Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (62 page)

A consumptive clerk took the package.
 
Although Verne made certain to drop the name of Alexandre Dumas -- several times, in fact -- the clerk seemed unimpressed.
 
He merely assured Verne that Monsieur Hetzel would respond as soon as possible.

Within a week, in mid-October of 1862, Verne received a card inviting him to meet with Monsieur Hetzel at his earliest convenience.
 
Excited, Verne gave up his morning’s routine of writing, dressed in his finest clothes, and nervously ate a croissant for breakfast.
 
He waited and waited for an appropriate hour.

When at last he strode up to the rue Jacob offices at mid-morning, he learned that Hetzel -- a night owl -- entertained morning visitors only in his bedchambers in an apartment to the rear of the publishing offices.
 
Though he was not ill, Hetzel liked to remain in bed for most of the morning.
 
Horribly embarrassed, Verne turned to go, but the coughing clerk ushered him around back through a small garden courtyard and up a flight of creaking stairs to meet the publisher in person.

Years ago, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had made his mark in the publishing world, though he was a Protestant and had thus suffered many difficulties during the turmoil in France.
 
An outspoken supporter of the Second Republic after the Revolutions of 1848, he had managed to escape arrest when Napoleon III proclaimed himself Emperor.
 
While hiding in Brussels for eight years, Hetzel published the work of fellow exile Victor Hugo until an amnesty in 1859 allowed him to return to Paris.
 
Back again, Hetzel had rapidly become very successful, and now was ready to expand his publishing endeavors.

The man remained in bed, sitting up in his blankets and pillows to greet his visitor.
 
Despite the fact that he was about fifteen years older than Verne, Hetzel had an energetic intensity that shaved years from his age.
 
His pale hair was not entirely gray, and he appeared healthy as an ox.
 

Both men had full, stylish beards, but the publisher’s face had sharper angles, a hawkish nose, and close-set eyes that brightened when he saw the young writer enter his bedchamber.
 
Without a word, the consumptive clerk disappeared.
 
Verne remained standing, looking down at the important man sitting in his nightshirt on the canopied bed.
 

Beside him, on the blankets, lay the manuscript of Verne’s balloon book.
 

Jules Verne’s heart pounded.
 
He smelled the beeswax candles in the enclosed room, noted the publisher’s picked-over dinner tray lying on the floor on the opposite side of the bed.
 
The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and only dim morning light intruded.
 
He felt like an intruder here, but he didn’t dare leave -- not until he had heard what Hetzel had to say.

The publisher looked at him for a few moments.
 
Verne wondered desperately what to say.
 
None of the other publishers had bothered to call him in person; they’d merely sent declining letters.
 
His hopes ran high.
 
The other man picked up the thick stack of papers, and Verne held his breath.

“I am sorry, Monsieur, but I cannot publish this manuscript,” Hetzel said.

Verne felt as if the building had crashed down upon him.
 
Already lacking confidence, he felt that this man had made a fool of him.
 
His face reddened, and cold sweat trickled beneath his collar.
 
“I apologize for wasting your time, Monsieur,” Verne choked out the words.
 
He reached for the manuscript to snatch it away.
 
This time he would burn it far from where Honorine could see and stop him.

“On the contrary,” Hetzel added, raising a scolding finger.
 
His thin, businesslike voice held no anger.
 
“I cannot publish this book
as it is
.
 
I do believe, however, it can be
made
publishable . . . if you are willing to do the work.
 
I want authors who are hard workers.
 
Are you a hard worker and persistent -- or will I never see you again?”

Verne didn’t comprehend what the publisher was saying and wondered if the man were taunting him.
 
Hetzel tapped the thick manuscript.
 
“What you have written, Monsieur Verne, is nothing but a dry lecture about balloons and their potential.
 
I am convinced that you have apprehended the facts, but you have not presented them in an interesting manner.”

Verne drew a deep, cold breath.
 
“My book is about science, sir.
 
It is not meant to be a comedy or a farce.”

“But why not an adventure?”
 
Hetzel locked his gaze with the young writer’s.
 
“It must be a
story
with a scientific basis, not a treatise about scientific fact.
 
To captivate your readers, you must wrap your research within a tale so exciting that the people will cry out for more.”
 
His eyes sparkled.
 
“You will become a teacher, introducing the public to new concepts without their realizing it.”
 
He chuckled.

Verne stopped, allowing the words to penetrate.
 
What was this man saying?
 
What did he truly mean?
 

Now Hetzel lifted the manuscript and extended it toward Verne.
 
“I believe you can salvage much of this, my friend, but you must give me an entirely different work with the balloon information in a novel form.
 
Write a new kind of book, a fiction that depends upon scientific knowledge and exploration -- but you must engage us with
characters
who learn these things in the course of a story, rather than simply recounting bald facts as a lecturer.”

When Verne took the manuscript, his hands were trembling.
 
Hetzel sat up straighter in bed and yawned, plumping the pillows behind his back.
 
“Buried in your paragraphs, you mentioned offhandedly some travels your friend made in a balloon across unexplored Africa.
 
I suggest you use
that
as your framework, create an epic quest with brave explorers traveling in the fabulous balloon you have postulated.
 
Certainly that would make for more interesting reading?”
 
He raised his eyebrows.

Shaken, Verne nodded and backed away.
 
“Yes, Monsieur Hetzel.
 
I understand.
 
I . . . I will work without pause, and present you with a new manuscript within two weeks’ time.”

Hetzel smiled.
 
“If you can perform that miracle, Jules Verne, we can publish your book in time for the Christmas holiday season.”

Verne emerged from the back apartment, his mind spinning as he stumbled across the garden.
 
He did not yet allow himself to accept the joy of what had just occurred.
 
He still had a great deal of work ahead of him, so he wasted no energy in dancing with excitement.
 
He thought of his long-dead friend, André Nemo, and his escapades with Fergusson across Africa.
 

He would change the names of Nemo and Caroline, of course, and create new, fictional characters to accompany the good doctor.
 
Even so, Verne had a wonderful story to tell. . . .

ii

The following spring, Jules Verne found a mysterious message slipped under his door during the dark of night.
 
Standing in his robe the following morning, he picked up the scrap of paper; his brows furrowed in curiosity.

“
Jules, old friend, come to Paimboeuf on April 2nd and prepare to be gone for a week.
 
One mile up the coast, you will find a sheltered cove.
 
Meet me there at midnight.
 
I promise you an extraordinary voyage you shall never forget -- a journey you have always wanted to take.”
 

The note was unsigned, and extremely intriguing.

Scratching his full beard, Verne stepped back into his flat and closed the door with a click.
 
Honorine had already spent an hour in the everyday battle of washing, dressing, and feeding young Michel, but Verne decided not to show her the note . . . not yet.
 
His pulse raced as he thought of the mystery.
 

Who might have sent such a message?
 
Was it a hoax, or some sort of treachery?
 
Should he be concerned for his safety?
 
Despite his longings and his dreams, Verne rarely had cause to seek out “adventures.”
 
Not real ones, anyway.
 
He actually preferred to travel in his imagination, as his father had made him promise to do.

But few people knew that.
 
They expected a different sort of person after reading his novel. . . .

In early 1863, Verne’s
Five Weeks in a Balloon
had been published to wide acclaim.
 
Readers all across France had snapped up the adventures of Dr. Samuel Fergusson and his intrepid companions (vastly different from Nemo and Caroline) crossing Africa in his remarkable balloon.
 
Foreign publishers had translated the book into diverse languages.

Seeing the success, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had offered his young author a lucrative publishing contract to write additional novels in the same vein -- books grounded in science, combined with extraordinary journeys to fascinate the reading public.
 
Verne was to write three novels a year, for which he would be paid 3000 francs -- not a fortune, but more than he made in the stock market.
 
And certainly more than he had ever made from his theater work.
 
He was an unqualified success as a writer after so many long years.

After breathlessly signing the contract that bound him to Hetzel, Verne had rushed home elated.
 
In the foyer of their flat, he danced with a stiff and surprised Honorine and kissed her on the cheek before trotting off to the Bourse.
 

Crowing like a proud rooster, he had stood in the middle of the trading floor surrounded by paper-laden work tables to attract his coworkers’ attention.
 
“Well, boys, I am off to another career.
 
I will now make my living as a writer while you stay here among your dreary numbers and stocks.”
 

Although the others congratulated him, it was clear from their expressions that they thought him a fool for giving up a stable career.
 
Verne didn’t care. . . .

Now, as a successful writer, Jules Verne had the freedom to do as he wished -- and this strange note promised him an “extraordinary voyage” of his own.
 
How could he pass up such an opportunity?
 
It might even turn into the basis for a new novel, whatever this adventure might be.
 
He tried to place the tantalizing yet familiar handwriting, the tone of the sentences.

Chewing his lip, Verne paced in the foyer, scuffing the rug.
 
He knew he should travel more, experience more.
 
He had always longed for such things, theoretically.
 
But somehow he never got around to doing so.
 
He had a secure income -- so, why should he not take advantage of his success?

Impulsively jamming the note into the pocket of his robe, Verne decided to take a chance -- for once.
 
He raised his chin in the air in a show of bravery.
 
He would tell Honorine he needed time alone to concentrate on a new book.
 
While he adored the bustling civilization of Paris, he longed to see the ocean again.
 
He liked the cool, damp weather, and the lullaby of the Atlantic.
 

Even if this message were merely a practical joke, Verne could still relax by the ocean, all alone.
 
It would be a holiday, and he didn’t have to tell anyone.
 
Either way, he had nothing to lose.