Around the World in 80 Days | Page 4

not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the
most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He
lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic
sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed,
in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much
less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once
to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured
members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or

making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance
hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty
red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he
breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and
dairy--aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the
gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands
in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his
sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly
cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good
in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The
habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but
Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very
2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought
him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was
awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a
grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he
was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the
seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would,
according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was
seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
"The new servant," said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which
has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into
another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've
been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a
rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of
my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But
I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took
service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur
Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have
come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the
name of Passepartout."
"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear

a good report of you. You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good! What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver
watch from the depths of his pocket.
"You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--"
"You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from
this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you
are in my service."
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic
motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it
shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout
remained alone in the house in Saville Row.


Chapter