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 skillfully 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
Moliere, 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 rosy, his figure full 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 way of fixing 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 annoyance, he found his masters invariably
whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or
on the lookout 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 remark on such conduct;
but when it was 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 traveled 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
recognized 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. 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 program 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 completely 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. 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 idealized. There was no study, nor were there books, which
would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform Club
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 peaceful habits.
Having examined the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his
hands, a broad smile spread over 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."