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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 fumed.

Verne didn’t speak to Honorine for the rest of that evening -- didn’t thank her, did not apologize -- but the wheels began turning in his head, and he considered other options he might pursue. 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 Monsieur Hetzel would respond as soon as possible.

Within a week, in mid-October of 1862, Verne received a card inviting him to meet with Monsieur 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,