Chapter Five
There were footsteps behind Jules - the air left his lungs as a boot was planted in the small of his back and someone grabbed his arms, pinning them.
"Beg pardon, your Majesty," said a rough voice somewhere to his left. "But he--"
"Out!" called the Queen. "All of you." Then, as Jules had been dragged up to his knees, he found the Queen studying him, her eyes filled with outrage. "No, leave Mr. Verne. Thomas, we shall want a tea brought immediately and do not spare the brandy." Her gaze rose beyond him. "Out!"
Jules wasn't entirely certain of where to look and decided the floor was most appropriate. The carpet beneath his knees was thick and welcoming - at the moment he'd have thought nothing of stretching out upon it and falling asleep, if not for the royal presence. Things standing where they were, he was quite sure it really wouldn't matter if he did just that - they couldn't execute him twice, could they?
"You may rise, Mr. Verne," announced Queen Victoria regally.
Somehow he managed the strength to make it all the way to his feet, where he wavered unsteadily. Still not daring to meet her eyes, he glanced around and found himself in some sort of sitting room or parlor. The Queen was watching him from a settee and there was a small serving table before her, with a cushioned chair opposite it. He saw her hand wave toward the chair. "In view of your recent experiences, we think it better that you be seated before you fall down, Mr. Verne."
"Thank you, your Majesty." Jules took slow, measured steps over to the chair, certain that his knees were going to give way. He reached for the back as he approached, but pulled his hand away when he realized his skin was covered with dirt and other filth.
When he hesitated, she added, "Furniture can be cleaned, Mr. Verne, do seat yourself. Thomas shall bring in a hot towel with your tea, so that you may sup with some comfort."
It seemed absurd to say thank you again. Jules nodded his acceptance of the statement, moved to sit down, then paused. He looked up, for the first time daring to purposefully meet Queen Victoria's gaze. "Your Majesty, if I may, I'm worried about Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Passepartout. Are they in any danger?"
If forced to put a description to the Queen's expression at the moment, he might have chosen something slightly more extensive than surprise . . . perhaps even shock. "Oh dear," she said softly, her gloved fingers moving to her lips. She looked away from him for a moment, then returned her gaze and lowered her hand from her mouth. "Mr. Verne, Miss Fogg is most correct is stating that you never cease to amaze one. I can assure you that Mr. Fogg, Miss Fogg, and Mr. Fogg's valet are all in good health at the moment. Please be content to seat yourself."
"Thank you, your majesty." His gratitude heartfelt, Jules sat down on the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. He kept his gaze to the floor, not quite knowing what to do or say. It wouldn't have astonished him in the least to find that he was still in the cell, tied up in the confining jacket, having dreamed his escape up to this very minute . . . if his knuckles didn't still sting from having struck Gaspar with the manacle.
"Are you in any pain, Mr. Verne?"
The Queen's solicitous inquiry threw him out of his own thoughts for a moment. Jules licked his lips, then dared an upward glance at her. "Not so much, your majesty, no."
"Miss Fogg is correct in that matter, as well - you are a dreadful prevaricator, Mr. Verne. You would do well to confine your fictions to matters of entertainment."
There was laughter in her eyes. Was the Queen of England joking with him?
Jules managed a rueful smile, wondering just when exactly, he'd slipped entirely into madness.
A knock sounded at the door and he started, half-turning in his chair to see an older footman enter pushing a small, wheeled table. Someone closed the door behind him - mysterious gloved hands - and the footman wheeled the table directly to the Queen, bowing before setting a lace tablecloth and proceeding to place the tea things.
Jules watched the process with some amazement - it was handled with the precision of Swiss clockwork. He'd seen Passepartout behave in this fashion now and again, particularly when he was angry with something Fogg had done. There was respect in the movements, but no passion, no interest.
"Sir?"
A white, wet towel was extended to him on a pair of silver tongs, having been lifted from a covered salver. Jules took the towel hesitantly, grimacing as his fingers immediately left prints upon the snow-like surface. "Thank you." He wiped the grime and blood from his hands, then touched the last clean corner of it to his face, turning away from the Queen and her footmen so they couldn't see him wince as the cloth rubbed over his bruises.
"Don't remove too much of your experience, Mr. Verne," said the Queen, in an even tone. "We would have them see precisely what they've made of you."
Her words made no sense to him. He glanced over at Queen Victoria, wondering whether his boldness came from the fact that his hands and face were now clean or that hot tea and tiny sandwiches lay on the table before him. Handing the towel back to the footman, who took it from him with the tongs, he said softly, "Sorry about the mess."
"Not at all, sir." The tone, like the service, had been dispassionate. Tea had been poured while he was using the towel and the footman took an elaborate step back and to one side, the wet towel having disappeared beneath the covering of the salver again.
"That will be all, Thomas," announced the Queen, with a dismissive wave.
The footmen seemed ready to protest, glancing sharply at Jules, but he bowed as elegantly as before, took the handle of the trolley with great dignity, and backed out of the room. Jules watched in fascination as the doors magically opened to let him pass, then closed again behind him.
"If we may so inquire, when did you last sup, Mr. Verne?"
Jules rested his hands in his lap. He was tempted to lie, but swallowed the impulse. "Yesterday evening, your majesty."
"Then perhaps you might wish to partake of some sandwiches. Not too many - we have a thought that you will be well feasted after your adventure and your appetite should rightly shame them. But we refuse to force you to continue your privations merely to satisfy our own curiosity."
He truly looked, then, at the tray of sandwiches and teacup set before him - there were more then three dozen of the tiny triangles piled decoratively on a plate. He found he could name the contents of several, having endured a few formal teas at Shillingworth Magna and less informal afternoon events aboard the Aurora. And he didn't doubt that without the Queen's express instructions, he could have devoured the lot in under five minutes.
But he'd been asked only to take the edge off his hunger, which made itself known in a rather loud and boisterous manner when his stomach rumbled. Embarrassed, he glanced up at the Queen from beneath lowered eyelids, but she seemed amused. Waving her hand toward the food, she said, "Please, Mr. Verne, let us not stand on ceremony. And do take care with the tea - we find it most fortifying, but it does not always lie easily on an empty stomach."
The Queen had not removed her gloves, nor was there a tea setting before her. Jules hesitated only for a moment longer, but then his will gave out and he picked up a sandwich. It was gone in three quick bites. Shamefacedly, he picked up another - salmon paste - took one bite, and forced himself to chew more slowly.
"Would it discomfort you to answer questions while you eat, Mr. Verne."
Jules swallowed, picked up the cup of tea and took a sip to clear his throat. "No, your--"
There was brandy - quite a lot of very good brandy - in the tea. He lowered his gaze and blinked to keep his eyes from watering, then took another small sip and shook his head. "No, your majesty."
"Excellent." There was a pause and he glanced up at her, finding her expression had become more severe, almost . . . concerned. "We are not unaware of the services you have rendered to ourselves and our nation in the past," said the Queen, pausing in places as she were choosing her words most carefully. "And we are most grateful for your assistance, particularly the valor and loyalty you have shown to Mr. and Miss Fogg, who are among our most favored subjects."
"You're welcome, your majesty," said Jules, then froze as she cast him a blank look - he'd assumed the Queen had thanked him when she obviously hadn't. "I'm sorry, your majesty, I--"
She smiled softly and waved her hand. "As we said, Mr. Verne, do not stand on ceremony at this moment. And you offer your kindness too soon. We fear that we have allowed an injustice to be done to you."
Still uncomfortable with the last mistake he'd made, Jules picked up a sandwich and began to chew on it, reasoning that as long as his mouth was full he couldn't make any further slips. The brandy was beginning to light a warm comfortable glow inside of him and that, added to the relief of finally eating, could lull him into a false sense of familiarity. Fogg and Rebecca both would have his head if he managed to insult the Queen, if her majesty didn't order it removed at the first opportunity.
"There are those whom we have entrusted with the security of our realm and our person, who also acknowledge the debt we owe you. Had you been a British citizen, there would be little matter of issue, but as you are not . . . ."
Jules carefully placed the sandwich down on the plate before him, folded his hands in his lap, and met her gaze squarely. "Your majesty, I was born in France. My duty is to France, above all else, but it is no less than the duty I owe mankind. I won't tolerate injustice or evil under any flag. If I'm to be condemned for that, then I beg your pardon."
He began to rise, but she waved him back to his seat sharply. "Be seated, Mr. Verne, and do stop being impertinent. We have no quarrel with your generous nature. But even you must admit that political necessities sometimes require a certain . . . meanness of spirit."
Here was a topic upon which he and Fogg and Rebecca had spent many an hour in argument - the politics of nations. His own ideas on the subject were radical, perhaps, but no less valid than their own. It was to their credit that such discussions, having ended less than amicably, were forgotten in the morning or as soon as the subsequent round of drinks had been consumed. If pressed, Fogg would announce, tight-lipped, that they must agree to disagree and that topic would be drawn to a close. Jules discussed his ideas far more freely in the taverns with others of his kind, radical students, all of whom knew they wanted to change the world, but not entirely certain as to how that should be accomplished.
That he would be given the opportunity to converse with the Queen of England on such a matter . . . was something not even to be considered. He could easily imagine cards with his likeness passed up and down the English coast, proclaiming him non-persona gratis. So Jules picked up the sandwich he'd discarded, lowered his eyes, and pretended his assent.
"When the matter was first proposed to us, we did not at all approve," said Queen Victoria, obviously unaware of his momentary sacrifice. "Particularly in view of the aforementioned services that you have rendered in providing for our safety and security. But when advised of the possible danger to our favored godchild and her cousin, we could not help but agree to the demand for some surety on your part to temper our concerns for their safety--"
Jules swallowed the remainder of the sandwich, having manners enough to know that even if it now tasted like sawdust it would be impolite to spit it out onto his plate in front of the Queen. A healthy swallow of the tea did much to help him, although it, too, had changed flavor, more bitter now than before.
"It was a test, then?" he asked, barely able to control his voice, keeping it low and even when he wanted to scream from the rooftops. "You wanted to see if I'd betray Fogg or Rebecca."
It occurred to him a second later that he'd forgotten to add the honorific, nor did one ask the Queen of any country such a question. At the moment, he didn't much care.
"Yes, Mr. Verne," she answered, ignoring the lapse in manners, if she'd even noticed. "There were limits set as to the difficulties you would experience - although from your appearance we gather some of those were surpassed. The appropriate parties shall be dealt with most harshly, we assure you."
"No - I--"
The words left him for a moment. He rose to his feet and took a step away, to grasp the full implications of what was being said. When he'd considered the possibility that he'd gone mad, this was the piece he'd been missing. This was the other answer - that someone could deliberately mislead him, abuse and misuse him simply to prove . . . his loyalty?
"Trust, Mr. Verne, that we would not sanction other proposals, more hurtful propositions. That torture was even mentioned--"
He turned his head at the word, caught her gaze . . . and Queen Victoria, ruler of half the world, looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Chatsworth," he whispered.
There was the faintest nod from the royal head.
"I would never betray them," said Jules, barely controlling his anger. "Never."
"You were not suspected of ever knowingly betraying them," answered the Queen, straightening in her chair and turning her sharp gaze on him. "It was duress that proved to be the concern, or a slip of the tongue in an unguarded moment. Now there can be no question in the matter. Under threat and promise of bodily harm, confronted by fear, abandoned, you did not attempt to contact anyone in our government, nor did you betray your friends' ties to our security services. You are to be most highly commended, Mr. Verne. Most highly commended."
She had no idea - he realized that after a moment. The Queen was aware only of the marks on his hands and face, the lack of food and comfort, the confinement and imprisonment, but she'd no idea how close they had come to driving him mad . . . or at least taking him to the edge, where it would have been so easy to cross into darkness. Even Chatsworth would not have been able to guess what this would do to him. To play upon his friendship, to create Gaspar - a thoroughly likable friend with such a believable story, made more true if only by the fact that he'd doubted his own sanity not so long before the Aurora and his friends had entered his life - no, neither the Queen nor any of her ministers could have known, could have begun to guess what this might do to him.
Only his friends might have had an inkling, only they could have begun to suspect what something of this nature could mean to his sanity, could do to his mind. They'd been kept in the dark, surely? They would never have countenanced this. Not Fogg, his own grasp on the reality of the now never quite firmly enough in place. Not Rebecca, who could, with a glance, make him blush like a schoolboy and always knew when to praise him and when to challenge him. Not Passepartout, who had helped to bring to reality some of the most amazing of his visions, who seemed awed by a brilliance he was certain he didn't have, and yet who spoke to him as a friend, who trusted him.
"Mr. Verne?"
He swallowed, suddenly realizing that he'd been staring across the room, hands on his hips contemplating the question he knew he'd have to ask . . . and the answer he dreaded. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head.
"Did . . . did they know?" he whispered.
There was a pause. He opened his eyes, almost certain that she wasn't going to answer. But he found the Queen's attention centered completely on him, sadness in her eyes.
"I'm afraid they did, Mr. Verne. I'm very much afraid they did."
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End of Part 5
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