Around the World in 80 Days | Page 5

II
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 skilfully 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 rubicund, his figure almost portly 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 of
dressing 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 chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular,
constantly running about the country, or on the look-out 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
remonstrance on such conduct; which, being 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 travelled 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 begun 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 recognised 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; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr.
Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second