Around the World in Eighty Days
Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the
house in Saville Row.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
“Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at
Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”
Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much
visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been
carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of
age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his
hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his
face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in
the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a
quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a
clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure
which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen
in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being
perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer.
Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed
even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well
as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was
economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step
too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he
made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or
agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always
reached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and
as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and
that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had
abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he
had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was
by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Molière with a bold
gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a
pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable,
with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a
friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost
portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was
somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have
known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was
familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a
large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would
agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant
would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required;
experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort
of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far
he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English
houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he
found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly
running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last
master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his
nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the
morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting
the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such
conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr.
Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of
unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home
overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He
presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the
house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring
it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion
pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed
by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout
reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to
inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and
speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on
the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s
bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s
good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon
inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.
It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the
morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past
eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club—all the details of
service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the
shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at
twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that
was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at
which the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair
of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year
and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and
the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house
in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and
unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness,
comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there
books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the
Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law
and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his
bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but
Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere;
everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.
Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a
broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is
just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What
a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind
serving a machine.”
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH A CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE WHICH SEEMS LIKELY TO COST PHILEAS
FOGG DEAR
Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven,
and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and
seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and
seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall
Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired
at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a
tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn
colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which
had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish,
a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef
garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel
of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of
tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to
one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous
apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him
an uncut _Times_, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed
familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper
absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the
_Standard_, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner
passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the
reading-room and sat down to the _Pall Mall_ at twenty minutes before
six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew
up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were
Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John
Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and
Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England—all rich
and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the
princes of English trade and finance.
“Well, Ralph,” said Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”
“Oh,” replied Stuart, “the Bank will lose the money.”
“On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we may put our hands on the
robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of
America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips
through their fingers.”
“But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.
“In the first place, he is no robber at all,” returned Ralph,
positively.
“What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no
robber?”
“No.”
“Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.”
“The _Daily Telegraph_ says that he is a gentleman.”
It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers,
who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the
conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town
talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package
of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been
taken from the principal cashier’s table, that functionary being at the
moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and
sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be
observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the
honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect
its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy
of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that,
being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to
examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it
up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and
so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the
end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour.
Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the
present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes
not being found when five o’clock sounded from the ponderous clock in
the “drawing office,” the amount was passed to the account of profit
and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives
hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York,
and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand
pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered.
Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived
at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once
entered upon.
There were real grounds for supposing, as the _Daily Telegraph_ said,
that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the
robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a
well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room
where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured
and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was
one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were