Thank you all so much for the reviews! Great to know people are finding this story interesting—but I have to warn you; from now on, the going's probably going to be a bit slow. I have to translate from the telly screen to my computer the show's scenes, which takes a bit of time, and then actually fill in the gaps with my own stuff, and I *am* a college student after all, with midterms coming up…but I will certainly keep working on this! Please, just be patient. ;-) Thanks again!
Part Three: Confrontation
Jules sat at the table in the center of the laboratory, deep in thought. His notebook lay opened before him; he had been working on revising the play for Rebecca, but his thoughts had wandered from the job, as they so often did. For once he wasn't thinking about a new story or play idea, though. He hadn't thought of writing at all since before getting caught up with the Mole business; revising this play was proving difficult...but helpful. He felt like he could actually start writing again. But for now, his thoughts were elsewhere--on Rebecca, on Passepartout, on Fogg. Nothing new, really.
The clearing of a throat behind him startled him out of his reverie, and Jules looked over his shoulder to see who had entered the room. He managed not to jump when he saw Phileas Fogg waiting in the doorway.
"Hello, Fogg," Jules stalled, turning away and inwardly scrabbling to gain control over his incipient panic. It was so frustrating. He had learned to enjoy Rebecca Fogg's company, had come to rely on Passepartout to bounce ideas off of and to generally discuss inventions and theories, and yet every time he caught a glimpse of the Englishman, all he could think of was rope bonds and cold metal. He fought it--but he wasn't getting anywhere.
The one time he'd spoken to Fogg in the past few days--simply telling the man where his valet had gone off to--had left him weak-kneed and thoroughly angry with himself--and Fogg, in a strangely reasonable/unreasonable blend. He'd only become more irritated when he realized after that incident that Fogg had taken to avoiding him altogether. He hated being so transparent.
"I was hoping to speak with you, Verne," Fogg said, stepping further into the lab. Verne resisted the urge to stand up, to back away, to hedge around the man and flee.
"What about, Fogg?" He felt so odd using Phileas's last name, without some title or salutation before it, but he was damned if he was going to put this arrogant Englishman on some level superior to him, even if only in address. It was the principle of the thing, the Frenchman firmly told himself.
"This upcoming mission of Rebecca's, in which she's apparently decided to involve you," Fogg replied, wandering ever closer to Verne. He was taking his time about it, though, pacing a bit, not threatening Jules at all. Jules kept tight rein of his instincts and emotions, something that had always been difficult for him to do. "I'm rather worried about her."
"Why?" Jules frowned, momentarily distracted by Phileas's words. "She said it would be fairly simple."
"For you, yes," Fogg replied, stepping around the table to face Verne. Jules looked up at him, waiting for the rest of it, forgetting his own fears in his curiosity. "All you have to do is give her an excuse to meet the duke. She, however, has to get close to this duke, and I don't like it one bit."
"Is he dangerous?"
Fogg snorted. "Of course he is, man. Otherwise Chatsworth would never have assigned my cousin this mission. She's also the only female agent the Service has, so this sort of mission wouldn't work without her." He hesitated, then expelled a long breath of air, resting his hands on the table and leaning slightly forward, toward Verne. "I trust Rebecca to take care of herself," he said. "But she doesn't make it very easy."
"Why are you telling me this?" Jules asked slowly. It was very odd being--confided to, particularly by this man.
Fogg straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "I just wanted you to know more of the facts, Verne. Now, I understand you'll be staying with us while Rebecca rehearses and stages this play." He paused, then met Jules's eyes. "Will you be willing to follow up...on anything that could possibly happen to her?"
Jules hesitated, searching the other man's eyes, face, body language. Fogg was expecting trouble, not the smooth mission Rebecca had implied it to be. Perhaps it was just Fogg's paranoia, but after what Jules had been through lately, he somehow doubted that. Fogg was trusting him with this, telling him these things when normally Fogg probably wouldn't overtly share his worries with anyone, not even his own cousin.
He was trusting Jules. And he was asking if Jules could trust him, could be in Fogg's presence without losing his head.
Jules realized he hadn't been frightened at all in the past five minutes. He'd been too caught up in what Fogg was telling him. And now the man stood in front of him, straight and tall (incredibly tall, Jules noted with slight envy)...and yet Jules could swear he detected a hint of...nervousness? hopefulness?...in the older man. He was really concerned for Jules's answer.
"Well, Verne?" Fogg broke into his thoughts, for once refraining from sounding impatient. He was watching Verne closely.
Jules briefly closed his eyes. He had a very great respect and admiration for Rebecca Fogg. She was an intelligent, beautiful, sympathetic woman, who listened to his ideas and his stories and took him seriously. She was more refined, she was wiser, than any of the girls Jules knew in Paris, and she had such a great deal of experience in such a variety of things.
He didn't want to see her hurt. He knew there was probably absolutely nothing he could do to protect her--she was much more likely to protect him!--but he couldn't simply leave her in the lurch. Nor could he do that to Passepartout. And Phileas Fogg was asking him for his help, for his cooperation. He'd already told himself he couldn't let this one man leave him in a paralysis of terror. And he was managing in Fogg's company by himself pretty well so far, even if his heart was beating a trifle too fast.
He committed himself.
"I will do anything," he stated slowly, opening his eyes and meeting Fogg's gaze, "that will be required of me to do." He lifted his chin, defiantly daring Fogg to question him on that assertion. "Fair enough?"
Fogg's lips quirked upward in a half-smile. The smile changed the entire cast of his face; no longer did he appear haunted or angry. He looked younger, more honest. Jules felt as if he'd only just met the real Fogg in that smile, though he remained wary, instantly doubting whether he could hold himself to that rather general, blanket statement he'd just made. "I'm very glad to hear it, Jules," Fogg told him frankly and turned, abruptly striding elegantly out of the room.
Jules practically collapsed back onto his stool. The encounter had left him emotionally drained, and yet he felt just a tiny bit better. His fear had been faced. It wasn't completely eradicated, and he certainly wasn't ready to completely forgive Fogg yet, but he felt he could face the man again. On equal terms.
Jules shook his head a little, his glance falling to his notebook. He still had work to do.
***
"Actually--actually? When I wrote that line, I had in mind..."
Rebecca sighed in exasperation as she watched Jules Verne run up again toward the stage from the back of the house where he'd been hovering, watching the proceedings. She'd never expected it of him, but he was possibly one of the most interfering, obstinate men--writers--she'd ever met. He insisted on coming to every rehearsal and would invariably interrupt, rushing forward in moments of discovery or indignation, drifting forward absently with a slight frown as he shuffled through his copy of the script, striding forward and awkwardly breaking through the flow, grinding the rehearsal to a halt, because something wasn't going quite the way he wanted it to. He was never embarrassed about doing it, either. That was the really galling thing. He didn't see anything wrong whatsoever with correcting the actors' visions of his play.
And why should he? It was his play. And perhaps it wasn't all that uncommon to have the writer of the play on hand when rehearsing, but dammit, Rebecca's patience was notoriously limited. She'd dropped a few subtle, veiled hints to him, but sometimes, for being such an intelligent young person, he could be amazingly obtuse. She would simply have to be blunt next time--but not till they were alone on the Aurora. There was no need to embarrass him in front of everyone else. She knew better than to make anyone lose face like that.
And really, it was good to see him like this--like he normally was, she was sure. So caught up in his artistic vision that he forgot the little niceties, like letting the actors run their own rehearsal. She had no idea where he got all his energy from--practices could drag on well into the night, and he would still be just as wide awake and just as easily working through some complicated problem such as where the emphasis should be placed in a one-liner, while Rebecca would be ready to collapse into a heap. He was in his element.
The work, having something else to focus on, seemed to help him put past matters behind him. Phileas must have at last talked to him, too; Jules could be in the same room him as now and, after the first few days, could act almost normally. There would just be the occasional hesitancy, the merest change in the set of Verne's shoulders, the line of mouth and chin, when Phileas entered or left a room. He'd gone from total fear around the man to an odd sort of defiance and bravado. Rebecca noticed these things; it came in handy in her line of work. But they were civil to each other at least, building up toward a mutual respect if not full trust, through a strange sort of complicated maneuvering not even Rebecca could fully follow. In any case, things were improving.
Well, most things. Phileas was becoming more irritable, more irascible...more worried, Rebecca admitted dryly. And it was rubbing off on Jules, who was becoming clumsier around her, always watching after her in concern. But there was really nothing either of them could do about it--she had a mission, and she was going to finish it. It was really quite simple.
And it was also Opening Night.
***
Once Jules got back into a rehearsal period, and was working with actors and other theatre people again, he found himself forgetting everything else. It was wonderful, to be watching people working to put on his play--his play! He loved to be in the middle of it, working out on the spot what was working and what wasn't, changing lines or reenvisioning how a scene should flow. It was interesting too, to be working with British actors instead of French ones. He was even a little bit disappointed when Opening Night came round--but not too much.
Jules jogged up ahead of Fogg and Passepartout, with whom he had come for the first night of his show, to the marquee outside the theatre entrance, flicking off a piece of something disagreeable that was covering up part of the first "e" in his last name. He stood up and adjusted his borrowed tuxedo uncomfortably--he never dressed up like this, and he felt slightly embarrassed to be in such finery.
"Well," Fogg said, coming up behind Verne, also arrayed in the requisite fancy dress, only it looked much more natural on him. Passepartout was beside him in an absurd bowler hat, but was in such an excited mood for Jules that Jules couldn't even consider laughing at him. "Here we are." Fogg turned to his manservant. "Passepartout, will you go and put the champagne on ice please?"
"I will freeze it solid, master," Passepartout grinned in overflowing delight.
"Thank you." Fogg didn't sound quite as effusive as his valet, though the Englishman had given Jules a flickering smile upon joining him at the marquee, which was quite an expression of amiability and friendship coming from him.
Passepartout grinned, putting a proud hand on Jules's shoulder, before skipping off to attend to the champagne. Jules grinned after the little fellow before turning his triumphant beaming smile on Fogg.
"You can wipe that smirk off your face, Verne," Fogg sounded grumpy, the words crisp and clearly enunciated in that upper-class accent of his. "It's not a real first night. It's just a put-up job, to trap this fellow Rimini by offering up Rebecca."
"I don't care who's behind it, Fogg," Jules retorted, standing himself at ease, reveling in the fact that he was standing next to a large sign proclaiming his name as the author of tonight's entertainment. He was also secretly pleased with his being able to stand up to Fogg, to hold his ground--it had almost become a competition for him to be able to do that with the other man in the past couple weeks. Perhaps it was the only way he could act in an effectively normal manner around the other man--he was still a bit leery of Fogg, though daily it became easier to be in his company. "I'm opening a play on the West End of London," he threw a glance back at his sign fondly, "and that's all that matters."
"I should think so," said the house manager, stepping up beside them. He was a stuffy sort in Verne's opinion, though harmless. "Any play put on by the Rimini theatre commands the attention of the world."
"Particularly the attention of Rimini," Fogg replied dryly. Jules repressed a sigh--did the man always have to attempt to get on everyone's bad side? He did such a marvelous job of succeeding at it.
"The duke is one of Europe's greatest impresarios. He's never missed an Opening Night at a single one of his theatres," the manager replied huffily.
"He has more than one?" Jules was surprised to hear.
"There's a Rimini theatre in every capital in Europe." At that moment, a carriage arrived in front of the theatre, and the manager rushed forward to greet his Grace, the Duke Rimini. Jules watched the man sadly as he obsequiously said his welcomes and chattered on about some bust of the duke's. But the duke himself—a tall fellow with long, curling iron-grey hair—almost instantly caught Jules's attention; he somehow unnerved Verne, sending a shiver through the younger man's spine. Rimini's eyes passed over Jules with barely a hint of recognition that Verne existed, but they stopped when they saw Fogg, and the two older men shared a long, unfathomable look. An instant later, the duke broke the connection and sailed into the theatre, tagged along by the stuffy theatre manager.
Jules was about to ask what that was all about--did Fogg know the man?--when they were approached by a heavy, middle-aged Englishman in evening dress and top hat. The costume that looked so elegant and right on Phileas Fogg looked somehow a bit shabby on this new man--and his cravat was coming undone. "Fogg, a moment?" the newcomer said in pompous tones.
Fogg hesitated, a trifle insolently Jules felt, before turning to Verne himself. "Will you excuse me a minute, Verne?"
Jules nodded once, taking his at ease position once again and greeting the theatre-comers, half his eye watching in amusement the conversation between Chatsworth--for he had seen this man before, at the occasional rehearsal, speaking to Rebecca in quietly tense and hushed tones--and Fogg. At one point he noted Fogg stepping closer to Chatsworth, and he shivered, turning his attention quickly elsewhere and remembering that threatening invasion of personal space all too well. Chatsworth looked up at Fogg coldly, giving him a smile that never reached his eyes, before heading into the theatre, as Jules saw out of the corner of his eye. Verne moved to follow the other man, realizing it was almost time for the curtain to rise, but paused on the steps and turned back to Fogg when he realized the other man wasn't coming. He stood instead still in the middle of the street, tall and angry.
"Come on, Fogg," Jules said, waiting an instant before heading inside. He was too excited to wait or worry for the other man, all concern over what might happen to Rebecca after this performance deserting him at the thought that his play was about to open. Fogg followed Verne backstage within a few moments--Jules had elected to stay there, rather than get a front row seat with Fogg or somewhere in the back with Passepartout--but Fogg almost immediately slipped off by himself. Jules noticed him go, but didn't stop the older man--Fogg had been getting increasingly irascible of late; even Verne knew this meant he was worried, and Jules knew too he wanted to check on his cousin. He discreetly left them to it.
And nothing else mattered, anyway. Not now, not when his own show was going up in the West End of London! Jules was running around backstage, making sure everything was in its proper place, that everyone was ready. He only occasionally paused to watch the actual play progressing onstage--but he had to watch Joan's great speech at the end of the third act--it was his favorite part, always had been—he'd been inspired when he wrote that—and even more so did he love it now that he'd seen Rebecca do it in rehearsal a number of times.
He could hear her starting the speech, so he pushed his way to the front of the wing to listen and watch, his heart beating wildly. She was alone onstage, glorious in her helmet and chain mail, the sword planted firmly before her. He smiled softly to himself as he listened.
"You see before you a woman, and you ask how I dare call myself a soldier," she looked around at her audience, as if they were all her soldiers. She nodded, communicating with them, arresting their attention. "And you're right to question me. For mine is not the light that guides you through this darkness--I am the candle, not the flame." A distant smile touched her face, and Jules soared on that holy aura that cast itself around her. "But I know, men of France, just as I know that you are proud and true, that the light of Truth and Justice burns through me, and it will light our way to freedom."
There was a light burning in her blue eyes as she spoke; Jules found himself reciting the words with her silently, and as she finished and the audience applauded wildly, she bowed to them slightly, turning to give Jules his own bow with her shining eyes, applauding him. He couldn't help grinning back at her shyly, inordinately pleased with the compliment she'd given him.
He was dragged into Fogg's carriage immediately after the performance was over, even before he could congratulate Rebecca on what a wonderful performance she gave. He would have protested, so thoroughly caught up in the excitement was he, but the tension radiating off Fogg was palpable, and it suddenly leached away Jules's buoyant enthusiasm. He had no right to be so excited when things could become so very dangerous.
"Damn this murk," Fogg hissed after what seemed an age of tense silence between the two men. He was staring fiercely out the carriage window, looking for any hint of a sign of Rebecca and the duke.
"Don't worry, Fogg," Jules attempted to calm him, if only so he could calm himself. He refrained from fidgeting in his seat with a great deal of difficulty.
"Verne, I can't see a damn thing," Fogg retorted through his teeth.
"The Secret Service is on the job too," Jules continued to try to reassure him. He wished Passepartout were with them, not on the Aurora in preparation for--whatever. The valet probably would have known how to calm his master.
"Oh really? And you think I'd let those incompetents look after--Rebecca," Fogg interrupted himself the instant a woman in hood and cloak and a man stepped out of the theatre. (Funny, Jules thought to himself wryly, I thought he couldn't see anything through this murk.) "There she is." They both watched a moment as the two newcomers lifted themselves into the duke's carriage and as the manager closed the door after them. "Driver," Fogg rapped smartly on the ceiling with his cane, "follow them."
It took them a fair while to realize they weren't actually following Rebecca and Rimini--and when they did realize, it was entirely too late. Fogg was livid, absolutely furious; Verne was breathing deeply, trying to stay calm and calm Fogg down, afraid of what the man might do in his rage and self-accusation. This was the Fogg he had met that first night in his garret, the one who was entirely too dangerous for anyone's good--even the broody Fogg of the past couple weeks during Rebecca's rehearsals and before, when Jules was trying to get better, had been more bearable than this one.
Fogg had made the driver stop the carriage while he sat in thought; Verne could practically see the steam coming out of his ears as he got a grip on himself and forced himself to quickly think through a logical course of action. "We'll drop you off at the Aurora," he decided at last, not quite looking at Jules. Jules was grateful for that; if he had to look into those cold, steely green eyes right now he would probably bolt in panic, even though he knew the rage in them wouldn't even be directed at him. "I have just made myself an appointment with Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. Driver!" he rapped unceremoniously at the ceiling again.
Jules sank back into the cushion gratefully, closing his eyes in the darkness. He'd be away from Fogg soon; Fogg was getting a grip on himself, even though this cold air of calculation and repressed violence was too reminiscent of his first dealings with the Englishman to make him entirely comfortable around Phileas. He could handle this. He said he could handle this--he had promised--and he would. He had to. He couldn't let anything happen to Rebecca. And he wasn't about to go back on his word now and lose face in front of Phileas Fogg.
He tripped out of the carriage and watched it immediately jog off, barely giving him enough time to jump out of the way before it set off again for the Service's headquarters. He pictured Fogg's face and shivered, grateful he wasn't Chatsworth about to meet up with that angry Englishman.
Of course, Chatsworth probably wasn't the one who was going to be stuck with that angry Englishman for however long it took to find out what had happened to Rebecca.