Around the World in Eighty Days

“Upon my word,” said Passepartout to himself, “I have known at Madame Tussaud’s good people as lively as my new master!”

It is proper to say here that Madame Tussaud’s “good people” are wax figures, much visited in London, and who, indeed, are only wanting in speech.

During the few minutes that he had interviewed Phileas Fogg, Passepartout had examined his future master, rapidly but carefully. He was a man that might be forty years old, of fine handsome face, of tall figure, which a slight corpulence did not disparage, his hair and whiskers light, his forehead compact, without appearance of wrinkles at the temples, his face rather pale than flushed, his teeth magnificent. He appeared to possess in the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a quality common to those who do more work than talking. Calm, phlegmatic, with a clear eye and immovable eyelid, he was the finished type of those cool-blooded Englishmen so frequently met in the United Kingdom, and whose somewhat academic posture Angelica Kauffman has marvellously reproduced under her pencil. Seen in the various acts of his existence, this gentleman gave the idea of a well-balanced being in all his parts, evenly hung, as perfect as a Leroy or Earnshaw chronometer. Indeed Phileas Fogg was exactness personified, which was seen clearly from “the expression of his feet and his hands,” for with man, as well as with the animals, the limbs themselves are organs expressive of the passions.

Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematically exact people, who, never hurried and always ready, are economical of their steps and their motions. He never made one stride too many, always going by the shortest route. He did not give an idle look. He did not allow himself a superfluous gesture. He had never been seen moved or troubled. He was a man of the least possible haste, but he always arrived in time. However, it will be understood that he lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation. He knew that in life one must take his share of friction, and as frictions retard, he never rubbed against anyone.

As for Jean, called Passepartout, a true Parisian of Paris, he had sought vainly for a master to whom he could attach himself, in the five years that he lived in England and served as a valet in London. Passepartout was not one of those Frontins or Mascarilles, who, with high shoulders, nose high in air, a look of assurance, and staring eye, are only impudent dunces. No, Passepartout was a good fellow, of amiable physiognomy, his lips a little prominent, always ready to taste or caress, a mild and serviceable being, with one of those good round heads that we like to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rosy, his face fat enough for him to see his cheek-bones, his chest broad, his form full, his muscles vigorous, and he possessed a herculean strength which his youthful exercise had splendidly developed. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled. If the ancient sculptors knew eighteen ways of arranging Minerva’s hair, Passepartout knew of but one for fixing his own: three strokes of a large tooth-comb, and it was dressed.

The most meagre stock of prudence would not permit of saying that the expansive character of this young man would agree with that of Phileas Fogg. Would Passepartout be in all respects exactly the servant that his master needed? That would only be seen by using him. After having had, as we have seen, quite a wandering youth, he longed for repose. Having heard the exactness and proverbial coolness of the English gentlemen praised, he came to seek his fortune in England. But until the present, Fate had treated him badly. He had not been able to take root anywhere. He had served in ten different houses. In every one the people were capricious and irregular, running after adventures or about the country—which no longer suited Passepartout. His last master, young Lord Longsferry, Member of Parliament, after having passed his nights in the Haymarket oyster rooms, returned home too frequently on the shoulders of policemen. Passepartout wishing, above all things, to be able to respect his master, ventured some mild remarks, which were badly received, and he left. In the meantime, he learned that Phileas Fogg, Esq., was hunting for a servant. He made some inquiry about this gentleman. A person whose existence was so regular, who never slept in a strange bed, who did not travel, who was never absent, not even for a day, could not but suit him. He presented himself, and was accepted under the circumstances that we already know.

At half-past eleven, Passepartout found himself alone in the Saville Row mansion. He immediately commenced its inspection, going over it from cellar to garret. This clean, well-ordered, austere, Puritan house, well organised for servants, pleased him. It produced the effect upon him of a fine snail-shell, but one lighted and heated by gas, for carburetted hydrogen answered both purposes here. Passepartout found without difficulty, in the second story, the room designed for him. It suited him. Electric bells and speaking-tubes put it in communication with the lower stories. On the mantel an electric clock corresponded with the one in Phileas Fogg’s bed-chamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That suits me, that suits me!” said Passepartout.

He observed also in his room a notice fastened above the clock. It was the programme for the daily service. It comprised—from eight o’clock in the morning, the regular hour at which Phileas Fogg rose, until half-past eleven, the hour at which he left his house to breakfast at the Reform Club—all the details of the service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes after eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes after nine, the toilet at twenty minutes before ten, etc. Then from half-past eleven in the morning until midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired—everything was noted down, foreseen, and regulated. Passepartout took a pleasure in contemplating this programme, and impressing upon his mind its various directions.

As to the gentleman’s wardrobe, it was in very good taste, and wonderfully complete. Each pair of pantaloons, coat or vest, bore a regular number, which was also entered upon a register, indicating the date at which, according to the season, these garments were to be worn in their turn. The same rule applied to his shoes.

In short, in this house in Saville Row—which, in the time of the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, must have been the temple of disorder—its comfortable furniture indicated a delightful ease. There was no study, there were no books, which would have been of no use to Mr Fogg, since the Reform Club placed at his disposal two libraries, the one devoted to literature, the other to law and politics. In his bed-chamber there was a medium-sized safe, whose construction protected it from fire as well as from burglars. There were no weapons in the house, neither for the chase, nor for war. Everything there denoted the most peaceful habits.

After having minutely examined the dwelling, Passepartout rubbed his hands, his broad face brightened, and he repeated cheerfully: “This suits me! This is the place for me! Mr Fogg and I will understand each other perfectly. A home-body, and so methodical! A genuine automaton! Well, I am not sorry to serve an automaton!”

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_e3124fcb-7e3d-575d-90a6-acf86c86802d)

In which a conversation takes place which may cost Phileas Fogg dearly

Phileas Fogg had left his house in Saville Row at half-past eleven, and after putting his right foot before his left foot five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right foot five hundred and seventy-six times, he arrived at the Reform Club, a spacious and lofty building in Pall Mall, which cost not less than three millions to build.

Phileas Fogg repaired immediately to the dining-room, whose nine windows opened upon a fine garden with trees already gilded by autumn. There, he took his seat at his regular table where the plate was awaiting him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a boiled fish with Reading sauce of first quality, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a bit of Chester cheese, the whole washed down with a few cups of that excellent tea, specially gathered for the stores of the Reform Club.

At forty-seven minutes past noon, this gentleman rose and turned his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment, adorned with paintings in elegant frames. There, a servant handed him The Times uncut, the tiresome cutting of which he managed with a steadiness of hand which denoted great practice in this difficult operation. The reading of this journal occupied Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, and that of the Standard, which succeeded it, lasted until dinner. This repast passed off in the same way as the breakfast, with the addition of “Royal British Sauce.”

At twenty minutes before six, the gentleman reappeared in the large hall, and was absorbed in the reading of the Morning Chronicle.

Half an hour later, various members of the Reform Club entered and came near the fireplace, in which a coal fire was burning. They were the usual partners of Phileas Fogg; like himself, passionate players of whist—the engineer, Andrew Stuart; the bankers, John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin; the brewer, Thomas Flanagan; Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England—rich and respected personages, even in this Club, counting among his members the élite of trade and finance.

“Well, Ralph,” asked Thomas Flanagan, “how about that robbery?”

“Why,” replied Andrew Stuart, “the bank will lose the money.”

“I hope, on the contrary,” said Gauthier Ralph, “that we will put our hands on the robber. Detectives, very skilful fellows, have been sent to America and the Continent, to all the principal ports of embarkation and debarkation, and it will be difficult for this fellow to escape.”

“But you have the description of the robber?” asked Andrew Stuart.

“In the first place, he is not a robber,” replied Gauthier Ralph seriously.

“How is he not a robber, this fellow who has abstracted fifty-five thousand pounds in bank-notes?”

“No,” replied Gauthier Ralph.

“Is he, then, a manufacturer?” said John Sullivan.

“The Morning Chronicle assures us that he is a gentleman.”

The party that made this reply was no other than Phileas Fogg, whose head then emerged from the mass of papers heaped around him. At the same time, he greeted his colleagues, who returned his salutation. The matter under discussion, and which the various journals of the United Kingdom were discussing ardently, had occurred three days before, on the 29th of September. A package of bank-notes, making the enormous sum of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the counter of the principal cashier of the Bank of England. The Under-Governor, Gauthier Ralph, only replied to anyone who was astonished that such a robbery could have been so easily accomplished, that at this very moment the cashier was occupied with registering a receipt of three shillings and sixpence, and that he could not have his eyes everywhere.

But it is proper to be remarked here—which makes the robbery less mysterious—that this admirable establishment, the Bank of England, seems to care very much for the dignity of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings; gold, silver, and bank-notes being freely exposed, and, so to speak, at the mercy of the first comer. They would not suspect the honour of anyone passing by. One of the best observers of English customs relates the following: He had the curiosity to examine closely, in one of the rooms of the bank, where he was one day, an ingot of gold, weighing seven to eight pounds, which was lying exposed on the cashier’s table; he picked up this ingot, examined it, passed it to his neighbour, and he to another, so that the ingot, passing from hand to hand, went as far as the end of a dark entry, and did not return to its place for half an hour, and the cashier had not once raised his head.

But on the twenty-ninth of September, matters did not turn out quite in this way. The package of bank-notes did not return, and when the magnificent clock, hung above the “drawing office” announced at five o’clock the closing of the office, the Bank of England had only to pass fifty-five thousand pounds to the account of profit and loss.

The robbery being duly known, agents, detectives, selected from the most skilful, were sent to the principal ports—Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, etc., with the promise, in case of success, of a reward of two thousand pounds and five per cent of the amount recovered. Whilst waiting for the information which the investigation, commenced immediately, ought to furnish, the detectives were charged with watching carefully all arriving and departing travellers.

As the Morning Chronicle said, there was good reason for supposing that the robber was not a member of any of the robber bands of England. During this day, the twenty-ninth of September, a well-dressed gentleman, of good manners, of a distinguished air, had been noticed going in and out of the paying room, the scene of the robbery. The investigation allowed a pretty accurate description of the gentleman to be made out, which was at once sent to all the detectives of the United Kingdom and of the Continent. Some hopeful minds, and Gauthier Ralph was one of the number, believed that they had good reason to expect that the robber would not escape.

As may be supposed, this affair was the talk of all London and throughout England.

It was discussed, and sides were taken vehemently for or against the probabilities of success of the city police. It will not be surprising, then, to hear the members of the Reform Club treating the same subject, all the more that one of the Under-Governors of the Bank was among them.

Honourable Gauthier Ralph was not willing to doubt the result of the search, considering that the reward offered ought to sharpen peculiarly the zeal and intelligence of the agents. But his colleague, Andrew Stuart, was far from sharing this confidence. The discussion continued then between the gentlemen, who were seated at a whist table, Stuart having Flanagan as a partner, and Fallentin Phileas Fogg. During the playing the parties did not speak, but between the rubbers the interrupted conversation was fully revived.

“I maintain,” said Andrew Stuart, “that the chances are in favour of the robber, who must be a skilful fellow!”

“Well,” replied Ralph, “there is not a single country where he can take refuge.”

“Pshaw!”

“Where do you suppose he might go?”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Andrew Stuart, “but after all, the world is big enough.”

“It was formerly,” said Phileas Fogg in a low tone. Then he added: “It is your turn to cut, sir,” presenting the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion was suspended during the rubber. But Andrew Stuart soon resumed it, saying:

“How, formerly? Has the world grown smaller perchance?”

“Without doubt,” replied Gauthier Ralph. “I am of the opinion of Mr Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since we can go round it now ten times quicker than one hundred years ago. And, in the case with which we are now occupied, this is what will render the search more rapid.”

“And will render more easy, also, the flight of the robber.”

“It is your turn to play, Mr Stuart,” said Phileas Fogg.

But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, he replied: “It must be confessed, Mr Ralph, that you have found a funny way of saying that the world has grown smaller! Because the tour of it is now made in three months—”

“In eighty days only,” said Phileas Fogg.

“Yes, gentlemen,” added John Sullivan, “eighty days, since the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian Peninsular Railway, has been opened. Here is the calculation made by the Morning Chronicle:

“Yes, eighty days!” exclaimed Andrew Stuart, who, by inattention, made a wrong deal, “but not including bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, running off the track, etc.”