Ten
Pierre Verne awoke as usual, breakfasted on croissants, berries, and soft cheese served by his wife, and then strode off with a long-legged gait to his business offices. Every day the same, all of life in its place.
At midmorning, though, his younger son Paul came running through town with an urgent message from Sophie Verne. Jules had disappeared. Pierre threw himself into the problem with all the forthrightness and sturdy determination reserved for his daily routine, his legal challenges, and any other business he conducted.
At first, he believed it was a false alarm, that Jules had gotten some crazy notion into his head. The young man was flighty and irresponsible, with his head in the clouds; he would have to buckle down and get serious if ever he was to become an attorney. Today, Jules must have climbed out of bed at dawn and gone to follow his imagination without bothering to let anyone know. He often skipped his breakfast.
Pierre didn’t doubt the scheme was some unwise idea concocted by that shipbuilder’s son. Despite Pierre Verne’s obvious disapproval, the two young men remained incomprehensibly attached to one another. And he understood even less why the daughter of Monsieur Aronnax chose to associate with such a pair. Jules, at least, came from a respectable home—but that Nemo boy …
With a scowl and a sigh, he shut the doors of his law offices, though he still had much to do, thanks to the legal matters attending the Cynthia disaster. Pierre suspected he would be back within an hour, Jules dragged home from his absentminded truancy and punished for his own good. Then Sophie would be calmed again, and all would return to normal.
Scowling, he marched along the docks, brusquely interrogating sailors from one ship and another, asking if a red-headed young man, perhaps accompanied by a dark-haired boy of the same age, had been seen in the vicinity. Pierre Verne knew that the friends often played down here among the noise and the dirt and the smells.
Pierre shook his head as he strode along. Such activities made perfect sense for André Nemo, since his father had been a shipbuilder and the boy could hope for nothing better in his life. For Jules, though, there could be no benefit in understanding ships if he intended to practice law in Nantes.
Shielding his eyes from the hot sun and wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish and the sluggish summer river, he saw one of the sailors whose papers he had filed after the Cynthia disaster. This man had worked with Nemo’s father; perhaps he had seen the two. Pierre strode up and introduced himself briskly, while the sailor continued to repair frayed rope and lash heavy cords into knots.
“I remember ye,” the sailor said.
“And you certainly knew Jacques Nemo, who died aboard the Cynthia.”
“Aye. A good man, he was.”
“And his son. Do you know his son André, as well? André Nemo?”
The sailor turned his head, scratching tangled gray hair on a sunburned scalp, then he reached into his belt to withdraw a long dagger with which he trimmed the rope’s frayed end. “O’ course. I was there when André climbed his first ratlines, right to the top o’ the mast. Boy has spunk and a good head about ’im. Even with the world against him, he’ll still make his way, that one. I wish ’im all the best, now that he’s gone.”
“Gone?” The elder Verne stiffened. “Where did he go?”
Surprised, the sailor set the rope in his lap. “Why, he set sail this mornin’, sir. Off to sea. Cabin boy for Captain Grant’s explorin’ ship, the Coralie.”
Pierre frowned. He didn’t recall the ship, but then so many came and went in the port. “What about my son Jules?” He frowned at the sailor as he tugged on his own grayish sideburns, trying not to show his growing uneasiness. “A red-headed young man who often plays with the Nemo boy? They’re also frequently seen with the daughter of that merchant, Aronnax.”
The sailor blinked at him in perplexity. “Ye mean ye don’t know, sir?”
“Know? Know what?”
“Shipped out together, as mates, they did. The two lads sailed off at dawn.”
Pierre Verne gave a strangled cry. The sailor bent back to work on the rope to hide a smug grin over this supercilious man’s look of horror.
Madame Aronnax could not understand why Monsieur Verne, a local lawyer, would be pounding on their door at noon, or why he would insist on speaking with her daughter. But Caroline answered the summons herself, straight-backed, her mouth a firm line, dressed in the daily finery her mother demanded.
“My son Jules is gone,” Pierre said, looking into the girl’s blue eyes, shattering the porcelain composure of her expression. “Did you know that he boarded an English ship, the Coralie?”
Caroline drew a deep breath. “It is possible, Monsieur. My father arranged for André Nemo to take passage aboard Captain Grant’s ship, and I believe your son joined him. They told me their intentions last night.”
“And you didn’t think to inform me, the boy’s own father? You could have written a message, sent out one of your servants—”
“It is not my place to tell you, Monsieur.” She used all the hauteur her mother had taught her. “It was a matter given to me in confidence.”
An appalled Madame Aronnax looked on, but Caroline held her ground. “Your son and André Nemo talk a great deal and have big ideas. Jules Verne is known for the stories he likes to tell.” She sniffed. “Should I come running to you each time they make up a wild scheme, Monsieur? I would be at your doorstep every afternoon.”
Pierre seethed, but he could not take out his anger on the daughter of a wealthy and politically powerful merchant in Nantes. “Do you know where this ship is going? When does it come back?”
Madame Aronnax gave a stern glance to her daughter, and Caroline’s lips trembled. “The Coralie is sailing around the world to a hundred exotic places. She is not expected back for three years, perhaps.” Her voice cracked.
“Three years … around the world?” Pierre shot up from the chair that Madame Aronnax had politely offered him.
“The ship went down the river to Paimboeuf.” Caroline remembered the schedules she had studied in her father’s shipping offices. “She will tie up for the day, making final preparations, and will set off again at dusk with the tide.”
“Paimboeuf,” Pierre said, suddenly intent. “Thirty miles from here.” Then he marched to the door of the Aronnax home. “I must find a carriage.”