Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter IV

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AS­TOUNDS PASSEP­ARTOUT, HIS SER­VANT

Hav­ing won twen­ty guineas at whist, and tak­en leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twen­ty-​five min­utes past sev­en, left the Re­form Club.

Passep­artout, who had con­sci­en­tious­ly stud­ied the pro­gramme of his du­ties, was more than sur­prised to see his mas­ter guilty of the in­ex­act­ness of ap­pear­ing at this un­ac­cus­tomed hour; for, ac­cord­ing to rule, he was not due in Sav­ille Row un­til pre­cise­ly mid­night.

Mr. Fogg re­paired to his bed­room, and called out, “Passep­artout!”

Passep­artout did not re­ply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.

“Passep­artout!” re­peat­ed Mr. Fogg, with­out rais­ing his voice.

Passep­artout made his ap­pear­ance.

“I've called you twice,” ob­served his mas­ter.

“But it is not mid­night,” re­spond­ed the oth­er, show­ing his watch.

“I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten min­utes.”

A puz­zled grin over­spread Passep­artout's round face; clear­ly he had not com­pre­hend­ed his mas­ter.

“Mon­sieur is go­ing to leave home?”

“Yes,” re­turned Phileas Fogg. “We are go­ing round the world.”

Passep­artout opened wide his eyes, raised his eye­brows, held up his hands, and seemed about to col­lapse, so over­come was he with stu­pe­fied as­ton­ish­ment.

“Round the world!” he mur­mured.

“In eighty days,” re­spond­ed Mr. Fogg. “So we haven't a mo­ment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passep­artout, un­con­scious­ly sway­ing his head from right to left.

“We'll have no trunks; on­ly a car­pet-​bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stock­ings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mack­in­tosh and trav­el­ing-​cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do lit­tle walk­ing. Make haste!”

Passep­artout tried to re­ply, but could not. He went out, mount­ed to his own room, fell in­to a chair, and mut­tered: “That's good, that is! And I, who want­ed to re­main qui­et!”

He me­chan­ical­ly set about mak­ing the prepa­ra­tions for de­par­ture. Around the world in eighty days! Was his mas­ter a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were go­ing to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! Af­ter all, Passep­artout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sor­ry to set foot on his na­tive soil again. Per­haps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But sure­ly a gen­tle­man so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--but, then, it was none the less true that he was go­ing away, this so do­mes­tic per­son hith­er­to!

By eight o'clock Passep­artout had packed the mod­est car­pet-​bag, con­tain­ing the wardrobes of his mas­ter and him­self; then, still trou­bled in mind, he care­ful­ly shut the door of his room, and de­scend­ed to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Un­der his arm might have been ob­served a red-​bound copy of Brad­shaw's Con­ti­nen­tal Rail­way Steam Tran­sit and Gen­er­al Guide, with its timeta­bles show­ing the ar­rival and de­par­ture of steam­ers and rail­ways. He took the car­pet-​bag, opened it, and slipped in­to it a good­ly roll of Bank of Eng­land notes, which would pass wher­ev­er he might go.

“You have for­got­ten noth­ing?” asked he.

“Noth­ing, mon­sieur.”

“My mack­in­tosh and cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this car­pet-​bag,” hand­ing it to Passep­artout. “Take good care of it, for there are twen­ty thou­sand pounds in it.”

Passep­artout near­ly dropped the bag, as if the twen­ty thou­sand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down.

Mas­ter and man then de­scend­ed, the street-​door was dou­ble-​locked, and at the end of Sav­ille Row they took a cab and drove rapid­ly to Char­ing Cross. The cab stopped be­fore the rail­way sta­tion at twen­ty min­utes past eight. Passep­artout jumped off the box and fol­lowed his mas­ter, who, af­ter pay­ing the cab­man, was about to en­ter the sta­tion, when a poor beg­gar-​wom­an, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head cov­ered with a wretched bon­net, from which hung a tat­tered feath­er, and her shoul­ders shroud­ed in a ragged shawl, ap­proached, and mourn­ful­ly asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twen­ty guineas he had just won at whist, and hand­ed them to the beg­gar, say­ing, “Here, my good wom­an. I'm glad that I met you;” and passed on.

Passep­artout had a moist sen­sa­tion about the eyes; his mas­ter's ac­tion touched his sus­cep­ti­ble heart.

Two first-​class tick­ets for Paris hav­ing been speed­ily pur­chased, Mr. Fogg was cross­ing the sta­tion to the train, when he per­ceived his five friends of the Re­form.

“Well, gen­tle­men,” said he, “I'm off, you see; and, if you will ex­am­ine my pass­port when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have ac­com­plished the jour­ney agreed up­on.”

“Oh, that would be quite un­nec­es­sary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph po­lite­ly. “We will trust your word, as a gen­tle­man of hon­our.”

“You do not for­get when you are due in Lon­don again?” asked Stu­art.

“In eighty days; on Sat­ur­day, the 21st of De­cem­ber, 1872, at a quar­ter be­fore nine p.m. Good-​bye, gen­tle­men.”

Phileas Fogg and his ser­vant seat­ed them­selves in a first-​class car­riage at twen­ty min­utes be­fore nine; five min­utes lat­er the whis­tle screamed, and the train slow­ly glid­ed out of the sta­tion.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snug­ly en­sconced in his cor­ner, did not open his lips. Passep­artout, not yet re­cov­ered from his stu­pe­fac­tion, clung me­chan­ical­ly to the car­pet-​bag, with its enor­mous trea­sure.

Just as the train was whirling through Syden­ham, Passep­artout sud­den­ly ut­tered a cry of de­spair.

“What's the mat­ter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Alas! In my hur­ry--I--I for­got--”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” re­turned Mr. Fogg, cool­ly; “it will burn--at your ex­pense.”