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In his most complex novel to date, The Children of Captain Grant, he took details from the Coralie and added Nemo’s reminiscences of the great and honorable Captain Grant, the pirate attacks, and being marooned on an island. Nemo again . . . always inspired by Nemo. What is it about the man?

“I . . . I have come to see Madame Hatteras,” Verne told the clerk. “I believe she is expecting me for lunch?” Bright and eager, the bespectacled man bustled off to fetch Caroline. . . .

With such a string of novelistic successes, Jules Verne could now stand next to the great Alexandre Dumas as a colleague, rather than a mere sycophant. However, as he continued writing furiously and researching adventure after adventure, Verne grew uneasy because he owed practically everything to the experiences of Nemo.

There are two types of men in this world, Jules: those who do things, and those who wish they did.

His friend’s words kept haunting him. Verne had never been one to experience things first-hand. At least he had sailed with Nemo on his Nautilus and shared a terrifying undersea adventure. Someday, he hoped to travel and see a far-off land or two, but with a wife and young son and a contract for three books every year, he had no time. He could make do, as he always had, with research alone.

He knew, though, that Nemo was out there, still having adventures . . . and Jules Verne would tell the world about them. Readers would remember his name as a visionary, because Nemo shied away from public attention.

After the battle with the giant squid and traveling so many leagues beneath the sea, Verne had not seen Nemo again. France had changed greatly in the fourteen years since his companion had gone off to the Crimean War. Verne wondered if, after living so long apart from civilization, his boyhood friend could ever again become a man of society. Not that Nemo wanted to. . .

Caroline came down from her upstairs offices, her face flushed with delight. Verne wrung his hat in his hands as she handed a stack of papers to the clerk. “Jules, it is lovely to see you.” She embraced him, brushing her lips across his cheek.

He clasped her hand. She wore no gloves, no distinctive perfume. Her nails were trimmed short, and he noticed inkspots on her fingertips, like the stains on his own fingers when writing at a furious pace. Her hair, which he’d once described as “honey caught on fire,” still retained its vibrant color, but now it was pulled back in a no-nonsense twist, tucked out of her way at the nape of her neck. She wore comfortable clothes unhindered by lace or frills, and had not cinched her corset. The outfit was formal yet serviceable, without drawing overt attention to her beauty. Caroline’s natural prettiness shone through, though, in a way that no roses or Chantille lace could adequately emphasize. Her blue eyes remained bright, like a ray of dawn crossing his face when she looked at him.

“Jules, I do not understand why we fail to see each other, since we both live in Paris. It has been . . . five years?”

“Too many obligations, I believe,” he said. “I have my writing, and you have your” -- He waved his hands around the offices -- “your business.”

She laughed. “I can always find time for old friends. You are my only reminder that I was a child once. Come, I’ve had chocolat chaud sent in, for old time’s sake, along with those gooseberry pastries you enjoyed so much.” Verne’s eyes brightened, and he followed her up the stairs and into the back room from which she ran her business.

A tray on her broad mahogany desk held one silver pot of chocolat chaud, and the other contained coffee. Both smelled delicious. Verne selected one of the tarts arranged on fine doilies. “You remembered my favorites!”

Despite his rehearsed words, the conversation began to go wrong as soon as Caroline spoke up. “Tell me about your mysterious wife, Jules. You’ve never brought her to meet me. And what about your son, Michel? You must be so proud of him.”

Verne covered his surprise by taking