Honorine froze in place, and her dark brows furrowed with concern. “Jules?” She looked from him to the torn brown postal wrapping, to the letter from the returned manuscript. Then she noticed his dismayed but resigned expression directed at the stove. “Jules, don’t you dare!”
Stern and uncompromising, she shouldered her husband aside and flung open the stove door. Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached into the fire, burning her own fingertips, and yanked out the stack of manuscript pages. She dropped it onto the floor and stamped on the edges to extinguish the flames.
“You are even more a child than Michel,” she said. He lowered his eyes, embarrassed. When he reached for the manuscript, confused and guilty, Honorine snatched it up and turned away from him. “No. I see that I must keep this safe until you come to your senses.”
Marching over to the desk, she opened a wooden file drawer and dropped the stack of papers inside. She locked the drawer and then placed the only key in a pocket of her dark skirts. “You worked far too hard on that book, Jules. It took you away from me for a year. You have been obsessed by it. I will not let you throw it all away.”
“But I have tried every publisher,” he said, cowed. “It will never see print.”
“It will never see print if you give up and burn the manuscript, foolish man,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You have friends who are writers. I hear that Dumas has returned to Paris. Ask him for advice . . . but don’t you dare give up now.”
Though Honorine had never shown an interest in his writing, she did have a concern for her husband and knew how the passion drove him. He looked at the locked desk drawer and swallowed hard, ashamed at his silly dramatic gesture.
Verne avoided Honorine for the rest of that evening—but the wheels began turning in his head, and he considered other options he might pursue. Of course she was right. He had worked too hard and too long to give up. He went to a brasserie and read his newspapers, keeping an eye out for old writer acquaintances. He found none. He did, however, spot an article about a bloody civil war sweeping across the Turkish peninsula—rumors that had been denied by Ottoman officials. He considered clipping out the article for possible use in a fiction piece, but decided he had no interest in a struggle among the barbarous Turks.
The next day he went to see the great Dumas. The enormous writer had returned to Paris, pretending that his financial troubles had never occurred. Once again the big man indulged in the extravagant lifestyle that had caused him so much misery before. Verne just wanted to hear some of the famous author’s advice before Dumas went bankrupt again.
He welcomed Verne, patted his young friend on the back, and insisted that the younger man join him for a glass of wine. He seemed unsurprised that Verne had achieved minimal success in an entire decade of struggles as a writer.
“Oh, ho! Don’t worry about it, Jules,” Dumas said. “Most of those who come to me for help never succeed. Most never really try—they just want it given to them.” His generous lips curved into a smile, then Dumas burst out laughing, his cheeks and jowls vibrating like a bullfrog’s. “You, however, have an actual manuscript, a completed book. You don’t understand that this already puts you far closer to success than most of your peers.”
“But no one will publish my manuscript. I’ve tried everyone.”
Dumas raised a pudgy, ringed finger. “We shall see what we can do about that, mmm?” Already the big man looked distracted, as if he needed to be about some other business.
He gave Verne the name of another new author who had succeeded in getting a few pamphlets printed. That author then forwarded Verne to his own publisher, Pierre-Jules Hetzel. Hetzel had launched a children’s science magazine, the Magasin d’Education et de Récréation, and claimed to be in search of new writers for his fledgling publishing house.
Assuring Honorine that he would not harm the book, Verne coaxed her to unlock the desk drawer and remove the singed manuscript. Before giving it to him, she brushed away the burnt edges, restacked the pages, and carefully wrapped them. Verne took the precious package and, without much hope, hand-delivered it to the offices of Hetzel & Cie.
A consumptive clerk took the package. Although Verne made certain to drop the name of Alexandre Dumas—several times, in fact—the clerk seemed unimpressed. He merely assured Verne that M. Hetzel would respond as soon as possible.
Within a week, in mid-October of 1862, Verne received a card inviting him to meet with M. Hetzel at his earliest convenience. Excited, Verne gave up his morning’s routine of writing, dressed in his finest clothes, and nervously ate a croissant for breakfast. He waited and waited for an appropriate hour.
When at last he strode up to the rue Jacob offices at mid-morning, he learned that Hetzel—a night owl—entertained morning visitors only in his bedchambers in an apartment to the rear of the publishing offices. Though he was not ill, Hetzel liked to remain in bed for most of the morning. Horribly embarrassed, Verne turned to go, but the coughing clerk ushered him around back through a small garden courtyard and up a flight of creaking stairs to meet the publisher in person.
Years ago, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had made his mark in the publishing world, though he was a Protestant and had thus suffered many difficulties during the turmoil in France. An outspoken supporter of the Second Republic after the Revolutions of 1848, he had managed to escape arrest when Napoleon III proclaimed himself Emperor. While hiding in Brussels for eight years, Hetzel published the work of fellow exile Victor Hugo until an amnesty in 1859 allowed him to return to Paris. Back again, Hetzel had rapidly become very successful, and now was ready to expand his publishing endeavors.
The man remained in bed, sitting up in his blankets and pillows to greet his visitor. Despite the fact that he was about fifteen years older than Verne, Hetzel had an energetic intensity that shaved years from his age. His pale hair was not entirely gray, and he appeared healthy as an ox.
Both men had full, stylish beards, but the publisher’s face had sharper angles, a hawkish nose, and close-set eyes that brightened when he saw the young writer enter his bedchamber. Without a word, the consumptive clerk disappeared. Verne remained standing, looking down at the important man sitting in his nightshirt on the canopied bed.
Beside him, on the blankets, lay the manuscript of Verne’s balloon book. Jules Verne’s heart pounded. He smelled the beeswax candles in the enclosed room, noted the publisher’s picked-over dinner tray lying on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and only dim morning light intruded. He felt like an intruder here, but he didn’t dare leave—not until he had heard what Hetzel had to say.
The publisher looked at him for a few moments. Verne wondered desperately what to say. None of the other publishers had bothered to call him in person; they’d merely sent declining letters. His hopes ran high. The other man picked up the thick stack of papers, and Verne held his breath.
“I am sorry, Monsieur, but I cannot publish this manuscript,” Hetzel said.
Verne felt as if the building had crashed down upon him. Already lacking confidence, he felt that this man had made a fool of him. His face reddened, and cold sweat trickled beneath his collar. “I apologize for wasting your time, Monsieur,” Verne choked out the words. He reached for the manuscript to snatch it away. This time he would burn it far from where Honorine could see and stop him.
“On the contrary,” Hetzel added, raising a scolding finger. His thin, businesslike voice held no anger. “I cannot publish this book as it is. I do believe, however, it can be made publishable . . . if you are willing to do the work. I want authors who are hard workers. Are you a hard worker and persistent—or will I never see you again?”
Verne didn’t comprehend what the publisher was saying and wondered if the man were taunting him. Hetzel tapped the thick manuscript. “What you have written, Monsieur Verne, is nothing but a dry lecture about balloons and their potential. I am convinced that you have apprehended the facts, but you have not prese
nted them in an interesting manner.”
Verne drew a deep, cold breath. “My book is about science, sir. It is not meant to be a comedy or a farce.”
“But why not an adventure?” Hetzel locked his gaze with the young writer’s. “It must be a story with a scientific basis, not a treatise about scientific fact. To captivate your readers, you must wrap your research within a tale so exciting that the people will cry out for more.” His eyes sparkled. “You will become a teacher, introducing the public to new concepts without their realizing it.” He chuckled.
Verne stopped, allowing the words to penetrate. What was this man saying? What did he truly mean?
Now Hetzel lifted the manuscript and extended it toward Verne. “I believe you can salvage much of this, my friend, but you must give me an entirely different work with the balloon information in a novel form. Write a new kind of book, a fiction that depends upon scientific knowledge and exploration—but you must engage us with characters who learn these things in the course of a story, rather than simply recounting bald facts as a lecturer.”
When Verne took the manuscript, his hands were trembling. Hetzel sat up straighter in bed and yawned, plumping the pillows behind his back. “Buried in your paragraphs, you mentioned offhandedly some travels your friend made in a balloon across unexplored Africa. I suggest you use that as your framework, create an epic quest with brave explorers traveling in the fabulous balloon you have postulated. Certainly that would make for more interesting reading?” He raised his eyebrows.
Shaken, Verne nodded and backed away. “Yes, Monsieur Hetzel. I understand. I . . . I will work without pause, and present you with a new manuscript within two weeks’ time.”
Hetzel smiled. “If you can perform that miracle, Jules Verne, we can publish your book in time for the Christmas holiday season.”
Verne emerged from the back apartment, his mind spinning as he stumbled across the garden. He did not yet allow himself to accept the joy of what had just occurred. He still had a great deal of work ahead of him, so he wasted no energy in dancing with excitement. He thought of his long-dead friend, André Nemo, and his escapades with Fergusson across Africa.
He would change the names of Nemo and Caroline, of course, and create new, fictional characters to accompany the good doctor. Even so, Verne had a wonderful story to tell. . . .
II
The following spring, Jules Verne found a mysterious message slipped under his door during the dark of night. Standing in his robe the following morning, he picked up the scrap of paper; his brows furrowed in curiosity.
“Jules, old friend, come to Paimboeuf on April 2nd and prepare to be gone for a week. One mile up the coast, you will find a sheltered cove. Meet me there at midnight. I promise you an extraordinary voyage you shall never forget—a journey you have always wanted to take.”
The note was unsigned, and extremely intriguing.
Scratching his full beard, Verne stepped back into his flat and closed the door with a click. Honorine had already spent an hour in the everyday battle of washing, dressing, and feeding young Michel, but Verne decided not to show her the note . . . not yet. His pulse raced as he thought of the mystery.
Who might have sent such a message? Was it a hoax, or some sort of treachery? Should he be concerned for his safety? Despite his longings and his dreams, Verne rarely had cause to seek out “adventures.” Not real ones, anyway. He actually preferred to travel in his imagination, as his father had made him promise to do.
But few people knew that. They expected a different sort of person after reading his novel. . . .
In early 1863, Verne’s Five Weeks in a Balloon had been published to wide acclaim. Readers all across France had snapped up the adventures of Dr. Samuel Fergusson and his intrepid companions (vastly different from Nemo and Caroline) crossing Africa in his remarkable balloon. Foreign publishers had translated the book into diverse languages.
Seeing the success, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had offered his young author a lucrative publishing contract to write additional novels in the same vein—books grounded in science, combined with extraordinary journeys to fascinate the reading public. Verne was to write three novels a year, for which he would be paid 3000 francs—not a fortune, but more than he made in the stock market. And certainly more than he had ever made from his theater work. He was an unqualified success as a writer after so many long years.
After breathlessly signing the contract that bound him to Hetzel, Verne had rushed home elated. In the foyer of their flat, he danced with a stiff and surprised Honorine and kissed her on the cheek before trotting off to the Bourse.
Crowing like a proud rooster, he had stood in the middle of the trading floor surrounded by paper-laden work tables to attract his coworkers’ attention.
“Well, boys, I am off to another career. I will now make my living as a writer while you stay here among your dreary numbers and stocks.”
Although the others congratulated him, it was clear from their expressions that they thought him a fool for giving up a stable career. Verne didn’t care. . . .
Now, as a successful writer, Jules Verne had the freedom to do as he wished—and this strange note promised him an “extraordinary voyage” of his own.
How could he pass up such an opportunity? It might even turn into the basis for a new novel, whatever this adventure might be. He tried to place the tantalizing yet familiar handwriting, the tone of the sentences.
Chewing his lip, Verne paced in the foyer, scuffing the rug. He knew he should travel more, experience more. He had always longed for such things, theoretically. But somehow he never got around to doing so. He had a secure income—so why should he not take advantage of his success?
Impulsively jamming the note into the pocket of his robe, Verne decided to take a chance—for once. He raised his chin in the air in a show of bravery. He would tell Honorine he needed time alone to concentrate on a new book. While he adored the bustling civilization of Paris, he longed to see the ocean again. He liked the cool, damp weather, and the lullaby of the Atlantic.
Even if this message were merely a practical joke, Verne could still relax by the ocean, all alone. It would be a holiday, and he didn’t have to tell anyone. Either way, he had nothing to lose.
He gave Honorine an excited goodbye, feeling somewhat guilty to be leaving her behind with their fussy toddler but caught up with the uncertain adventure that waited for him. Verne boarded a train carrying a small valise that contained a few toiletry items and three changes of clothing, as well as a bound journal in which he could write down notes for stories. If he should not encounter the promised “adventure,” at least he would get writing done.
On the appointed night, nervous and anxious, Verne took his valise, and walked along the shingled beach north from Paimboeuf. As the time grew near, he began to feel like a fool for believing what was most likely a prank—but he had to see for himself.
A mile up the coast from Paimboeuf, just as the letter writer had described, he found a deep, calm cove far from the nearest village. Faint white breakers stippled the dark water.
Verne waited, listening to the brisk wind and calm whisper of the ocean. He smelled the brine, the iodine tang of seaweed, the odor of dead fish. There were no campfires, no fishermen’s huts, no one at all. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the silvery circle of the moon. He saw no roads nearby, heard no wagons or horses.
Drawing a deep breath, Verne reached into his vest and pulled out the pocketwatch he had purchased with money Hetzel had paid him for the balloon book. He remembered how his father had always kept a telescope trained on the distant monastery clock: now Verne could tell time whenever he wished.
He snapped the lid shut. It was midnight.
He sighed, convinced that no one would appear after all. Some rival or dissatisfied reader must be back at a Paimboeuf inn right now, snickering at Verne’s gullibility. His cheeks burned; maybe someone was watching him from the rocks even now.
Then a stirr
ing caught his eye in the water out in the cove. Air bubbles rushed to the surface like a pot coming to boil. Verne whirled and faced out toward the ocean. To his astonishment, a great metal sea beast rose from the waves.
Its round portholes gleamed like the infernal eyes of a demon. Jagged fins looked like the ridge on a dragon’s back. As it surfaced, Verne backed away, stumbling on the loose rock of the beach, but he could not stop staring.
The armored beast floated in silence and then, with a scraping sound and a heavy clang, a hatch opened on its top. The lean, shadowy figure of a man in a dark uniform rose up from the thing’s gullet. He raised his right arm to wave toward the lone figure on the beach.
“Jules Verne, is that you?” the man called in an oddly familiar voice. It was deeper and rougher . . . yet it reminded him of someone he’d known as a young boy. “Come aboard and see my Nautilus.”
At a loss for words, Verne opened and closed his mouth. The terror had trickled away, leaving him numb with awe . . . and, yes, even a little curiosity.
A small boat detached itself from the armored craft, and the lone man rowed toward him. “Jules, don’t you recognize your old friend? It’s me—Nemo.”
Verne stared at the man as he brought the boat to shore and stepped into the shallow water. His friend’s face had changed: now in his mid-thirties, Nemo had grown leaner, his muscles tougher. A neatly trimmed beard covered his chin, and his dark eyes had a hard look, as if he had seen much more than he could ever explain.
“Nemo . . . but I—we—thought you were dead. Caroline and I both received a notice from the Department of the Military. It said you were killed in the Crimean War.” He legs felt as if they were about to give out, and he would faint backward onto the beach.
“Not exactly killed, as you can see.” His smile was grim, without a trace of humor. “You and I will have plenty of time to share the entire tale, Jules. I think you’ll want to hear about my adventures.” He reached out to haul Verne’s valise into the metal-hulled boat. “Follow me—you will be amazed. It’s about time you came along on one of my voyages.”
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