Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [98]
The very thought horrified Jules. He felt as if he were on the deck of a sinking ship.
He forced himself to finish every scrap of his dinner and all the wine, regardless of whether his digestive system -- queasy at the best of times -- would appreciate it. Since he’d paid for the meal, he vowed to consume it . . . not that he ever let good food go to waste.
His theatre work had been both amusing and difficult, sapping his strength but teaching him many things (none of which, unfortunately, would benefit an attorney). He had earned little money in the theatre -- just enough to repay his expenses and supplement the meager allowance his father sent him each month. If he defied his father and remained in Paris, the allowance would stop abruptly, no matter how much his sympathetic mother might argue. And Verne could not live on a theatre worker’s salary.
By now he had hoped to become a renowned playwright. The poetry that had always delighted his family and friends did not seem brilliant enough to warrant publication. His historical novels, pale imitations of the works of Dumas and Hugo, were tedious, dry, melodramatic. The more he worked at them, the duller they became (at least according to his literary associates who read them and gleefully offered their acid criticism).
But Verne wanted to find some way to be successful through his writing, no matter the cost. It was time to give up those aspirations and slink home in the night in hopes that no one had noticed his dreams . . . or he must swallow his pride and ask a tremendous favor from his strongest literary acquaintance.
By now, he vowed, it was no longer time to be polite or subtle.
Verne paid the waiter, then returned to his apartment where he changed into his best clothes, well-worn though they were. Alexandre Dumas hired writers to assist in the production of his novels and plays, and Verne had always hoped to join them. He had dropped hints during visits to the Monte Cristo chateau, but the enormous man with his booming laugh and glittering jewelry had ignored each gentle reminder. Now, though, Verne would be direct, drop to his knees if necessary. If he could work for the great “fiction factory,” perhaps he would earn enough to make a living. He had no other choice, besides being a lawyer.
As he rode in a carriage to the outskirts of Paris, Verne worked up his courage, remembering all he had learned in the theatre and in law school. He had to make a compelling case for himself. Nothing he’d ever done would matter as much as this.
When the carriage pulled up to the graveled courtyard of Monte Cristo, Verne handed the appropriate coins to the driver, along with a very small tip, then climbed out.
Into total chaos.
The carriage rattled away with a surly comment from the driver. Verne stood astonished as the front door was flung open and well-dressed men marched out of the entrance.
Inside the huge house, crews of workers bustled about, dragging furniture, taking down paintings, wrapping statuary for transport. The sound of hammers rang out from the magnificent marble-tiled ballroom as carpenters assembled storage crates. Grim-faced businessmen slapped labels on tapestries or alabaster busts of Dumas himself. Secretaries recorded the items in heavy ledger books.
“What is going on here?” Verne caught the elbow of a well-muscled workman who had extraordinarily hairy arms. He felt too intimidated to speak to any of the businessmen.
The worker brushed sweat from his forehead. “You another creditor? I only take orders from him.” He nodded toward a small man with a wispy beard and a bright red cravat.
Gathering his courage, Verne hurried to the indicated man. “What is the meaning of this? Are you thieves? By what right are you taking these treasures from the great Dumas?”
“They’re being marked for auction,” the man said. “Monsieur Dumas is bankrupt. Even selling the chateau and its contents will not pay all his bills.”