Jules Verne sat in the library of the Sorbonne. The hour was late and he knew that he should be returning to his cheerless room, but the library was warm and the chair, while not exactly comfortable, was much better than the one that resided under the table he used as a desk. The pile of books beside him did not contain treatises on the law, for which he felt slightly guilty, but instead were the libraries reference volumes on that strange civilization that once ranged over large stretches of the country now known as Mexico, the Aztecs.

The pictures in this latest book showed sketches of devices found by explorers as part of that civilization. Jules was looking specifically for any mention of anything that might be a part of that strange vehicle he and his friends knew as the "Phoenix." This peculiar machine had the ability to move through time the way that Phileas Fogg's dirigible Aurora could sail through the air. He was about to give up on this one as well when he spotted a diagram that looked familiar.

He turned the pages of his own notebook to find his sketch for comparison. "Yes!" he said triumphantly. "They match!" He scribbled the name of the book down next to his drawing. When next he saw Phileas, Passepartout, and Rebecca, he would have something to report.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was coming. Someone silent. A shadow fell across his notebook. He turned quickly to look.

The sound of the walking stick's 'whap' as it landed in the middle of his notebook, nearly made Verne jump out of his skin, if that were possible. In a spastic and badly executed defense tactic, the student attempted to both grab the notebook and retreat at the same time. This merely resulted in Jules dropping his book, overturning the chair, and soundly landing on his Nantesian rump.

Alas, his execution of such preservational tactics needed much work.

Verne's instinct for danger was considerably honed by numberous run-ins with the League of Darkness. Always, they sought to capture him, or his notebooks or both.

The voice that answered Verne's rather pathetic attempt at escape was cool, English, and slightly annoyed.

"For the love of God, Verne! Haven't your professors instructed you a million times to =pay attention=? Haven't =I= instructed you to do the same? Yet, here you are in some musty little corner, buried in a book, oblivious to the world..."

Verne attempted to staunch the forthcoming lecture from Phileas Fogg. However, that hope dwindled into nothingness as the Englishman stood glaring like Napoleon overseeing the troops... well, perhaps Mons. Bonaparte wasn't the best analogy.

"You really =must= be little more prepared."

"I know, Fogg."

"You could be grabbed and thrown under a pile of these dusty tomes for a century, at least, before anyone would even =notice=... let alone find you!"

"I know, Fogg."

"And then, =who= do you suppose would be required to dig under all these moldy papers in search of you?"

"You, Fogg."

Fogg laughed. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I would have Passepartout do it!" he added matter-of-factly.

"How did you find me?" Verne asked his protector.

"I followed a trail of breadcrumbs..." the Englishman answered. "Somewhat stale, french, bagette breadcrumbs. Verne, if you are =not= in that hovel that you call your apartment, and you are =not= in that hovel that you call a bistro, then it stands to reason that you are...=here=. Now gather your papers and your wits and let's go. Rebecca is waiting outside."

As Jules busied himself trying to gather together his things and recover some of his dignity Phileas bent over to pick up Jules's notebook and retrieve his walking stick. His face fell when he saw the sketch of the Aztec version of the Phoenix that had been built by young Al.

"Damn! Verne, I thought we agreed that you were to destroy this and..." Phileas froze as he caught site of the design in the book Jules was quickly closing.

Jules had wanted time to think of a way of bringing the subject up without incuring Phileas' wrath. He knew Fogg felt the machine was only trouble in a civilization not yet ready for it. But his own curiousity had driven Jules to find out more.

Fogg reached out grabbing the book and quickly thumbing through it, arrived at the diagram and tore it from the book.

"Fogg! You can't just destroy the library's property!" Jules whispered hoarsley, trying to contain his emotions. But his rage nearly boiled over as Fogg ripped the sketch from his notebook. Fogg saw that the young man looked as though he were about to have an apoplectic fit!

"If you could find it, so could the League of Darkness. Really, Jules you need to learn how to protect yourself, even from that curiosity of yours. We sent that infernal machine off into time and space for a reason. We sunk the other at the bottom of the Mississippi. The last thing we need is the League capturing you and the plans for that monstrosity at the same time! Now come on or we will be explaining ourselves to Rebecca."

With that, Fogg folded both sheets of paper and stuck them in his pocket, took up his walking stick and headed out of the Library at a pace Jules would have had a hard time keeping up with even if he hadn't been standing there dumbstruck. Recovering himself Jules hurried to catch up.

As they exited the Library both were in to much of a snit to notice the Observer lurking in the shadow of the library behind the corner of the stone edifice. He watched as the two men entered the carriage with Rebecca and headed off at a furious pace.

As the observer watched the coach retreat down the boulevard, he breathed a relieved sigh. Good, the man thought. They are finally on their way. Finally, no interruptions.

He quietly slipped back into the main hall of the library. Scanning the room, his dark eyes fell to rest on a lovely young woman of about twenty-six. Hair the color of honey and eyes of violet, she spotted him and broke into an delighted smile.

Without hesitation, the man ran to her and with a desperate urgency, kissed her. She sank into his arms and surrendered herself to his lips--thrilled by his touch.

"I knew you would return", she whispered into his ear. "I knew you would not forget."

Forget? How could he forget? She was the love of his life, the only woman who could possess him to forsake his duty in order to be with her here, tonight.

"Forgive me, master," he quietly spoke. "She is my wife."

"Shouldn't we be going, Jean?" the woman asked.

"Yes, Marielle," he replied. "Our time is short--again. Let us enjoy what little we have."

Jean Passepartout took the lady's arm and led her out of the library.

With Marielle's arm tucked firmly in his, Passepartout and his wife strolled down the gaslit Parisian street. The night was fine and the company delightful. Passepartout sighed with contentment. She looked up at him. "How long are you here, Jean?" she asked.

"I know not, my little love," he replied. "Miss Rebecca is here on a mission. She has not told any of us the details." It was a relief to be speaking in French instead of trying to wrap his mind around the convolutions of English syntax. "But, she wanted Master Jules's help for something."

"And Mister Fogg? What does he do?"

"As always, my darling, he fusses and fumes." Passepartout grinned down at her. "But, as always, he is having a grand time doing so."

She laughed with him. "How many times this week have you been an 'idiot'?"

"Only four. It is something of a record for me."

"Jean, Jean, Jean." She shook her head. "How can you stand it?"

"It is as the Baron said, Marielle. He needs someone to look after him while he is so busy looking after the rest of the world. A very strange man, Mister Fogg is. He pretends not to care for any, but really he cares for all." He stopped and she stopped beside him. He regarded her with solemn eyes. "When will you let me tell him about you?"

"Not yet, Jean." She matched his gravity. "The Baron...."

"...has not seen Mister Fogg for months. He has changed some, Marielle. Especially since Master Jules has come. I think he would not dismiss me out of hand without giving me a chance to explain."

"It is a risk, Jean."

"A risk I am willing to take now. We could be together much more often."

She sighed and started walking again. Rather than give up his hold, Passepartout kept pace. "I will think on it, Jean. I promise to think. In the meantime, could we not talk of Mister Fogg for a while?"

"Very well, my sweet. How have you been occupying yourself this time?"

She told him and they continued to stroll. When they reached the door of the flat, Marielle said with an impish grin, "Please wait outside for a moment, Jean. I have remodeled the hallway and I want to be sure that it is ready for you to see."

"Very well, but do not make me wait long."

She ran lightly up the steps and into the door. Passepartout was so engrossed with watching her that he failed to notice the dark coach pull up behind him. A rough voice growled suddenly, "That's him!" and he felt a hard object come in contact with the back of his head before he could no longer feel anything at all.

Marielle opened the door just in time to see her unconscious husband dragged into the coach and the horses take it away at top speed. "No!" she gasped. "No! Not my Jean!"