Around the World in 80 Days | Page 9

was not due in Saville Row until precisely
midnight.
Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, "Passepartout!"
Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.
"Passepartout!" repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.
Passepartout made his appearance.

"I've called you twice," observed his master.
"But it is not midnight," responded the other, showing his watch.
"I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes."
A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face; clearly he had not comprehended
his master.
"Monsieur is going to leave home?"
"Yes," returned Phileas Fogg. "We are going round the world."
Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed
about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.
"Round the world!" he murmured.
"In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose."
"But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.
"We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for
me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh
and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make
haste!"
Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell
into a chair, and muttered: "That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!"
He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in
eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover;
good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France
five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go
as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a
gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt-- but, then, it was none the
less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto!
By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the
wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the
door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg.
Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of
Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables
showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag,
opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass
wherever he might go.

"You have forgotten nothing?" asked he.
"Nothing, monsieur."
"My mackintosh and cloak?"
"Here they are."
"Good! Take this carpet-bag," handing it to Passepartout. "Take good care of it, for there
are twenty thousand pounds in it."
Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and
weighed him down.
Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of
Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before
the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and
followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a
poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head
covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders
shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.
Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the
beggar, saying, "Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you;" and passed on.
Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master's action touched his
susceptible heart.
Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing
the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, "I'm off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when
I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed
upon."
"Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg," said Ralph politely. "We will trust your
word, as a gentleman of honour."
"You do not forget when you are due in London again?" asked Stuart.
"In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m.
Good-bye, gentlemen."
Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes
before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the
station.
The night