Chapter 3

The week the Aurora came to Paris, Jules Verne did not see it in the skies. He had been busy catching up on sleep missed in the pursuit of three recitations on the appliance of the Napoleonic Code to situations assigned to him by his professors. They had not been simple works to do. When finished, he had spent a long night with friends, relaxing his tired mind into a comfortable numbness. Jules would have preferred to do so on Fogg's better vintages. They did not hurt his head as much as the cheaper varieties he afforded himself on his pauper's allowance.

The next morning, the sun crept into the window and slowly crossed Jules's garret floor until it lit the room enough to wake Jules from his long, alcohol-induced slumber. Slowly, he opened his eyes to the interior of his dismal flat. He blinked. Sat up on an elbow.

Am I still asleep?

A vision out of a dream was laid out on the scarred table where his long ignored next play had been spread out last night. The table was now decked out with a white cloth and food on nice plates, not the chipped crockery he owned.

There were glasses with drink and the smell of–What? Sausage… eggs… fresh warm bread?

"Did I die in the night?"

Chuckling met that statement. Jules changed the direction of his view and saw Jean Passepartout on the other side of the room. The smiling bearded man rose, coming to the foot of his bed. He was dressed in his usual striped vest and black suit. He gently shook the footboard of the bed to prove he was alive and awake. The valet offered no explanations for how he had gotten past Verne's landlady or what good fortune Jules owed this treat.

I have died. This was heaven. A good meal served by a smiling friend; no League of Darkness threatening me, no irate Englishmen pounding me senseless. Not even the secondary heaven of a beautiful English lady to admire. Just a pure, comforting heaven.

The rumpled law student rose, mentally embracing his vision. He threw off his blankets and noticed he had fallen asleep in his clothes again. At this moment, not even that could drop his enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Passepartout," Jules said to his French angel.

"Good morning, Master Jules. Will you join me for breakfast?" The valet waved his hand toward the table and their feast. Jules took a seat and did justice to their breakfast.

By the end of the meal, Verne had been caught up on the long-lost Fogg cousin, his flight from Ireland with his ladylove, along with the news that all the Foggs were near Paris. Phileas and Rebecca were asking for his company and assistance in giving the Irish lady a tour of the city and places to visit.

"The master and Mr. Fogg do much together, making plans," Passepartout said, finishing his juice. "They having no time to give Miss Irene visits to city. Miss Rebecca asking you for guiding."

That was gratifying, but a thinly veiled excuse and Jules knew it. Rebecca knew the city. She may not know what the exhibition and play schedules were, but she could read the paper to find out. Playing guide for the ladies would be pleasurable, but Jules could not pay his way.

Pride tempted him to beg off and have Passepartout tell Rebecca he was leaving for Nantes for a family visit. That was not the case. Jules did not want to make that trip to hear his father's complaints against his lack of studiousness until he could show some good marks to prove himself undeserving of the abuse. The grades toward that would not be available for another week. That would not stop the tirade, but it would make him feel better having to hear it.

On second thought, Jules decided not to bother. The Foggs were his friends, and acts of charity on their part aside, two foreign ladies running around in the city by themselves was not a good idea. If the Fogg men were so busy that Rebecca needed to ask for his escort, then she was truly in need. Jules relented, donned his other set of clothes, and packed his good suit in his travel bag.

Passepartout told him the Aurora would be available to him to live in if he wished not to go back and forth.

He did not.

They cleaned up the dishes from breakfast and packed everything back into the basket Passepartout had brought and then left with Verne's laundry added to the basket when he was not looking.