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Chapter Three

"--And, I promise, Blessed Mother, never to visit Mme Aver's house of sin again . . . except on my birthday, of course. Just let Jules wake--"

"I'm awake," announced Jules. He opened his eyes a fraction of an inch then screwed them shut again when the pounding in his head refused to go away. "Could you pray a bit more quietly, Gaspar." Again, he tried to open his eyes, and found the dim light a little less blinding.

Lying curled up on a small board suspended from the wall by a chain on either end, Jules stared at Gaspar, who was sitting with his back to an ominous door. The room was no more than three paces wide and perhaps four long. The grill at the top of the door let in some small amount of light - enough to tell that it was Gaspar sitting across from him and that they were the only two people in the room.

The prevalent smell was that of urine, only partially explained by a ceramic chamberpot that sat uncovered in a corner to one side of the door, although stale vomit and ancient sweat were also high on the list. Wrinkling his nose, Jules sniffed then pulled himself upright, holding onto the chain for support. "What happened?"

"We've been arrested." Gaspar folded his arms and glared at him, then nodded toward the floor by Jules' feet. "There's a cup of water there, if you're thirsty."

"Thank you." Jules leaned down to pick up the goblet, then grabbed for the chain again as the world spun suddenly. Gaspar instantly sat beside him and pulled him upright. He felt the mug pressed into his hands as he struggled to blink the bright stars from his field of vision, then closed his eyes and drank from the cup.

It was tepid and slightly foul, but it was wet. Cupping his hand, he poured some of the water into his palm and splashed it onto his face, then wiped it away. The wetness helped to revive him somewhat and he opened his eyes fully. Using the chain as a support, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the door.

The grill was far too high over the doorway to see out, but at least it let in a measure of fresh air and light. He turned back toward Gaspar. "I don't think we're getting out of here without help."

"Small chance of that." Gaspar pulled his knees up to his chest, perching on the wooden bench. "I bribed one of the gendarmes into passing on a note to your father to the French embassy. We may be here a few days." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Your father is going to have me flayed alive for this."

"It's my fault, and I'll tell him so," said Jules quickly. He looked over the door carefully and realized with some dismay that the hinges were on the outside. If this was a holding cell, the form fit the function perfectly. "At least we'll have shelter and be fed." He frowned, remembering the tepid water. "More or less."

"You're forgetting the charges. We've been arrested, Jules." Gaspar sighed again, this time drawing Jules' attention. "We'll lose our place in the Sorbonne - they won't accept criminals. And you must admit that we're guilty - you broke into that man's house--"

"I fell into the house," corrected Jules, again turning his attention to the door. "And it was Fogg's house; I have an invitation to enter at any time."

"--And I smashed a vase over his head. At least, I think it was a vase." Gaspar clenched his fists and glared up at Jules. "Will you stop talking about your imaginary friends. We're in serious straits right now. If I were you, I'd be thinking about what I was going to tell my father. Do you know how much money it'll cost him to settle this? And we'll still probably spend time in an English prison, too." He shuddered. "Although I'd rather spend a few weeks in a cell than have to face your father, to be honest."

"That won't happen," explained Jules, again giving up the door as a lost cause. Getting another angry glare for his pains as he pushed his friend over to make room, he seated himself beside Gaspar. "Fogg, or Rebecca, or Passepartout will find us. Fogg has enough money and connections to make this go away - I'm certain of it."

"What kind of connections?" asked Gaspar quickly. "Because we certainly need a lawyer."

"I think they're called 'barristers' here. And I think you need a solicitor to get one. But Fogg will know how to do that."

"He's a lawyer, a 'barrister'?" pressed Gaspar.

"He's a gentleman," said Jules, leaning back against the cold stone wall. He smiled over at his friend. "It's the same as it is in Paris - they all seem to know one another. Someone has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend . . . and then we're free."

Gaspar scowled, his eyes dubious. "That's a long line of friends."

"True," agreed Jules. "Fogg seems to have many more acquaintances than friends. But the friends he has are very powerful."

There was a pause, then Gaspar's eyes lit from within, containing understanding. "Ah, government friends. Yes?"

Jules took a breath and looked away. He wasn't about to tell Gaspar that Fogg had almost become the head of the British Secret Service or that he'd been an agent for some time - that information was as privileged as Rebecca Fogg's real identity. Which meant that he couldn't contact Chatsworth, either, for how would a lowly French law student happen to know the head of the British Secret Service?

Besides, Chatsworth would probably be more than happy to let him sit in a jail cell for days, or even weeks, without telling Fogg of his whereabouts. But if Chatsworth didn't know that Rebecca and Fogg were missing--?

"We have to get out of here," he said softly, his eyes again surveying the door with studied interest. Rebecca had promised to teach him something about lock picking, but they'd never seemed to get around to it. Besides, he didn't have the tools she carried in her jewelry. A piece of long, thin metal, however, bent just so--

Jules rose from the wooden seat and patted it. "Empty your pockets."

"What?"

"Empty your pockets."

Gaspar stared at him curiously, then began to search through his pockets, producing coins, bits of string, three glass marbles, the stub of a pencil, a couple of torn calling cards, a few broken but worn pieces of blue and green glass . . . nothing immediately useful. "I did tell them that you were drunk," he said hesitantly, looking up at Jules through half-lowered lids, as if trying to anticipate his reaction. "They smelled beer on your vest and that seemed to help. Maybe they'll be easier on us. After all, we're just a couple of students and that man was pointing a gun at you."

Finding that his own pockets contained little more of interest - the innards of a broken watch that he'd taken apart, more pencil stubs, a bit of wax, more string . . . .

"My pen-knife is gone," he complained.

"They took mine as well," explained Gaspar, leaning back against the wall. "They also took my rucksack. And I didn't only tell them that you were drunk, Jules, but that . . . well, I was worried that you were having a spell of madness."

The words didn't sink in as he stared at the items on the bench. The compass he and Passepartout had made was gone - he could half understand that - but the bit of purple velvet ribbon Rebecca had lost from her hair during a fight which he'd picked up and meant to give back to her . . . eventually . . . was also missing. His watch as well. If he thought about it, those items hadn't been in his pockets this morning when he'd awakened in the hostel. Anything that had tied him to the Aurora and his friends or their adventures together was gone.

Or had they never been there in the first place?

Jules drew in a sudden breath at the thought, then looked at Gaspar, who was watching him with a worried gaze. "They're real," he said aloud, as much to convince himself as to convince Gaspar. "Fogg and Passepartout and Rebecca - damn it, I've flown in the Aurora! I'm not about to doubt my own memories because you tell me they're wrong."

Fear had replaced the worry in Gaspar's eyes. Abandoning the trinkets on the bench, he rose and placed his hand on Jules' shoulder. "It's going to be all right," he said quietly. "Just . . . stay calm. I'll get you out of this, I promise I will. And I'll tell you father it was my fault, as well. Just don't start shouting about the Legion or the League or God only knows what will hap--"

"But the League could have arranged this - all of this!" protested Jules. As Gaspar turned away in defeat, he added, in what he hoped was a calmer, measured tone, "Or . . . someone else. The Foggs have enemies, powerful enemies."

"Just like they have powerful friends, hmn?" Gaspar picked up the bits and pieces from the bench and began to stuff them into his pockets again. "What kind of enemies would an English gentleman or an English lady, even a magnificent one, have? Creditors? Spurned suitors? Disgruntled servants?" Angry again, Gaspar threw a cold glance at him. "Think about it, Jules. Does that make any sense?"

"But they aren't--!"

And the words stopped there, because he could say no more without betraying his friends. How could he explain to Gaspar that Fogg's actions as a secret agent had left a trail of defeated antagonists behind him and that Rebecca's own adventures were currently building a matching set of villainous fiends seeking revenge? There was also Count Gregory and the League, which might include members of more than half of the most noble and respectable houses in Europe, any of whom would be happy for a chance to deliver Fogg, Rebecca, and the Aurora into their leader's clutches.

"They aren't real," said Gaspar, straightening. "And the sooner you understand that, Jules, the sooner this madness will be over." He took a step forward and grabbed Jules' hand. "Mon Dieu, don't you understand what'll happen to you if you keep this up? They'll put you away, my friend. They'll put you in a dark hole and they'll slam the barred door behind you and never look back. Your family will cease to speak of you - you'll be the mistake, the accident, the unfortunate one. The only thing you'll hear will be the screams of those other damned souls interred there with you . . . until you won't care any more and your own screams join theirs."

Jules broke into a cold sweat at the force and earnestness of Gaspar's words - it was all too easy to envision. He'd learned at an early age to keep his dreams and visions mostly to himself, passing them off as stories meant to entertain his school friends and younger brother and sisters. But when the visions grew stronger and intruded upon his waking hours . . . he had thought he was going mad. Arago had brought him back from the brink of it, had helped him to control them, to forget the worst of them for a time. And then the Foggs and Passepartout had entered his life with their remarkable airship, accepting his visions far more easily than he himself . . . .

Just after he'd decided that he was going mad?

Pulling away from Gaspar, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes. "No," he whispered. "I am not going mad. I'll die before I'll let them do that to me."

He felt the touch of Gaspar's hand on his shoulder. "I'll fight them every step of the way, my friend. I'll do everything I can to save you . . . but you must help me to save you, yes? You must forget about these phantom people. You must go home."

"Home."

The word echoed in his mind and, for an instant, he saw not his room and house in Nantes nor his loft in Paris, but the Aurora. Opening his eyes, he shuddered, and turned toward Gaspar, wanting desperately to promise to return to the quiet life of a student in Paris, to forget these fantasies . . . .

But his friends were missing. They could be in danger.

They could be dead.

The grating of the lock of the sturdy cell door startled him. Both he and Gaspar turned. A uniformed policeman stood in the opening, blackjack at the ready, along with a man who wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He was of middling height, and his suit, although not of the finer cuts, was a respectable tweed. The black bag he carried in his hand proclaimed him a doctor.

"Which one of you received the blow?" he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Gaspar pointed to Jules. "He did. In fact, he was dizzy when he awakened. I was trying to get him to sit down before he fainted again." Gaspar pushed Jules down onto the clear section of the bench and whispered, "I told them your father was a prominent lawyer in France and that there'd be an international incident if anything happened to you." Then he stepped back before Jules could answer and motioned the doctor forward. "We were drunk, Monsieur. It was only the spirits. You can still smell them on him."

Jules watched Gaspar's performance with wide eyes, then looked to the policeman at the door, who seemed as stalwart and unimpressed as before. The doctor approached him and none too gently grabbed his head with his free hand, dropping the medical bag at his feet. "Which side, then? Ah, there it is."

"Ow!" Jules winced and tried to pull away as the doctor probed the bump on his skull with his finger, but the man held him firmly.

"Skin's not broken and there's no blood - I'd say you've nothing more than a lump." Releasing him, the doctor stepped back and sniffed delicately. "You're right, I can smell the drink on him. Can you speak, young man?"

"I wasn't drunk," protested Jules, annoyed at having been manhandled. When the policeman took a step into the room at his sharp tone, he looked down and away. "It's Fogg's house, I swear it is! I've an open invitation. I'm a - a friend of the family."

"That's seems even more likely," said the doctor, the note of kindness in his voice causing Jules to look up in hope. "I've been down Saville myself on calls, ended up at the wrong residence more than once. But breaking into a house," he turned toward Gaspar, "and assaulting the owner?"

"I fell into the house," answered Jules. "The butler released the door and before I knew it I was inside. My friend, Gaspar--" he swallowed and nodded hesitantly toward Gaspar, who waved slightly when the doctor turned to regard him, "thought I was going to be killed. The man had a gun pointed at my chest."

The doctor hesitated, studying the young men whom - Jules hoped - looked generally clean and respectable. "Is that the way of it, sergeant?"

The policeman cleared his throat. "Mostly, sir. I came in to see the one bash Mr. Carfair over the head with the ceramic, but Mr. Carfair was pointing a gun at the other, right up against his chest, the muzzle was." The policeman cleared his throat again. "Course when we came in, that other grabbed for the gun - fought like a tiger, he did, like a madman."

"We'll pay for the vase," said Jules contritely, trying to ignore the sharp look from Gaspar.

"It was a chamberpot," corrected the policeman. "And damned lucky you was that it were empty."

Meeting Gaspar's eyes, Jules found his friend had paled at the pronouncement, but turned his attention immediately back to the doctor. "My father's a lawyer in France, sir, in Nantes. This was all a misunderstanding. Gaspar tried to send word to the French embassy, but--"

His shrug elicited a sympathetic nod from the doctor. "Yes. I traveled a bit in my youth, know what it's like to be in trouble in a foreign country. But help from France is likely to take some time, young man. What about this friend who lives on Saville Row? Perhaps I could deliver a note to him for you?"

Gaspar stepped forward, but Jules shot him an angry glare, stopping him in his tracks. "His name is Phileas Fogg. The house - I thought that was his house, I'm certain of it. His family estate is Shillingworth Magna, up-country. There's telegraph apparatus at the house and in the village nearby. If you could send a telegraph--" Jules grabbed the crumpled five pound note from the bench, where it rested with the remainder of his belongings and handed it to the doctor, "--perhaps someone might know where to locate him."

The doctor took the note, then nodded. "Very well. And your name, young man?"

"Jules Verne, of Paris." He hesitated for a minute, then added, "The staff at Shillingworth Magna should recognize my name; they'll be certain to answer."

"It would be better to send a telegraph to your father," hissed Gaspar, then turned a smile at the policeman. "He'll be sure to answer."

The doctor glanced at Gaspar, then back at Jules. "Which then, your father or this Phileas Fogg?"

"Fogg," answered Jules immediately. "He's closer and he'll be able to do something. My father--" he swallowed, "--if I can avoid contacting him--?"

"I see." The doctor's smile was faint. "As soon as the answer arrives, I'll return it to you."

The doctor turned, as if to walk away, but Gaspar caught his arm. After a quick, worried glance at Jules, he added, "My friend hasn't been well lately. He has spells . . . delusions. Sometimes he sees things that aren't there."

"Gaspar!" hissed Jules, as the doctor glanced back at him.

But Gaspar hadn't released the doctor and refused to meet Jules' gaze. "His father sent him on this trip to recuperate - we all thought he was well. But this morning . . . he can't be held accountable for his actions. I'll admit that I struck that man, Mr. Carfair, over the head, but Jules wasn't in his right mind, sir. He needs care, medical care."

Jules shuddered inwardly at the faint look of unease in the doctor's gaze. "I'll send the telegram," said the doctor, to Gaspar. "And, I promise you no matter what the outcome, I will see to it that your friend's condition will be taken into account."

"Thank you," sighed Gaspar in relief, finally releasing his hold and backing away from the policeman's imposing glare. "Thank you."

Jules waited until the door had closed behind them before he ran forward and grabbed Gaspar by the shoulders, shaking him. "What are you doing? He's going to send the telegraph for us. And you tell him that I'm mad?"

Gaspar freed himself and backed against the wall, glancing away from Jules nervously. "I told him that you were ill. He's a doctor. He'll be able to help you."

"But I'm not mad!" protested Jules. Throwing his hands into the air in exasperation, he then returned to the bench and began to gather up the remainder of his belongings. "You'll see - when the telegram reaches Fogg, he'll come immediately and straighten this out. And if he's not at Shillingworth Magna, they'll try to reach him for us."

"Jules, the telegraph is a wonderful invention, but it won't do miracles; you can't use it to send a message to someone who doesn't exist."

Tucking the last bit of string in his pocket, he straightened and met Gaspar's gaze. "We'll get an answer," he said evenly. "As certain as I'm sane, I promise you that we'll get an answer."

"I hope so, if only for your sake." Gaspar slid down the corner wall and drew his knees to his chest, glaring at Jules.

For his own part, Jules seated himself on the bench and ignored his friend, staring instead at the lock and trying to devise a way to create a lock-pick that would withstand an iron bolt from a few pieces of glass, some string, and some watch gears.

Before the better part of an hour had passed, Gaspar's head had slumped forward into his knees, his soft snoring confirming Jules' suspicion that he'd fallen asleep. Never having been comfortable with boredom, Jules continued to work on the problem of the lock-pick. The wire spring from the watch gears was too thin and malleable to work on its own, but it could be used to hold two ground pieces of glass together. If he bent the gears around the outside and fastened then by twisting the wire around them, he might be able to build something just long enough and strong enough to pick the lock. That would, of course, mean waking Gaspar to retrieve the glass.

However annoyed and angry he might be with Gaspar, Jules couldn't bring himself to do something so petty. Besides, waking Gaspar would mean that he thought they would need a lock-pick because no other rescue would be forthcoming and Gaspar would have won. Jules was certain that once Fogg or Rebecca or Passepartout arrived, everything would be sorted out. That was, of course, if the telegraph message reached any of them.

Not finding them at the house in Saville Row still puzzled him. If the League had taken them, why go through the trouble of changing the decoration and installing a new 'owner'? That would be quite a bit of work for absolutely no return and quite unlike the League's style. Perhaps his friends weren't in any danger. Perhaps Phileas Fogg had decided in the middle of the night to sell the house or had lost it in a game of chance? Not completely impossible, though highly improbable that the owner should redecorate so thoroughly in a matter of hours.

Gaspar had been right on at least one account - none of this made sense. For the Foggs and Passepartout to be missing, for the house on Saville Row to be different, for the ribbon and compass and watch not to be among his possessions when he awakened in a strange room in London, accompanied by a friend he didn't recognize? For his notebook, which seldom if ever left his sight, to be changed so utterly and yet the notes contained within written by his own hand . . . .

A chill ran down his spine as Jules realized that there was an answer that was logical, an answer that made sense - he was, as Gaspar claimed, mad. How many times had he day-dreamed of some device or object, seeing it so clearly before him that he felt as if he could reach out and touch it . . . only to be startled back to a reality in which others stared at him in surprise or annoyance or fear? Had his delusions deepened to such a point that he had imagined the rest of it as well? If his eyes could deceive him, what about his other senses? The smell of Rebecca's perfume, the taste of a fine claret shared with Fogg, the feel of grease and oil on his hands as he and Passepartout tended to the propellers or worked on a new gadget . . . all illusions?

Closing his eyes, he tried to deny the possibility, and yet what had his adventures with his friends been but fantastic? Mystical fires, men from the stars and giant rockets built to propel missiles to far cities or to the moon, vampires and evil spirits and dismembered crusaders with fanatical plans for world domination . . . .

"No," he whispered, managing to push forward at least that sound into the oppressive silence of the cell. "No."

He turned the matter over in his mind, upside down and sideways, and still the answer came out the same way each time. He could not deny the logic of it. His only hope was that a piece was missing, there was something not being taken into consideration.

Time passed far too slowly and it seemed an eternity before the metal lock on the cell door grated angrily again. This time, the door was only opened part way, enough to allow the doctor and the policeman to enter the room before it was drawn all but closed again.

Jules leapt to his feet when the doctor entered, glancing to Gaspar to find his friend wearily wiping his sleep from his eyes.

"This is your answer," said the doctor coldly, holding a piece of paper out to him.

The paper was solid in his hands, but might have crumbled into insubstantial dust for all the help the words offered him.

"There is no such place as Shillingworth Magna," said the doctor aloud. "Nor town nearby. Nor a person by the name of Phileas Fogg. I have checked and rechecked, even turned to the social registry and the post - the man does not exist. Which means, young man, that you are either a skilled liar or as mad as our friend suggests. As this exercise seems the poorest sort of joke, I would suspect the latter rather than the former. Have you any explanation on your behalf?"

Jules stared down at the paper in disbelief, only vaguely aware that Gaspar was standing beside him, his hand on his shoulder. "No," he whispered. "Fogg is real." He looked up at the doctor and swallowed. "They're real, they're all real. Did you spell it correctly, with two g's?"

"With or without an extra 'g,' there is no Fogg in London, apart from inclement weather."

Gaspar's arm moved around his shoulder, shaking him lightly. "Jules? Look at me - I believe you. If you say they'll real, I'll believe you."

His voice was slow, soft, and steady, the tone one would use with a frightened child. Some part of Jules was angered by it, but he found it calming. He stared at Gaspar. "They - they are--"

And he couldn't quite finish the words, because he couldn't entirely bring himself to believe them.

It was not until too late that he realized the door had been opened wider; the doctor stepped back and two men entered, carrying something with them. A blanket? No, a jacket, with arms that had long sleeves. It was a gray, shapeless thing with locks and buckles.

"I'm not mad!" cried Jules, his fist reaching for Gaspar's waistcoat even as the sergeant pulled Gaspar from him. "I'm not mad!"

Fear of the constraining jacket and of the hard-muscled, thuggish men that threatened to place him into it gave him strength he hadn't known he'd possessed. He ducked, he shifted. When one grabbed his leg, he placed his arm around the other man's neck and bit his ear. Gaspar called to him, crying for him to be calm, to relax and they wouldn't hurt him, but Jules was not going to give up without a fight.

Hitting the floor on all fours, he scrambled away from the two men and headed for the open door. He barely made the threshold when a fist came out of nowhere, colliding with his stomach and knocking the wind out of him. He crumpled to the ground and for a long moment thought that he would never again take a breath.

The two attendants bundled him into the confining jacket without any care for bruises or pain and he allowed them - he could not breathe and was helpless. His field of vision held the two faces of new men standing above him - they were impeccably dressed, with expressions of stone and eyes that were dark and keen and deadly. They reminded him very much of Phileas Fogg, or as Fogg had been when they'd first met in his garret - they were agents for the crown, having that look of single-minded dedication to their task about them.

He had no doubt of that. Nor did he have any doubt they had no interest in him, glancing down at him dispassionately, almost as an unfortunate obstacle, something foul and distasteful that had fallen into their path and must be removed before they could proceed. Even as his breath came back, he stared up at them, fascinated, until the attendants flipped him onto his stomach and placed a knee in his back, bending his arms behind him and locking them into place.

As they lifted Jules to his feet, he saw one of the sharply dressed men hand a sealed letter to the sergeant. The policeman took the letter, opened it, and then snapped to attention before he'd scanned more than a few lines. The policeman stood to one side and watched as Gaspar edged further back into the room, less concerned with Jules than with the men who were entering, removing their hats and then gloves with a menacing ease.

The door closed. Jules swallowed and found himself faced with the doctor.

"Your friend was well-advised to tell me of your condition," said the doctor sharply. "As I promised him, you'll be cared for properly - the government is not so inhumane as to hold a madman responsible for his actions." He glanced back at the door, the barest glimmer of compassion in his eyes. "Your friend might think you lucky, after all is said and done."

Barely able to stand, Jules let the attendants on either side of him support his weight, the fight taken out of him. "Please, he's done nothing wrong," he said to the doctor. "As I said, we'll pay for the vase, the chamberpot."

"Nothing wrong?" The doctor glanced back at him, eyes wide in astonishment. "He's murdered the undersecretary to the foreign office - Mr. Carfair died of the blow. And your friend being French, well, there are questions to be answered. Very important questions asked by very important people." The doctor leaned forward with what Jules suspected was meant to be a kindly smile. "But that's none of your concern, young man. We'll take you to a place where you'll be well cared for, I assure you."

The doctor nodded toward the attendants, then turned to the cell door again. Jules struggled in their grasp, but each movement sent pain up his twisted arms. He managed to turn enough to catch a glimpse as the door opened. Gaspar was half-seated on the floor, held suspended by a hand that grasped him by the neck of his shirt. One of the men had a fist drawn back, as if to strike him in the face.

The doctor closed the door behind him, cutting off the view before the blow fell.

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End of Part 3

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