Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (75 page)

“Yes,” Nemo interrupted without hesitation.
 
“More than you can ever understand, Jules.”

Verne looked from Nemo to Caroline.
 
Something in his chest constricted so tightly that he wondered if his heart might have stopped beating.
 
“You . . . both . . . intend to stay together?
 
Go off to some isolated, primitive place?”

“I have to, Jules,” Caroline answered.
 
“Please understand.
 
All your life you wanted to write books and plays -- and you have succeeded.
 
Who could deny it?
 
But all of my life
I
have dreamed of the freedom to write and play my own music, the freedom to choose.”
 
She took a deep breath.
 
“You have not had to live with the accusations and scorn of civilized society.
 
This is my chance, Jules.”
 
She took Nemo’s hand in hers.
 
“This is
my
choice.”

Nemo looked at her, then back at Verne.
 
“A world of adventure is waiting.”

#

Late at night, Jules Verne took his leave of the
Nautilus
, knowing he would never see either of his old friends again.
 
He returned to his own yacht, where the agitated veterans received him as if he were a tortured and ill-treated prisoner-of-war.
 
Verne refused to answer their questions, brushing them aside as he withdrew, sick-at-heart.
 
The old men asked if he wanted to fire the little cannon himself, to celebrate, but he brushed them aside.

He watched the
Nautilus
cruise away from the
Saint Michel
.
 
With bubbles of released air, the sub-marine sank out of sight and sailed away beneath the seas.

vii

At last, after waiting for most of their lives, Caroline and Nemo basked in the warmth of each other’s company.
 

They spoke little of their feelings at first, allowing themselves time to become reacquainted.
 
They shared stories about their lives, the years they had spent apart.
 
And as they talked, every movement, every expression or touch, communicated in a language more eloquent than words how much they cared for each other.

Their love, hidden for so long, had formed both a bond and a wall between them for most of their lives.
 
The
Nautilus
crew, all of whom had known Nemo’s wife and son at Rurapente, kept their distance, but welcomed their captain’s restored spirits.
 
Nemo’s heart had been in pain for years, ever since he had learned of Auda’s death,

But Caroline still did not know the fate of her husband.

Nemo guided the
Nautilus
north, beyond the coast of England and Scotland and into the Arctic Circle.
 

Gazing through the broad salon windows, Caroline recovered from her ordeal in the siege of Paris, nourished by a daily routine of calm and peace and rest.
 
The lines of strain smoothed themselves from her face and, within days, she began to laugh again.
 
To Nemo, her voice and her laughter was beautiful music aboard the sub-marine.
 
Soon she even played on a wooden flute he gave her, performing some of her own melodies.
 
Nemo vowed to obtain a pipe organ or pianoforte for her, so that she could play and play to her heart’s content.
 
Perhaps he could even install it here in the salon. . . .

When they reached the frigid polar seas, the
Nautilus
dove beneath the shimmering icepack that surrounded the North Pole, and he ordered all the
Nautilus
’s powerful front lights turned on.
 
Nemo called for Caroline to join him at the bridge.
 

“This may sadden you, but you have needed to see it for many years.
 
I have no choice.
 
You deserve to know, and without it, you and I will never be truly free to --”
 
He paused, at a loss for words, and then simply took her hand.
 
“Will you gaze with me upon one more secret?”

Her blue eyes widened with concern, but she squeezed his hand.
 
He guided the
Nautilus
down to deep outcroppings of rock.
 
As they came around a bend, the yellow cones of light fell upon the skeleton of a ship’s wooden hull like a beached whale.
 
Caroline stiffened.

Preserved by the icy waters and the depths to which it had sunk, a wrecked sailing vessel had come to rest on the silty ocean floor.
 
They could see the outline of its keel, the tall columns of its masts, even a few rotted shreds of sail and rigging rope.

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” Nemo said.
 

The
Nautilus
cruised around the sunken wreck.
 
After so much time, they could not determine exactly what had happened.
 
Part of the hull had caved in, as if crushed in massive jaws of ice.
 
They passed the muck-covered masthead figure, and finally drifted over the barnacle-encrusted nameplate.
 
Under the blaze of light, letters stood out despite the stains and grime of decades:
 
Forward
.

“I don’t know if your Captain Hatteras was close to discovering a Northwest Passage.
 
All I know is that we found this vessel here.
 
Perhaps it isn’t the answer you had hoped for . . . but it is finally an answer.”

Caroline fixed her gaze on Nemo for a long moment, avoiding the sunken hulk of Captain Hatteras’s exploration ship.
 
“It is an answer I wish I had known years ago.
 
Then our situation . . . might have been different.”

“Things can still be different,” Nemo said, taking her hand again.

“Yes,” she answered with a long slow sigh, a gentle smile touching the corners of her mouth.
 
“Things can finally be different . . . between us.”

The past, for both of them, now lay at a safe distance -- not forgotten, but no longer a wall.

Epilogue

MOBILIS IN MOBILI

Paris, 1874

After the war, Jules Verne and his family settled into their new summer house at Amiens, but he still made regular trips to Paris to meet with his publisher.
 
He was a famous writer, after all, and in much demand.

Verne dined with Hetzel at a well-known restaurant not far from the Louvre.
 
Each man ordered roast herbed quail with potato-cheese soufflé and shared an expensive bottle of wine.
 
Verne was happy to let his publisher pay for the extravagance, and he savored every bite.
 
Though the author had plenty of money, he could not bring himself to be such a spendthrift.
 
His father, now two years in his grave, would never have approved. . . .

After the grueling siege had been lifted from Paris and the Peace of Frankfurt ended the Franco-Prussian War, life began its painful journey back to normalcy.
 
Following a few abortive starts, Hetzel got his publishing company running again -- and Jules Verne continued to be the star performer.

Around the World in Eighty Days
was a smash hit, Verne’s most popular “Extraordinary Voyage” so far.
 
He was now considered an international celebrity, badgered for interviews and opinions on numerous subjects.
 
At first the accolades had been amusing, and the bearded author had reveled in his fame . . . but now he felt bothered by it all.
 
He wanted nothing more than quiet time to continue his writing.
 

He produced
A Floating City
(written on board his yacht while patrolling the coast for Prussian warships) and
Measuring a Meridian
.
 
Like clockwork, Verne’s novels once again came out from Hetzel, first serialized in the childrens’ magazine, then in bound volumes for the holidays.
 
Indeed, life in France had returned to normal. . . .

After their fine meal, the two men returned to Hetzel’s courtyard offices on rue Jacob and spent an hour scrutinizing the galleys of a forthcoming story, the first installment in
The Fur Country
.
 
But Hetzel was not quite as enthusiastic about the work as he’d been in previous times.
 
“I am sorry to say this, Jules,” the publisher ventured, “but we need to think ahead and consider perhaps a little more . . . variety in your subject matter.”

“Variety?”
 
Verne’s mind raced.
 
“In every extraordinary voyage I have explored different subjects and different places --”

“Yes, and with quite some success,” Hetzel added, looking down his large nose as if it were an insurmountable obstacle.
 
He gave his author a paternal smile.
 
“But of late I have noticed a certain, shall we say,
sameness
to these journeys.
 
What will you do when the Earth has been completely mapped?”

“There will always be places to explore, always new adventures to tell.”
 
Verne gave his publisher a stubborn frown, careful to add just the right amount of indignation to his voice.
 
Now that Nemo was indeed gone, he would have to create his own adventures, think up his own ideas.
 
But Verne’s imagination was up to the task; after all, he had exercised it enough.
 
He pursed his lips.
 
“What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

Hetzel’s eyes brightened and then darted away.
 
Verne could see that the older man was now approaching the subject he
really
wanted to discuss.
 
“What if you were to consider, for instance, adding more . . . romance in your novels?”

Verne bristled and sat up across from the publisher’s desk.
 
He put his elbows on the now-ignored galleys.
 
“Romance?
 
What could a frivolous romance possibly have to do with my stories?”

Hetzel folded his fingers together and looked intently at his visitor.
 
“In each novel, you have brave explorers and intelligent engineers -- yet you rarely include a true love element.”

Verne fumed.
 
“But in
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
, my character is engaged to be married.
 
He thinks of his fiancée often.
 
Graubwen . . . yes, I believe her name was Graubwen.”

Hetzel dismissed the defense.
 
“She is mentioned a few times in the entire novel, and appears in the flesh but once.
 
No, Jules, I am talking about a genuine relationship, true emotions and heartfelt desires.
 
Let the reader see two people who love each other, not just give lip-service to mutual adoration.”

Verne narrowed his eyes and sniffed.
 
He and his publisher had experienced occasional disagreements about the content of his prodigious output, and in his heart Verne knew that Hetzel was usually right, even when he dared not admit it.
 

“Jules, your novels are full of fascination, but empty of passion.”

Now, though, the suggestion brought to mind Verne’s own marriage with Honorine, and the loss of Caroline Aronnax.
 
From childhood, he’d been convinced that Caroline was destined to be the real love of his life -- and he had not let go of that fantasy.
 
Of course, he’d never gotten around to purchasing the coral necklace either, the one he had promised her in the marketplace on Ile Feydeau.
 
By now he could have procured her a thousand of them. . . .