Around the World in Eighty Days
delivered his master’s message.
“Madam,” he added, “I can do nothing myself—nothing! I have no
influence over my master; but you, perhaps—”
“What influence could I have?” replied Aouda. “Mr. Fogg is influenced
by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is
overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left
alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?”
“Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in
England.”
“We shall see,” replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.
Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if
uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in
that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck
half-past eleven.
Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer
expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on
the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before
nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should
go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists
already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out
and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their
credit.
Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at
home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his
affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the
stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master’s door,
and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do,
and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment.
Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the
world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in
tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought
haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.
Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda’s
door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a
corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still
pensive.
About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda
would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with
her.
Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite
Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly
the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same
impassibility.
He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on
Aouda, “Madam,” said he, “will you pardon me for bringing you to
England?”
“I, Mr. Fogg!” replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.
“Please let me finish,” returned Mr. Fogg. “When I decided to bring you
far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and
counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your
existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined.”
“I know it, Mr. Fogg,” replied Aouda; “and I ask you in my turn, will
you forgive me for having followed you, and—who knows?—for having,
perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?”
“Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be
assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could
not take you.”
“So, Mr. Fogg,” resumed Aouda, “not content with rescuing me from a
terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a
foreign land?”
“Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to
place the little I have left at your service.”
“But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?”
“As for me, madam,” replied the gentleman, coldly, “I have need of
nothing.”
“But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?”
“As I am in the habit of doing.”
“At least,” said Aouda, “want should not overtake a man like you. Your
friends—”
“I have no friends, madam.”
“Your relatives—”
“I have no longer any relatives.”
“I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart
to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself,
shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience.”
“They say so, madam.”
“Mr. Fogg,” said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, “do you wish at
once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?”
Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his
eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face.
The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance
of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all,
at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an
instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, “I love
you!” he said, simply. “Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I
am entirely yours!”
“Ah!” cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.
Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held
Aouda’s hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round
face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.
Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel
Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening.
Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, “Never too late.”
It was five minutes past eight.
“Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?”
“For to-morrow, Monday,” said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.
“Yes; for to-morrow, Monday,” she replied.
Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG’S NAME IS ONCE MORE AT A PREMIUM ON ’CHANGE
It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion
when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand,
had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three
days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being
desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable
gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the
world.
The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had
laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic;
the “Phileas Fogg bonds” again became negotiable, and many new wagers
were made. Phileas Fogg’s name was once more at a premium on ’Change.
His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state
of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten,
reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of
December, the day of James Strand’s arrest, was the seventy-sixth since
Phileas Fogg’s departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he
dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey
along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st
of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold
of the Reform Club saloon?
The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be
described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas
Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning
and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the
detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent.
Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a
racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were
quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at
five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.
A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets
on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently
established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and
everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going
on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as
the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to
its highest pitch.
The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the
club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart,
the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and
Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.
When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got
up, saying, “Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between
Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired.”
“What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?” asked Thomas
Flanagan.
“At twenty-three minutes past seven,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and the
next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve.”
“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Andrew Stuart, “if Phileas Fogg had come in
the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore,
regard the bet as won.”
“Wait; don’t let us be too hasty,” replied Samuel Fallentin. “You know
that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he
never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if
he appeared before us at the last minute.”
“Why,” said Andrew Stuart nervously, “if I should see him, I should not
believe it was he.”
“The fact is,” resumed Thomas Flanagan, “Mr. Fogg’s project was
absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the
delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three
days would be fatal to his tour.”
“Observe, too,” added John Sullivan, “that we have received no
intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his
route.”
“He has lost, gentleman,” said Andrew Stuart, “he has a hundred times
lost! You know, besides, that the ‘China’—the only steamer he could
have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have
seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not
among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can
scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days
behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand.”
“It is clear,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and we have nothing to do but
to present Mr. Fogg’s cheque at Barings to-morrow.”
At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes
to nine.
“Five minutes more,” said Andrew Stuart.
The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming
intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr.
Fallentin’s proposal of a rubber.
“I wouldn’t give up my four thousand of the bet,” said Andrew Stuart,
as he took his seat, “for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.”
The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.
The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the
clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so
long to them!
“Seventeen minutes to nine,” said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards
which Ralph handed to him.
Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly
quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and
then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player
eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.
“Sixteen minutes to nine!” said John Sullivan, in a voice which
betrayed his emotion.
One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his
partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the
seconds.
At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.
At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by
applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.
The players rose from their seats.
At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the