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Jeux de Hasard - Part 6

It was as if he were trapped in the dream again - Phileas heard a cry of warning from Arago as he was pushed to one side, only to see Verne crumble to the ground. He knelt immediately beside his friend, reached out his hand, but hesitated before he touched his fingers to first Verne's neck and then his face.

Verne's skin was cool, even cold. There was no breath present, no spark of animation, no life. It was as if all that he had been - his enthusiasm and vitality - had been drained from him, leaving behind only this shell of cold, immobile flesh.

Arago was slowly kneeling at Verne's other side. His face was drawn, seeming ancient. He lifted Verne's left hand and held it to his chest briefly, staring down at the young man. And then he looked at Phileas.

The eyes were grief-stricken, the words, "This was never meant to happen," hardly a comfort.

Phileas had no use for speech, letting his eyes speak his condemnation, his anger at the old man for having forgotten himself even for a moment, for having allowed Lady Bella to leave Verne, for having led them here to this place.

Once fueled, the anger began to grow. There was more than enough to share between this old man, who had failed in his duty, and the one who had caused this abominable thing to happen. As in the dream, Phileas rose to his feet, turned, pointed a finger at the dealer. The red box was on the table before her, open. In her hand she held the red-brown marker upon which Verne's name was inscribed.

"Cheat!" he shouted, his cry echoing through the club with such unmitigated fury that the echo of the word set the crystal hangings on the chandelier tinkling like a chorus of angry bells. He stepped to the table, slammed his fist upon it so that the cards flew from the baize cloth and scattered as if tossed by whirlwind. "I demand satisfaction!"

"You demand--?" The dealer stared at him through her veil, as if unable to believe he'd spoken the words. He saw her lips draw into a tight, dry smile devoid of any real amusement. "You demand satisfaction?"

A sudden realization overcame him that he had just, perhaps, opened a door to something so old and so powerful that nothing on heaven or earth might control it. His bones shuddered at the overwhelming surge of his own mortality, fearing the inevitable decay into dust. His heart stilled in his chest for the barest second as if knowing that this beat might indeed be the final one.

And yet Phileas held his ground. The fear would not be allowed to overtake him, could not be allowed to have the better of him. He moved his shoulder slightly, as if settling the line of his coat upon it, placed his hand upon his hip, and raised his chin in defiance of whatever might come.

"You demand satisfaction?" the dealer asked again, dropping Verne's marker to the table. She placed her hands on the baize cloth and leaned closer, so that Phileas might see the flicker of her dark eyelashes behind the netting of the veil. "I should curse you," she hissed. "I should condemn you to outlive all of those you know and love and who love you in return. I should consign you to an eternity of gravesides, until only you will be left alone to mourn, unloved by the living, hated by your beloved dead for having ended their lives so soon."

"Too late," said Phileas evenly, a bitter smile settling on his lips. "You've already done that, haven't you?"

"I am not, as you would think, an unfounded rumor," she hissed. "Nor am I so easily dismissed. You, a gentleman, demand satisfaction? What satisfaction may I demand from you for having toyed with my affections for so long? You tease me, tempt me, and always, always at the last you turn away. It's become farcical, a bawdy-house comedy, a conspiracy among your intimates - even your brother gave his life into my keeping so that you could continue to torment me." The torrent of words faltered, her voice trembled. "And I forgave you even that. Even that. This is my recompense, Phileas Fogg. This is my satisfaction for the injury you've done to me."

He didn't quite know what to say - a woman's tears had always driven him to distraction and he could see tears beneath the veil. Thank God Rebecca cried so seldom or she'd have known the power she might have over him with but the barest glitter of crystal at the corner of her eyes.

What was there to say? Her words made sense, exposing a blot against his honor of which he'd not been aware. He'd never consider the matter in such terms and, to her credit, to have refrained from calling him an outright cad showed a restraint of will that he did not himself at the moment possess. His behavior toward her had been more than unfortunate, had been, in fact, offensive. She was well within the rights of society to demand satisfaction from him.

Reaching down to the table, he lifted his marker from the baize cloth and held it lightly in his hands. He didn't tighten his fingers around it - there was too much of himself there, too much with which he did not wish to become reacquainted, too much that was so heart-rendingly painful as to not bear revisiting.

Yet it had been a full life, in all.

Phileas opened his lips to speak and found them dry. He wet them with the tip of his tongue, glanced up at the veiled eyes, then down at the marker in his hand again. "To offer my life for Verne's - I hardly think the exchange would be equal. I can't give you any of the others because they're not mine to give. But I can at the very least settle the account by giving you my own, sincerely, without regret." He raised his eyes to hers, needing to speak the words from his heart so that they'd be accepted - dear God, let them be accepted. "Please accept this small token as my recompense, as my apology as a gentleman. I've wronged you."

Carefully lifting her right hand from the table, he turned it palm up and placed his marker on her hand. There was no resistance from her as he bent her fingers over it, feeling the touch of each digit upon the stone as an icy stab of cold within his chest. His left hand caught the edge of her veil, lifting it to reveal her lips.

They were quite lovely, really - full, crimson bright. Phileas leaned in to kiss her, continuing to lift the veil. It was almost above her eyes now, which were dark. Even through the netting, the blackness within them shone like polished obsidian - no, a deeper color, the darkest of all darknesses.

His lips touched not hers, but the back of her gloved hand as she deftly covered her mouth, preventing his kiss. The veil fell before it had been fully raised, shielding him from an undisguised look at her face, her eyes.

Despair coursed through Phileas as he straightened - he'd been cheated again. She'd refused his offer and his apology. She'd made him look a fool. She'd denied him her kiss.

She'd denied him the utter, inexorable promise of the eternal darkness held within her gaze.

He'd lost the trick. He'd failed.

"Your apology itself is more than sufficient," she said, startling him. Reaching forward to take his hand, she opened his palm and placed his marker firmly against his skin. Drawing him closer, she whispered in his ear, "You're mine. You've always been mine. You'll always be mine."

Her words were truly a cold comfort. She touched his shoulder as she moved around him from behind the gaming table. His hand shaking, Phileas placed his marker back on the baize cloth, leaning his weight on it for a long moment as he closed his eyes and collected himself. Such things took more out of one than he would have thought possible.

And yet it was not . . . quite . . . done.

He turned, still leaning one hand upon the table, not entirely certain he trusted his knees not to collapse beneath him. As the dealer approached Verne, Arago retreated, pausing briefly only to place the young man's left hand across his chest. The great black skirt of the dealer's gown floated around her like a dark sea, hoops collapsing slightly, but bobbing, wavelike, beneath the cloth as she lowered herself to the floor. She held Verne's head in her lap, one black glove supporting the back of his neck, the other lightly caressing his cheek for a moment before she lifted her veil enough to reveal her lips.

The kiss was not long - a brief, affectionate touch at best - but the results were immediate; Verne sat upright, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, gasping like a man who'd been on the verge of drowning in too-dark waters and had just, impossibly, found the surface again. There was no recognition beyond that for a moment. He blinked, stared in horror at the dealer kneeling on the floor beside him, and then scrambled away on all fours with the cry of a frightened animal. As if caught on a tide, he washed up against Phileas' legs. He'd thrown up his arm across his eyes, had all but curled into a ball, his grip around Phileas' lower calves so desperate that Phileas was concerned for a moment that Verne might topple him.

It took an effort and some negotiation with that unyielding, anxious grip on his leg before Phileas could kneel. Verne's soft, sporadic cries were those of a child who'd not yet awakened from a nightmare. Phileas placed his arm around Verne and found his body wracked by a trembling so intense it was a wonder his teeth weren't chattering.

The prospect of the eternal darkness that he'd seen reflected in the dealer's eyes could never have frightened him more than this. Caught between terror and anger, he glared at Arago, who was now standing over them. "Do something, man! What's wrong with him? Has he gone mad?"

Arago squatted beside them and touched Verne's face. Verne flinched at the contact and drew away, the crook of his arm still pressed tightly over his eyes, his face burrowing against Phileas' shoulder. And yet, as Phileas looked down, he saw that Verne's eyes were not closed, but open.

"Can nothing be done?"

At first, Arago didn't answer the question. He watched Verne for a moment, but didn't attempt to touch him again. Then he rose to his feet, with the assistance of Lady Bella, and walked slowly over to the dealer.

She'd remained impassive, still sitting on the floor with her skirts billowing out around her. Her veil obscured the direction of her gaze - she might have been looking at any of them, or none of them, lost in her own thoughts, gloved hands folded demurely in her lap.

"This gift's not for him," said Arago, gesturing toward Verne. "Take it back."

The authority inherent in the old man's voice didn't surprise Phileas, but his lack of deference to the dealer was somewhat unnerving. To that point she had been addressed with the courtesy due her position, but Arago's words were delivered in the same tone one would use to correct a chambermaid who had improperly swept the hearth.

If the lady in question had been perturbed by the lack of respect she'd been shown, she gave no sign. Without moving, she announced flatly, "He was warned to leave, given every consideration due him. I'm well within my rights."

"You've abused your rights," countered Arago. He pointed toward Verne again. "And you will remove this from him."

She laughed low in her throat, a darkly chilling sound. "How shall you force me to your will, Arago? Your threats are empty."

"My threats may very well be empty, madam, but there are others who'll be little pleased by your actions today, should they learn of them. And, by heaven, they'll see you brought to account for this fit of pique--"

His voice had been low at the start, but Arago's words grew in volume, the power of them setting the crystals in the chandeliers shivering . . . until he stopped in mid-sentence, looked down at the floor, and slowly unclenched his fists. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, saying more softly, "You know full well he's only begun his path. We tamper with destiny at our own peril. We've been brought to the age of reason - is there any profit gained from being unreasonable? Please, take back the gift. Let him find his destiny unencumbered by the constant awareness of his own mortality."

There was a pause, then the dealer lifted her hand to Arago silently. He took it, raising her to her feet. The only sound in the room was the rustle of her skirts as he escorted her to the writer's side.

Tremors still rocked Verne, although he'd quieted somewhat. His breathing came in hesitant gasps, as if he were afraid to release a breath because another might not follow. Phileas looked up at the pair as they stood over him and found himself fascinated by the edge of the veil that covered the dealer's features. It was still swinging back and forth from her movement of her steps and if he looked closely, if he could discern the difference between flesh and shadow, he might see . . . .

The dealer touched her hands to her cheeks, setting the veil still, as if to prevent Phileas from seeing more than she desired, although he was almost certain that her lips were smiling for an instant. Stepping forward, her cold shadow fell across them and she said, "Look at me, Jules Verne. The knowledge you've been given doesn't belong to you."

Verne had shuddered violently when she'd spoken his name, his only other response to turn his face even further away, a plaintively muffled, "No," sounding against Phileas' suit coat.

Phileas looked up at her, shaking his head slightly. She sighed in response, glanced over her shoulder at Arago, then turned back to them again. "Very well. Close your eyes, then."

Again, the shaken, "No. No, I can't."

The dealer moved to turn away, but Arago caught her arm. His eyes held warning for her to remain, and then he nodded toward Phileas. "Talk to him."

"Verne?" Phileas swallowed, seeing Verne's head turn slightly at his voice. "Look at me, Verne. Just look at me while I'm speaking to you. It's only good manners, you know that."

An odd thing to count on at such a moment, but it worked - Verne dropped the arm with which he'd been shielding his face and looked up to meet Phileas' gaze. His eyes were wide, wild with fear.

"I'm going to ask you to close your eyes," explained Phileas. When Verne tried to cover his face with his arm again, Phileas caught hold of his chin, holding him in place. "Look at me. It's all right. Just close your eyes."

"I can't," he breathed. "It's dark there. Fogg, you don't know - it's so dark. It's forever."

"I do know," corrected Phileas and when Verne shook his head to contradict him, he dropped his hand to the writer's shoulder and nodded emphatically, "Yes, I do know. I've seen it."

Verne hesitated, some sanity returning to his eyes as he listened to the words. He searched Fogg's gaze as if to prove to himself that he was hearing the truth.

"All I ask," said Phileas, "is that you close your eyes, just for a second. It's not the same kind of darkness, you know that. It's the darkness in here," he tapped the side of Verne's temple lightly with his fingers, "where you keep those fantastic ideas of yours. You're at home in there. You know every twist and turn in there, every knickknack and geegaw. It's a wonder your head doesn't rattle when you shake it."

The smile was faint, but it was there - so much better than that look of primal terror. "Now, close your eyes. Trust me." Phileas placed his right hand over Verne's eyes and moved it downward, feeling the flutter of lashes against his palm and fingertips. "Good. That's not so bad, is it?"

"No," whispered Verne, eyes closed. "Not so bad."

Phileas took his hand away and looked up, startled to find the dealer so close to him. She knelt at his side in front of Verne, then reached out her gloved hands. Her fingertips lightly caressed Verne's eyelids as she whispered, "Give me back the darkness, Jules Verne. Live without it for a little longer."

Verne slumped against Phileas as her touch left him and she shifted back on her heels. With no small amount of dread, Phileas touched his fingertips to the writer's neck - there was a heartbeat and his skin was warm.

"He's asleep," said Arago. He gestured toward Lady Bella, who pulled forward a gilt chair with yellow cushions, the chair in which they'd each been seated earlier having somehow shattered into wooden pieces that were scattered on the floor.

Phileas easily lifted Verne over his shoulder, then draped him into the chair. He stood for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Verne's chest, assuring himself that the writer was breathing - he could take nothing here on face value.

Arago touched his shoulder. Phileas glared at him and shook off the hand, but the elder man smiled and nodded toward Verne. "For a man to face death in the common course of destiny is one thing, to stare into the depths of Her eyes and gain the full knowledge of his own mortality is something else entirely. It's better that he not remember any of this."

"Will I?"

"Some. Enough." When Phileas frowned, he added, "You must be content with that."

"I'm not a man who settles for being 'content,'" warned Phileas.

"For now, you have no choice." He saw some of that earlier steel in Arago's gaze for an instant, before the old man's eyes softened as if amused by a private joke. "It's time for you to go."

Phileas touched his fingers to his lips and stared down at Verne for a moment. "If I was certain that you knew exactly what was going to happen tonight when you led us here--" he paused, leaving the threatening words unspoken as he met Arago's gaze. "This isn't to happen again. Any of it. Do we understand one another?"

Arago's lips were pressed into a tight, slightly disapproving line. "Completely."

"Good."

Phileas turned to find Lady Bella leaning over the chair as she draped Verne's scarf around his neck and set his gloves inside his hat. One of the attendants came forward with Phileas' coat and helped him on with it as Lady Bella watched, holding Verne's coat over her arm. She took the second scarf from the attendant and draped it around Phileas' neck, her fingers lingering along the line of his jaw.

"Good-night, Signor Fogg," she said, laughing lightly as he took her hand and kissed it. "I'll be ever at your side, as always."

He took his hat, gloves and cane from her, finding himself easily matching her smile. God, but she was a beautiful woman - faithless, but beautiful. "Until you turn to someone else," he countered.

She shook a finger at him, still grinning as she stepped away, but he saw her quickly brush her lips across Verne's forehead when she draped his coat over his lap. Phileas made a mental note never to play cards for money with Verne - he half-suspected he'd run a poor second in competition for Fortune's favor in that circumstance.

"And will you say good-bye to me, as well?" said the dealer's voice from behind him. "Or do you intend to slip away like a thief into the night yet again?"

There was no note of play in her voice, as there'd been with the Lady Bella. Phileas finished drawing on his gloves, steeling himself before he turned to face her.

Her gloved hands were clasped together. He reached out and took her right hand between both of his, then brought her knuckles to his lips, kissing them gently. "Au revoir would be more appropriate, somehow."

The response seemed to please her. "Yes," she answered, letting her fingers linger in his grasp, her left hand joining the tangle as he drew closer.

"And, if you will excuse the liberty--?" He freed one hand to touch her chin, carefully holding the veil in place with his fingertips as he tilted her head slightly to one side. She made no move to turn away or dissuade him as he pressed his lips to hers through the netting of the veil.

The kiss of Death, one step short of eternity and entirely too chaste for such intimates as themselves, was as entirely sweet and satisfying as he'd imagined.

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End of chapter 6

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