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She sat straight and proper in her wrought-iron chair. “M. Hatteras is a brave man. If anyone can do it, my captain can. Our marriage is already scheduled, as is his expedition. We will be wed very shortly, before he departs.”

Caroline looked directly at him. Verne knew that his face must be pale, his freckles prominent, his expression stricken. Given the wording of her note, had she not guessed what he might think?

“I know this is a disappointment to you, Jules, but I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than from gossip.” She took his hand again. “I want you to come to the wedding. You must remain my friend, and keep telling me your stories. When M. Hatteras departs, I will have no one to talk to -- certainly no one with such imagination.”

Numb, Verne climbed to his feet again just as Marie arrived with a pot of steaming chocolat. He didn’t even see her, didn’t want any refreshment -- and he could not endure staying here any longer. Bees thrummed among the courtyard flowers, and birds sang from the hedges -- but for Jules Verne, this place held only the deepest shadows.

Moving like a man in the final stages of consumption, he managed a bow to Caroline. “Accept my best wishes for your health and happiness. I . . . I’m certain your parents have made the proper decision for you.”

He forced himself not to run as his hopes crumbled around him. He wanted to hurry home, though the work day was not yet over. Caroline called after him. “Wait, Jules! Can you not make a joke for me to remember? Tell me another amusing story? Please, you are my only true friend.”

Verne didn’t dare let his feelings out, lest the emotions crack his invisible armor. “Am I a friend, or a court jester? A jongleur to tell stories? Caroline, I’m sure your betrothed must have a wit and imagination that far outshines mine. After all, I’ve never even left France.”

He walked back to his father’s law offices, where he hoped to sit alone at his desk and bury himself in the tedious work of copying and certifying documents. There seemed to be nothing else in store for him in life.

But when Verne seated himself and set a new stack of papers before him, his father called. “Jules, I must speak with you.”

The young man moved like a clockwork machine. His father would no doubt give him instructions for a fresh set of documents or perhaps ask him to deliver a sealed testament. Pierre Verne saved money by using his son rather than hiring the local courier boys.

Verne stood in front of his father’s desk, wearing his formal frock coat and vest rather than play clothes. The elder Verne did not invite him to take a seat. “I have already made arrangements for you.”

Wondering what his father could mean, Verne blinked. After his conversation with Caroline, what else could go wrong this day? “What arrangements, Father?”

“It’s time you were certified, Jules. You have worked as a law clerk in my office for nearly a year, and you must proceed with your instruction. I am sending you to Paris so that you can enroll in a well-respected school.” The older man tugged on his sideburns and met Verne’s gaze. “You will pass the entrance examination for the Paris Faculty of Law, and then your future will be bright. You need have no worries.”

Verne reeled. He had never liked the profession, did not intend to become a lawyer for the rest of his life -- yet he was the eldest son. And while his brother Paul had already failed his application to enter the Naval Academy, the younger boy had received his father’s permission to sign aboard as an apprentice shipmate . . . much the way Verne had wanted to do when he’d run away from home with Nemo.

“You will take the train, son. Pack lightly, but bring enough clothes so you can be presentable at all times. One never knows when an opportunity might arise. You will visit the Faculty of Law, see the school, and return here to help me in the office during the summer pause in classes. In autumn, I expect you to return to Paris to work toward your law degree. It will take you several