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Around the World in Eighty Days
Chapter 2. IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
"Faith," muttered Passepartout, a little nervous, "I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!"
Madame Tussaud's "people," it must be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London.
Speech is all that's missing to make them seem human.
During his short meeting with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been watching him closely.
He looked to be a man of about forty, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped body.
His hair and whiskers were light, his forehead firm and smooth, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent.
His face showed, above all, what people who study faces call calm in action, a quality of those who do more than they speak.
Calm and slow to show feeling, with clear eyes, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect example of English calmness Angelica Kauffmann showed.
Seen in his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly balanced, as exactly set as a Leroy chronometer.
Phileas Fogg was exact, shown even in his hands and feet, for in men, as in animals, limbs show the passions.
He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and saved his steps and his movements.
He never took one step too many, and always went to his goal by the shortest way.
He didn't make extra gestures, and was never seen to be moved or upset.
He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his goal at the exact time.
He lived alone, and, you might say, outside of any social ties.
And since he knew that in this world you must count on friction, and that friction slows things down, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris.
Since he had left his country for England and taken work as a valet, he had looked in vain for a master he liked.
Passepartout wasn't one of those bold fools that Moliere shows with a proud look and a high nose.
He was an honest man with a pleasant face, lips a little full, gentle and ready to serve.
He had a good round head, the kind you like to see on a friend's shoulders.
His eyes were blue and his skin looked fresh.
He was almost stout and well built, strong from the exercises of his younger days.
His brown hair was a little untidy.
For while the old sculptors are said to have known many ways to set Minerva's hair, Passepartout knew only one way to dress his own.
Three strokes with a wide-tooth comb finished his dressing.
It would be rash to say how Passepartout's lively nature would fit with Mr. Fogg.
It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as exactly ordered as his master wanted.
Only experience could answer the question.
Passepartout had been a kind of wanderer in his early years, and now wanted rest.
But so far he hadn't found it, though he had worked in ten English houses.
He couldn't take root in any of them.
With anger, he found his masters always strange and irregular, always running about the country, or looking for adventure.
His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after nights in the Haymarket taverns, was often brought home on policemen's shoulders.
Passepartout, wanting to respect the gentleman he served, made a mild complaint about that behavior.
It wasn't well received, so he left.
He heard that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant.
He learned that Fogg's life was one of perfect regularity and that he neither travelled nor spent nights away.
He felt sure this would be the place he wanted.
He came, and was accepted, as we have seen.
At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row.
He began his inspection at once, cleaning it from cellar to attic.
So clean, well-ordered, and serious a house pleased him.
It seemed to him like a snail's shell, lit and warmed by gas, which was enough for both jobs.
When Passepartout reached the second floor he saw at once the room he was to live in.
And he was very pleased with it.
Electric bells and speaking tubes gave contact with the lower floors.
On the mantel stood an electric clock exactly like the one in Mr. Fogg's bedroom.
Both clocks beat the same second at the same time.
"That's good, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly saw, hanging over the clock, a card which, on looking closer, proved to be a program of the daily routine of the house.
It showed everything the servant had to do from eight in the morning, the exact hour Phileas Fogg rose.
It showed tasks until half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club.
It gave all the service details, such as times for meals and care.
Tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, shaving water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, dressing at twenty minutes before ten.
Everything was planned and known that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour when the methodical gentleman went to bed.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was full and in the best taste.
Each pair of trousers, coat, and waistcoat had a number, showing the time of year and season when they were to be worn.
The same system was used for the master's shoes.
In short, the house in Saville Row must have been a place of disorder and unrest under the famous but wasted Sheridan.
It was now cosiness, comfort, and method made real.
There was no study, nor any books, which would have been useless to Mr. Fogg.
At the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were for his use.
A medium-sized safe stood in his bedroom, built to resist fire as well as burglars.
But Passepartout found no arms or hunting weapons anywhere.
Everything showed the most calm and peaceful habits.
Having looked over the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile spread over his face, 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."