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Chapter Four

They had covered his head with a wrap before having dragged him from the station, but he'd heard the whispered murmurs of passersby. Those noises had been drowned out as he'd been thrown into the back of a police wagon, the doors shut stolidly behind him. Then to be lifted like so much garbage in a sack, carried down corridors he could not ever hope to retrace, until they dropped him onto a pile of foul-smelling straw, removed the wrap from his head, and slammed shut the broad iron door.

The fight had gone out of him. Jules leaned his head back against the slimy, mildew-covered brick of the wall and stared up at the ceiling. The cold chill of the place drained the warmth from his bones and the smell, which he had thought appalling at the police station cell, was much darker and older here. If that had been depressing, this place drained all hope and light from the soul, leeching it from the body with every breath, until the heart would fall still and cold from sheer despair.

He considered that he might be in some sort of holding cell until he was examined and some medical determination made as to the depths of his insanity - in what circle of this medical hell would he be placed? And why should it matter, when they were all abandoned to the damnation of the spirit?

That there were no screams of other condemned souls was somewhat comforting - he'd found himself dreading that the most. But the silence began to wear in upon him over time and he'd found himself humming or reciting words from a poem he'd learned in his childhood, just to ease the weight of the soundlessness from his ears.

The pressure of his bladder was intense, but he fought against soiling himself - that he would not do. If he could endure the pain of his arms belted behind his back, he could endure that as well. It was something to fight for. It was important to have something to fight for. He would have fought for his sanity, but he wasn't entirely certain that it hadn't already been lost.

Tears welled in his eyes as he stared upward and he fought those as well. He would not weep for his own plight, for his condition. When he wept, it would be because he could finally admit that there was no other answer, that he was mad and that Fogg, Rebecca, Passepartout, and even the Aurora were nothing more than figments of his imagination, fantasies and phantoms in which he had found comfort. If they, who had felt so real and brought him such friendship and adventure and contentment in himself, were only phantoms, what use had he for the world? Better to drift among those fantasies, to have more adventures and suffer pain and love, and loss, and victory, than to remain here.

His fear now was not that they might be illusions - for they well might - but that he might not be granted the experience of living in those illusions again. Then, and only then, would he grant himself the gift of tears, because then he would be truly lost. To be mad would not be such an evil thing if he could share his madness with those friends.

There were candles in the hall outside the cell - he watched them for a while and tried to calculate the passage of time, but they were too distant to be measured accurately by eye. He fought his way to his feet and rose to pace the length of the room, only to discover that his guards had fastened a manacle around his foot. It was attached to a chain at the base of the wall - he could move three feet to the left or to the right at most, and perhaps two foot more from the wall, which brought him within a foot's reach of the bars. If he lay down upon the floor and stretched himself to his full height, he could easily reach the bars, but what was there to do but chew through them? The thought of having spent well over an hour devising a lock-pick that could not possibly have worked gave him a moment's laugh, but the sound was rough and threatened to end in tears. Beside, the movement didn't help his full bladder overly much.

So Jules sat. And he watched. And he waited. He could not have said for what, precisely, but that some small hope still stirred within him that Fogg would wander in, comment on the filth of the place and the situation in which he'd found himself, and unlock the bars. Or that Rebecca would appear, suspended from the ceiling with a lock-pick in her teeth and give him back the use of his hands and the ribbon he'd taken from her with equal élan. Or that Passepartout might move aside a paving stone from the floor and reveal himself in a tunnel he'd dug with the use of a smaller, portable version of the mole, so that they might flee . . . .

No matter how hard he thought about any of these possibilities and could visualize them in his mind, down to the smallest nuance of a word or inflection of a movement, they were not nor could they ever be as real as the memories he'd had of his friends in the past. However he might wish it, he would not be allowed to escape into the depths of his mind.

Which meant that he had only to watch the candle, or the scurrying of the rats, or walk the length of the chain . . . and wait.

Jules heard them coming down the hall, levered himself to his feet without using his hands, and stood. It seemed to take forever and their shadows preceded them, but eventually one of the thuggish attendants appeared, dragging Gaspar, his right arm folded behind him and pulled upward. The door was thrown open - why lock it when Jules was chained and constrained by the jacket? - Gaspar was thrown into the room, and then the attendant locked the door behind him with a heavy iron key.

Having landed almost at his feet, Gaspar looked up at him, then fought to push his hands beneath himself and rose from the floor shakily. "I thought - I'd never - see you again."

Even in the dim light, Jules could see welts and bruises on Gaspar's hands, the rising purple marks along the side of his face and a blackened eye showing that he'd been well and truly beaten. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Gaspar laughed, the sound like the barking of a dog. He touched the constraining jacket, then turned Jules sideways. "Let me see if I can unbuckle that - I have to get you out of there. Merde - I'm sorry," he apologized, as the cloth was pulled tight. "My hands are shaking--"

"Why did they bring you here?"

"They decided that you might not be mad. And they think we're spies. Hold still," Gaspar said sharply, when Jules tried to turn at the words. "I've almost - got - it."

The sleeves fell loose and to his sides. Jules stared for a moment, having little control over his arms or his fingers, then bit his lips at the tingling sensation and pain when the blood began to flow again. Gaspar ran his hands down Jules' arms for a moment or two, then pulled off the jacket slowly.

His fingers were numb, but feeling was beginning to return. "Sit," ordered Jules, pointing to the pile of straw and seeing Gaspar sway on his feet. But before he could fall, Jules caught his arm and helped him down to a seated position. That having been done, he walked as far as the chain allowed, quietly relieved his bladder against the wall, and then returned to his friend.

It felt better to be in control, to have something to do. Jules squatted down beside Gaspar and touched his friend's shoulder, but released him when Gaspar winced. "Say that again - why they released you?"

"They haven't released me. They want to question us both, together." Gaspar took a breath, then looked down at the floor. "I told them about your father, about your phantom people, but they didn't believe me. They want to see for themselves, prove that you're mad and not a spy."

"But . . . spies?" Jules stared at him. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing! There was nothing to tell them. Just the note to the French ambassador. It had your father's name, said that we were in trouble, and asked him to cable your father right away." Gaspar blinked. "That would be enough to think that we're spies? A note to the French ambassador?"

Jules rose to his feet and shook his head. "No, that wouldn't be enough." And then he turned his gaze to the far wall and wondered if the phantom people he'd half-convinced himself weren't real, were real. If he were known to be associated with both Fogg and Rebecca, what else was anyone in spycraft to think?

"Then what?" pressed Gaspar, a note of annoyance in his tone.

"Yes," said a voice at the door. "Tell us your thoughts, Mr. Verne. We'd be most interested."

The two agents were back - hard men with fashionable clothing and dark, arresting gazes. One unlocked the door, let the other in, and then closed it behind him before taking a step toward Jules. "Most interested," he repeated.

Gaspar gave a sharp intake of breath as the men drew near and scrambled to his feet - Jules held out his hand to help him, but kept his eyes on the two men. "That we're French should be enough for some," he said tautly.

The man smiled in the way he'd seen Fogg smile many times before - confident, certain, and utterly disbelieving. A smaller key appeared in his hand and he showed it to Jules. "I've no fear of madmen," he explained. "And I will have the answers I want."

He froze as the man leaned down to unlock the chain from his ankle, the manacle falling into the straw. Jules fought the urge to rub the circulation back into the ankle and foot, still watching the man, knowing that when he struck he'd like to at least see a glimpse of the blow before it hit.

"Your friend claims that you're students," said the agent, tucking the key deftly back into his waistcoat pocket. "Why should we believe you?"

"Because it's the truth."

"Is it?" The man moved like a snake, uncoiling and striking, one hand pushing Jules' shoulder against the wall and the other pressing on Jules' neck. "Is it?"

"Yes," he gasped, staring into the man's eyes and willing him to accept the truth. He saw the same cold, steel in the man's gaze and realized that it would be like fighting Fogg - not a comforting thought, as he'd never hope to win that match. "We're students," he managed, barely getting the words out as the hand closed tighter on his neck - he was beginning to see stars.

The hand left his throat and he hoped for a moment he'd given the right answer, but a blow to his stomach dispelled that notion entirely. He doubled over and fell into the straw.

His attacker didn't follow, but straightened, gesturing the other man toward Gaspar. "Fairly lucid for a madman, but I still think this other one knows more."

They had counted him out, a mistake Fogg never would have made. Jules smiled inwardly at the thought, realizing, too, that he'd fallen atop the length of chain that had been released from his ankle. He grabbed it and held it behind his back and along his leg, out of sight of the men, then pretended to stagger to the wall and lean on it heavily.

"No!" he called, drawing their attention as one lifted a hand to strike Gaspar. "He doesn't know anything. Leave him alone! I'll - I'll tell you . . . ."

The man with the keys glanced at his compatriot, shared a smile, and then turned back to Jules. In two wide steps he waded through the straw and grasped the back of Jules' collar, as Jules turned his face to the wall. "Yes? And what do you have to--?"

His fist clenched around the manacle, Jules used it as he'd seen both Fogg and Rebecca use brass knuckles. He connected with the underside of his attacker's chin, then followed through, as Rebecca had taught him, carrying the punch upward.

The success of it surprised him, as well as his attacker - the man fell as if he'd been struck in the head by a beam. But there was little time to savor the victory - the other agent was almost upon him. Thankfully, he'd allowed the chain to drag, hidden in the straw. Jules pulled to the left sharply, the loop of chain caught around the agent's leg and dropped him. He landed softly enough in the straw, but Jules leapt atop him and used the manacle in the same way he'd dropped the first man - one blow to the chin and his attacker was out.

Jules fell back in the straw, panting and trying to catch his breath for a moment. His limbs were loose and shaking like willow branches in the wind and there was a Gordian knot in his stomach. This was not something he found he enjoyed, although he well understood how both Fogg and Rebecca had developed a taste for it. "I think I'll stick to writing," he murmured to himself, "and leave the fighting to them."

Something warmed inside of him at the thought, because he knew then that he'd come to accept their reality once again. No phantoms could have taught him to defend himself so well and so ably. Nor would phantoms have known enough not to demand that he take pleasure, as they did, from actions he found so utterly disagreeable.

Gaspar was standing above him, his features cast in a look of utter amazement and delight. He held out a hand and pulled Jules to his feet, announcing, "Dear God, but Fogg would be proud of you if he'd seen that!"

Shaking off Gaspar's hold, Jules stared at him, anger quickly replacing his confusion. Gaspar paled and cleared his throat. "I mean," he sputtered, "that is to say, that's what he'd think if he existed--"

A coldness filled Jules, an anger both chilling and deadly - he'd seen it in Fogg's eyes before but if he'd felt it himself, he'd never known it to be so raw and close to the surface. This instant recognition of Gaspar's betrayal stung him deeply, not only because he'd begun to think of him as a friend, but had worried for him and about him. To have been right at the start and to have put those suspicions away based on human feeling, on compassion . . . the thought that he'd been so wrong frightened him.

"You," he declared softly, "are not my friend."

If there was an echo of Fogg in the words, Gaspar seemed not to hear it, but would have been better served to take notice of it. The blank expression shifted slightly into a grin, a look that mirrored the agents' expressions, all confidence and mastery, a belief they had the upper hand and could not be beaten.

"No, I'm not," admitted Gaspar, sounding more English than French. He straightened, all weariness gone from his posture. "What are you going to do about it?"

There was no thought involved. Jules automatically shifted the weight of his left foot, the chain rattling faintly in the straw. Gaspar looked down and Jules used the manacle one more time, enough force in the blow to knock Gaspar into the wall. His former friend hung there for a moment, stunned, then dropped into the straw.

Jules was hard-pressed not to go after Gaspar and forced himself to remain where he was, the knot rising in his stomach again after a moment. He threw the manacle down in disgust, barely noticing that his knuckles were bleeding, then picked up the door key from the agent. Opening the door, he slipped through then closed it again, the lock clicking shut with a satisfying 'thwick' as he turned the key.

That was tucked into his waistcoat. Before he had more than a second to breathe, collect his thoughts, or move more than twenty paces down the corridor, he heard voices. Jules dropped back into the shadows, found an alcove, and waited until they passed. He kept to the wall, heading in the direction from which the agents and Gaspar had come, following dank, musty corridors until he finally found a flight of well-worn wooden steps that led upward to a door.

Stealth had never been one of his natural skills, but he gave the matter his full attention, reaching the top of the steps, opening the door without so much of a creak . . . but a floorboard beneath the carpet gave him away. The hall he entered was no longer ancient stone, but wallpapered elegance, with bright crystal gaslight sconces on the walls. If this were an asylum, he'd found the administrator's residence without a doubt.

"You there!"

There was a man at the bottom of the stairs. Jules slammed the door, then turned the lock and looked around. As heavy fists began to pound on the door, he fled down the hallway, came upon a wide, carpeted staircase, then headed up. Pausing in the middle he realized he'd chosen the wrong direction, but a crash from the hall behind him and the pounding of feet gave him no choice but to proceed if he was going to maintain his lead.

Just as he reached the top of the steps, he bumped into a liveried footman, who was wearing a powered wig - the servant was no older than himself. They stared at one another for several seconds before both turned at the call from the bottom of the steps - "There's the fellow! Catch him!"

As the footman reached out for him, Jules grabbed the powered wig and tugged it down over the young man's face, then placed a foot in the center of the servant's stomach and pushed him back onto his ass on the landing. He took just a moment to make sure the man wasn't going to go tumbling down the stairs, then headed along the hall again.

They were closer now - pursuit no more than ten paces behind him - and he was running out of breath. The cuts on his right hand left a trail of bloody marks on the wallpaper and banisters wherever he touched them. Throwing caution to the wind, Jules opened the door to a room in hopes of finding a window he could use to reach the outside of the house and perhaps climb down to safety. He turned to check pursuit as he entered, saw four men - two in servant's livery - come pelting down the hall, stepped inside--

And caught his foot on the carpet edge at the doorway. He sailed to the center of the room and landed spectacularly on his stomach, knocking the wind out of himself, then covered his head with his hands in case his pursuers had any idea about kicking his brains in for providing them an extensive chase. There was noise at the door, an ecstatic, "There's the bast--" cut off in mid-sentence, and the rustle of skirts.

Parting his fingers, Jules Verne found himself confronted by an imposing series of dark skirts and crinolines, at the very top of which appeared the visage of the Queen of England, who stared down at him with apparent surprise.

She was, in any case, the personage he least expected or wanted to see at the moment.

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End of Part 4

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