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.

Phileas entered the quiet Aurora.

He glanced around noticing some rather odd things.Passepartout was no where to be seen. "My coffee has not been made, my pants nor my paper pressed. Where is that infernal Valet of mine? Passepartout!"

"Fogg, really. Give poor Passepartout a break. He's been doing everything you've asked of him since he
came into your service. He deserves some time to himself," Verne scolded.

The look in Phileas' eyes told him that he'd come very close to overstepping his bounds. Jules swallowed hard.

"I do not begrudge him is time, as long as his work is done first." Phileas disappeared down the corridor in his pursuit to locate Passepartout.

Jules gave Rebecca a look that silently asked her to back him up. She smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"When Phileas is in a snit, no one can win an argument with him. Let him go, Jules. He'll get over it soon enough." She patted his shoulder as she moved past him to the front of the Aurora.

With a sigh of frustration, he opened his notebook to where the sketch of the Phoenix had been. Just then the door of the Aurora burst open.

Jean Passepartout entered the Aurora not with a burst, but rather drifting in on a cloud. A smile of sheer ecstasy illuminated his face. His dark brown eyes glowing with delight, he genially smiled at Rebecca and Jules.

"Oh hello, Miss Rebecca. Jules. Isn't it the most beautifulingness day? I think my feet should stroll the breeze." He gave a deep, relaxed sigh.

Rebecca and Jules looked at each. Even for Passepartout, this behavior was unusual.

The lady queried, "Jules, did you just understand any of that?"

"I think he meant he feels like he is walking on air...perhaps?"

Passpartout nodded vigorously. "Yes! That is it! Breezy feet! I have *breezy* feet!"

Fogg determinedly marched into the room, muttering something about finding good help. "Ah. *There* you are! Decided to finally grace us with your prescence, have you?" Phileas always a slave to schedule was none too pleased with his valet.

"MASTER!" the Frenchman ran to Fogg and before Phileas had a chance to react, threw his arms around his employer dispensing an enormous French bear hug. That was followed by the typical French greeting of being kissed on both cheeks. Passepartout, however, was so exuberant that he doubled the kisses without realizing it.

Fogg sputtered, "Get a hold of yourself, man! Have you gone completely mad?" He shook the valet off of him.

Rebecca giggled, "Jean, is there something you need to share with us, by some chance?"

Again, Passepartout nodded vigorously. He passed a hand across his face like a mime and the smile was suddenly under control. He took a deep breath, tugged on his waistcoat and began.

"Miss Rebecca, Mr. Jules, Master..." he bowed to each as they were addressed. "I have an announcement. I, Jean Passepartout, am a baby. No. That is not it. I, Jean Passepartout, have a father. No. I AM MY FATHER'S BABY!!!!"

Fogg scratched his head and was unimpressed by the news. "Really? Well, that IS an announcement. Where is my paper?"

Jean looked from person to person awaiting hugs and kisses and congratulatory wishes on all sides. His beaming smile faltered.

"Did you not hear, me?" he remarked.

In frustration, the valet grabbed Jules and spoke to him in rapid French. He punctuated every word with a gesture, ending with a cradling motion.

Jules immediately heartily hugged the man, kissing him on both cheeks. Then he translated, "Passepartout is going to be a father!"

"What?" Rebecca asked.

"WHAT????" Fogg demanded. "Good God, man! Have you gotten some young lady into trouble? I am appalled!"

"No. No!" Jean protested. "Not a young lady...my wife! No. My wife IS the young lady! Really! My Marielle! Marielle!" he called back outside. "Come! Come and meet my friends."

The door of the Aurora slowly opened and the petite lady slipped in. Nervously, she cast her eyes down at her feet and tiptoed next to her husband.

Passepartout began introductions.

"Miss Rebecca Fogg, Mr. Phileas Fogg, Mons. Jules Verne, I would like you to meet my wife, Marielle Elyse Passepartout. Marielle, these are my friends."

Jules smiled warmly at Marielle while Rebecca watched her cousin. Phileas stood there obviously in shock.

Marielle lifted her eyes to the inspectors and quietly begged them, "Please...please...do not be angry." Tears began to roll down her cheeks as her husband embraced her.

Jean looked to his wife as Jules and Rebecca looked to Phileas, who merely said, "I need a brandy."

Phileas Fogg poured himself a generous libation as his valet, Passepartout comforted his tearful wife, Marielle. Crying women always had the same effect on Fogg -- they brought him to his knees. And *this* woman was obviously terrified of him for some particular reason that was unknown to him. He swallowed four large gulps. Yes, that was better. As he glanced over to Marielle, who was now surrounded by the helpful parties of Passepartout, Verne and Rebecca, Phileas tried to digest this present situation. His valet, his trusted friend, his confidente, had *lied* to him! Passepartout had never even hinted at possiblity of being married. He glanced over again. At least, she was now no longer weeping.

Fogg stepped foward and addressed his valet.

"We need to speak - now."

Passepartout gave his wife an encouraging rub on the shoulder and a threw in a devilish wink that ellicited a small smile from his bride.

Verne looked up, "She'll be all right, Passepartout."

"Of *course* she will!" Rebecca added. "Go on."

"Merci, mon amis," Jean returned as he followed his master into the salon.

Once they had entered the room and closed the door, Fogg turned to his friend and waited silently. His disappointment was obvious. Phileas did not have to wait long.

"I am sorry for hurting you, master. You should have been told."

"Damn straight I should have."

"It was decided, between myself and my former employer, that things would be better if you were...dumb."

"Dumb?"

"Stoopid?"

"What?"

Jean search his lexicon for the correct word..."ignooorant".

Fogg gave a slight tsk, tsk sound. His brow furrowed with concern. Better? He thought. Doubtful.

"Please, master. We thought if you knew that you would not agree to keep me. You would not chance putting my Marielle in danger and you would not trust my...unfickleness."

"Loyalty."

Passepartout nodded.

"You lied, sir."

"No!" Jean protested. "Not lied! Never told! And master, you never asked!"

"I merely assumed that you were unmarried."

The valet asked simply, "Why?"

"Because, I have never once doubted your 'unfickleness', my friend."

Fogg sighed and rubbed his neck at the dilemma. He could dismiss his valet, but good valets were a rare commodity these days, especially valets who could steer the Aurora. Or... they *could* bring the lady along, THIS time, set her up in London and keep an eye on her there. Whatever danger he might be exposing Marielle to was no greater than leaving her alone in Paris, unprotected.

"Does she have luggage?" Fogg asked.

Passepartout broke into an enormous grin and nodded. "Yes master! It is just outside."

"Well, bring it in."

"Thank you, Master. Thank you!" the valet went to bestow another bear hug on his employer, but Fogg stopped him with a single raised finger. Instead he ran to his wife yelling, "Marielle! You are coming! You are coming with us to London!"

Fogg strolled out of the room to the amusement of Rebecca and Jules.

"What is it?" Fogg asked.

"Oh nothing, Phileas. Just wondering if you care to be a godfather?" Rebecca teased.

Madam Passepartout brightened considerably as her husband brought her few things into the Aurora. On might have expected a young woman in Paris to be overloaded with possessions. But Marielle was not usual. She commanded a keen intelligent and unlike her husband could communicate that perfectly in 12 languages. She was observant as well and recognized instantly that her presence on board the Aurora, placed her husband in even more of subservient position to the tall Englishman. It was only by that man's good will that the grace of this journey was bestowed.

Marielle much preferred the simpler life that she and Jean had before Phileas Fogg entered their lives. Jean and the Aurora would always be connected. This was destiny. Many of the conveniences that made the Aurora so unique were designed and implemented by her husband. This ship belonged to Jean Passepartout as much, if not more, than Phileas Fogg. And Marielle doubted if the Englishman could navigate it, even if his life should depend upon it.

Life before Mons. Fogg was exciting, but never dangerous. But she knew that her life was now tied to the tall stranger with the penetrating green eyes, whether she liked it or not.

She curtsied before him as her husband led her to his room. Two English, three French. The Foggs may not care for the odds. Three men and now TWO women where before there was only one. The woman may not care for another female on board. Two gentry and now three of the lower class. Marielle thought how her presence might upset the delicate balance in this little world of the Foggs. She must decide which part to play, how to play and to whom. She loved her Jean, but she would not allow herself to be discounted as she had in the past. Oh no. Her role must be larger, for her child's sake, if for no other reason. She must think.

"Here it is cheri," Passepartout placed her bags on the floor. "You remember this room?"

"How could I forget?" she replied. "Our honeymoon? No? Or perhaps that was with my =other= dashing husband."

The valet laughed, "More dashing than Passepatout?" He pulled her into his arms and kissed deeply. "Is there another such man?"

Marielle smiled at his expression which seemed to be a French imitation of Fogg's statement. "There will be if you insist on portraying Mons. Fogg instead of my Jean."

"As you wish, my lady." Passepartout immediately reverted to his own self. "But you know, many ladies have fallen for the master."

"Really? Perhaps that is because they have not had the pleasure of meeting the valet extraordinaire."

"The master will expect you to dine with them, I think."

Marielle sat on the bed primly only to slowly uncurl herself as she stretched to lie down. "That will not be possible." She stated simply. "I have morning sickness."

"But cheri, it is no longer the morning."

A devilishly wicked grin parted her lips, "=My= morning sickness can strike at anytime. I fear the only thing that will alleviate its symptoms are the affections of my husband."

"We cannot..."

Marielle loosed the ribbon tying back her hair. Shaking the curls in a slow and seductive turn, the lady pawed cat-like at the pillow. "It is all right cheri. I will wait. I have waited this long, haven't I?"