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.

Jules jumped to his feet to confront the figure, then felt slightly foolish as he realized its feminine shape. Not that he had not had problems with females of a villainous bent before, but this one was merely standing silently watching him. He could see no signs of guns, knives, or anything else that might be interpreted as a weapon. She was dressed completely in black, including black gloves and a thick black veil. Very tall for a woman, he noted, almost as tall as Phileas. "May I help you?" he said finally.

For a moment there was no reply, then the veil stirred. "You are Monsieur Jules Verne?" The voice was muffled by the veil, and Jules could not guess at her age from the sound.

He nodded, realized she probably could not see too well, and spoke. "Yes, I am." He was still too wary to remember his manners. Lately, strangers had meant trouble and only trouble. "And you are?"

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in the muffled voice. "You could not pronounce my real name. For now, you may address me as Madame Coates. That is close enough to suffice."

Had Jules been a cat, his fur would have started rising. All that black and no real name. He edged away, sidling along the length of the library table. "And, what can I do for you, Madame Coates?" he asked cautiously.

"A small thing. But, important. At least to me. However, the explanation is long and standing is tiring. Will you come with me to my coach?"

Jules weighed his options carefully, go to the carriage with Madame Coates or refuse? Not long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated, but considering the turns his life had taken in recent months...

"I'm sorry, Madame. I really can't go with you."

She didn't look at all pleased at this. From what he could tell, that is, since the woman's face was covered with a black veil. Hm. Maybe he should ask her to sit down and talk here?

Before Jules could open his mouth, two more figures advanced out of the darkness. The League of Darkness, that is. He backpedaled, but couldn't go very far because of the book-covered table at his back. Wonderful. Jules frantically scrambled over the chair and around the table, but not quickly enough.

THWACK!!!

"Ouch!" Yelled Jules, turning to face his attacker.

"Sorree," grimaced the generic, black-clad League of Darkness minion.

"You imbecile!" Shouted his partner, while Madame Coates snorted in disgust. The fellow had whacked Jules upside the head with a three-foot loaf of bread, which now crumbled uselessly to the floor. The fellow hadn't even used a crunchy, stale loaf! These fellows were obviously NOT on the League's A-list of goons.

"Why did you hit me?" Questioned Jules.

The first goon answered, "Well, to knock you out, duh. You refused to come with our shill, so we had to get you ourselves."

"You could have grabbed me, or threatened me with a weapon, or something," Jules complained. "You could even have asked. There are two of you and only one of me and you're both bigger than I am. Everyone always hits me on the head." His hand rubbed the mild bruise. "Ew, it's all greasy! I just washed my hair, too." He turned angrily to the goons who stood cluelessly next to the black-clad woman.

"Well, grab him, you fools!" She shouted.

"Ya don't hafta yell, sheesh," griped the second goon, moving forward.

Well, he had given them permission to just grab him, so the first goon wasn't expecting the sharp kick to his kneecap. He hopped around on his other leg going "owowowowow!" until he collided with a chair and fell over. The second goon laughed uproariously at his companion's plight.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" Said the woman to no one in particular. "You're coming with me, Monsieur Verne."

"What for?" He asked, fairly certain that he could outrun the guards and the woman.

"To advance the plot. We'll never get anywhere if you don't come with us!"

"Oh." Jules leaned back on the table thoughtfully.

"I'll go with you," Jules said after a brief pause. "But let me gather my things first."

Verne reached over to the window sill and grabbed a knapsack and reached to pull down a red scarf that was hanging from the window latch at the center of the sash.

As he did this, he glanced out the window and, as expected, was answered with a flash of light - the sun reflecting off a mirror.

That was reassuring. Rebecca and Phileas had seen the signal which meant the League had fallen into their trap.

Jules turned toward the lady Coates and struggled to keep from smiling. "I'm ready to leave now, Madame Coates. May I ask where we are going?"

"Never you mind, Jules Verne," Coates answered, with a peculiar emphasis on his full name. "We'll take care of the little things, you simply need to keep your eye on the future."

"What's happening now?" Phileas asked casually as he sipped his glass of wine and tried to decide if he should have another slice of camembert. He and Rebecca were sitting in a bistro across the street from the Sorbonne library and Phileas had his back to the window. Rebecca peered around him as she, too, enjoyed the excellent wine.

"They're just coming out of the library," she informed her cousin. "Oooh. What a horrible gown she's wearing. I wonder who her dressmaker is?"

"Where are they headed?"

"To that carriage on the other side of the street. Why in the world would she be wearing a veil this time of year? Perfectly tasteless."

"And how many of them are there?" Phileas asked, ignoring Rebecca's fashion comments.

"Three, though one of them is limping quite nicely. I'd say Jules gave him a good kneecapping."

"Good for him. I taught him that, you know."

Rebecca made a disgusted sound. "Oh, Phileas you did not. *I* taught him that."

Phileas frowned. "Really? Well, I know I taught him something."

"Probably how to put an ace up his sleeve," Rebecca muttered into her wineglass.

"What was that?"

"Oh nothing, dear cousin. I say, Phileas, the carriage is leaving. Shouldn't we be following?"

"Not to worry, Rebecca. I've got Passepartout on the job. He's going to find out where they're taking Verne and report back to us. Then we can spring the trap."

Rebecca smiled. "Oh how lovely. That means I can have another glass of wine." She paused and a look of concern replaced the smile. "Phileas, you don't think Jules is in any real danger, do you?"

Phileas decided on the camembert after all and savored its creamy texture before answering.

"Danger? My dear Rebecca, the League wants him to show them the future, which means they need him very much alive. Besides, Passepartout is keeping an eye on things. What could possibly happen?"

Unfortunately, Passepartout was, at that very instant, in the midst of a minor crisis of his very own.

He had been sitting, very quietly and patiently, just as his master told him to, on a very uncomfortable crate in a nearby alleyway. He had a good, clear view of the Library, and had, in fact, seen Madame Coates enter the building. "Ahaha!" Thought Passepartout, "There is the Evil Lady Villainess Miss Rebecca warn-ed me about! I must be keeping the eyeballs peeled!"

He stood up, in order to see better, when disaster struck.

A small girl came running up, in obvious distress, and caught at the Valet's sleeve.

"Please, Monsieur, I need your help!"

Passepartout hesitated, but the child's eyes were welling with tears, and he found himself unable to shoo her away.

"What is it, little girl? I don't really have time -"

"It's my little Fifi! She is on the roof! I think she will fall! You must help me - please!" The child pulled urgently at PPT's sleeve, and the valet unconsiously began to follow.

He glanced back at the Library, but there was still no sight of Madame Coates or Jules.

"I really must be staying -"

The little girl pulled him farther down the street, then pointed dramatically up. They stood next to a closed building, with boarded up windows and doors, and Passepartout could clearly see something fuzzy sticking out from the roof. It looked like.... a tail.

"See! My Fifi! She is on the roof!" The girl started to wail and sob. "She will fall and be smashed into pieces!"

Kind-hearted Passepartout couldn't resist the child's tears. "Stay here, I will get Fifi," he promised. He glanced again down the street at the Library. Still no sign of Jules.

He turned back to the problem at hand. The building was obviously derelict, with no way to reach the roof, except.... he dusted off his hands, and began to climb up the side of the building, his acrobatic skills proving invaluable once more.

"Oh be careful! Do not frighten my little Fifi!" cried the little girl.

Passepart grunted in response. Fortunately, the building was not very tall, and he quickly reached the roof. He looked quickly back at the Library. "Still no sign of Master Jules - I must hurry and save the Fifi, then get back to my alley!"

He scrambled onto the roof, and began crawling along, toward a dormer window, behind which he could just see the fluffy tail.

"Here little Fifi," he called, slipping on the tiles which covered the roof. "Here little catty-kit..."

He rounded the dormer, and came face to face with 'little Fifi'.

Passepartout had seen tigers before in the circus where he once worked, but never quite this close and never outside a cage. This one looked hungry and displeased.

Down below the little girl cried, "Can you help her?" She can't stand on the tiles! Please help her get down." The big cat tried to surge to her feet and scramble further up the roof and away from the man, a man who would surely take her back to the hated cage. She slipped, scrabbled and lay down again, panting, her eyes wide.

Passepartout reached out a hand to her. She hissed a warning, showing every one of her hundred or so fangs.

"This Fifi, does she bite?" Passepartout whispered down to the little girl.

"Monsieur?" The little girl had not heard him.

Jean thought some more. "She tries to get up the roof, Mademoiselle. You must call her down. Will Fifi come to her name?"

"Yes, she will," was the little girl's reply, "but she will break into bits if she falls."

Passepartout chuckled. The tiger weighed at last two hundred pounds. It probably had jumped up here from the ground or an adjoining roof. "No, she won't break, mon cherie. Call her. Call Fifi down."

The tiger's head turned about at the little girl's call, followed by her front quarters. She began to slip down to the edge of the roof. With a graceful push of muscles, the black and gold streak of fur returned to the earth.

"Oh Fifi!" the little girl cried and buried her face in the tiger's ruff. Out lolled its enormous pink and black tongue. The tiger looked very pleased with the state of affairs. The two strolled off together.

As they rounded the corner and went out into the street the carriage in which Jules Verne and Madame Coates rode passed by. The carriage horses reared and bolted in terror at the unexpected predator that had appeared at their feet. They ran only a few feet then the carriage's right wheel struck the curb and a gaslight and overturned. The smell of gas billowed in the air.

Meanwhile up on the roof, Passepartout had watched the carriage wreck in horror and in his desperate scramble to get down quickly, he slipped out of control. He slid on his belly, wildly waving his arms looking for something to stop him, right down to the edge of the roof. He cut his hands innumerable times on sharp broken tiles. He grabbed the edge just as he went over and held on for dear life. Blood leaked from his fingers down his wrist.

Passepartout knew he couldn't hold on for long. The blood from his cuts was making his hands too slippery. If only he could inch his way over to that nearby window, maybe he could...

"Passepartout! What the devil are you doing up there?" A familiar voice shouted from below.

Passepartout craned his neck around and sighed with relief when he saw Phileas Fogg standing on the ground beneath him.

"Master! Help..."

"You know I really don't understand this," Phileas continued in an annoyed tone. "I give you a simple assignment, one even a mere child could carry out, and you immediately go and mangle it!"

"Master, I am sorry," Passepartout tried to explain while at the same time desperately trying not to fall. "There was a little girl..."

"I really don't want to hear any excuses," Phileas scolded, his hands firmly planted on his hips. "Look what's happened to that carriage! It's your fault, you know. And we don't know if poor Verne is alive or dead. Now get down here at once and lend a hand."

"But, master..." Passepartout tried once more to explain his predicament, but at that moment his endurance gave out. With a petrified cry he lost his grip and fell from the roof like a wet sack of flour.

Fortunately he landed on something soft - that being the person of Mister Phileas Fogg.

"Oh master!" Passepartout cried with a joyful grin. "You haved saved poor Passepartout!" Then he frowned as he looked down to find Phileas sprawled on the ground underneath him. "Um, master?" he asked hesitantly.

No good. Phileas was out cold.

"Oh no," Passepartout groaned. "I have smithereened my master!"

Just then he heard another familiar voice calling.

"Phileas! Passepartout! Come over here straight away! And hurry!" It was Rebecca, who had gone to investigate the overturned carriage. She sounded desperate.

Passepartout looked down at his unconscious master and groaned again.

Paassepartout looked around desparately. 'My poor Master,' he thought, 'He will be so angry! His suit is all wrinkled!'

"Passepartout! Phil-" Rebecca came up, and glared down at the unfortunate Valet. "Passepartout, what on earth - No! Never mind!" She waved a hand at him in exasperation. "Explain later. I'll go get Jules out of the carriage - you get Phileas up. Hurry!"

Passepartout got shakily to his feet. He noticed the blood dripping from his badly cut hands, and quickly wrapped a handkerchief around one hand, then looked around blankly for something to use on the other hand. It never occurred to him to use one of Phileas' handkerchiefs. He did look down anxiously at the prone figure of his master, and was relieved to see that none of his blood had dripped onto Fogg's clothing. Nothing, he knew, would have saved him if that had happened.

"Master?" he called softly, "Please be waking up. Master?" But Phileas remained unconsious, and Passepartout's hand was still bleeding......

A few doors down the street stood a small cafe with charming outdoor tables. Passepartout staggered over to one of the tables, which was occupied by a wide-eyed elderly man and his wife, who had clearly witnessed the entire amazing spectacle.

The Valet smiled wanly at the pair and asked, "May I please be having your napkin? My hand -"

The wife immediately whipped out her napkin, wrapping it deftly around Passepartout's injured hand.

He glanced back at his Master, wondering how to revive him.

"Here," exclaimed the lady, "I know just how to wake him! It always worked on my Claude." She rose to her feet, and started over to Fogg, with Passepartout trailing behind. Unnoticed by Passepartout, her husband began to laugh. "My son, you know. He never could seem to wake up, the little devil! But I found a way that never failed!"

Passepartout smiled weakly. "Oh, yes?"

The lady nodded firmly. "Yes!" She picked up a vase of flowers from the nearest table, and, before Passepartout could stop her, dashed the contents straight into the face of Phileas Fogg.

Fogg sat straight up, gasping, while water and flowers cascaded down his front.

"See!" Smiled the lady, "It never fails!"

Phileas sat up, gasping in shock. He had a bright pink tulip hanging over one ear, while various other flowers covered his front, falling into his lap. He looked around dazedly, trying to speak.

His gaze fell on Passpartout, and he opened his mouth to deliver a blistering reprimand, but was interrupted by Rebecca, frantically calling to them to hurry. He swung round, and saw her struggling to pull Madame Coates from the carriage, which was still burning.

He leapt to his feet, and (staggering only slightly) hurried over to his cousin’s side.

Passepartout smiled a quick thank-you to the lady, who stood goggling at the fire, the empty flower vase dangling, forgotten, from one hand.

Rebecca had managed to get Madame Coates over to the side of the road. Phileas, unhesitating, flung himself into the burning carriage, and emerged, steaming, with Jules in his arms.

“Quickly!” He panted, “we must get farther away – the gas -”

Passepartout had already flung the unconscious woman over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Just as they reached the other side of the street, the gaslight blew. The heat was incredible, and flaming bits of carriage flew around the street, narrowly missing Phileas and his companions.

“What about the driver?” Phileas demanded.

Rebecca coughed, and wiped at her smoke-stained face. “He was dead. Broken neck. It was lucky the traces broke – at least the horses got clear.” She looked down at Jules. “How is he?”

“I think he is just out cold,” answered Phileas. “He took quite a bang on the head, poor chap.”

The onlookers were beginning to gather, and nearby buildings disgorged more and more people, some of them carrying buckets of water, which they began using on the flames.

“I think we had best get moving,” Phileas said.