Late at night, he and Caroline had held long, but hushed, conversations from her window. He encouraged her to nurture her creativity. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Caroline, whether it be writing music, traveling the world, or running a shipping company.”
“But everyone says it’s impossible,” she had said, leaning over the windowsill.
“Those who believe in impossibilities prove themselves correct every day,” Nemo said. “You know better than that.” In those stolen hours and secret conversations, Nemo and Caroline had both dared to believe—just a little—in their waking dreams.
But now, for him, those dreams had been crushed under the boot heel of reality. All of his promises and reassurances to Caroline now seemed as empty and implausible as an old sailor’s stories about sea monsters.
Now in the flower market, he watched her sort through roses and magnolias, pansies and chrysanthemums, sniffing a few, shaking her head at others. Her maidservant was captivated by simple blossoms, daisies, and hollyhocks. The two young women chatted, easy in each other’s company now that they were away from home.
Sensing his gaze, Caroline looked up, and her vibrant eyes met his. She flashed a sudden smile that quickly changed to a look of concern. Nemo stepped forward, paying no heed to the people in the market, not hearing the bartering voices, not smelling the heady perfume of flowers. Caroline was as much beauty as he could handle at one time.
“André, I am so sorry about your father. But I believe I have good news for you.” She reached out to touch his arm with her delicate hand. “I have found a way to help.”
“I don’t want your money, Caroline,” he said. “Just your . . .” He stopped at the word “love.” He swallowed his pride. “I just want you to think about me.”
“Of course I will think about you, André. I remember the promises we made, under the trees—”
Nemo looked away. “Too much has changed, Caroline. I won’t hold you to unwise words spoken in haste.”
Caroline sniffed. At another time, she might have teased him. “I intend to do what I said, sir, and I expect you to do the same.”
Marie looked up in warning. “Your mother would not like you to be seen talking with him, Mademoiselle. And I know too well about a young man’s promises that aren’t strong enough to hold a snowflake.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Then you should choose your young men with better care, Marie. My mother wouldn’t approve of some of your liaisons, either. I thought we had an understanding?” Her voice had a firm edge of command, and Nemo could see that someday she would indeed be able to run a shipping company with as much verve and vision as any man could.
She took Nemo’s arm in her own and nudged him to the left. “André and I are going to have some chocolats chauds in the café over there. You will be able to see us at all times, but we must have a private conversation.”
With her other hand, she touched the sleeve of Marie’s dress. “Go choose some flowers, but make certain to buy bouquets that I would select, so my mother believes we bought them together.” Caroline’s smile turned mischievous. “And perhaps you should also pick a carnation for whichever of your gentlemen friends kept you out until near dawn Tuesday last.”
Without waiting for Marie to agree or even to argue, she guided Nemo toward the small tables under colorful parasols. Dizzy with the warmth and the nearness of her, he pretended to lead the way. Nemo held the chair for her, and she signaled a waiter. “Two chocolats chauds, please. And some croissants. Do you have fresh marmalade?”
The waiter brought the two frothing cups made from steamed milk mixed with a bitter but delicious Mexican cocoa. Knowing that Nemo had no spare money, she withdrew a few sous and paid the waiter.
“I cannot bear the thought of you in a pauper’s prison, André.” Caroline smeared a croissant with marmalade from a porcelain jar, then nudged the plate closer to him. He chose one of the flaky croissants for himself and bit into it; he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in a day. Frustrated and uneasy, Nemo sipped the rich, dark drink.
“And so,” Caroline continued, “I have found a way for you to sign onto a ship.”
Surprised, Nemo sat up. “But I’ve already talked with the men down on the docks. The crews are filled—”
“My father says you wouldn’t want to ship out with those captains anyway. But he has found an alternative—provided you can leave tomorrow.”
He looked into her uncertain gaze. He was excited by the prospect, though the consequences made it bittersweet. “Leave? Where? On which ship?”
“My father has offered to sign you aboard a three-masted brig, the Coralie. It is an English research and trading vessel—and you would be paid.” She drew in a long breath. “It is your chance to see the world, to do the things we talked and dreamed about. You will find adventure, sail the seas, go to exotic ports. . . . I am only saddened that, in order to help you, I must send you away from me. It is the last thing I want.” She touched his hand, then quickly withdrew. “If you are interested in going, that is?”
Nemo looked at her, stricken; he knew he had no other choice. “I—of course I’ll go.” Then he repeated what he had said to her on their secret night outing. “A world of adventure is waiting.”
Caroline continued in a rush of words. “You will be the personal cabin boy to Captain Grant. My father says he is a kind and intelligent man. The captain was pleased to hear about your curiosity and your studies. He says he is willing to continue teaching you while you are on board.”
Nemo sat up, determined now and trying to absorb everything she was telling him. “Where is the Coralie bound? With what cargo? Does she sail for Aronnax, Merchant? With an English captain?” His excitement drove back the looming dejection and helplessness he had felt during the past several days.
“Captain Grant wishes to explore the world. He owns the ship himself, with only a few investors for the cargo. In fact, he reminds me of you, André, with the same passion, the same curiosity, the same refusal to believe in the impossible. He doesn’t care whether you are French or English—only that you are eager to learn.”
In her father’s office Caroline had studied the maps and learned the route by heart. “You will sail down the African coast, around the Cape of Good Hope, and up to India, where the Coralie will take on a load of spices. Then south again through the Indian Ocean to the South China Sea and New Zealand.”
“New Zealand? I heard the Maori people tattoo themselves black and file their teeth to sharp points.” He couldn’t wait to tell Jules Verne about it.
“Then the Coralie will cross the Pacific to San Francisco before going south again. Captain Grant wants to see the Galapagos Islands, which are supposedly full of strange fauna. Then down around Cape Horn and Tierra del Fuego, and finally back to France.”
“It sounds like I’ll be gone forever.” As he said it, though, Nemo realized there was nothing to keep him here in Nantes. Nothing but Caroline.
“Two or three years, maybe more.” She looked away. “I will miss you very much.”
Nemo felt bright hope once more. “I’ll only be gone long enough to make something of myself.” He finished his chocolat chaud and brashly ate another croissant. “When I come back, Caroline, I’ll have my fortune—and you will be old enough to be . . . to be betrothed?” Nemo lowered his eyes, afraid to say anything more. He remembered the things they had whispered to each other, and the things they’d left unsaid.
Caroline looked up at him, startled. She opened her mouth, about to say something. Always before, they’d had all the time in the world, all the flexibility and imagination—until real life had intruded.
“Ah, André, there you are!” Jules Verne rushed across the flower market in a tangle of long arms and legs, interrupting Caroline and Nemo. His hair was tousled, eyes bright, skin flushed. “I’ve heard what you’re going to do—and I want to go with you.”
Caroline and Nemo often spoke of their fondness for the redheaded young man . .
. but they also knew that he didn’t completely comprehend them. Nevertheless, Verne missed no opportunity to try to impress her.
Nemo looked at his friend skeptically. “Why would you want to go with me? I have nothing to lose here. But you . . . you have—”
“Prospects,” Verne said with sarcasm. “I know. I am expected to stay here for the rest of my life and take over my father’s practice and become a boring lawyer and never leave France.” He shook his head. “You and I, André, we have too much excitement destined for us. I belong with you on that ship.” He puffed out his chest. “We’ll write letters home. And you, Caroline—” He raised his eyebrows. “I plan to bring you the largest coral necklace I can find, just as I promised. I’ll barter with the natives, and it’ll be worth a fortune.”
Verne crossed his arms over his narrow chest, but Caroline, considering the overblown promise, giggled. “You are my friend, Jules. I don’t want you to have any regrets about this.” Nemo thought of all the times that Verne had intended to do a dramatic act, and then backed out at the last minute. Nemo had always been the instigator and Verne the naysayer. But he sighed and accepted his friend’s excitement.
Caroline pushed herself away from the table, uneasy now and sad at the opportunity she’d been forced to offer to Nemo, his only chance. “The Coralie sails tomorrow at dawn with the tide, Jules. Captain Grant may take you aboard along with André—but I want you to think about this for the rest of the day. No regrets.”
“There won’t be,” Verne said.
Nemo fixed his friend’s face with his dark eyes. “Very well. We’ll meet at midnight at one of the inns— L’Homme aux Trois Malices. Caroline, may we stop by late tonight? So you can bid us bon voyage?”
Tears shone in her eyes. “Of course you may.”
With Verne’s eager eyes on them, Nemo and Caroline remained circumspect, but they touched hands under the table and shared a knowing glance before they rose from their chairs.
The three split up. Caroline went back to Marie and her bouquets of flowers, and Verne went off to begin packing in secret.
VIII
Though his stomach was knotted and his pulse raced with growing anxiety, Jules Verne made every effort to eat a large evening meal—knowing full well that this might be his last home-cooked food for some time. He’d read stories of the moldy biscuits and rotten meat served on long sea voyages. When his mother remarked on his appetite, Verne claimed that her cooking was especially good (though an hour after leaving the table he could scarcely remember what the main dish had been).
Verne was determined to make good on his promise, for once. He would not back out of this adventure at the last minute. He would share his dark-haired friend’s desperate situation, though he could not compare his own dull life with Nemo’s helpless straits.
Before he went upstairs to his room, he embraced his parents, terrified they would notice his maudlin attentions. Fortunately, his father was so focused on the newspaper that he wouldn’t have noticed a placard fastened to Verne’s chest. Sophie, sharp-eyed and attuned to her son’s moods, might have detected something in his manner, but she did not comment on it.
His younger brother Paul mercifully fell asleep. As the boy snored, Verne crept about the room in the moonlight, gathering the possessions he insisted on taking with him: copies of Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, and Last of the Mohicans, as well as Ivanhoe and The Pirate. Over the past two years, Verne and Nemo had shared those novels, since Jacques Nemo had not been able to afford books.
Verne took a bound, blank journal along with several lead pencils so that he could record his experiences and observations. Someday they might be useful to him when he was a respected chronicler of his own adventures. . . .
As the hours crawled by, he tossed and turned, eager but also terrified. That afternoon he had marched down to the docks to look at the Coralie, a fine and magnificent ship. The brig had a full crew and a full cargo hold. Captain Grant had been on many extended ocean voyages before. All things considered, Verne had nothing to worry about.
Long after his parents were abed, he crept down the flight of stairs, wearing only his nightshirt. He tiptoed to the window where his father kept the telescope pointed toward the clockface of the monastery. Verne peered into the eyepiece, focused, and waited for the moon to emerge from behind a gauzy cloud so that he could read the hands on the dial.
Verne still had an hour to get dressed and make his way down to L’Homme aux Trois Malices. Stumbling about, tripping on his shoelaces, he dressed without lighting a candle or turning up the gas. Paul continued to sleep with little-boy snores, suspecting nothing. Verne’s heartstrings tugged at him, and he thought again of how much he was leaving behind . . . but he raised his chin and counted the wonderful things he would experience instead.
Aboard the Coralie he would find a new life, and he couldn’t wait for that adventure to begin. . . .
* * *
Verne tiptoed along the evening-moist streets, carrying his sack of belongings over one shoulder. Wharf rats scuttled away from him into the dank alleys, where he heard women giggling and men grunting. He must have looked like a cutpurse creeping along. He was afraid he would be arrested as a vagrant or malicious prankster.
The Coralie would depart with the outgoing tide and travel some thirty miles down the Loire to Paimboeuf on the seacoast. There, she would take on more crew and exchange some of her cargo before Captain Grant pointed the bowsprit out into the wild Atlantic.
Ahead, L’Homme aux Trois Malices welcomed travelers with a glow of orange light from half-shuttered windows. A droning hum of laughter and music came from inside. Verne looked up at the sign hanging above the inn door, depicting a well-dressed man surrounded by a woman, a monkey, and a parrot. It was like no place his father had ever taken him, too noisy, too smelly.
As he hesitated at the door, Nemo stepped out of the shadows. “I wondered if you would come, Jules.”
“I told you I would.” Verne swallowed a defensive tone. “I promised.”
“I know—but still, I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Nemo said with a smile. “Come on, I’ve talked to the innkeeper. My father used to know him, and as a good-luck gesture, he’s buying us each a flagon of Breton ale. I bet you’ve never had any of that in a goblet at your dinner table. Let’s go have a toast.”
Uncertain, Verne followed his friend into the smoky room full of strangers and odd human odors, greasy cooking and sour old drink. The thick rafters were stained with soot. Someone was playing a squeezebox and singing off-key. Others howled and laughed, pounding on tables. Some played cards. A few, dead drunk, snored in their chairs.
Seeing Nemo and his red-headed friend, the innkeeper filled two ceramic tankards from a keg behind the counter. Nemo took them and handed one to his friend. They clanked their flagons together. The Verne family drank only French wine, usually diluted—and the yeasty, hoppy taste weighed on his unsettled stomach.
The innkeeper gave a cheer as the boys slurped the foam. “To two lads about to make their fortunes off at sea.” The innkeeper drank from his own mug, then patted his belly. A few others at the bar raised their tankards in the toast, but didn’t seem to realize—or care—what they were celebrating. Around them, the noise continued unabated.
“I thought our going was supposed to be a secret.” Verne hunched away from the myriad bloodshot stares directed at him. He didn’t dare let his father find out.
“The ship sails at dawn,” Nemo said. “By the time word can get to your house and wake anybody up, it’ll be too late.”
Verne took a reflexive swallow of the bitter beer and felt its effects rush to his head. For years, the two of them had concocted schemes to explore the world and go to the exotic places they read about in books and in illustrated Parisian magazines. But now it was real— too real and too soon.
Panic began to rise within Verne, and he wanted to kick himself. Nemo rested a hand on his friend’s forearm. “I told you, you don’t h
ave to go.”
“I do. Yes, I have to go.” Verne repeated it as if to reassure himself. “I have to go . . . just in case you need rescuing.”
“All right then.” Nemo drained his flagon and stood up. He knew that his red-haired friend would never finish his ale. “Now we have to go, Jules. We have an appointment to say goodbye to Caroline.”
IX
Generations of successful French merchants and shipbuilders had built row houses along the main avenues of Ile Feydeau. With the glory of Nantes as a great seaport fading, however, the waterside houses now canted like drunken sailors as foundations settled into the watery soil. Scrolled facades, brick patterns, and ironwork balconies maintained the illusion of splendor.
“Third floor,” Nemo said, pointing up at a set of shutters high on the whitewashed bricks. “Second window over.”
“Are you sure?” Verne said, then rounded on his friend. “How do you know?”
“I listen to her play the piano sometimes,” he said casually, not admitting how often he came to talk with Caroline. “Trust me.” Nemo bent over to choose a small pebble and tossed it up at the window. Verne did the same, but his stone missed, clinking against the stone walls.
With a flurry at the curtains, Caroline opened the sash and leaned out, dressed in her nightgown. Seeing the two furtive young men waving at her from the street below, she signaled back and closed the double windows.
Verne hovered next to Nemo, away from the streetlamp’s blue-yellow gaslight. He was afraid someone might see them, afraid Caroline’s father would chase them away. He didn’t want to lose his chance of saying farewell to her.
When the tall, gold-inlaid door creaked open, Caroline stood there, her honey-on-fire hair tied back with a few colorful ribbons, a hastily donned robe of pink cashmere cinched at her waist. A forced smile covered her sad expression.
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