1 In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout agree their relationship, that of master and servant In the year 1872, the house at number 7 Savile Row,1 Burlington Gardens – the house in which Sheridan2 died in 1814 – was lived in by Phileas Fogg, Esq., one of the oddest and most striking members of the Reform Club,3 even though he seemed determined to avoid doing anything that might draw attention to himself. And so one of the nation’s most brilliant parliamentary speakers had been replaced by the enigmatic figure of Phileas Fogg, about whom nothing was known except that he was the most courteous of men and one of the most handsome gentlemen in English high society. People compared him to Byron – because of his good looks, certainly not because of a limp – but a Byron with a moustache and whiskers, an impassive-looking Byron, who could have lived for a thousand years without showing the signs of age. Though he was undoubtedly English, Phileas Fogg was not necessarily a Londoner. He had never been seen at the Stock Exchange or the Bank of England, or in any of the financial institutions of the City. No dock or basin in London had ever handled a ship whose owner was called Phileas Fogg. The gentleman in question did not figure on any list of board of directors. His name had never echoed through an Inn of Court,4 either the Temple, Lincoln’s Inn or Gray’s Inn. He had never pleaded in the Court of Chancery, nor on the Queen’s Bench, nor in the Court of Exchequer, nor in the Ecclesiastical Court.5 He was neither a factory owner, nor a businessman, nor a merchant, nor a landowner. He was not a member of the Royal Institution, nor of the London Institution, nor of the Artisan Club, nor of the Russell Institution, nor of the Literary Society of the West of England, nor of the Law Society, nor of the Combined Society for the Arts and Sciences, which enjoys the direct patronage of her Gracious Majesty. He belonged to none of those numerous societies that proliferate in the English capital, from the Harmonic Society down to the Entomological Society,6 whose main purpose is the destruction of harmful insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform Club, and that was it. Anyone who may be surprised that a gentleman so shrouded in mystery should belong to this honourable association should realize that he had been admitted on the recommendation of Messrs Baring Brothers,7 with whom he had an account. His financial standing was such that his cheques went through immediately and his current account was always in credit. Was Phileas Fogg a wealthy man? There could be no doubt about that. But even the best-informed people were unable to say where his wealth came from, and Mr Fogg was the last person they would have dared to ask directly. In any case, he was careful about money without being mean, since whenever a noble, useful or generous cause was short of funds, he made up the amount required without making a fuss, without even giving his name. In a word, he was the most uncommunicative of gentlemen. He talked as little as possible and this silence served only to increase his aura of mystery. Though he lived his life quite openly, he carried out his activities with such mathematical precision that it fuelled other people’s imagination. Was he well travelled? Quite probably, since he had a better knowledge than anyone else of world geography. There wasn’t a single out-of-the way place that he didn’t seem to know in detail. Sometimes, by a brief but precise intervention, he corrected idle club speculation about travellers who had disappeared or got lost. He offered the most likely explanation of what had happened to them, and his words often seemed to be inspired by a second sight, since they were always borne out by events. Here was someone who must have travelled a lot – in his head, at any rate. What was beyond doubt, however, was that Phileas Fogg had not been outside London for many years. Those who had the privilege of knowing him better than most could confirm that the only sightings of him were as he walked each day from his house straight to his club. His only pastimes were reading the newspapers and playing whist. He often won when he played this silent game that was so well suited to his temperament, but his winnings never went into his own pocket. They made up instead a large part of what he gave to charity. It should also be noted that it was obvious that Mr Fogg played for enjoyment and not to win. The game of whist was for him a combat, a struggle against difficulty, but a struggle that did not require him to go anywhere or travel around or tire himself out, and all that suited his temperament. As far as was known, Phileas Fogg didn’t have a wife or children – something that can happen to the most respectable of people – but he had no relatives or friends either, which is less common. Phileas Fogg lived alone in his house in Savile Row, and never let in visitors. The inside of his house was never mentioned. A single manservant was enough for his needs. He took lunch and dinner at the club like clockwork, always in the same dining-room and at the same table. He never entertained his fellow members at table, never invited guests, and went back home only to sleep, at exactly midnight, without ever making use of one of the comfortable bedrooms that the Reform Club makes available to its members. Out of every twenty-four hours he spent ten in his home, either sleeping or getting himself ready. When he went for a walk, it was always at a carefully measured pace and in the club’s entrance hall, with its inlaid wooden floor, or in the round gallery, above which rose a blue stained-glass dome supported by twenty Ionian columns in red porphyry. When he had lunch or dinner, it was the club’s kitchens, larder and pantry, its fish store and dairy, that supplied his table from their delicious reserves. It was the club’s servants, solemnlooking figures dressed in black uniforms and wearing soft-soled shoes, who served the meal in special china and on the finest table linen. It was the club’s cut glass, made to a one-off design, that held his sherry, his port or his claret served with cinnamon and herbs. It was also the club’s ice, brought at great expense from the lakes of North America, that kept his drinks chilled to just the right temperature. If this is what it means to be an eccentric, then it must be admitted that eccentricity has something to be said for it! The house in Savile Row, without being luxurious, could be considered extremely comfortable. In any case, because the habits of its occupant never varied, serving him was a simple matter. However, Phileas Fogg required his only servant to be extremely punctual and reliable. On that particular day, 2 October, Phileas Fogg had dismissed James Forster, as the fellow had committed the crime of bringing him his water for shaving at a temperature of eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit, instead of eighty-six, and he was waiting for his replacement, who was due to arrive between eleven o’clock and half past eleven. Phileas Fogg, firmly ensconced in his armchair, with his feet close together like those of a soldier on parade, with his hands on his knees, his back straight and his head raised, was watching the hands of the clock move forward. It was a complicated piece of machinery that showed the hour, the minute, the day, the month and the year. On the stroke of half past eleven Mr Fogg was due, according to his daily routine, to leave the house and go to the Reform Club. Just at that moment there was a knock on the door of the small drawing-room in which Phileas Fogg was sitting. James Forster, the manservant who had just been dismissed, appeared. ‘The new servant,’ he said. A man aged about thirty presented himself and bowed. ‘You are French and your name is John?’ Phileas Fogg asked him. ‘Jean, if you please, sir,’ replied the new arrival. ‘Jean Passepartout, a nickname that has stuck and that I earned by my natural ability to get myself out of tricky situations. I consider myself to be a decent fellow, sir, but, to be quite honest with you, I’ve had several different jobs. I was a travelling singer, a horse-rider in a circus, a trapeze artist and a tightrope walker. Then I became a gymnastics instructor in order to put my talents to more practical use, and most recently I was a fireman in Paris. I’ve even been on the scene of some famous fires in my time. But five years ago I left France and, since then, because I wanted to live with a family, I’ve been a manservant in England. However, when I found myself without a position and when I learnt that Mr Phileas Fogg was the most precise and most stay-at-home person in the United Kingdom, I came to sir’s house in the hope of being able to lead a quiet life and put behind me everything associated with Passepartout, even the name.’ ‘Passepartout suits me,’ replied the gentleman. ‘You have been recommended to me. I have good reports of you. Do you know my terms?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Good. What time do you make it?’ ‘Eleven twenty-two,’ replied Passepartout, as he took out from the depths of his waistcoat pocket an enormous silver watch. ‘Your watch is slow,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘Forgive me, sir, but that is impossible.’ ‘Your watch is four minutes slow. It’s not important. All that matters is to note the difference in time. So from this moment onwards, eleven twenty-nine8 on the morning of 2 October 1872, you are working for me.’ With that, Phileas Fogg got to his feet, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with the precision of clockwork and disappeared without saying another word. Passepartout heard the front door close a first time: it was his master going out. Then it closed a second time: it was his predecessor, James Forster, leaving in turn. Passepartout was now alone in the house in Savile Row. 2 Where Passepartout is convinced that he has at long last found his ideal ‘In all honesty,’ Passepartout said to himself, somewhat bemused to begin with, ‘I’ve encountered wax figures in Madame Tussaud’s with more life about them than my new master!’ During the brief opportunity he had just had of seeing Phileas Fogg, Passepartout had quickly but carefully observed his future master. He was a man of perhaps forty, with fine and noble features, tall of stature if slightly portly, with fair hair and whiskers, a smooth forehead with no sign of wrinkles around the temples, a complexion that was pale rather than full of colour and magnificent teeth. He seemed the very embodiment of what the physiognomists1 call ‘stillness in the midst of agitation’, a quality common to all those who prefer action to words. Calm, phlegmatic, with clear eyes and a firm gaze, he was the perfect example of the cool-headed Englishman, a type commonly encountered in England and one that the paintings of Angelica Kauffmann2 have captured perfectly in rather a formal pose. As he went about his daily business, the gentleman gave the impression of something perfectly calibrated and finely balanced, like a chronometer made by a master craftsman. Phileas Fogg was indeed the paragon of precision, as could be seen from the expressiveness of his feet and hands since in human beings as well as in animals the limbs are themselves a means of expressing feelings. Phileas Fogg was a person of mathematical preciseness, someone who was never rushed but always ready, always economical in his movements. He never took an unnecessary stride and always chose the shortest route. He never allowed himself to be distracted. He was careful never to make a superfluous gesture. He had never been known to be upset or disturbed. He was the least hurried person in the world, but he always arrived on time. However, it is easy to understand why he lived alone and without any social relationships: he knew that everyday life involved social contact and because such contact took up time he chose to live without it. As for Jean, who was known as Passepartout, he was a Parisian through and through. During the five years he had spent in England working as a manservant in London, he had looked in vain for a master who he could devote himself to. Passepartout was not one of those cheeky or scheming servants who strut about, trying to be clever and cocky. On the contrary he was a good chap with a friendly face and prominent lips that were made for eating, drinking and kissing. He was a kind and helpful soul, with just the type of roundish head that you’d like to see on a friend’s shoulders. He had blue eyes, a bright complexion, a plump face and puffy cheeks, a broad chest, a thick waist, powerful muscles and an immense strength, further developed by plenty of exercise during his youth. His brown hair was rather unruly. If the sculptors of antiquity knew eighteen different ways of arranging Minerva’s tresses,3 Passepartout knew only one way of doing his hair: dragging a comb through it three times. Whether someone of his extrovert nature would get on with a person like Phileas Fogg was too early to say. Would Passepartout be the sort of servant, precise as clockwork, that his master needed? Only time would tell. After having had an adventurous youth, as has been seen, all he wanted was a quiet life. Having heard people sing the praises of the methodical nature4 of the English and the proverbial coldness of their gentlemen, he had come to England in search of fortune. But so far luck had not been on his side. He had not been able to settle down anywhere. He had worked in ten different households. In every one the people had been temperamental or unpredictable, eager to seek out adventure or explore other countries, something that no longer suited Passepartout. His most recent master, the young Lord Longsferry, a Member of Parliament, regularly needed to be helped back home by policemen after his late nights out on the town. Since what Passepartout wanted most was a master he could look up to, he ventured some polite observations, but they were not appreciated and so he left. He discovered in the meanwhile that Phileas Fogg, Esq., was looking for a servant. He made some enquiries about this gentleman. Someone whose daily life was so well ordered, someone who never spent the night away from home and didn’t travel or even go away for a day, was bound to suit him. He went along to his house and was taken on in the circumstances already outlined. And so, as half past eleven struck, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Savile Row. He immediately began to look around. He inspected it from top to bottom. The house was clean and tidy, austere and puritanical, and well planned for servants. He liked it. For him it was like being inside the shell of a snail, but a snail that had gas lighting and heating! Coal gas supplied, in fact, all that was needed for heating and lighting. Passepartout had no difficulty in finding the second-floor bedroom that was to be his. It pleased him. Electric bells and speaking tubes made it possible to communicate with the suites of rooms on the ground and first floors. On the mantelpiece an electric clock matched the clock in Phileas Fogg’s bedroom, and both instruments showed exactly the same time, down to the last second. ‘This really suits me down to the ground,’ Passepartout said to himself. He also noticed in the bedroom a piece of paper above the clock. It set out the daily routine for domestic service. It contained – from eight o’clock in the morning, the set time when Phileas Fogg got up, until half past eleven, the time when he left for lunch in the Reform club – all the details of domestic service: tea and toast at eight twentythree, water for shaving at nine thirty-seven, doing the master’s hair at twenty to ten, etc. Then from half past eleven in the morning until midnight – the time when this methodically minded gentleman went to bed – everything was written down, planned out and taken care of. Passepartout was overjoyed to contemplate this timetable and to commit every detail to memory. As for the gentleman’s wardrobe, it was very extensive and carefully thought out. Each pair of trousers, each jacket or waistcoat, carried a roll number that was also recorded in a logbook, showing the date when the items of clothing, according to the time of year, were to be worn in rotation. The same system applied to the shoes. In a word, this house in Savile Row – which must have been a monument to disorder in the time of the famous but dissolute Sheridan – was comfortably furnished, a sure sign of considerable wealth. Mr Fogg didn’t have a library or books. They were unnecessary since the Reform Club gave him access to two libraries, one for literature and the other for law and politics. In the bedroom there was a medium-sized safe, built to withstand both fire and theft. There were no firearms in the house, no hunting guns or weapons of war. Everything indicated peaceful pursuits. After examining the residence in detail, Passepartout rubbed his hands in glee. His broad face was beaming and he repeated joyfully, ‘This suits me down to the ground. It’s just what I wanted. Mr Fogg and I will get on famously. A home-loving and well-ordered man. Someone who functions like clockwork. Well, I’m not sorry in the least to be working for someone who functions like clockwork!’ 3 In which Phileas Fogg becomes involved in a conversation that could prove costly to him Phileas Fogg had left his home in Savile Row at half past eleven and, after putting his right foot in front of his left foot 575 times and his left foot in front of his right foot 576 times, he reached the Reform Club, a huge building in Pall Mall that had cost no less than £120,000 to construct. Phileas Fogg went immediately to the dining-room, with its nine windows opening on to an attractive garden with trees that had already turned an autumn brown. There he sat down at his usual table where his place was already set. His lunch consisted of a starter, followed by poached fish served with a first-rate Reading sauce,1 a blood-red steak accompanied by mushroom ketchup,2 a rhubarb and gooseberry pie and a slice of Cheshire cheese, all of which was washed down by several cups of tea, an excellent variety that had been specially picked for the pantry of the Reform Club. At forty-seven minutes past midday, the gentleman got up and walked over to the main drawing-room, a magnificent place decorated with richly framed paintings. There a servant handed him an uncut copy of The Times, which Phileas Fogg proceeded to carefully unfold with a skilfulness that demonstrated a considerable familiarity with this delicate operation. Phileas Fogg continued reading this newspaper until three forty-five, following it with the Standard, which took him up to dinner. This meal followed the same pattern as lunch, except for the addition of ‘Royal British sauce’. At twenty to six the gentleman appeared again in the main drawing-room and engrossed himself in the Morning Chronicle. Half an hour later, various members of the Reform Club came in and went up to the fireplace, where a blazing coal fire was burning. They were Mr Phileas Fogg’s usual partners, fanatical whist players like him: the engineer Andrew Stuart, the bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the brewer Thomas Flanagan and Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England – all wealthy and distinguished figures, even for a club whose members included the leading lights in industry and banking. ‘So Ralph,’ inquired Thomas Flanagan, ‘what’s the latest on this business of the robbery?’ ‘Well,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘the Bank isn’t going to get its money back.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Gauthier Ralph, ‘I hope that we will be able to get our hands on the criminal. Police detectives, the best in the business, have been sent to America and Europe, to all the main ports of entry and exit, and it will be extremely difficult for this person to escape them.’ ‘So you have the description of the thief, do you?’ asked Andrew Stuart. ‘In the first place he’s not a thief,’ Gauthier Ralph replied in all seriousness. ‘What, you don’t call someone who’s got away with £55,000 in banknotes a thief?’ ‘No,’ replied Gauthier Ralph. ‘So he’s a businessman, is he?’ said John Sullivan. ‘The Morning Chronicle tells us that he’s a gentleman.’ The person who gave this reply was none other than Phileas Fogg, whose head emerged at that point from behind the pile of paper surrounding him. At the same time Phileas Fogg greeted his colleagues, who greeted him in turn. The incident under discussion, which was a subject of heated debate in the various British newspapers, had occurred three days earlier, on 29 September. A wad of banknotes, amounting to the enormous sum of £55,000, had been taken from the desk of the principal cashier of the Bank of England. To anyone who expressed surprise that such a theft could have taken place so easily, the deputy governor Gauthier Ralph merely replied that at that moment the cashier was busy recording a taking of three shillings and sixpence and that he couldn’t keep an eye on everything. But it should be pointed out here – and this makes what happened somewhat easier to explain – that this admirable institution called the Bank of England seems to be extremely concerned for the dignity of the public. There are no guards, no former soldiers and no grilles. Gold, silver and banknotes are on open display at the mercy, so to speak, of all-comers. It would be unthinkable to question the honesty of any member of the public. One of the keenest observers of English society even recounts the following anecdote: one day when he happened to be in one of the rooms in the Bank, he was eager to have a close-up view of a gold ingot, weighing between seven and eight pounds, which was lying on the cashier’s desk for all to see. He picked up the ingot, examined it, handed it to the person next to him, who in turn passed it on, the result being that the gold bar went down to the end of a dark corridor only to come back to its original place half an hour later, without the cashier even looking up. But on 29 September things didn’t quite turn out the same way. The wad of banknotes did not come back, and when the magnificent clock above the cash desk struck five o’clock, closing time, all the Bank of England could do was to register in its accounts a loss of £55,000. Once the theft had been duly reported, police detectives, the pick of the profession, were dispatched to the main ports, Liverpool, Glasgow, Le Havre, Suez, Brindisi and New York, with the promise of a reward of £2,000 plus five per cent of the amount recovered if they were successful. While waiting for the results of the investigation that had got under way immediately, the inspectors were given the task of keeping a careful eye on all passengers entering or leaving these ports. As it happened, just as the Morning Chronicle claimed, there was reason to believe that the person responsible for the theft was not a member of the criminal fraternity. During that day of 29 September, a well-dressed, well-mannered and distinguished-looking gentleman had been noticed pacing around in the cash room, the scene of the crime. The investigation had made it possible to put together quite an accurate description of the gentleman and it had then been sent immediately to every detective in the United Kingdom and on the continent. Some wise souls – and Gauthier Ralph was one of them – therefore felt justified in thinking that the thief would not get away. As can well be imagined, this incident was on everyone’s lips in London and the whole country. It was the subject of heated debate, with differing opinions on the chances of success for the Metropolitan Police. It should come as no surprise, then, to hear the members of the Reform Club discussing the same issue, especially as one of the Bank’s deputy governors was among their number. The highly respected Gauthier Ralph had no intention of doubting the success of the police investigation, since he considered that the reward on offer should act as a considerable incentive to the energy and competence of the police. But his colleague Andrew Stuart was far from being so confident. And so the discussion continued between these gentlemen as they sat at the whist table, Stuart partnering Flanagan and Fallentin partnering Phileas Fogg. During the game the players didn’t speak, but between the rubbers the conversation resumed, more lively than before. ‘I maintain,’ said Andrew Stuart, ‘that the thief is likely to get away with it, since he’s bound to be a smart individual.’ ‘Come off it,’ replied Ralph. ‘There isn’t a single country where he can hide.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Where do you expect him to go?’ ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘but after all, the world’s a big place.’ ‘That used to be true,’ said Phileas Fogg quietly. Then he added, ‘It’s your turn to cut, sir,’ showing the cards to Thomas Flanagan. The discussion was broken off during the rubber. But soon Andrew Stuart brought the subject up again: ‘What do you mean “used to be true”? Has the earth got smaller, by any chance?’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Gauthier Ralph. ‘I agree with Mr Fogg. The earth has got smaller because you can now travel around it ten times as quickly as a hundred years ago. And, in relation to this particular case, that’s what will speed up the police inquiries.’ ‘And that’s what will make it easier for the thief to escape as well!’ ‘Your turn to play, Mr Stuart,’ said Phileas Fogg. But the sceptical Stuart was not convinced, and when the game was over he added, ‘I must admit, Ralph, that you’ve got a funny way of saying that the world has become smaller! Just because you can now go around the world in three months –’ ‘In a mere eighty days,’ said Phileas Fogg. ‘Quite right, dear sirs,’ added John Sullivan, ‘eighty days since the opening of the section between Rothal and Allahabad on the Indian Peninsular Railway. This is how the Morning Chronicle worked it out: From London to Suez via the Mont Cenis tunnel3 and Brindisi, by railway and steamship 7 days From Suez to Bombay, by steamship 13 days From Bombay to Calcutta, by railway 3 days From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamship 13 days From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamship 6 days From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamship 22 days From San Francisco to New York, by railroad4 7 days From New York to London, by steamship and railway 9 days Total 80 days’ ‘Yes, eighty days,’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart, accidentally trumping a winning card, ‘but that doesn’t take account of bad weather, adverse winds, shipwrecks, derailments, etc.’ ‘It does include them,’ replied Phileas Fogg while continuing to play because by now the whist was taking second place to the discussion. ‘Even if the natives of India or North America take up the rails?’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart. ‘Even if they stop the trains, ransack the wagons and scalp the travellers?’ ‘Including all that,’ replied Phileas Fogg, laying out his hand and adding, ‘Two winning trumps.’ Andrew Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, picked up the cards and said, ‘In theory you are right, Mr Fogg, but in practice …’ ‘In practice too, Mr Stuart.’ ‘I’d like to see you prove it.’ ‘That depends only on you. Let’s do it together.’ ‘Heaven forbid,’ exclaimed Stuart, ‘but I’m quite prepared to bet £4,000 that such a journey undertaken in these circumstances is impossible.’ ‘Quite possible, on the contrary,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘Well, try it, then.’ ‘To go around the world in eighty days?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m quite prepared to.’ ‘When?’ ‘Straightaway.’ ‘This is madness,’ exclaimed Andrew Stuart, who was beginning to get annoyed at his partner’s persistence. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the game.’ ‘Deal the cards again, then,’ replied Phileas Fogg, ‘because there’s been a misdeal.’ Andrew Stuart’s hands trembled as he took back the cards, and then he suddenly put them down on the table, saying, ‘Well, all right, Mr Fogg, all right. I’ll bet £4,000.’ ‘My dear Stuart,’ said Fallentin, ‘calm down. You must be joking.’ ‘When I talk about betting,’ replied Andrew Stuart, ‘I’m never joking.’ ‘I accept,’ said Mr Fogg. Then he turned towards his colleagues: ‘I have £20,000 deposited with Baring Brothers. I’m quite prepared to risk them …’ ‘£20,000!’ exclaimed John Sullivan. ‘£20,000 that you could lose as a result of an unexpected delay!’ ‘There’s no such thing as the unexpected,’ was all Phileas Fogg said in reply. ‘But Mr Fogg, this period of eighty days is calculated only as the minimum time.’ ‘A minimum put to good use is enough for anything.’ ‘But in order not to exceed it, you have to change with mathematical precision from railway to steamship and from steamship to railway.’ ‘I will do it with mathematical precision.’ ‘You must be joking!’ ‘A true Englishman never jokes about something as serious as a bet,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘I bet £20,000 against anyone that I will go around the world in eighty days or less, in other words 1,920 hours or 115,200 minutes. Do you accept?’ ‘We do,’ replied Messrs Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan and Ralph after agreeing among themselves. ‘Good,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘The Dover train leaves at eight fortyfive. I shall be on it.’ ‘On it tonight?’ asked Stuart. ‘Yes, tonight,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘So,’ he added as he consulted a pocket calendar, ‘since today is Wednesday 2 October, I must be back in London in this very drawing-room in the Reform Club on Saturday 21 December at eight forty-five in the evening. Otherwise, the £20,000 now in my account with Baring Brothers will legally be yours to share. Here’s a cheque for the same amount.’ The terms of the bet were drawn up and signed on the spot by the six parties concerned. Phileas Fogg remained calm and collected. He had certainly not made the bet in order to win money and he had only committed these £20,000 – half of his fortune – because he expected to have to spend the other half on carrying out this difficult, not to say impossible, mission. His opponents, for their part, seemed uncomfortable, not because of the amount of money at stake but because they felt embarrassed about the one-sidedness of the arrangement. Seven o’clock then struck. They offered Mr Fogg the possibility of stopping the game to enable him to prepare his departure. ‘I’m always ready,’ replied this impassive gentleman and, handing out the cards, he said, ‘Diamonds are trumps. Your turn, Mr Stuart.’ 4 In which Phileas Fogg takes his servant Passepartout completely by surprise At seven twenty-five, after winning about twenty guineas at whist, Phileas Fogg said goodbye to his distinguished colleagues and left the Reform Club. At seven fifty he opened the door of his house and went inside. Passepartout, who had been conscientiously studying his work schedule, was quite surprised to see Mr Fogg appear at this unusual hour, committing such an error of timing. According to what was written down, the occupant of Savile Row was not due to return until exactly midnight. Phileas Fogg first went up to his bedroom, then called out, ‘Passepartout.’ Passepartout did not reply. The call couldn’t possibly be for him. It wasn’t the right time. ‘Passepartout,’ Mr Fogg repeated without raising his voice. Passepartout appeared. ‘That’s the second time I’ve called you,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘But it’s not midnight yet,’ replied Passepartout, with his watch in his hand. ‘I know,’ replied Phileas Fogg, ‘and I’m not criticizing you. In ten minutes we leave for Dover and Calais.’ A puzzled sort of expression appeared on the Frenchman’s roundish face. It was obvious that he had misheard. ‘Is sir off somewhere?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘We are going around the world.’ With his staring eyes, raised eyelids and eyebrows, limp arms and slumped body, Passepartout at that moment displayed all the symptoms of surprise bordering on stupefaction. ‘Around the world!’ he muttered. ‘In eighty days,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘So we don’t have a moment to spare.’ ‘But what about the suitcases?’ said Passepartout, whose head was rocking involuntarily from right to left. ‘No suitcases. Just an overnight bag. In it two woollen shirts and three pairs of socks. The same for you. We can buy things on the journey. Bring down my raincoat and my travel rug. Get some sturdy shoes. In any case, we won’t be doing a lot of walking. Off you go.’ Passepartout would have liked to respond. He was unable to do so. He left Mr Fogg’s bedroom, went up to his own and collapsed into a chair. Lapsing into a colloquialism, he said to himself, ‘Well! That takes the biscuit. Just when I was looking forward to a quiet life …’ And so, like an automaton, he got ready to leave. Around the world in eighty days! Was he dealing with a madman? No. It was a joke … They were going to Dover. Fair enough. To Calais. Fine. After all, that was nothing for the dear fellow to get upset about when he hadn’t set foot in France for five years. Perhaps they would get as far as Paris and, to be honest, he would be pleased to see the great capital city again. But certainly a gentleman who was so careful not to take one step too many would go no further than that. Yes, that was it, quite probably, but it was also a fact that this gentleman, who up to then had been so much of a stay-at-home, was about to set off, to get on the move. By eight o’clock Passepartout had prepared the smallish bag containing his and his master’s clothes. Then, still feeling at a loss, he left his room, carefully closed the door and rejoined Mr Fogg. Mr Fogg was ready. He was carrying under his arm Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide,1 which was to give him all the information needed for his journey. He took the bag from Passepartout, opened it and slipped into it a thick wad of those splendid banknotes that are legal tender all over the world. ‘Have you forgotten anything?’ he asked. ‘Nothing, sir.’ ‘My raincoat and my rug?’ ‘Here they are.’ ‘Good, take this bag.’ Mr Fogg handed the bag to Passepartout. ‘Be careful with it. There are £20,000 inside.’ Passepartout almost let go of the bag as if the £20,000 had been in gold and too heavy to carry. Master and servant then went downstairs and they double-locked the front door behind them. There was a carriage rank at the far end of Savile Row. Phileas Fogg and his servant got into a cab, which drove quickly to Charing Cross station, the terminus for one of the branch lines of the South-Eastern Railway. At twenty past eight, the cab stopped in front of the railings of the station. Passepartout jumped down. His master followed and paid the coachman. At that moment a poor beggar woman with a child in her hands, barefoot in the mud, wearing a tattered shawl over her rags and a battered hat decorated with a pathetic-looking feather, went up to Phileas Fogg, asking for charity. Mr Fogg took out of his pocket the twenty guineas he had just won at whist and, as he gave them to the beggar woman, said, ‘Take this, my poor woman. I’m glad to have met you.’ Then he went on. Passepartout felt as if tears were coming to his eyes. His master had made an impression on his heart. Mr Fogg and he immediately went into the main hall of the station. There Phileas Fogg told Passepartout to buy two first-class tickets for Paris. Then, as he turned around, he noticed his five fellow members of the Reform Club. ‘Gentlemen, I’m on my way,’ he said, ‘and the various stamps in the passport I’m taking for this very purpose will enable you to check where I have been when I get back.’ ‘Oh, Mr Fogg,’ replied Gauthier Ralph politely, ‘that’s not necessary. We will rely on your word as a gentleman.’ ‘I prefer it this way,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘You won’t forget, will you, that you must be back –’ remarked Andrew Stuart. ‘In eighty days,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘by Saturday 21 December 1872, at eight forty-five in the evening. Goodbye, gentlemen.’ At eight forty Phileas Fogg and his servant took their places in the same compartment. At eight forty-five the whistle blew and the train set off. It was pitch dark, and it was drizzling with rain. Phileas Fogg, sitting in his corner, didn’t say a word. Passepartout, still in a state of shock, was clinging on to the bag of banknotes, like an automaton. But the train had got no further than Sydenham when Passepartout let out a real cry of despair. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘What’s the matter is … in the rush … my state of confusion … I forgot …’ ‘What?’ ‘To switch off the gas lamp in my bedroom.’ ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ Phileas Fogg replied coldly, ‘you’ll be paying the bill!’ 5 In which a new type of share appears on the London market When he left London, Phileas Fogg could have had little idea of the impact that his departure would have. The news of the bet first went around the Reform Club and had a considerable effect on the members of that distinguished institution. Then, from the club, its effect spread to the newspapers via reporters and from the newspapers to the public in London and the whole United Kingdom. This issue of the ‘journey around the world’ was discussed, argued about and analysed with as much passion and energy as if it had been a major international dispute like the Alabama Claim.1 Some people sided with Phileas Fogg, others – and they were soon in the majority – came out against him. To go around the world, other than in theory and on paper, in such a short time and with the means of transport currently available, was not only impossible, it was madness. The Times, the Standard, the Evening Star, the Morning Chronicle, and a dozen other newspapers with a wide circulation came out against Mr Fogg. Only the Daily Telegraph supported him up to a point. Phileas Fogg was in general considered an obsessive and a madman and his fellow members of the Reform Club were criticized for having accepted this bet, which was evidence of a decline in the mental capacities of the person who had made it. Some extremely heated but well-argued articles were published on the subject. It is well known how seriously anything involving geography is taken in England. And so there was not a single reader, regardless of social class, who failed to devour the columns devoted to the case of Phileas Fogg. In the early days, some independent-minded people – mainly women – were for him, especially when the Illustrated London News2 published his portrait, based on a photograph from the archives of the Reform Club. Some gentlemen went as far as to say, ‘Well, why not, after all? Stranger things have happened!’ They were mainly readers of the Daily Telegraph. But it soon became clear that even the support of this newspaper was beginning to wane. In the event, a long article appeared on 7 October in the Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society.3 It examined the question from every perspective and proved conclusively the madness of the undertaking. According to this article, everything was against the traveller, human obstacles and natural ones. For the plan to succeed would require a miraculous coordination of departure and arrival times, a coordination that didn’t exist and that couldn’t exist. At a pinch and in Europe, where the length of the journey was relatively short, the trains could be expected to arrive on time, but when they take three days to cross India and seven to cross the United States, how could anyone consider them reliable factors in such a calculation? And with mechanical breakdowns, derailments, encounters with the unexpected, bad weather, heavy snow, surely everything was against Phileas Fogg? On steamers, were you not in winter at the mercy of gusts of wind or patches of fog? Was it that unusual for the fastest transatlantic ships to be two or three days late? Yet all it needed was one single hold-up for the whole chain of communication to be irreparably broken. If Phileas Fogg missed a steamer by only a few hours, he would be forced to wait until the next steamer, and that would be fateful for his whole journey. The article had a considerable impact. It was reprinted in almost all the newspapers and shares in Phileas Fogg fell considerably. During the early days after the gentleman’s departure there had been some heavy betting on the risks involved. It is well known that in England betting is an activity practised by a more intelligent and select group of people than gambling. Betting is part of the English character. So, not only did various members of the Reform Club place considerable bets for or against Phileas Fogg, but the public as a whole followed suit. Phileas Fogg was treated like a racehorse, entered in a sort of form book.4 He was also made into a new sort of share that was immediately quoted on the London market. There were buying and selling prices for ‘Phileas Fogg’, and large amounts of money changed hands. But five days after his departure, after the article in the Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society, people began to sell. Shares in ‘Phileas Fogg’ fell. There was a wave of selling. Quoted first at five to one, then ten, the odds then became twenty, fifty and a hundred to one! He had only one supporter left. This was the elderly, paralysed Lord Albermarle. The noble sir, confined to a wheelchair, would have given his whole fortune to go around the world even if it took him ten years! So he was the one who bet £5,000 on Phileas Fogg. And when people showed him not only how foolish the plan was but also how pointless, he merely replied, ‘If it can be done at all, then it’s only right that an Englishman should be the first to do it!’ This, then, was the situation: the supporters of Phileas Fogg were becoming fewer and fewer; everyone, and not without reason, was turning against him; the odds werenowone hundred and fifty, two hundred to one. Then, seven days after he had left, something quite unexpected resulted in no odds being given at all. What happened was that during that day, at nine o’clock in the evening, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had received the following telegraph message: To: Rowan, Commissioner, Police Headquarters, Scotland Yard, London From: Fix, detective inspector, Suez Trailing bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send arrest warrant without delay Bombay (British India). The effect of this telegram was immediate. For ‘honourable gentleman’ people now read ‘bank robber’. His photograph, which was kept in the Reform Club along with those of all his fellow members, was carefully examined. It reproduced down to the last detail the features of the man whose description had been provided by the police investigation. People remembered how secretive an existence Phileas Fogg led, how solitary he was, how sudden his departure had been, and it seemed obvious that by inventing this story of a journey around the world and then backing it up with an absurd bet this individual had acted with the sole intention of putting the British police force off his scent. 6 In which the detective Fix shows a quite understandable impatience The circumstances leading up to the sending of this telegram about that man Phileas Fogg were as follows: On Wednesday 9 October, the liner Mongolia was due to arrive in Suez at eleven o’clock in the morning. The Mongolia, which belonged to the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company,1 was an iron-hulled, propeller-driven steamer with a spar-deck.2 It weighed 2,800 tons and had a nominal 500 horsepower. The Mongolia regularly did the run from Brindisi to Bombay via the Suez Canal. It was one of the company’s fastest vessels and it had always exceeded its scheduled speed, namely 10 miles per hour, between Brindisi and Suez and 9.53 miles per hour between Suez and Bombay. While they waited for the Mongolia to arrive, two men were walking along the quayside, mingling with the crowd of natives and foreigners that flock to this town, which was until recently only a village, but which can look forward to a successful future thanks to Ferdinand de Lesseps’s great feat of engineering.3 Of these two men, one was the United Kingdom consul based in Suez, who – despite the pessimistic forecasts of the British government and the bleak predictions of Stephenson,4 the famous engineer – saw British ships going through the canal every day, thereby reducing by half the journey from England to India compared to the old route via the Cape of Good Hope. The other was a small, skinny man, quite intelligent-looking but nervous, with an almost-permanent frown on his face. His long eyelashes concealed a piercing gaze, but one that he could soften at will. At that particular moment he was showing signs of some impatience, pacing up and down, unable to stay still. This man was called Fix, and he was one of those English detectives or policemen who had been sent to the various ports after the discovery of the theft at the Bank of England. Fix was supposed to keep a careful watch on passengers travelling via Suez and, if one of them aroused his suspicions, to stay on his track until he received an arrest warrant. As it happened, two days previously Fix had received the description of the suspected thief from the head of the Metropolitan Police. It was a description of that distinguished, welldressed gentleman who had been seen in the cash room in the Bank of England. The detective, obviously spurred on by the prospect of a large reward for a successful arrest, was therefore waiting for the Mongolia to arrive with understandable impatience. ‘Am I right, sir,’ he asked for the umpteenth time, ‘that according to you the ship must be in soon?’ ‘Yes, Mr Fix,’ replied the consul. ‘It was reported yesterday as being off Port Said and a vessel as fast as this will get through the hundred miles of canal in next to no time. I should remind you again that the Mongolia has always earned the £25 bonus that the government gives every time a ship arrives twenty-four hours ahead of schedule.’ ‘The ship’s coming straight from Brindisi, isn’t it?’ asked Fix. ‘Yes, straight from Brindisi, where it picked up the mail for India. It left Brindisi on Saturday at five o’clock in the evening. So be patient. It must be in very soon now. But I really don’t understand how, with the description you’ve got, you’ll be able to recognize your man if he really is on board the Mongolia.’ ‘My dear sir,’ replied Fix, ‘you sniff out this sort of individual rather than recognize them. It’s nose that you need and nose is like an extra sense, a combination of hearing, sight and smell. In my lifetime I’ve arrested more than one of these gentlemen, and as long as my thief really is on board I can guarantee you that he won’t slip through my fingers.’ ‘I hope not, Mr Fix, because it was a substantial theft.’ ‘A magnificent theft,’ the detective replied enthusiastically. ‘£55,000! We don’t often get such big windfalls! Thieves are becoming petty criminals. The great English thief is a dying breed. People get themselves hanged for only a few shillings these days.’ ‘Mr Fix,’ replied the consul, ‘the way you talk I wish you every success, but I must repeat that given the circumstances I’m afraid your task will not be an easy one. You must realize that from the description you’ve received the thief is a perfectly respectable-looking person.’ ‘My dear consul,’ the police inspector replied in a dogmatic tone of voice, ‘great thieves always look like respectable people. You must understand that people who look like crooks have only one option, to remain on the right side of the law. Otherwise they would be arrested. It’s the honest-looking faces you have to examine closely. A difficult task, I admit, and one that makes this not just a job but an art.’ It is clear that the aforesaid Fix had a strong sense of his own importance. Meanwhile the quayside was gradually getting busy. Sailors of different nationalities, shopkeepers, brokers, porters and fellahs5 were flooding in. The liner was obviously about to arrive. The weather was fairly good, but the air was chilly because of an easterly wind. Some minarets stood out above the town in the pale sunshine. Towards the south a jetty about 2,000 metres long stuck out like an arm into the harbour of Suez. Several fishing boats or coastal vessels moved across the surface of the Red Sea, some of them still having the elegant outline of an ancient galley. As he made his way through this crowd Fix ran a rapid eye over the passers-by out of sheer professional habit. By now it was half past ten. ‘But this liner doesn’t look as if it’s ever going to arrive,’ he exclaimed as he heard the harbour clock strike. ‘It can’t be far away,’ replied the consul. ‘How long will it stop in Suez for?’ Fix asked. ‘Four hours. The time needed to take on board more coal. From Suez to Aden at the far end of the Red Sea it’s 1,310 nautical miles, so it needs to have a fresh supply of fuel.’ ‘And from Suez, does the boat go straight on to Bombay?’ asked Fix. ‘Straight on, without unloading.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Fix, ‘if the thief is coming this way and on this boat, it must be part of his plan to disembark at Suez in order to find another way of getting to the Dutch or French possessions in Asia. He must be well aware that he wouldn’t be safe in India, which is British soil.’ ‘Unless he’s a very clever man,’ replied the consul. ‘As you know, an English criminal is always better off hiding in London rather than abroad.’ After this remark, which gave the detective food for thought, the consul went back to his office, which was only a short distance away. The police inspector remained alone, an impatient bag of nerves. He had a strange sort of premonition that the thief was bound to be on board the Mongolia, and in all truth if the crook had left England with the intention of reaching the New World, it would be logical for him to prefer the route via India because it was less carefully watched or more difficult to watch than the route across the Atlantic. Fix didn’t remain lost in his thoughts for long. Some sharp blasts on the whistle announced the liner’s arrival. The whole horde of porters and fellahs rushed towards the quayside, threatening injury and damage to the waiting passengers and their clothes. A dozen or so small boats set off from the bank of the canal and went out to meet the Mongolia. Soon the enormous bulk of the Mongolia came into view, moving along between the banks of the canal. Eleven o’clock was striking as the steamer dropped anchor in the harbour, noisily letting steam out of its funnels. There were quite a large number of passengers on board. Some remained on the spar-deck, gazing at the picturesque panorama of the town, but most of them disembarked in the small boats that had come alongside the Mongolia. Fix examined closely all those who set foot on dry land. At that moment one of the passengers came up to him after briskly pushing aside all the fellahs who were accosting him and offering their services. He asked Fix very politely if he could point out to him the office of the British consul. At the same time this passenger showed a passport that he presumably wanted to have stamped with a British visa. Fix instinctively took the passport and rapidly read the description of the bearer. He had difficulty controlling his reaction. The document trembled in his hand. The description provided on the passport was identical to the one he had received from the head of the Metropolitan Police. ‘This passport doesn’t belong to you, does it?’ he said to the passenger. ‘No. It’s my master’s passport.’ ‘And where is your master?’ ‘Still on board.’ ‘I’m afraid,’ continued the detective, ‘he has to go in person to the consul’s office to prove his identity.’ ‘What! Is that really necessary?’ ‘Indispensable.’ ‘So where is this office?’ ‘Over there, in the corner of the square,’ replied the inspector, pointing to a building about 200 yards away. ‘In that case I’ll go and fetch my master, who certainly won’t be pleased to be disturbed.’ With that, the passenger said goodbye to Fix and went back on board the steamer. 7 Which proves once again that passports serve no useful purpose in police matters The inspector went back down to the quayside and headed off quickly towards the British consulate. As soon as he got there, and at his insistence, he was ushered in to see the consul in person. ‘Sir,’ he said, getting straight to the point, ‘I have good reason to believe that our man is a passenger on board the Mongolia.’ Fix then recounted what had taken place between the servant and himself concerning the passport. ‘Well, Mr Fix,’ replied the consul, ‘I’d quite like to see what this crook looks like. But perhaps he won’t come to my office if he really is your man. A thief never likes to leave any trace of where he’s been, and in any case it’s no longer compulsory to show your passport.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the detective, ‘if he’s as clever as I think, he will come.’ ‘To have his passport stamped?’ ‘Yes. All that passports do is inconvenience law-abiding citizens and enable crooks to get away. You can be sure that his will be in order, but I really do hope that you won’t stamp it.’ ‘Why on earth not? If this passport is in order,’ replied the consul, ‘I’m not in a position to refuse a visa.’ ‘But, sir, it’s essential for me to keep him here until I receive the arrest warrant from London.’ ‘Well, Mr Fix,’ replied the consul, ‘that’s your business. It’s not up to me to –’ The consul was unable to finish his sentence. At that moment there was a knock on his door and the office boy showed in two strangers, one of whom was none other than the servant who had spoken to the detective earlier. This time it was the master and his servant. The master showed his passport and asked the consul in the fewest possible words to be so kind as to stamp it. The latter took the passport and read it carefully, while Fix, standing in a corner of the room, looked or rather stared hard at the stranger. When the consul had finished reading it, he asked, ‘Are you Mr Phileas Fogg?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the gentleman. ‘And is this man your servant?’ ‘Yes. A Frenchman called Passepartout.’ ‘Have you come from London?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And where are you going?’ ‘Bombay.’ ‘Good, sir. Are you aware that visa formalities are unnecessary and that it’s no longer compulsory to show your passport?’ ‘I am aware, sir,’ replied Phileas Fogg, ‘but I want a visa to prove that I’ve been through Suez.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ And so the consul signed and dated the passport and then stamped it. Mr Fogg paid the cost of the visa and, after politely saying goodbye, went out, followed by his servant. ‘Well, then?’ asked the inspector. ‘Well,’ replied the consul, ‘he seems a perfectly law-abiding citizen.’ ‘That’s as may be, but it’s not the point,’ replied Fix. ‘Don’t you think that this phlegmatic gentleman looks exactly like the thief I’ve received the description of?’ ‘I agree, but as you know all descriptions –’ ‘I want to get to the bottom of this,’ replied Fix. ‘I think the servant will be easier to fathom out than his master. What’s more he’s French, which means he won’t be able to hold his tongue. I’ll see you again soon, sir.’ With this the detective went out and began to search for Passepartout. Meanwhile, Mr Fogg, after leaving the consulate, had headed towards the quayside. There he gave his servant some orders, then got into a small boat that took him to the Mongolia and went back down into his cabin. There he took out his notebook, which contained the following entries: Left London, Wednesday 2 October, 8.45 p.m. Arrived Paris, Thursday 3 October, 7.20 a.m. Left Paris, Thursday, 8.40 a.m. Arrived Turin via Mont Cenis, Friday 4 October, 6.35 a.m. Left Turin, Friday, 7.20 a.m. Arrived Brindisi, Saturday 5 October, 4 p.m. Boarded the Mongolia, Saturday, 5 p.m. Arrived Suez, Wednesday 9 October, 11 a.m. Total time in hours: 158 ½, making 6 ½ days. Mr Fogg had written down these dates on a travel plan laid out in columns, showing from 2 October to 21 December the month, the day in the month, the day of the week, the estimated time of arrival and the actual time of arrival for each main staging point, Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, Liverpool and London. This enabled him to work out the time gained or lost at each point of his journey. The carefully calculated travel plan thus took account of everything, and Mr Fogg always knew whether he was ahead or behind schedule. So he wrote in for that day, Wednesday 9 October, his arrival in Suez, which as it coincided with the scheduled time of arrival was neither a loss nor a gain. Then he had lunch brought to him in his cabin. As for looking around the town, he never even gave it a moment’s thought, as he was the sort of Englishman who gets his servant to do the sights for him. 8 In which Passepartout talks perhaps rather more than he should have It didn’t take Fix long to catch up with Passepartout on the quayside, where the latter was strolling around and observing things, showing none of his master’s reluctance to take in the sights. ‘Well, my friend,’ Fix said as he went up to him, ‘has your passport been stamped?’ ‘Oh, it’s you, sir,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘Pleased to meet you. Our papers are all in order.’ ‘Are you looking around the area?’ ‘Yes. But we’re travelling so fast that everything seems a blur. So now we’re in Suez, aren’t we?’ ‘Suez it is.’ ‘And that’s in Egypt, isn’t it?’ ‘In Egypt. Quite right.’ ‘And that’s in Africa, isn’t it?’ ‘In Africa.’ ‘In Africa,’ repeated Passepartout. ‘I just can’t believe it. I tell you what, sir, I didn’t expect us to go further than Paris, but I only got to see that wonderful city again between seven twenty and eight forty in the morning, from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyon, through the window of a cab and with the rain pouring down. What a pity! I really wanted to see the Père-Lachaise Cemetery again and the circus in the Champs-Élysées.’ ‘So you’re in quite a hurry, are you?’ asked the inspector. ‘Not me but my master. Incidentally, I must go and buy some socks and shirts. We left without any suitcases, just with an overnight bag.’ ‘I can take you to a bazaar where you’ll find everything you need.’ ‘Sir,’ replied Passepartout, ‘you really are too kind.’ And so the two of them set off. Passepartout kept chatting. ‘Most of all,’ he said, ‘I must make sure I don’t miss the boat.’ ‘You’ve got time,’ replied Fix. ‘It’s still only midday.’ Passepartout took out his big watch. ‘Midday,’ he said. ‘Come off it! It’s nine fifty-two.’ ‘Your watch is slow,’ replied Fix. ‘My watch! A family heirloom, from my great-grandfather. It doesn’t lose more than five minutes in a year. It’s as accurate as a chronometer.’ ‘I get it,’ replied Fix. ‘You’ve kept London time, which is about two hours behind Suez. You must be careful to set your watch to the right time in each country.’ ‘Me alter my watch!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Never.’ ‘Well, in that case it won’t be in time with the sun.’ ‘That’s too bad for the sun, sir. It’s the sun that’ll be wrong.’ With that the dear fellow proudly put his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. A few moments later Fix said to him, ‘So you left London in a rush, did you?’ ‘I should say so! Last Wednesday, Mr Fogg came back from his club at eight o’clock in the evening, which was quite unlike him, and three-quarters of an hour later we were on our way.’ ‘But where exactly is your master going?’ ‘Straight on. He’s going around the world.’ ‘Around the world!’ exclaimed Fix. ‘Yes. In eighty days! It’s for a bet, he says, but between you and me I don’t believe a word of it. It just doesn’t make sense. There’s something more to it.’ ‘Oh! This Mr Fogg’s a bit of an eccentric, is he?’ ‘Looks like it.’ ‘So he’s rich, is he?’ ‘Obviously, and he’s carrying a tidy sum with him, in fresh banknotes. And he doesn’t mind spending it on the way. That’s why he’s promised the chief engineer of the Mongolia a huge bonus in Bombay if he gets us there with plenty of time to spare.’ ‘And you’ve known your master for quite some time, have you?’ ‘What, me?’ replied Passepartout. ‘I started working for him the day we left.’ It is easy to imagine the effect these replies were to have on the already overexcited mind of the police inspector. The sudden departure from London, shortly after the theft took place, the large sum of money being carried, the eagerness to arrive in far-off countries, the excuse of an eccentric bet, all these things helped further to confirm Fix’s suspicions, as was to be expected. He got the Frenchman to tell him more and became convinced that this fellow didn’t know his master at all, that the latter lived alone in London, that he was thought to be rich but no one knew where his money came from, that he was an unfathomable individual, etc. But at the same time Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not disembark at Suez and that he really was going to Bombay. ‘Is Bombay a long way?’ asked Passepartout. ‘Quite a long way,’ replied the detective. ‘It’ll take you ten days or so by sea.’ ‘And where exactly is Bombay?’ ‘In India.’ ‘That’s in Asia, isn’t it?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Heavens above! There’s something I’ve got to tell you … There’s something that’s been on my mind … It’s my lamp!’ ‘What lamp?’ ‘My gas lamp, which I forgot to switch off and which I’ll have to pay the bill for. Well, I’ve worked out that it’ll cost me two shillings per day, exactly six pence more than I earn, and you can well understand that if the journey goes on …’ It is unlikely that Fix understood this business about the gas. He wasn’t listening any more but was deciding what to do next. The Frenchman and he had got to the bazaar. Fix let his companion buy what he needed, urged him not to miss the departure of the Mongolia, and hurried off back to the consul’s office. Now that his mind was made up, Fix had fully regained his composure. ‘Sir,’ he said to the consul, ‘I no longer have the slightest doubt. I’ve got my man. He passes himself off as an eccentric who’s trying to go around the world in eighty days.’ ‘So he’s cunning,’ replied the consul, ‘and he’s planning to go back to London after throwing all the policemen on two continents off his scent!’ ‘That remains to be seen,’ replied Fix. ‘Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?’ the consul asked once again. ‘I’m not making a mistake.’ ‘In that case, why was the thief so keen on having his passport stamped to show he’s been through Suez?’ ‘Why? I’ve no idea, sir,’ the detective replied, ‘but listen to what I have to say.’ And in a few words he summarized the main points of his conversation with the servant of the said Fogg. ‘Well indeed,’ said the consul, ‘everything seems to point to this man. So what are you going to do?’ ‘Send a telegram to London with an urgent request to send an arrest warrant to Bombay. Then I’ll get on board the Mongolia, keep track of my thief all the way to India and there, on what is British territory, I’ll go up to him politely with my warrant in one hand and I’ll put the other on his shoulder to arrest him.’ After coldly speaking these words, the detective took his leave of the consul and went to the telegraph office. From there he sent the head of the Metropolitan Police the telegram already mentioned. A quarter of an hour later Fix went on board the Mongolia, taking with him some light luggage but plenty of cash, and soon the fastmoving steamer was speeding down the Red Sea. 9 Where the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean prove favourable to Phileas Fogg’s purposes The distance between Suez and Aden is exactly 1,310 nautical miles and the company’s sailing schedule allowed its steamers a period of 138 hours to cover it. The Mongolia, whose engines were at full throttle, was moving fast in order to arrive ahead of schedule. Most of the passengers who had embarked at Brindisi were travelling to India. Some were going to Bombay, others to Calcutta but via Bombay, because since the opening of the railway that goes right across the subcontinent it was no longer necessary to go around the tip of Ceylon. Among the passengers were various civil servants and army officers of all ranks. Of the latter, some belonged to the British army proper and the others were in charge of native troops, or sepoys. All of them received handsome salaries even now that the British government has taken over the responsibilities and costs of the former East India Company.1 Second lieutenants get £280 per annum, brigadiers £2,400 and generals £4,000.* Life on board the Mongolia was therefore one of luxury with a society made up of public servants supplemented by the occasional young English millionaire off to set up a trading post in some far-off part of the empire. The purser, the company’s most trusted employee and the equal of the captain on board, did things in style. At breakfast, lunch at two o’clock, dinner at half past five and supper at eight o’clock, the tables groaned under plates of fresh meat and side dishes served up from the ship’s meat store and galley. The female passengers – there were some – changed dresses twice a day. There was music and even dancing on board, when the state of the sea allowed. But the Red Sea is unpredictable and only too often rough, like all long, narrow gulfs. When the wind was blowing either from the Asiatic or the African side of the coast, the Mongolia, shaped like a long propeller-driven rocket, was caught in the beam and rolled horribly. At such times the ladies disappeared, the pianos fell silent and the singing and dancing all stopped. And yet, despite the gale and the swell, the steamer, thanks to its powerful engines, continued on schedule down towards the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing meanwhile? It might have been thought that he would be worried and anxious all the time, concerned that a change in wind direction might affect the ship’s progress or that a sudden surge of the waves might damage the engines, in a word that some incident might force the Mongolia to put in to port, thereby threatening the success of the journey. Nothing could be further from the truth, or rather, if the gentleman did think about these possibilities, he didn’t let it show. He was still the same impassive person, the imperturbable member of the Reform Club, impervious to any incident or accident. He showed no more sign of emotion than the ship’s chronometers. He rarely put in an appearance on deck. He showed little interest in observing the Red Sea, so full of associations, the scene of the earliest episodes in human history. He didn’t come out to view the fascinating towns scattered along its shores, their picturesque outlines occasionally standing out against the horizon. He never even dreamt about the dangers of the Red Sea, which the ancient historians, Strabo, Arrian, Artemidorus and Idrisi,2 always wrote about with awe, waters that the navigators of old never dared to enter without first making ritual sacrifices to their gods. So what was this eccentric doing, imprisoned as he was on the Mongolia? First of all, he took his four daily meals, without the rolling or pitching of the ship ever being able to disturb such a perfectly regulated piece of machinery. Then he played whist. Yes, he had found partners as keen on the game as he was: a tax inspector on the way to his post in Goa,3 a church minister, the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to Bombay, and a brigadiergeneral in the British army, who was rejoining his regiment in Benares. These three passengers shared Mr Fogg’s passion for whist and they played it for hours on end, as noiselessly as he did. As for Passepartout, he didn’t suffer at all from seasickness. He had a cabin at the fore of the ship and he, too, took his food seriously. It has to be said that given these conditions he really enjoyed his trip. He had come to terms with the situation. With good board and lodging, he was seeing the world and, in any case, he kept telling himself that this whole bizarre episode would come to an end in Bombay. The day after they had left Suez, 10 October, Passepartout was on deck when he had the quite pleasant experience of coming across the helpful person to whom he had spoken on arrival in Egypt. ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ he said, going up to him with his most engaging smile, ‘it’s you, sir, who was so kind as to act as my guide in Suez, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes indeed,’ replied the detective, ‘I do recognize you. You are the servant of that eccentric Englishman –’ ‘Exactly, Mr … ?’ ‘Fix.’ ‘Mr Fix,’ replied Passepartout. ‘Delighted to meet up with you again on board. So where exactly are you going?’ ‘Well, to Bombay, like you.’ ‘How fortunate. Have you done this trip before?’ ‘Several times,’ replied Fix. ‘I work for P&O.’ ‘So you must know India, then?’ ‘Well … yes …’ replied Fix, not wanting to be drawn. ‘Is it interesting, India?’ ‘Very interesting. There are mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers, snakes, dancing girls! But with any luck you’ll have time to look around, won’t you?’ ‘I hope so, Mr Fix. As you will well understand, a man in his right senses cannot take it upon himself to spend his life going straight from a steamer on to a train and from a train back on to a steamer again just because he’s supposed to be going around the world in eighty days! No. This whole performance will come to an end in Bombay. You can take it from me.’ ‘Is Mr Fogg keeping well?’ Fix asked, sounding quite casual. ‘Very well, Mr Fix. And so am I, for that matter. I’m eating like a horse. It’s the sea air.’ ‘But I never see your master on deck.’ ‘Never. He’s not interested in his surroundings.’ ‘Do you realize, Mr Passepartout, that this so-called journey in eighty days might well be a cover for some secret mission … a diplomatic mission, for example?’ ‘Quite honestly, Mr Fix, I’ve no idea, I must admit, and when it comes down to it I couldn’t care less.’ After this meeting Passepartout and Fix often chatted together. The police inspector wanted to get to know the servant of this man Fogg. He might be of use to him at some point. So in the bar of the Mongolia he often offered to buy him a few glasses of whisky or pale ale, and the dear fellow accepted them without protest and even returned the compliment, not to feel indebted to him. He thought that this Fix was after all a decent sort of chap. Meanwhile the ship was making rapid progress. On 13 October, Mocha4 was sighted, surrounded by its ruined walls above which stood out green date palms. In the distance, towards the mountains, huge fields of coffee plants stretched out. Passepartout was delighted to contemplate this famous town, and he even thought that with its circular walls and its tumbled-down fort sticking out like a handle it looked like a giant-sized coffee cup. In the course of the following night the Mongolia crossed the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, whose name means in Arabic the Gate of Tears, and the next day, 14 October, it put in at Steamer Point, to the northwest of the harbour at Aden. This was where it was due to take on more fuel. Catering for the fuel needs of steamers when they are so far away from large industrial centres is a serious and important business. Just to take the case of P&O, this represents an annual expenditure of £800,000. It has proved necessary, therefore, to set up depots in several ports, and in these distant parts coal costs over £3 per ton. The Mongolia still had 1,650 miles to do before reaching Bombay and it would take four hours at Steamer Point for it to refill its coal bunkers. But this hold-up could not have any serious effect whatsoever on Phileas Fogg’s timetable. It had been planned. In any case, the Mongolia, instead of arriving in Aden only in the morning of 15 October, got there on the evening of the 14th. That meant it was fifteen hours ahead of schedule. Mr Fogg and his servant stepped ashore. The gentleman wanted to have his passport stamped. Fix followed him without being noticed. Once the visa formalities were over, Phileas Fogg went back on board to continue the game of whist he had broken off. Passepartout for his part strolled around as usual, mingling with this population of Somalis, Banians,5 Parsees,6 Jews, Arabs and Europeans that make up the 25,000 inhabitants of Aden. He admired the fortifications that make this town the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean7 and the magnificent water tanks8 that British engineers are still working on, two thousand years after the engineers of King Solomon. ‘Fascinating, really fascinating,’ Passepartout said to himself as he went back on board. ‘I realize now that there’s a lot to be said for travelling if you want to see something new.’ By six o’clock in the evening the Mongolia’s propellers were churning up the waters of the harbour of Aden and soon the ship was in the Indian Ocean. It had a time allocation of one hundred and sixty-eight hours to complete the crossing from Aden to Bombay. As it happened, conditions in the Indian Ocean were favourable. The wind stayed in the north-west. The sails were used to supplement the ship’s steam power. Because it now had more support, the ship rolled less. The women passengers, after another change of clothes, appeared on deck once more. The singing and dancing started up again. And so conditions for the trip were ideal. Passepartout revelled in the pleasant company that fortune had provided for him in the person of Fix. On Sunday 20 October the coast of India was sighted. Two hours later the harbour pilot came aboard the Mongolia. On the horizon the outline of hills formed a harmonious backdrop. Soon the rows of palm trees covering the town could be seen, standing out clearly. The liner entered the natural harbour formed by the islands of Salsette, Kolaba, Elephanta and Butcher, and by half past four it was alongside the quays of Bombay. Phileas Fogg was then in the process of completing the thirty-third rubber of the day and his partner and he, thanks to a bold stroke, had taken all thirteen tricks and so finished this excellent crossing with a magnificent clean sweep. The Mongolia wasn’t due to arrive in Bombay until 22 October. In fact, it had arrived on the 20th. This represented, then, a gain of two days, which Phileas Fogg methodically entered in the profits column of his travel schedule. 10 In which Passepartout is only too pleased to get away with losing just a shoe As is well known, India, that great upside-down triangle with its base in the north and its apex in the south, has a surface area of 1,400,000 square miles, unevenly populated by 180 million inhabitants. The British government has effective control over a certain part of this immense country. It maintains a governor-general in Calcutta, governors in Madras, Bombay and Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor in Agra. But British India proper only accounts for an area of 700,000 square miles and a population of 100 to 110 million. The least that can be said is that a considerable part of the country is still beyond the power of Queen Victoria. It is true to say that in the case of some of the fearsome and terrifying rajahs of the interior, Indian independence is still total. From 1756, the date of the founding of the first British trading post on the site of what is now the city of Madras, up to 1857, the year of the Indian Mutiny, the famous East India Company was all-powerful. It gradually annexed the various provinces, which it purchased from the rajahs in exchange for annuities, which it often failed to pay. It appointed its own governor-general and all the civilian and military personnel. However, it now no longer exists and the British possessions in India come under the direct authority of the Crown. For this reason the physical appearance, the customs and the ethnographic make-up of the continent tend to vary every day. In the past travel was by all the ancient forms of transport, by foot, horse, cart, wheelbarrow, palanquin,1 pick-a-back, coach, etc. Nowadays steamboats speed up and down the Indus and the Ganges, and thanks to a railway that crosses the whole width of India, with branch lines along its route, the journey from Bombay to Calcutta now only takes three days. The route chosen for the railway does not cut across India in a straight line. The distance as the crow flies is only between 1,000 and 1,100 miles, and trains travelling at only medium speed would take less than three days to cross it. However, this distance is increased by a third, at least, by the detour the railway makes by going up as far as Allahabad in the north of the peninsula. The route taken by the Great Indian Peninsular Railway is roughly as follows. After leaving the island of Bombay it crosses Salsette, joins the mainland opposite Tannah, crosses the chain of the Western Ghats, runs north-east as far as Burhampur, travels through the more or less independent territory of Bundelkhand, goes up to Allahabad, turns east to meet the Ganges at Benares, moves slightly away from it and goes back down to the south-east via Burdwan and the French possession of Chandernagore,2 terminating in Calcutta. It was half past four in the afternoon when the passengers from the Mongolia disembarked in Bombay and the train for Calcutta was leaving at exactly eight o’clock. Mr Fogg therefore said goodbye to his partners, left the steamboat, gave his servant instructions about what to buy, emphasized the need for him to be at the station before eight o’clock and then, walking with the mechanical precision of the seconds hand of an astronomic clock, set off towards the passport office. And so all the marvels of Bombay seemed of no interest to him: the town hall, the magnificent library, the fortifications, the docks, the cotton market, the bazaars, the mosques, the synagogues, the Armenian churches and the splendid temple on Malabar Hill with its twin polygonal towers. Not for him the masterpieces of Elephanta, with its mysterious underground burial chambers hidden to the southeast of the natural harbour, nor the caves at Kanheri on the island of Salsette, those magnificent remains of Buddhist architecture. Absolutely nothing interested him. When he came out of the passport office Phileas Fogg went straight to the station, where he took his evening meal. Among other dishes the head-waiter made a point of recommending a fricassee made of ‘jungle rabbit’, which he said was delicious. Fogg settled for the fricassee and tasted it scrupulously, but despite the spicy sauce he found it awful. He summoned the head waiter. ‘Waiter,’ he said, looking him straight in the eye, ‘is this what you call rabbit?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ the character replied shamelessly, ‘jungle rabbit.’ ‘But didn’t this rabbit miaow when it was killed?’ ‘Miaow? Oh, sir! it’s a rabbit, I swear …’ ‘Waiter,’ Mr Fogg continued coldly, ‘do not swear, and remember this: in the past in India cats were considered sacred animals. Those were the good old days.’ ‘For the cats, my lord?’ ‘And perhaps for travellers, too.’ After making his point Mr Fogg calmly went back to eating his meal. A few moments after Mr Fogg, Inspector Fix also disembarked from the Mongolia and hurried off to see the head of the Bombay police. He explained who he was and that he was there to arrest the person suspected of theft. Had they received an arrest warrant from London? They had received nothing. In all fairness the warrant, which had been sent after Fogg had set off, could not have arrived yet. Fix was very put out. He wanted to obtain from the police chief an arrest warrant for this man Fogg. The police chief said no. It was a matter for the Metropolitan Police and only the latter could legally issue a warrant. This sticking to principles and strict adherence to the rule of law is fully in keeping with British traditions, which, in matters of individual freedom, allow no arbitrary exercise of power. Fix didn’t press the point and accepted that he would have to wait for his warrant. But he was determined not to let out of his sights this unfathomable scoundrel for as long as the latter remained in Bombay. He was convinced and, as has been seen, so was Passepartout, that Phileas Fogg would stay on there, thus allowing time for the warrant to arrive. But since the last instructions his master had given him as he left the Mongolia, Passepartout had come to realize the same would be true of Bombay as of Suez and Paris, that this was not the end of his journey, that it would go on at least as far as Calcutta, and probably further. And he began to wonder if Mr Fogg’s bet wasn’t for real and if, when all he wanted was a peaceful life, he wasn’t condemned by fate to go around the world in eighty days. Meanwhile, after buying some shirts and pairs of socks, he walked around the streets of Bombay. There was a large crowd of people and, in the midst of Europeans of various nationalities, Persians with pointed hats, Banians with round turbans, Sindhis3 with square hats, Armenians in long robes and Parsees with black mitres. It was in fact the festival celebrated by the Parsees or Guebres, direct descendants of the followers of Zoroaster,4 who are the most hard-working, civilized, intelligent and austere of the Indians and are the race to which the wealthy native merchants of Bombay currently belong. On that particular day they were celebrating a sort of religious carnival, with processions and entertainment, which included dancing girls dressed in pink gauze with silver and gold brocade, who moved beautifully but with great decorum to the sound of viols and the beating of gongs. It is easy to understand how fascinated Passepartout was by these strange ceremonies, staring at them wide-eyed and listening intently, with a look on his face like that of a complete buffoon. Unfortunately for him and his master, whose journey he threatened to endanger, his curiosity led him further afield than was sensible. What happened was that, after catching sight of the Parsee carnival, Passepartout was heading towards the station when, as he passed in front of the wonderful temple on Malabar Hill, he had the foolish idea of going inside to have a look. He was unaware of two things: firstly, that entry into certain temples is strictly forbidden to Christians and secondly, that even believers can only enter after leaving their shoes at the entrance. It should be noted here that the British government has adopted the eminently sensible policy of respecting and enforcing down to the smallest detail the religious observances of the country and punishes severely anyone who violates them. Passepartout, who had gone in without malice, like a mere tourist, was admiring inside Malabar Hill the dazzling but fussy detail of Hindu ornamentation when suddenly he was knocked to the floor in this holy place. Three priests, their eyes blazing with anger, rushed at him, tore off his shoes and his socks and began to beat him soundly, shouting wildly as they did so. The Frenchman, who was strong and agile, quickly got back on his feet and knocked to the ground two of his opponents, who were hampered by their long robes. Then, rushing out of the temple as fast as his legs could carry him, he soon outdistanced the third Hindu, who had set off in hot pursuit of him after alerting the local population. At five minutes to eight, only a few minutes before the train was due to leave, Passepartout arrived at the railway station. He was without his hat, had nothing on his feet and had lost in the struggle the package containing everything he had bought. Fix was there on the departure platform. After following that man Fogg to the station he had realized that the scoundrel was going to leave Bombay. He had immediately made up his mind to accompany him as far as Calcutta and beyond if necessary. Passepartout did not see Fix, who was standing in the shadows, but Fix overheard Passepartout’s brief account of his adventures, which he gave to his master. ‘I trust there’ll be no repetition of this,’ was all that Phileas Fogg replied as he sat down in one of the train carriages. Barefoot and crestfallen, the poor fellow followed his master without saying a word. Fix was about to get into a separate carriage when a thought occurred to him that suddenly made him change his plan to leave. ‘No. I’m staying,’ he said to himself. ‘An offence committed on Indian soil. I’ve got my man.’ At that moment the locomotive let out a loud whistle and the train disappeared into the night.