary if he'd had less heart.
They traveled up the steps of the Jeux de Hasard against his own better judgment. Phileas should have known that having given Verne the choice of fight or flight, the young author would take the former, disregarding any risk to himself with the thought that a friend might be in peril. It was a quality that showed true strength of character.
It was also a quality that could get him killed.
The doorman was dressed for the weather, a livery of black advantaged by gold stripes of braid and shining buttons. He touched his hat as they approached, but made no effort to open the doors. "May I offer assistance, Messieurs?"
"My friend and I," Phileas dipped his cane toward Verne, including him, "were looking for a game of chance. We were told we might be welcome here."
There was a method to these things, a form of protocol as intricate as one's presentation to a crowned head. The doorman eyed them both and nodded slightly - they'd passed muster, at least in appearance. "Your names?"
Any gatekeeper worth his braid and livery would hold a prodigious encyclopedia of names and habits in his head, ranging from regulars, to more casual custom, to those who might one day appear and wish entry. Comfortable that he was often registered on at least one of those mental lists, Phileas announced himself with a casual air, "Phileas Fogg, London."
The doorman paused as if reviewing his records, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, you are not among our membership. Only members or sponsored guests may enter. There's a fashionable gaming club on the Rue de La Fontaine, perfectly respectable - I can direct you."
This was not something that happened - not to him. He'd never been denied entry, anywhere . . . well, there had been that one time when he was at school, but as he'd been the worse for drink, he hadn't blamed them in the least. "Ah," he said, glancing back at Verne, then to the doorman again. "Perhaps there's been some mistake--"
The doorman drew himself to his full height, meeting Phileas' gaze evenly. "There is no mistake, Monsieur."
Verne climbed an extra step, flashing a quick look to Phileas as if in apology, then asked softly, "What about Verne? Jules Verne?"
"Really, Verne," said Phileas quietly, already half-turned and on his way down the steps, "this is ludicrous. We'll simply have to--"
"Jules Verne?" echoed the doorman.
Phileas turned, hearing the acceptance in the tone of the man's voice and finding it seconded by a smile and a slight bow from the doorman. "Yes, Monsieur Verne, you're expected." He opened the door, then glared down at Phileas. "This gentleman, he's with you?"
"Yes, he's with me." Verne's grin verged on insolence. He nodded his head toward the doorway. "Come on, Fogg."
There was no point in casting anything like a withering glance toward the doorman - Phileas doubted the man would have exhibited any reaction other than perfect aplomb. As it was, he sighed and followed Verne up the steps into the club, nodding as the doorman touched his hat as a passing courtesy.
Another liveried servant in the antechamber collected their coats, hats, scarves, and gloves with a precision so elegant it bordered on the mechanical. The button on Verne's glove wouldn't cooperate - the attendant stepped forward to assist him. Such a situation would normally bring out a shy awkwardness in him, but Verne continued to seem insufferably pleased with himself.
"You do realize," warned Phileas, after they'd finally freed Verne from his glove and the door to the club opened before him, "that this may very well be an elaborate trap?"
The sensible words seemed to deflate Verne's elation immediately. He sobered and glanced at Fogg. "Arago said the club was private, but that they'd let me in. I hadn't even thought--" He swallowed and looked away. "We were expected."
"You were expected," corrected Phileas. "Watch your step, stay close to me, and don't eat or drink anything offered to you."
It was common sense to anyone who had served as an agent on assignment. Never having had that experience, Verne bristled visibly under the stricture, but made no comment, which Phileas hoped would mean his warning would be heeded. They walked into the club and paused just beyond the doorway, surveying the area.
The ceiling was at least fifteen feet, arches partitioning Italian frescos that had been painted in a classical style. A crystal chandelier hung at the very center of the room - the massive thing must have weighed several stone - with small chandeliers ringed around it like petals edging the center of a flower. For all of the reflective crystal and the gaslights on the walls, the room was actually very dim.
The furnishings spoke of quality and elegance - though tables were covered with baize cloths, the table legs and chairs were lacquered and gilt, again in an Italian style. The cashier's booth seemed constructed entirely of marble inlay, matching the areas of floor not covered by thick rugs with fanciful patterns and muted colors. If one looked at the patterns for too long, it was almost as if they moved.
There were groups of chairs and tables, where couples and groups conversed amiably between play. The game tables seemed less crowded together, with fewer onlookers than Phileas had found to be the norm in French casinos. He was used to noisy affairs, with glitter and gloss and color, equal measures of false bravado and too-loud voices accompanying the gain and loss of fortunes. The glitter was here, and the smell of smoke from the gentlemen's cigars, but the gaiety was lacking.
Although evening dress seemed to be the style, there were various countries represented - a woman in a kimono batted her eyes and hid her laughter behind a fan as she joked with a uniformed Hussar. He could not easily tell at a glance who was winning and who was losing, unusual in itself. Everything was elegant to a fault, but at the core of the ambiance was a sense of . . . not danger, perhaps resignation? Beneath even that was a layer of sound more comforting in its familiarity - the shuffle of paste decks of card, the clatter of bone dice from a leather cup, and the spin of a wheel.
A hand touched his arm and he started, finding the slim feminine fingers in a green glove belonged to a striking redhead with flashing eyes. "Phileas Fogg, yes? I saw you last in London."
Her hair was like flame and drawn over her naked shoulder to the front of her décolletage; it made Rebecca's own tresses seemed pastel in comparison, which was not easily done. The gloves and dress matched her eyes, the dress not in the English fashion, the neckline too low for misty evenings and garden parties, but a welcome distraction none-the-less. Her features were fine, the skin an olive color faded to an agreeable pallor. Although she looked familiar - the accent was Italian - certainly, he was at a loss to attach a name. It was not like him to forget a beautiful woman.
She tapped his arm with her fan in a playfully chiding manner. "And you do not remember me? Oh, these gentleman!" Her later comment was addressed to Verne, on whom it now seemed her attention had been fixed from the start. "Introduce me to your friend." Before he could move forward to take the initiative, she gave her hand to Verne, announcing, "You may call Bella, Lady Bella. I think I should like that."
He kissed her fingers lightly, glancing sideways at Phileas as he did so as if checking to make certain that his actions were correct and proper. His eyes however, were fixed very much on the lady in question as he told her, "I'm Jules Verne."
"Charming." When Verne released her fingers, she touched them to his chin, turning his head slightly as if inspecting his features. "And French. I do so like the French - they take such pleasure from a gamble, losing their souls and laughing all the while." She flicked her gaze momentarily back toward Phileas. "Surely you know the proverb, Signor Fogg?"
"'There are two great pleasures in gambling, that of winning and that of losing,'" he quoted.
"Oh, but in the English it sounds less romantic, less inspiring." Even her minor displeasure could not lessen the brightness of her smile. Her hand moved to Verne's arm, as if claiming it. "Come, gentlemen, you're here to gamble, aren't you?"
Phileas moved himself between them, capturing Lady Bella's arm on his own and favoring her with a careful smile. "That depends entirely on the stakes, dear lady."
She laughed as if charmed and completely unsurprised by the maneuver. "Now I remember why I like you, Signor Fogg - you don't concede until the turn of the final card. And even then . . . ."
When she tried to pull away, he resisted, holding her arm close to his body. Her eyes were still sparkling, the shot of fire within them subsiding after a momentary struggle. "All right," she announced in a graceful concession, by placing her left hand over the hold he had on her right, "I'll favor you for the moment. But only for the moment."
Phileas lifted her hand to his lips, but was well aware of Verne moving close to his right side, commenting sharply, "An old friend?"
He didn't know how to answer - she was so familiar and yet he'd never danced with her before, or attended a dinner party beside or across from her. There was something about the Lady Bella that brought to mind a number of gambling parties and salons, the most recent being three weekends ago. Seven hours of whist in a number of sittings with a gruff landed gentleman had netted him a decent sized acreage in Shropshire, a townhouse in Bath, and part ownership in a land freight concern. Had she been present at that house party? There had been so many people there . . . but he would have remembered her hair and those eyes.
Verne was still there, trying not to seethe at having lost the lady's immediate attention. "What of your friend?" asked Phileas sotto vocce, as Lady Bella called greetings to a passing couple. "Do you see him anywhere?"
Looking away guiltily as if he'd forgotten his worry at his friend's disappearance, Verne said, "No. But this isn't the type of place we'd find him. Arago isn't--"
"The cards are waiting, signore. And see - the table is opening there for you."
Phileas followed the Lady Bella's elegant gesture toward a table at the rear of the room. Before he could do more than appraise the distance, Lady Bella had begun to guide him to the table and there was no polite way to disentangle himself from her hold. Phileas glanced quickly over his shoulder to Verne, making certain the author didn't stray, but he was following in their wake without any trouble.
It was only as they reached the table that Phileas had a chance to examine the dealer. It was a woman - not such an oddity in the French gambling establishments that he'd visited in the past. Her dress was more formal and less revealing than the Lady Bella's, black with sleeves, insets, and lining of red lace. The veil, which reached from her small black cap to her chin, was thin and fine, having the precision of a netting so that he could also make out the wide dark eyes that were fixed on the table before her. Her lips were red and full, moving slightly as if she spoke a silent prayer when the cards were turned.
They were spectators for the moment, an old man having the only chair across from the veiled woman. Neither the dealer nor the player had more of a stake on the table than a black rectangular chip, about the size of a playing card, which appeared to be made of stone. The player cut the cards gravely, then passed the pack back to the dealer with a nod. Their hands never touched - she waited until he left the pack before her, then her gloved fingers placed a single card face down before each of them, with a second card face up.
"Vingt-et-un," explained Phileas softly, for Verne's benefit. "The object is to reach a score of twenty-one from the visible pips, or at least surpassing the dealer's total."
"If the score is higher than twenty-one?"
"The dealer takes the trick."
The chatty Lady Bella had grown quiet. Although her arm still rested on his, Phileas realized that she'd turned her face away from the game, as if she were intent upon the marble veins that ran through a column set in the far wall.
There was a ten of spades on the baize cloth before the old man. He flipped the covered card to reveal a four of hearts. He held his hand above the second card and tapped his fingers onto the table once.
The dealer reached across, placing a new card face up - an eight of spades.
"Twenty-two," breathed Verne beside him.
Phileas could do little more than nod. The old man stared down at the cards before him as if in disbelief. He picked up the small rectangular chip, slid it across the table with a trembling hand, and then pushed back his chair. His bow was elegant, if a trifle unsteady and the dealer bowed back to him.
The old man stumbled as he moved around them. Phileas took a step to provide assistance, but Verne was faster, catching the man's arm.
"Are you all right, monsieur?"
The old man straightened, patted Verne's hand as if in thanks, then escaped his grip. As he walked through the club people moved from his path, but whether their courtesy was born of respect or revulsion, Phileas could not immediately say.
His attention was drawn back to the table as the dealer withdrew a small box covered with red leather. She placed it on the table and opened it, setting both the chip from her stake and the old man's chip into the box. Her movements were precise, almost reverential as she closed the boxed with gloved fingers, slipped down the clasp, and set it on a small table that stood to her left.
"It's your seat, signore," whispered Lady Bella.
He looked down at his hands, then reached into his pocket. "I've no chips - could these be exchanged--"
"This is the only stake you need at this table."
Lady Bella pressed one of the small, black stone chips into his hand, then smiled up at his confused expression. She touched her lips to his cheek and whispered, "Have no fear, signore - I'm with you . . . for the moment."
The chair in which he sat was a large and heavy thing - solid wood, with red velvet cushions at the seat and the back. It was far from uncomfortable and seemed to fit him perfectly, as if it had been made for him. Lady Bella stood behind him - he could smell her perfume and felt her hand resting on his shoulder - while Verne stood to his right.
"Mr. Fogg." The dealer nodded toward him then seemed to hesitate, her gaze resting beyond him, on Lady Bella. "You're fortunate in your friendships."
"Madam, have we met?"
"We have never been formally introduced, no." There was a smile beneath the veil. "But I'm an old friend of your family - your mother, your father . . . we might have met before, but for your brother's intervention." Her hands swept across the cloth, pulling all of the cards to one side, then deftly tapping them into place.
"My brother never mentioned--"
Phileas stopped himself, voice falling silent as she lifted a box from the table on her right. Bound in black leather, it looked similar to the box into which she'd placed her winnings from the last trick. The clasp was raised, she reached into the box to remove a chip and set it on the table, and then the box was closed. It remained to her right, resting on the baize cloth.
"You must place your stake on the table," said Lady Bella, reaching across to take his right hand.
Shaking away her grasp, he looked down at the black chip in his palm. It was smooth but warm, unlike any finished stone he'd ever encountered. Marble perhaps - the striations seemed to run through it, lines of white and red and gold, perhaps silver, too. And then his fingers found the letters incised on the surface.
Phileas Fogg.
He straightened in his chair, a chill running the length of his spine as he felt all that he had been, and was, and would be gathered in that stone. His eyes fastened on those of the woman across from him - she was watching him through her veil. It moved slightly from her face, as if she were laughing softly.
"Fogg, what's wrong?"
Verne placed a hand on his right shoulder and drew close. Phileas swallowed, fighting back the urge to shout at him, to tell the writer to run for the door and not look back - but he couldn't quite form the words. It would be pointless, really, to make such a scene. Verne could be counted upon for his loyalty to his friends above all else, even one who'd misused him in the past. Verne wouldn't leave without him.
Which meant, unfortunately, that Verne would never leave this place, for Phileas had little hope of leaving himself. The marker in his hand was his own life.
He'd played with those stakes before and won each time, no matter how determinedly he'd tried to lose. The thought of losing didn't frighten him. The thought of finally making the acquaintance of the lady who sat across from him frightened him even less - he'd flirted with her often enough. But there was the chip beneath the dealer's hand to consider, the stake with which she'd play.
"May I?" he asked, holding out his left hand, to view his opponent's stake.
They were sitting less than a hand's breath apart - he could have reached across and placed his palm flat against the hollow of her throat. Her gaze dropped to his hand and she picked up the chip, but held it out for him to see; it seemed he wouldn't be allowed to claim it, not unless he won the trick.
The words were difficult to decipher, until her gloved hand turned the chip slightly, so the light reflected from the letters and revealed them.
Rebecca Fogg.
It was only then fear entered his heart.
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End of part two
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