In Which Phileas Fogg at Last Reaches London
Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom
House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day.
Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen
upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was
thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not
understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the
honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young
woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she
saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector,
she wept bitterly.
As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty,
whether Mr. Fogg was guilty or not.
The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of
this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his
master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had
he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no
doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of
his mistake. At least, Fix would not have continued his journey
at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him
the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he
was blind and felt like blowing his brains out.
Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of
the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place. Both were
anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.
That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he
was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having
arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st
of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to
reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter. The
journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.
If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would
have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm and without apparent
anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned, but
this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of
any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages,
all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst
forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one
could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting--for what? Did he still
cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this
prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?
However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon
the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped
his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The
situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus
stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a
knave, he was caught.
Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any
practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from
it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the
door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He
sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line
where these words were written, "21st December, Saturday,
Liverpool," he added, "80th day, 11:40 A.M.," and waited.
The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his
watch was two hours too fast.
Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express
train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter
before nine P.M. His forehead slightly wrinkled.
At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise
outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout's voice was
audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg's eyes
brightened for an instant.
The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who
hurried towards him.
Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not
speak. "Sir," he stammered, "sir--forgive me--a most--unfortunate
resemblance--robber arrested three days ago--you--are free!"
Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him
steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever
made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his
arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down.
"Well hit!" cried Passepartout. "Parbleu! That's what you might
call a good application of English fists!"
Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had
only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda and Passepartout left
the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few
moments descended at the station.
Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave
for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had
left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.
There were several rapid locomotives on hand, but the railway
arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until
three o'clock.
At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the
offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with
Aouda and his faithful servant.
It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half.
This would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there
were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at
the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes
before nine.1
Having made the tour of the world, he was behind time by five
minutes. He had lost the wager!
1 A somewhat remarkable eccentricity on the part of the London
clocks? Translator.