Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Jules Gets Soup |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Tonja Moore |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | MissingScene, Queen Victoria and the Giant Mole |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | List the story rating (G, PG-13, R) and if it's Gen, Adult-Het or Adult-Slash |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | List any main characters or adult relationships |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
This missing scene (ok, it's really three scenes) is dedicated with lots of admiration and appreciation to Odensdisir who has been very concerned about Jules's treatment at the end of the episode. The action starts just after Queen Victoria and King Louis have left the Aurora.
---
After the door closed behind the royal party, Passepartout carefully lowered Jules back into the chair. Jules looked up at Fogg whose expression suddenly transformed.. "Passepartout!" he snapped. "Brandy!" In a single graceful motion, he swept the vase off of the table, removed the flowers, and thrust the improvised basin under Jules's chin.
Jules clutched at it gratefully as he found himself retching. There was not much; he could not remember when he had last eaten. But, the spasms continued to wrack his body long after his stomach was empty. He tried to bring himself under control, but the combination of the physical torment and emotional turmoil of the last day set the task beyond him. It seemed like hours, but was certainly only minutes before he became too weak for even this exercise and he was able to lean back with only an occasional shudder. "I'm sorry," he managed.
Rebecca had fetched a damp cloth and now applied it to his face. "I don't know why you should be apologizing," she said in a brisk light tone, smiling gently at him. "We should be doing that."
"And we do." Fogg traded the vase to Passepartout for the glass of brandy. "Prepare one of the rooms upstairs after you dispose of that, please," he said quietly to the valet. He then knelt beside Jules's chair and held the glass to his lips. "Drink this," he ordered, "but not too quickly."
Jules obeyed. He had neither the strength nor the spirit to fight. He could tell from the aroma that this was a fine old French cognac. He wanted to savor it – such a vintage would probably never be available to him again – but it was all he could do to take the small slow sips that Fogg was allowing him. After three of these, his trembling stopped. After the fifth, the cold hard knot in his midsection began to relax and he could actually sit up.
"Well, now, that has put a little color back into your cheeks," Rebecca said cheerfully. She gave his forehead a final pat with her cloth. "Would you like something to eat? Perhaps some soup?"
Jules looked at her. She was a not a classically beautiful woman, yet there was something so dynamic about her that she compelled attention. "N... No, thank you," he stammered. "I... I don't...." He trailed off, not exactly sure how to say that he did not think he could keep it inside without sounding offensive.
Fogg came to his rescue. "I think Mr. Verne needs rest more than food just now, Rebecca."
Jules turned his gaze on the man who had terrorized then rescued him. He was surprised to find that a non-angry Phileas Fogg was not in the least frightening. In fact, behind the standard mask of habitual British reserve, Jules could glimpse a gentleness in the eyes and the slightly asymmetrical smile. "Yes," he said, trying a tentative smile of his own. "If I could please lie down... just for a short while...."
He was rewarded for his effort. The tense shoulders relaxed, the somber green eyes lightened, and the smile became more real. "After a day like you've had, I expect that anyone would need a bit of a lie-down. Take a good swallow of this now," he added, raising the glass once more. "It will help."
It did help. It really was very good brandy. Excellent brandy. He took another swallow as Passepartout appeared on the stairs, announcing, "Room is ready."
Fogg stood and brought Jules up with him. "Do you think you can make it up the staircase?" he asked. Jules considered the question as he tried to maintain his balance. Fogg answered himself. "No, I don't think you can." He put the now empty glass on the table and with a soft, "Excuse the impertinence," hoisted Jules up over a shoulder.
Jules did not mind. He was so very tired and the spiral staircase had looked tall and tricky to negotiate. He no longer had any fear of this strange man, and that should have bothered him, but it did not. Perhaps it was that crooked smile. Perhaps….
---
Jules was deeply asleep when Mister Fogg deposited him carefully on the freshly made bed. Passepartout came around him and began divesting Jules of his shoes and clothing. "If Master would be fetching one of his nightshirts, please," he said as he shifted the young man without waking him, "These things needing seriously washing ups before they can be used more. If they can be used ever more again."
Fogg turned to go but stopped. "Won't that be a bit long for him?"
Passepartout looked up at him and grinned. "Yes, Master. Passepartout's would fit better. But Master's are nicer."
An answering grin flitted across Mister Fogg's face. "Indeed. I suppose that comfort matters more than style just now, doesn't it?" He disappeared through the door.
The valet continued to remove the sweat-soaked clothing. The fabric was of good but not excellent quality: built for durability rather than for appearance. But, the cut! Passepartout wrinkled his nose over the cut. He had always thought of the Baron, his former employer, as a bit of a dandy until he had met Phileas Fogg. It was not fair to call his current master a fussy dresser, but he did have exceedingly high standards. Once Passepartout had learned the trick of meeting these, there had been no more fuss about dressing. Those new standards, however, had adjusted Passepartout's own view of what was suitable. And these things were not.
Fogg returned with the requested garment and gave it to Passepartout, who raised an eyebrow. This was one of his master's finest – the linen was so smoothly woven as to give the feel of silk – but he made no comment. He finished his task by tucking Jules between the sheets and straightened. "What now, Master?" he asked.
"Back to Paris, I think." Fogg drew a chair over to the bed and sat down. "I'll watch over our new young friend, though that brandy should put him out for hours, especially on an empty stomach. I'd like to have a doctor look him over. I think he managed to avoid most of the blow that witch with the crowbar aimed at him, but I don't like the look of that bruise at all. Or… the others." They both knew that “the ones that I inflicted upon him” was the unspoken definition of “others.”
Passepartout gathered up Jules’ clothing. He took his time, waiting for Fogg to speak. His master did not disappoint him. He said, "Is any of that salvageable?"
Passepartout thought it over for a moment and then lied. "Yes, Master."
"Get him some new things anyway. He may not want the reminders. God knows I wouldn't."
Passepartout smiled broadly as he turned to go. But, "Yes, Master," was all he said.
---
Jules considered the possibility that he was still asleep. He had thought he was awake, but perhaps this was one of those dreams where the dream is about waking up. So many things seemed… different. True, he was hungry, and that was normal. He was almost always hungry. And, his head ached. That was usual, if not normal. The cheap wine of the nearby cafe frequently left him hung over, even though he consumed only as much as he could afford, which tended to limit his intake.
Balanced against these normalities were the many abnormal sensations. For one thing, he was warm. He had not been really warm since the previous summer, but he was comfortably, even cozily, warm now. For another, there were no unpleasant odors to be cancelled out. His room had never simply smelled clean. It either reeked of the strong soap that his landlady used on those occasions when she felt up to scrubbing the floor or had the sourness that seemed to be part of the atmosphere of the Parisian district where he lived. The smoothness of the sheets, the plumpness of the pillow under his head, the lack of noise from the street, all these seem to indicate a dreaming state rather than a waking one. Because if he was not dreaming, where could this be? And, when the answer came to him, he propelled himself up with a startled cry.
In a chair beside the bed, an open newspaper lowered and Jules found himself looking at Phileas Fogg. That part had not been a dream either then. The Englishman gave him a friendly nod and said, "Good morning, Mr. Verne, or rather, good afternoon. You've almost slept the clock around." He closed the newspaper, folded it over and set it down beside his chair. "If you feel at all dizzy, I would advise you to lie back down until the doctor arrives. He bandaged your ribs last night, but wanted to examine you again after you came out of that deep slumber."
Jules felt some of his tension ebb away. This was the polite and courteous Phileas Fogg of the previous day, not the lunatic who had assaulted him in the middle of the night. He could not think of what to say, but felt an almost desperate need to respond to the friendly overture. His mind latched onto a phrase and he echoed it. "Bandaged my ribs?"
"Yes. Three of them, two on your right side and one on your left are definitely cracked, the doctor said. Not, it appears, from my disgraceful manhandling of your person, but from your ride in that infernal machine. All other bones seem to be intact, although he was concerned about your right wrist."
Jules raised his right arm and flexed the suspicious joint. It hurt and he winced, but it moved freely. "I don't think it is broken," he said. "Sprained?"
"Well, the doctor will see to it when he returns. He should be here an hour from now. In the interim, are you by any chance hungry? Passepartout has prepared what he calls 'nourishmenting soup of chickens,' and is eager to serve it to you."
Jules smiled a little. "Does he really talk that way all the time?"
Fogg leaned forward. "Confidentially, I believe he does it on purpose to annoy me." He stood. "Should you feel the need, there is a room across the hall with amenities. I shall endeavor to keep my cousin downstairs at least until Passepartout brings the soup." With a slight nod, he turned and left.
Jules gazed after him for a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts. They resisted the attempt, and he decided instead to avail himself of the "amenities" without further delay. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raised himself cautiously. He was weak, but not lightheaded, he decided, taking a tentative step forward. When he retained his balance, he moved with more assurance and completed his task quickly.
He was relieved to get back into the bed and lie down. That short walk had tired him and the richness of his surroundings bewildered him. I'm a poor parish church mouse, he thought whimsically, magically transported into Versailles. I cannot look anywhere without seeing wonders. Even the shirt he was wearing was wondrous, smooth and fine, retaining a light spicy scent despite a night's use. His father's finest dress shirt was not nearly so grand, yet this garment was solely for sleeping in. It had to belong to Phileas Fogg.
He pondered anew this peculiar character. Was he a set of twins, an angry irrational one and a polite considerate one? He could not reconcile the avenging fiend who had abducted him from his garret with the compassionate rescuer of yesterday. And yet, even that rescuer had shown no mercy or gentleness to those who had threatened his queen. Only to Jules himself. What could be deduced from that?
The sound of steps in the hall put an end to these musings and Jules sat up again. Passepartout entered with a tray, containing a steaming bowl from which wafted a delicious aroma. He set the tray across Jules's knees with a flourish. "For you," he said in French much to Jules's relief. He did not think he could follow the valet's fractured English at this point. "My aunt's recipe. Do not eat it too fast. The doctor said that your digestion still may be affected by your shakings and bruised ribs. Slow and steady."
Jules picked up the spoon and tried the soup. It tasted better than it smelled if that were possible. He swallowed and smiled at Passepartout. "Delicious! Thank you." Mindful of the advice, he began a slow, steady assault on the contents of the bowl.
Passepartout grinned. "You are welcome, Master Jules. You need to eat more. You are too thin."
"I eat when I remember to eat," Jules said between spoonfuls. "And when I can afford to eat."
The valet laughed. "I remember my days like that, Master Jules. But no more. While you are here, you will eat regular meals. Mr. Phileas Fogg is most insistent on schedules."
The spoon slowed, but did not stop on its next trip up. Jules regarded Passepartout over the bite, unaware that his eyes had become wide and somber. After he swallowed he said carefully, "What do you mean, 'while I am here'? Am I a prisoner? I thought…."
Passepartout interrupted him. "No, no, no. You are not a prisoner. Do not be ridiculous. But, if you will take my advice, my young friend, you will not run away from this opportunity. You have piqued the master's curiosity. This is not an easy thing to do." He stood. "He and Miss Rebecca would like to ask you some questions, but I thought you should eat a bit first. Do you have enough inside that you can talk now?"
Jules was not at all sure he was up to an interrogation, but he nodded. "Yes, I can talk."
"Good. I will prepare another bowl of soup. You would like that, yes?"
This was something Jules could be sure about. "Yes, please," he said politely, but with emphasis.
Passepartout was chuckling as he left. Jules continued to eat the soup, trying not to be apprehensive about the "questions" he would be asked and how he could safely answer them. He did not want to inadvertently raise the specter of the angry Phileas Fogg. Unfortunately, he had never been any good at dissimulation. He hoped that the truth would suffice.
Rebecca Fogg was the first to enter the room with a warm greeting. "Hello, Jules. I hope that you are feeling better now than when I saw you last."
He bowed as far as he could with the tray on his lap. "Yes, Miss Fogg. Thank you."
She smiled as she sat in the chair. "We agreed to make it Rebecca, remember?"
"Oh. Yes. Rebecca." The unfamiliar name suited her. "Thank you."
"You are far too polite, Jules. You put Phileas’ pretty manners to shame. Doesn't he?"
This last was addressed to the man himself. He came through the door with Jules's notebook and drawings, which he placed on the desk behind Rebecca. "There is nothing wrong with my manners, cousin," he said mildly. "When I choose to use them, that is. I am returning your property to you, Verne. I trust the sketches are all intact. Passepartout would like another opportunity to examine them. At your convenience, of course."
He leaned against the desk so that both of the Foggs now faced Jules. An intimidating combination. Jules wished the bowl had been a bit larger so that he would have something to do with his hands. As it was, he waited for the questions to begin.
"Jules." There was a note of reproof in Rebecca's voice. "We are not going to eat you. But, we would like to ask you about something. Another incident approximately a year ago. Do you recall anything unusual happening to you then?"
Unusual? Well, that was certainly a word for it. He had more than half-convinced himself that he had imagined the strange machine that had tried to take his thoughts away. He had sincerely wanted it to be his imagination. Yet, here was another person asking about it. But, perhaps she was thinking of something different. "Are you talking about Professor de Morancy?"
"Yes." She glanced up at Fogg, then back at Jules. "Can you tell us about that?"
He tried. He described the incidents as well as he could remember them, given the haziness of it all in his mind. When he would have suppressed the more fantastic, Rebecca's soft questions drew him out, and he ended up telling her everything, even the strange detached head that spoke. Fogg listened intently, but his expression never changed. Jules had no idea whether either of them believed a word of what he was saying. Passepartout arrived with another tray as he was telling them of Arago's enigmatic warning about suppressing his visions.
Rebecca sighed. "Your memory and mine agree on the particulars. Well, Phileas, what do you think?"
Fogg exchanged looks with Passepartout and Rebecca before he answered. "What I think, Verne, is that it would be to your advantage to leave Paris for a while. Better to leave France altogether actually. It doesn't seem to be safe here for you just now."
Jules was not stupid. "You believe these two... incidents are connected. And that there might be more."
"Yes. And, we simply cannot hang about here waiting for someone to abduct you again. I need to be in London day after tomorrow. Perhaps you would you care to come with us?"
"With you?" This must have been what Passepartout had been hinting about earlier, but Jules was still surprised at the offer. "In the Aurora? You'd take me to England in the Aurora?"
That slightly off-center smile made another appearance. "I plan on no other means of transportation. You don't have a fear of heights, do you?"
"No! I mean, no, I'm not afraid of heights. And, yes. Yes, I would like to go with you, only I...." I have no money, I have to stay in school or my father will cut off the little I do have, I am supposed to be studying law even though I hate it, I have never been out of France before, I do not know how to behave in the social circles you inhabit, and other objections rushed into his head, leaving him temporarily silent.
"You are a student at the Sorbonne, I understand," Fogg said, possibly reading his thoughts from the expressions flickering across his face. "We can see the authorities there and arrange a short holiday for you. And make it straight with your landlord by paying the rent in advance. You do actually have to pay rent for that room, I presume?"
"A landlady. She...."
"And how much does she charge for the privilege of squatting in that...? Oh, never mind, a year's advance should do it. Passepartout, remind me to visit a bank in the morning. We shall probably need to pass out bribes to the people in the Sorbonne." Fogg pushed himself away from the desk and followed Passepartout and the used tray through the door. "Did you get those clothes for Verne yet? He will need a coat. It is colder in London than here...." His voice faded away as he went down the stairway.
Jules turned his wide eyes on Rebecca. She was looking after Fogg with a very broad smile. Really almost a grin. He finally managed to say, "Does he do this often?"
Rebecca turned back to him and giggled. It was definitely a giggle, not a laugh. "I am sorry, Jules. No, he doesn't. That's what makes it so marvelous. I've not seen him like this since... well, not for a long time." She raised her eyebrows at him. "I suggest you eat your soup. You will need your strength. I do hope you are in the mood for adventure."
Adventure. That was a good word for it. He picked up the spoon. "Yes," he said, more to himself than to her. "I think I am in the mood for adventure."