Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [51]
“Very well, if you must.” His gruff tone indicated no interest in the nature of his son’s “errand.” Without looking up, Pierre Verne raised one impatient finger. Verne froze, waiting for him to finish scribbling a comment in the margin. The attorney crossed out a line like a hunter securing a prize, then dropped the quill pen back into its inkwell. He deigned to glance at his redheaded son. “When you return I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
Verne gave a quick acknowledgment and hurried out of the law offices. As soon as he was around the corner, away from where his father could see him, he stopped to dust imaginary lint from his waistcoat, straighten his cravat, and brush his unruly hair. Then he ran onward.
In recent years he had grown tall, with awkwardly long arms and legs. He was intelligent, even rather handsome, according to what some young ladies said, though few saw him as a marriageable prospect. They said he was too flighty, too unsettled -- and his vivid imagination alarmed them. No matter, he thought petulantly, since their dullness alarmed him.
But Caroline Aronnax was different. And now she wanted to speak with him regarding her future.
Several times in the past year, heady with her closeness, he had walked beside her under the lime trees in the courtyard of the Church of St. Martin, or the two had smelled the magnolias at the quai de la Fosse. They never spoke of love, but he knew she valued his friendship. Could it be that her parents had finally agreed to let Caroline choose her own husband? Strange things did indeed happen in the world. . . .
He swallowed a lump in his throat and strode off, chin high. Humming, he made his way down the narrow streets toward her tall house in the merchants’ section of town. He felt very different from the time when he and Nemo had slunk through the dark streets to tap on her window. Now Verne almost looked respectable, an actual gentleman caller.
It seemed like a scene out of a story to him, a story he himself might write someday, and he wondered how this tale would end. In the past year he had become more and more interested in literary pursuits beyond exchanging verses across the dinner table as a family pastime.
Verne had read the magnificent works of Victor Hugo, France’s most important literary hero, the spearhead of the Romantic movement. He was proud to live at a time when such writers came from his own country. He’d read The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the plays Cromwell and Hernani, in addition to Hugo’s romantic verse, all of which made a profound impression on him, perhaps even more than the boyhood adventure stories he and André Nemo had devoured.
In his notebooks Verne had drafted two plays of his own (both heavily influenced by Hugo). His first, Alexandre VI: 1503, was a romantic drama in verse, five acts long, about the Borgia Pope -- a villain if there ever was one. Next, even more ambitious, he had written The Gunpowder Plot, about Guy Fawkes. He had showed the work to Caroline, and she had expressed her encouragement and delight. “You have such a gift for telling stories, Jules. I am certain that someday you will be successful.”
With light footsteps he danced along the streets, letting the fantasy carry him. Nantes had a respectable playhouse on place Graslin, modeled after the Paris Odéon. If ever he got up his nerve, he would investigate any connections his father might have to get his plays performed on stage. And, if he actually married Caroline Aronnax, even more doors would open for him.
Verne imagined how wonderful it would be if The Gunpowder Plot were to be performed there. Dressed in his finest suit, he would sit in the author’s box and watch the players take their bows. He hoped Caroline might be beside him, cheering along with the audience. “Author! Author!”
Grinning, Verne strode up the brick steps to the ornate facade of Caroline’s house and rang the bell. The maidservant Marie, looking