Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (21 page)

In his notebooks Verne had drafted two plays of his own (both heavily influenced by Hugo).
 
His first,
Alexandre VI: 1503
, was a romantic drama in verse, five acts long, about the Borgia Pope -- a villain if there ever was one.
 
Next, even more ambitious, he had written
The Gunpowder Plot
, about Guy Fawkes.
 
He had showed the work to Caroline, and she had expressed her encouragement and delight.
 
“You have such a gift for telling stories, Jules.
 
I am certain that someday you will be successful.”

With light footsteps he danced along the streets, letting the fantasy carry him.
 
Nantes had a respectable playhouse on place Graslin, modeled after the Paris Odéon.
 
If ever he got up his nerve, he would investigate any connections his father might have to get his plays performed on stage.
 
And, if he actually married Caroline Aronnax, even more doors would open for him.

Verne imagined how wonderful it would be if
The Gunpowder Plot
were to be performed there.
 
Dressed in his finest suit, he would sit in the author’s box and watch the players take their bows.
 
He hoped Caroline might be beside him, cheering along with the audience.
 
“Author!
 
Author!”

Grinning, Verne strode up the brick steps to the ornate facade of Caroline’s house and rang the bell.
 
The maidservant Marie, looking awkward and embarrassed, opened the door and allowed the young redhead into the foyer.
 
“I shall let Mademoiselle Caroline know you have come.
 
Please wait here.”

Marie hurried off with a whisper of her crinoline petticoat.
 
A pendulum clock ticked in the main drawing room, and Verne waited.
 
Feet planted, he looked at the many odd items that M. Aronnax had acquired over the years -- trophies brought by his merchant ships from their voyages around the world.
 

A pink conch shell sat on a glass tabletop, surrounded by delicate shells from South Sea islands.
 
A carved elephant tusk sat on a black lacquer stand.
 
Around the corner, in shadow, stood an airtight case that contained a dark mass that just might have been a shrunken human head. . . .

Marie returned from the back room and gestured toward a pair of folding French doors that led out to an enclosed flower garden.
 
“Mademoiselle Caroline awaits you in the courtyard.
 
She has requested chocolat chaud for the two of you.”
 
She hurried off.

A cast-iron table, painted white, stood on the patio flanked by two chairs.
 
Caroline, wearing a lavender chintz dress with full sleeves and lace collars, sat in the sun without a hat or parasol, staring listlessly at a cluster of scarlet blossoms.
 
Her back was to Verne, though she must have heard him arrive.
 
A sketchpad lay on her lap, its top page covered with a quick drawing of a face.
 
Nemo’s?

Gathering courage, he stepped forward.
 
Caroline folded her sketchpad and turned.
 
Her heart-shaped face was achingly beautiful as she smiled at him.
 
“Please sit, Jules.”

He almost tripped over his own feet as he hurried to take the scrolled-iron chair opposite her.
 
Verne’s heart fluttered as if it were pumping air bubbles instead of the red blood of a young man in love.
 
He rested his elbow on the table, before remembering his manners.
 
He sat up again, straight and proper.

Through the interior windows, Verne caught a flash of Madame Aronnax pacing in the sitting room, a distant chaperone.
 
Verne berated himself for not thinking to bring a bouquet of flowers.
 
He still had a lot to learn about love.

“It can be no news to you that I reached marriageable age some time ago, Jules,” Caroline said, and he caught his breath.
 
“My parents have received many offers from suitors attracted by my social standing.”

And also by your beauty
, Verne thought, but did not dare say it aloud.

With a resigned and confused expression, she forced out the next words.
 
“My mother has completed all the necessary arrangements for me to marry.
 
He is an older man, a well-respected sea captain.
 
My father concurs, and so the decision has been made.”

Verne felt as if he would shatter from despair if he moved even a fraction of an inch.
 
Her news struck him like an avalanche.

“Captain Hatteras has sailed my father’s ships with great success.
 
I . . . looked over his records.
 
His profits have always been excellent.
 
The captain is an ambitious man who wishes to become an explorer.”
 
Caroline continued rapidly but without emotion, as if she had memorized her speech.

“He has recently financed a new expedition to seek an alternate passage to Asia.
 
He will go northwest, up around Greenland and North America, hoping to discover a route through the Arctic Sea and back down to China and Japan.
 
Such a route could bring vast fortunes to my family.”
 
She toyed with a ruffle on her sleeve.
 
“And it is time for me to stop waiting.”
 
He could hear the unspoken message in her words.
 
With Nemo gone, I can ask for no better husband.

Verne swallowed hard, tried to articulate any objections that came to mind.
 
“But . . . but that’s so dangerous.
 
Around the arctic circle?
 
It’s never been done.”
 

He thought of the Dutch explorer Willem Barents, who in the 17th century had sailed around Norway and upper Russia until his ship became ice-locked and crushed.
 
Barents and his crew were forced to build wooden huts on the no-man’s island of Novaya Zemlaya.
 
During the spring thaw, the survivors braved the Arctic Sea in open boats.
 
Barents himself died, as did many of the crew, before anyone reached civilization.

Caroline intended to marry a man who would attempt a similar passage.

She sat straight and proper in her wrought-iron chair.
 
“M. Hatteras is a brave man.
 
If anyone can do it, my captain can.
 
Our marriage is already scheduled, as is his expedition.
 
We will be wed very shortly, before he departs.”

Caroline looked directly at him.
 
Verne knew that his face must be pale, his freckles prominent, his expression stricken.
 
Given the wording of her note, had she not guessed what he might think?

“I know this is a disappointment to you, Jules, but I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than from gossip.”
 
She took his hand again.
 
“I want you to come to the wedding.
 
You must remain my friend, and keep telling me your stories.
 
When M. Hatteras departs, I will have no one to talk to -- certainly no one with such imagination.”

Numb, Verne climbed to his feet again just as Marie arrived with a pot of steaming chocolat.
 
He didn’t even see her, didn’t want any refreshment -- and he could not endure staying here any longer.
 
Bees thrummed among the courtyard flowers, and birds sang from the hedges -- but for Jules Verne, this place held only the deepest shadows.

Moving like a man in the final stages of consumption, he managed a bow to Caroline.
 
“Accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.
 
I . . . I’m certain your parents have made the proper decision for you.”

He forced himself not to run as his hopes crumbled around him.
 
He wanted to hurry home, though the work day was not yet over.
 
Caroline called after him.
 
“Wait, Jules!
 
Can you not make a joke for me to remember?
 
Tell me another amusing story?
 
Please, you are my only true friend.”

Verne didn’t dare let his feelings out, lest the emotions crack his invisible armor.
 
“Am I a friend, or a court jester?
 
A jongleur to tell stories?
 
Caroline, I’m sure your betrothed must have a wit and imagination that far outshines mine.
 
After all, I’ve never even left France.”

He walked back to his father’s law offices, where he hoped to sit alone at his desk and bury himself in the tedious work of copying and certifying documents.
 
There seemed to be nothing else in store for him in life.

But when Verne seated himself and set a new stack of papers before him, his father called.
 
“Jules, I must speak with you.”

The young man moved like a clockwork machine.
 
His father would no doubt give him instructions for a fresh set of documents or perhaps ask him to deliver a sealed testament.
 
Pierre Verne saved money by using his son rather than hiring the local courier boys.

Verne stood in front of his father’s desk, wearing his formal frock coat and vest rather than play clothes.
 
The elder Verne did not invite him to take a seat.
 
“I have already made arrangements for you.”

Wondering what his father could mean, Verne blinked.
 
After his conversation with Caroline, what else could go wrong this day?
 
“What arrangements, Father?”

“It’s time you were certified, Jules.
 
You have worked as a law clerk in my office for nearly a year, and you must proceed with your instruction.
 
I am sending you to Paris so that you can enroll in a well-respected school.”
 
The older man tugged on his sideburns and met Verne’s gaze.
 
“You will pass the entrance examination for the Paris Faculty of Law, and then your future will be bright.
 
You need have no worries.”

Verne reeled.
 
He had never liked the profession, did not intend to become a lawyer for the rest of his life -- yet he was the eldest son.
 
And while his brother Paul had already failed his application to enter the Naval Academy, the younger boy had received his father’s permission to sign aboard as an apprentice shipmate . . . much the way Verne had wanted to do when he’d run away from home with Nemo.

“You will take the train, son.
 
Pack lightly, but bring enough clothes so you can be presentable at all times.
 
One never knows when an opportunity might arise.
 
You will visit the Faculty of Law, see the school, and return here to help me in the office during the summer pause in classes.
 
In autumn, I expect you to return to Paris to work toward your law degree.
 
It will take you several years, but you’ll be well rewarded in the end.”

Verne could not answer, but discipline and his strict upbringing had taught him not to challenge his father’s wishes.
 
At least he would have an excuse to be away from Nantes during Caroline’s wedding.
 
He could not endure seeing her take marriage vows to another man.
 

He had heard much about Paris, though: the opera, literary salons, coffee shops, and theaters.
 
Perhaps in the City of Light, he would find a home near to his heart, a place that would sing to his creative spirit.
 
Perhaps there, he could forget his misery over Caroline. . . .

#

The next week passed in a blur as he prepared to go to the capitol city.
 
Barely nineteen and still wide-eyed with innocence, Jules Verne went to the largest city in France -- a hotbed of discontent -- on the eve of the bloody and violent Revolutions of 1848.

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