30 In which Phileas Fogg quite simply does his duty Three passengers, one of whom was Passepartout, had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Had they been taken prisoner by the Sioux? It was too early to tell. There were quite a large number of wounded, but it was clear that none of the injuries were fatal. One of those most seriously wounded was Colonel Proctor, who had fought courageously and had been struck by a bullet in the groin. He was transported to the station along with other passengers who required immediate treatment for their wounds. Mrs Aouda was safe. Phileas Fogg, who had given his all, hadn’t suffered a scratch. Fix was wounded in the arm, but it wasn’t serious. But Passepartout was missing and the young woman had tears in her eyes. Meanwhile all the passengers had got out of the train. The wheels of the carriages were stained with blood. The mangled remains of bodies were hanging from the hubs and spokes. There were long trails of red stretching across the white plain as far as the eye could see. The last of the assailants were still disappearing towards the south, towards Republican River. Mr Fogg remained motionless, arms folded. He had a crucial decision to make. Mrs Aouda was at his side and was looking at him without saying a word. He understood the meaning of her expression. If his servant had been taken prisoner, then shouldn’t he risk everything to rescue him from the Sioux? ‘I shall find him, dead or alive,’ was all he said to Mrs Aouda. ‘Oh sir! Mr Fogg!’ the young woman exclaimed, grasping her companion’s hands, on to which her tears rolled. ‘Alive,’ added Mr Fogg, ‘providing we don’t waste any time.’ In making this decision Phileas Fogg was sacrificing everything. He had just condemned himself to financial ruin. A single day’s delay meant he would miss the steamer from New York. His bet was irretrievably lost. But at the thought of ‘this is my duty’ he had not hesitated. The captain in command of Fort Kearney was there. His soldiers – about a hundred men in all – had taken up defensive positions in the event of the Sioux launching a direct attack on the station. ‘Officer,’ said Mr Fogg to the captain, ‘three passengers are missing.’ ‘Presumed dead?’ asked the captain. ‘Dead or captured,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘We need to find out which is the case. Is your plan to go after the Sioux?’ ‘This is a serious business, sir,’ said the captain. ‘They may flee beyond the Arkansas River. I just can’t abandon the fort I’m in charge of.’ ‘Sir,’ continued Phileas Fogg, ‘the lives of three men are at stake.’ ‘That may be so, but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?’ ‘I don’t know whether you can, sir, but you must.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the captain, ‘no one here tells me my duty.’ ‘Right,’ said Phileas Fogg coldly. ‘I shall go alone.’ ‘You, sir,’ cried out Fix, who had got closer, ‘going after the Sioux all on your own?’ ‘Do you really expect me to leave this unfortunate man to die when everyone here owes their life to him? I intend to go.’ ‘Well, in that case you won’t be going alone!’ exclaimed the captain, overcome with emotion in spite of himself. ‘No. You are a man of courage. I want thirty volunteers,’ headded, turning towards his soldiers. The whole company stepped forward to a man. All the captain had to do was to take his pick from these fine fellows. Thirty soldiers were selected and a wise old sergeant put in charge. ‘Thank you, captain,’ said Mr Fogg. ‘Will you allow me to come with you?’ Fix asked the gentleman. ‘You may do as you wish, sir,’ Phileas Fogg said to him in reply. ‘But if you really do want to do something to help me, then you should stay with Mrs Aouda. In the event of something happening to me …’ The police inspector’s face suddenly went very pale. How could he let go of this man, who he had followed so doggedly and with such persistence? How could he let him venture into the wilderness like this? Fix looked at the gentleman intently and despite himself, for all his feelings against Fogg and in spite of the struggle that was going on inside him, he felt uncomfortable when confronted with that calm and honest expression. ‘I shall stay here,’ he said. A few moments later Mr Fogg shook the young woman’s hand and then, after handing her his precious travel bag, he was ready to leave with the sergeant and his small troop of men. But before leaving he said to the soldiers, ‘My friends, there’s a reward of £1,000 waiting for you if we rescue the prisoners!’ By then it was a few minutes past midday. Mrs Aouda had withdrawn to a room in the station where she proceeded to wait on her own, thinking of Phileas Fogg and his simple but noble generosity and his quiet strength of character. Mr Fogg had given up his fortune and now he was risking his life, and he had done all this without hesitation, out of a sense of duty and without false rhetoric. Phileas Fogg was a hero in her eyes. Inspector Fix wasn’t of the same opinion and he was unable to control his inner turmoil. He walked up and down along the station platform, looking agitated. After momentarily being under the gentleman’s power, he then became his old self again. Once Fogg had set off, he realized how foolish he had been to let him go. How on earth could he have agreed to be separated from this man who he had been following around the world? His true nature reasserted itself. He blamed and criticized himself. He told himself off as if he was the head of the Metropolitan Police reprimanding a member of his force caught out by his own naivety. ‘What a fool I’ve been!’ he thought. ‘His other half will have told him who I am. He’s gone and won’t be back! Where can I get my hands on him again now? How on earth could I have let myself be taken in like this, me, Fix, when I’ve got his arrest warrant in my pocket? I really must be stupid!’ These were the thoughts going through the police inspector’s mind as the hours went by, all too slowly for his liking. He didn’t know what to do. At times he wanted to tell Mrs Aouda everything. But he realized what her reaction would be. What should he decide? He was tempted to set off across the long snow-covered plains in pursuit of Fogg. He thought he would stand some chance of finding him. The footmarks of the detachment of soldiers were still visible in the snow. But soon their traces disappeared under a fresh fall. Fix suddenly became despondent. He felt a sort of irresistible urge to give up the whole game. In fact, the opportunity to leave the station at Kearney and continue this journey, which had brought him so many disappointments, was about to present itself. What happened was that at about two o’clock in the afternoon, as the snow fell in heavy flakes, long blasts on a whistle could be heard coming from the east. A huge shadow, preceded by a yellowish glow, was moving slowly forward, made to look even bigger by the fog that gave it a ghostly appearance. However, no train was expected yet from the east. The help requested by telegraph could not have arrived so soon; and the train from Omaha to San Francisco wasn’t due to arrive until the following day. The explanation soon became clear. This locomotive that was moving forward so slowly, letting out loud blasts on the whistle, was the one that after being uncoupled from the train had continued to run at such a terrifying speed, taking with it the fireman and the driver, who were both unconscious. It had gone on for a few miles, but then the fire had died down because of a lack of fuel. The steam had given out and an hour later, after gradually slowing down, the engine at last came to a halt about twenty miles beyond the station at Kearney. Both the driver and the fireman were still alive and, after being unconscious for a considerable time, they had come round. The engine was then at a standstill. When he saw that he was in the middle of nowhere and with no carriages left the driver realized what had happened. He had no idea how the locomotive had become detached from the rest of the train, but he felt sure that the carriages that had been left behind were in trouble. The driver had no hesitation about what to do. The sensible thing was to continue in the direction of Omaha. To go back towards the train, which the Sioux might still be in the process of ransacking, was fraught with danger. Never mind this. Shovelfuls of coal and wood were heaped into the firebox, the fire got going again, the steam pressure returned, and by about two o’clock in the afternoon the engine was reversing towards the station at Kearney. This was the whistling noise heard in the fog. The passengers were extremely pleased when they saw the locomotive in place again at the head of the train. They would now be able to continue their journey, which had been so rudely interrupted. When the engine arrived, Mrs Aouda came out of the station building and turned to the conductor to ask, ‘Are you intending to leave?’ ‘This instant, madam.’ ‘But the prisoners … our unfortunate companions …’ ‘I can’t hold up the service,’ the conductor, replied. ‘We’re already three hours late.’ ‘When is the next train from San Francisco due?’ ‘Tomorrow evening, madam.’ ‘Tomorrow evening will be too late. You must wait.’ ‘It’s impossible, madam,’ answered the conductor. ‘If you want to leave, please get into the carriage.’ ‘I’m not leaving,’ said the young woman. Fix had overheard this conversation. A few minutes earlier, when there was no means of transport available, he was determined to leave Kearney and yet now that the train was there, ready to depart, and when all he had to do was to go back to his seat in the carriage, he was bound to the spot by an irresistible force. He was itching to get off the station platform and yet he couldn’t tear himself away from it. That inner struggle had started up again. He was overcome by anger at his own failure. He wanted to fight until the bitter end. Meanwhile the passengers and a few of the wounded, including Colonel Proctor, who was in a serious condition, got into the carriages. The overheated boiler could be heard bubbling away and steam was escaping from the valves. The driver blew the whistle, the train set off and soon disappeared, its white smoke mingling with the swirling snow. Inspector Fix had stayed behind. Several hours went by. The weather was very bad, the cold biting. Fix was sitting motionless on a bench in the station. Anyone would have thought he was asleep. Despite the gale Mrs Aouda kept on going outside the room that had been placed at her disposal. She walked to the far end of the platform, trying to see through the snowstorm, seeking to pierce the fog that restricted her visibility, listening for any sound she could hear. But there was nothing. Then she would go back inside, frozen to the bone, only to come out again a few moments later but still to no avail. Evening came. The small detachment of soldiers had not returned. Where were they at that moment? Had they managed to catch up with the Sioux? Had there been a struggle, or were the soldiers wandering around, lost in the fog? The captain in Fort Kearney was extremely worried, although he didn’t want it to show. Night fell, the snow was not so heavy, but the cold grew more intense. The most intrepid of people could not have failed to be overawed by the sight of this immense dark emptiness. Absolute silence filled the plain. There was not a bird in the sky nor an animal on the prowl to disturb its infinite stillness. All that night Mrs Aouda, whose mind was full of premonitions of disaster and her heart racked with anxiety, wandered about on the edge of the prairie. Her imagination transported her far away and brought her up against a thousand dangers. What she suffered during those long hours cannot be put into words. Fix still remained motionless in the same place, but he, too, was unable to sleep. At one point someone went up to him and even said something to him, but the detective sent him away, after replying to him with a shake of the head. The night passed like this. At dawn the half-extinguished orb of the sun rose above a misty horizon. Nevertheless, visibility was about two miles. Phileas Fogg and the detachment of soldiers had headed south. The south was absolutely deserted. By now it was seven o’clock in the morning. The captain, who was extremely worried, didn’t know what to do. Should he lead a second detachment to come to the aid of the first? Should he sacrifice more men with so little chance of rescuing those who had been sacrificed in the first place? But he did not hesitate for long, and after gesturing towards one of his lieutenants he was giving him the order to lead a reconnoitring party to the south when there was a burst of gunfire. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile away they noticed a small group of men returning in good order. Mr Fogg was leading them, and close to him were Passepartout and the two other passengers, who had been rescued from the clutches of the Sioux. There had been a struggle ten miles to the south of Fort Kearney. A few moments before the detachment had arrived Passepartout and his companions were already fighting their captors, and the Frenchman had knocked out three of them with his bare fists when his master and the soldiers rushed to their aid. All of them, rescuers and rescued, were greeted with shouts of joy, and Phileas Fogg handed out the promised reward to the soldiers, while Passepartout kept on saying, with good reason, ‘Really and truly I’m costing my master a fortune.’ Fix didn’t say a word but was looking at Mr Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the conflicting thoughts then running through his mind. As for Mrs Aouda, she had taken the gentleman’s hand and was squeezing it between her own, unable to speak. Meanwhile Passepartout, as soon he had arrived, had looked for the train in the station. He was expecting to find it there, ready to set off for Omaha at full speed, and he was hoping that they might still be able to make up the time lost. ‘The train! The train!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s gone,’ replied Fix. ‘And when is the next train due?’ asked Phileas Fogg. ‘Not until this evening.’ ‘Oh!’ was all the impassive gentleman said in reply. 31 In which Inspector Fix takes Phileas Fogg’s interests very much to heart Phileas Fogg was twenty hours late. Passepartout, who had inadvertently been the cause of this delay, was desperate. He had definitely ruined his master. It was then that the inspector went up to Mr Fogg and, looking him straight in the eye, asked, ‘In all seriousness, sir, are you really in a hurry?’ ‘I am indeed,’ replied Phileas Fogg. ‘I shall say it again,’ continued Fix. ‘Do you really need to be in New York on 11 December by nine o’clock in the evening, when the steamer for Liverpool is due to leave?’ ‘I really do.’ ‘And if your journey hadn’t been interrupted by the Sioux attack, would you have arrived in New York by the morning of the 11th?’ ‘Yes, with twelve hours to spare.’ ‘Good. So you are twenty hours behind. The difference between twenty and twelve is eight. You have eight hours to make up. Do you want to attempt it?’ ‘On foot?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘No, by sledge,’ replied Fix, ‘a sledge with sails. A man has offered me this means of transport.’ It was the man who had spoken to the police inspector during the night and whose offer Fix had rejected. Phileas Fogg made no reply, but after Fix had pointed out the man in question, who was walking around outside the station, the gentleman went up to him. A moment later Phileas Fogg and the American, whose name was Mudge, went into a shed below Fort Kearney. There Mr Fogg was able to examine a strange-looking vehicle. It was a sort of frame built upon two long beams that were turned up at the end like the runners on a sledge, and there was room for about five or six people. A third of the way along the frame, to the front, stood a very tall mast, to which was attached a huge spanker sail. From this mast, which was firmly held in position by cables, stretched an iron stay, the purpose of which was to hoist a very large jib. At the rear a sort of oar-rudder enabled the contraption to be steered. It was, as can be seen from this description, a sledge, but with the rigging of a sloop.1 In winter on the ice-bound plain, when the trains are no long running because of the snow, these vehicles travel very fast from station to station. What is more they have an enormous expanse of sail – greater even than a racing cutter, which is liable to capsize – and with the wind behind them they glide along the surface of the prairies as fast if not faster than express trains. Within a few moments Mr Fogg and the owner of this land craft had struck a deal. The wind was favourable. It was blowing strongly from the west. The snow had become hard and Mudge claimed that he could get Mr Fogg to the station in Omaha in a few hours. From there it would be easy to get to Chicago and New York as there are plenty of trains and various lines. It was therefore quite possible that they could make up the time lost. So there was no point in hesitating about whether or not to attempt this adventure. Because he did not want to subject Mrs Aouda to the ordeal of an open-air journey in this cold, a situation that could only be made worse by the speed at which they would be travelling, Mr Fogg suggested to her that she should stay behind under Passepartout’s protection at Kearney station. The trusty fellow would see about bringing her back to Europe by a better route and in more favourable circumstances. Mrs Aouda refused to be separated from Mr Fogg and Passepartout felt very pleased that she was so definite about this. In any case, he wouldn’t have wanted to leave his master for anything in the world since Fix was to remain with him. What precisely was going through the police inspector’s mind at that moment would be difficult to say. Was he less convinced he was right about Fogg now that he had come back, or did he consider him to be an extremely clever crook, who once he had completed his journey around the world, would be absolutely safe in England? Perhaps Fix’s view of Mr Fogg really had changed. But he was still just as determined to do his duty, and he was more impatient than anyone to do his utmost to speed up their return to England. By eight o’clock the sledge was ready to leave. The travellers – it would be tempting to call them passengers – took their seats and huddled together under their travel rugs. The two huge sails were hoisted, and with the force of the wind behind it the vehicle raced over the hardened snow at a rate of forty knots. The distance separating Fort Kearney from Omaha is, in a straight line – a bee-line, as the Americans would say – two hundred miles at the most. If the wind held, they would have covered this distance in five hours. If there were no problems, the sledge should have got to Omaha by one o’clock in the afternoon. What a journey it turned out to be! The travellers, huddled up against one another, were unable to speak. The cold, intensified by the speed, would have prevented the words from coming out of their mouths. The sledge glided over the surface of the plain as lightly as a vessel over the surface of the water – minus the swell. When the wind came skimming along the ground, it looked as if the sledge would be lifted into the air by its sails, huge wings with a vast span. Mudge, at the rudder, kept it going straight, and with a touch on the oar he prevented the contraption from veering to one side, which it had a tendency to do. All the sails caught the wind. The jib had been perked and was no longer shielded by the spanker. A topmast was hoisted and a topsail, put out into the wind, added its driving force to the other sails. It was impossible to work it out exactly, but the sledge must certainly have attained a speed of no less than forty knots. ‘If nothing gives way,’ said Mudge, ‘we’ll make it.’ It was in Mudge’s interests to arrive within the deadline, because Mr Fogg, in keeping with his normal practice, had given him the incentive of a hefty bonus. The prairie, which the sledge was directly cutting across, was as flat as the sea. It looked like an enormous frozen pond. The railroad that served this part of the territory went up from the south-west to the north-west via Grand Island, Columbus, a sizeable town in Nebraska, Schuyler, Fremont and then Omaha. It followed the right bank of the Platte River for the whole of the way. The sledge took a shorter route, going in a straight line instead of following the curve chosen by the railroad. There was no need for Mudge to fear being stopped by the Platte River at the small bend it makes before Fremont because its waters were frozen over. The way was therefore completely free of obstacles and so there were only two things for Phileas Fogg to be afraid of: damage to the craft and a change of direction or drop in the wind. But the wind did not slacken. Far from it. It blew so hard as to bend the mast, which was firmly supported by the iron cables. These metal wires resounded as if they were the strings of a musical instrument being played with a bow. The sledge sped along to the accompaniment of this plaintive harmony, which had an exceptional intensity about it. ‘These cords are in fifths and octaves,’ said Mr Fogg. These were the only words he uttered during the whole journey. Mrs Aouda, who was carefully wrapped up in furs and travel rugs, was as far as possible protected from the effects of the cold. Passepartout meanwhile, his face as red as the setting sun seen through the mist, was breathing in the sharp air. With that unshakeable confidence that was an essential part of his make-up, he had started to hope again. Instead of getting to New York in the morning they would get there in the evening, but there was still a possibility that this would be before the steamer for Liverpool left. Passepartout had even felt a strong desire to shake hands with his ally Fix. He hadn’t forgotten that it was the inspector himself who had got hold of the sailing sledge and therefore the only possible means of reaching Omaha in time. But because of some strange premonition he remained guarded towards Fix as usual. In any case there was one thing that Passepartout would never forget and that was the sacrifice that Mr Fogg had made, without any hesitation, in rescuing him from the Sioux. In so doing Mr Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No, his servant would never forget that. While these various thoughts occupied the minds of each traveller, the sledge was flying on across the immense carpet of snow. They hardly had time to notice as they went past the few creeks, tributaries and sub-tributaries of the Little Blue River. The fields and watercourses were covered by a uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Covering the whole area between the Union Pacific Railroad and the branch line that is intended to link Kearney and Saint Joseph, it formed what seemed a huge desert island. There was not a single village or station or even a fort. From time to time a gruesome-looking tree flashed by, its white skeleton twisting in the wind. Sometimes flocks of birds took flight all at the same time. Sometimes, too, large packs of prairie wolves, thin and hungry and driven on by some fearsome need, tried to outrun the sledge. At moments such as these Passepartout, with his revolver in his hand, stood ready to fire at the animals that got nearest. If an accident of some sort had brought the sledge to a standstill at such times, the travellers would have been attacked by these fierce carnivores and would have been in considerable danger. But the sledge stood the strain and soon raced ahead, leaving the whole pack howling behind it. By midday Mudge recognized the tell-tale signs that he was following the frozen course of the Platte River. He didn’t say anything, but he was already convinced that twenty miles further on he would reach the station at Omaha. And sure enough, less than an hour later this skilful guide left the helm, rushed to the halyards and lowered the sails while the sledge, carried along by its own momentum, travelled another half a mile with all its sails taken in. At last it came to a standstill and Mudge, pointing to a collection of snow-covered roofs, said, ‘We’ve arrived.’ They had indeed arrived at this station, which has frequent trains and a daily service to the east of the United States. Passepartout and Fix had jumped out of the vehicle and were moving about to get their circulation back. They helped Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda to get out of the sledge. Phileas Fogg paid Mudge handsomely and Passepartout shook his hand as if they had been old friends, and they all rushed off towards Omaha station. This important city in Nebraska is where the Pacific Railroad properly speaking comes to an end, linking the Mississippi basin to the ocean. To go from Omaha to Chicago the railway, known as the Chicago–Rock Island Railroad, runs directly east, serving fifty stations on the way. A direct train was about to leave. Phileas Fogg and his companions just had time to jump into a carriage. They hadn’t seen anything of Omaha, but Passepartout admitted to himself that this was no cause for regret because it wasn’t the time for sight-seeing. At great speed the train crossed into the state of Iowa, via Council Bluffs, Des Moines and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi at Davenport and entered Illinois via Rock Island. At four o’clock in the afternoon of the following day, the 10th, it reached Chicago, which had already risen again out of its ruins,2 looking more impressive than ever in its position overlooking the beautiful Lake Michigan. There are 900 miles between Chicago and New York. There was no shortage of trains in Chicago. Mr Fogg went straight from one train to another. The frisky locomotive of the Pittsburg–Fort Wayne–Chicago Railroad set off at full speed, as if it was fully aware that the honourable gentleman had no time to lose. It went like lightning through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, passing through towns with classical-sounding names, some having streets and tramcars but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson came into view, and on 11 December at a quarter past eleven in the evening the train pulled up in the station, on the right bank of the river, just in front of the pier for the steamers of the Cunard Line, in other words the British and North American Royal Mail Steam Packet Company. The China, bound for Liverpool, had left forty-five minutes earlier! 32 In which Phileas Fogg squares up to misfortune The China’s departure seemed to signal the end of all Phileas Fogg’s hopes. No other steamer plying the direct route from America to Europe could further the gentleman’s plans. This applied to the French transatlantic steamers, the ships of the White Star Line, the steamers of the Inman Company, those of the Hamburg Line and any others. In particular the Pereire, belonging to the French Transatlantic Company – whose excellent ships were equal in speed and superior in comfort to those of every other line – didn’t leave for another two days, 14 December. In any case, like the ships of the Hamburg Line,1 it didn’t go directly to Liverpool or London but to Le Havre, and the additional crossing from Le Havre to Southampton would have caused Phileas Fogg further delay, thereby rendering his final efforts useless. As for the steamers of the Inman Company, one of them, the City of Paris, was setting to sea the following day, but it was pointless even thinking about it. These ships were used mainly for the transport of emigrants and so their engines lacked power; they used sail power as much as steam and their speed was poor. With them the crossing from New York to England took longer than the time that was left to Mr Fogg if he was to win his bet. The gentleman was perfectly aware of all this from reading his Bradshaw, which gave him detailed information about ocean sailings across the globe for every day of the year. Passepartout felt completely devastated. To have missed the steamer by forty-five minutes was a terrible blow for him. It was all his fault. Instead of helping his master, all he’d done was to keep putting obstacles in his way! And when he cast his mind back over all that had happened during the journey, when he worked out the sums of money spent for nothing and just on him, when he reflected that this huge bet, not to mention the considerable costs of this now pointless voyage, had completely ruined Mr Fogg financially, he was furious with himself. Mr Fogg, however, made no criticism of him and, as he left the pier for the transatlantic steamers, he merely said, ‘We shall decide what to do tomorrow. Come along.’ Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda, Fix and Passepartout crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferry and then got into a cab, which drove them to the St Nicholas Hotel in Broadway. Rooms were found for them and they spent the night there. It went quickly for Phileas Fogg, who slept soundly, but it went much more slowly for Mrs Aouda and her companions, whose minds were so agitated that they didn’t get much rest. The next day was 12 December. From seven o’clock in the morning on the 12th to a quarter to nine in the evening on the 21st there were nine days, thirteen hours and forty-five minutes remaining. So if Phileas Fogg had set off the previous day on the China, one of the fastest ships of the Cunard Line, he would have arrived in Liverpool and then in London within the deadline. Mr Fogg left the hotel alone after having instructed his servant to wait for him and to inform Mrs Aouda that she should be ready to depart at any moment. Mr Fogg went along to the banks of the Hudson and, among the ships moored along the quaysides or at anchor in the river, he searched out carefully those that were ready to sail. Several vessels had their departure flags flying and were ready to set to sea on the morning tide. Not a single day goes by in this enormous and magnificent port of New York without a hundred ships setting out for destinations all over the world, but most of them were sailing ships and were not suitable for Mr Fogg’s purposes. The gentleman’s final attempt seemed condemned to failure when suddenly he saw moored in front of the Battery, no more than a cable’s length away, a propeller-driven commercial vessel, with elegant lines and with clouds of smoke coming out of its funnel, the sign that it was getting ready to sail. Phileas Fogg hailed a rowing boat, got in and after a few strokes on the oars had reached the ladder of the Henrietta, a steamer with an iron hull but with all its upper works made of wood. The captain of the Henrietta was on board. Phileas Fogg climbed on to the bridge and asked for him. He appeared immediately. He was a man of about fifty, a sort of sea dog, a grumpy individual who certainly couldn’t be easy to deal with. He had bulging eyes, a rusty copper-coloured complexion, red hair and a neck like a bull’s. There was nothing sophisticated about his appearance. ‘Are you the captain?’ asked Phileas Fogg. ‘That’s me.’ ‘I am Phileas Fogg, from London.’ ‘I’m Andrew Speedy, from Cardiff.’2 ‘Are you about to leave?’ ‘In an hour.’ ‘Where are you making for?’ ‘Bordeaux.’ ‘What are you carrying?’ ‘Stones in the belly. No freight. Leaving with ballast.’ ‘Do you have any passengers?’ ‘No passengers. Never take passengers. Too cumbersome, too argumentative.’ ‘Does your ship go well?’ ‘Eleven to twelve knots, the Henrietta. Well known.’ ‘Will you take me and three other people to Liverpool?’ ‘To Liverpool? Why not China?’ ‘I said Liverpool.’ ‘No.’ ‘No?’ ‘No. I’m leaving for Bordeaux and Bordeaux’s where I’m going.’ ‘At any price?’ ‘At any price.’ The captain had spoken and wasn’t to be contradicted. ‘But the owners of the Henrietta –’ continued Phileas Fogg. ‘The owner’s me,’ replied the captain. ‘It’s my ship.’ ‘I’ll charter it from you.’ ‘No.’ ‘I’ll buy it from you.’ ‘No.’ Phileas Fogg didn’t bat an eyelid. However, the situation was serious. New York wasn’t the same thing as Hong Kong and dealing with the captain of the Henrietta wasn’t the same thing as dealing with the skipper of the Tankadère. So far the gentleman’s money had always been able to overcome obstacles. This time money didn’t work. Nevertheless, it was essential to find a way of crossing the Atlantic by boat – unless they could get across in a hot-air balloon, which would have been very risky and, in any case, was not practical. It looked, however, as if Phileas Fogg had an idea because he said to the captain: ‘Well then, will you take me to Bordeaux?’ ‘No. Not even if you paid me $200!’ ‘I’m offering you $2,000.’ ‘Per person?’ ‘Per person.’ ‘And there are four of you?’ ‘Four.’ Captain Speedy began to scratch his forehead, as if he was intent on tearing all the skin off it. Earning $8000 without changing his route made it worth putting aside his aversion to having passengers on board. In any case, passengers at $2000 a go are no longer passengers but valuable cargo. ‘I’m leaving at nine o’clock,’ he said briefly. ‘And if you and yours are there – ’ ‘By nine o’clock we’ll be on board,’ Phileas Fogg replied, just as briefly. It was half past eight. With the calm that never deserted him whatever the circumstances, the gentleman got off the Henrietta, took a carriage, went to the St Nicholas Hotel and brought back Mrs Aouda, Passepartout and the inseparable Fix, whose crossing he kindly offered to pay for. By the time the Henrietta set sail, the four of them were on board. When Passepartout discovered the cost of this latest crossing he let out the sort of extended ‘Oh’ that goes through every interval on the descending chromatic scale. As for Inspector Fix, he thought to himself that the Bank of England was really going to come off badly from this business. The truth was that by the time they arrived, and even supposing that this fellow Fogg didn’t throw a few more fistfuls of dollars overboard, there would still be more than £7,000 missing from the bag of banknotes. 33 Where Phileas Fogg proves himself equal to the situation An hour later the steamer the Henrietta passed the lightship marking the mouth of the Hudson, went around the headland of Sandy Hook and put out to sea. During the day it followed the coastline of Long Island, keeping well clear of the beacon on Fire Island, then headed rapidly eastwards. At midday on the following day, 13 December, a man climbed on to the bridge to take the ship’s bearings. It would seem safe to assume that this man was Captain Speedy. Nothing could be further from the truth. It was Phileas Fogg, Esq. Captain Speedy meanwhile was quite simply locked up in his cabin and was howling away, giving vent to a quite understandable anger that was reaching fever pitch. What had happened was perfectly simple. Phileas Fogg wanted to get to Liverpool, but the captain didn’t want to take him there. Phileas Fogg had then agreed to travel to Bordeaux and during the thirty hours he’d been on board he had put his banknotes to work so effectively that the crew, the sailors and the stokers – a motley collection of individuals who were on pretty bad terms with the captain – had been won over. This is why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy, why the captain was locked up in his cabin and, lastly, why the Henrietta was heading for Liverpool. It was, though, very clear from the way he set about things that Mr Fogg had been a sailor. It was too early to tell how things would work out. However, Mrs Aouda was worried, without letting it show. Fix had been simply dumbfounded to start with. As for Passepartout, he found the whole thing absolutely wonderful. ‘Between eleven and twelve knots’ was what Captain Speedy had said and, sure enough, the Henrietta kept up this average speed. And so if – but there were a lot of ifs – the sea didn’t get too rough, if the wind didn’t veer to the east, if the vessel was spared accidental damage and mechanical breakdown, it was possible for the Henrietta to cover the 3,000 miles separating New York and Liverpool in the nine days between 12 and 21 December. It is true that once he’d arrived, the business of the Henrietta coming on top of the business at the Bank of England could well cause the gentleman more complications than he’d like. For the first few days conditions for sailing were excellent. The sea wasn’t too difficult, the wind seemed settled in the north-east, the sails were set, and under its try-sails the Henrietta went like a real transatlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. He was full of enthusiasm for his master’s latest exploit, though he didn’t want to think about its consequences. The crew had never seen such a high-spirited and nimble fellow. He was very friendly towards the sailors and amazed them with his acrobatics. He treated them to compliments and tempting-looking drinks. For him they went about their work like gentlemen, and the stokers stoked like heroes. Everyone was susceptible to his infectious good humour. He’d forgotten about the recent past, the problems and the dangers. The only thing he thought about was the goal that they were so close to reaching, and sometimes he was boiling over with impatience, as if he’d been heated up by the Henrietta’s own furnace. The worthy fellow often circled around Fix, looking at him knowingly but not saying a word, because there was no longer any closeness between the two former friends. In any case, it has to be said that Fix no longer had a clue about what was going on. This whole sequence of events, the takeover of the Henrietta, the bribing of the crew and Fogg navigating like an experienced sailor, had him baffled. He just didn’t know what to think. But after all a gentleman who started out by stealing £55,000 could easily end up stealing a sailing ship. And Fix naturally went on to conclude that under Phileas Fogg’s command the Henrietta was not heading for Liverpool at all but for some other part of the world where the thief, who had now turned into a pirate, could safely spend the rest of his life. It has to be admitted that this was a perfectly plausible explanation, and the detective was beginning seriously to regret ever having got caught up in this business. Meanwhile Captain Speedy continued to howl away in his cabin, and Passepartout, who had been given the task of providing him with food, only did so with the greatest of caution, despite his own physical strength. Mr Fogg, on the other hand, no longer seemed to suspect there was a captain on board. On the 13th they reached the tail-end of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. These are dangerous waters. Especially during the winter, fog is common and the storms are frightening. The previous day the barometer had dropped suddenly, a sign that a change in the weather was imminent. And, sure enough, during the night the temperature changed, the cold became more intense and at the same time the wind veered to the south-east. It was a setback. In order to stick to his route Mr Fogg had to take in the sails and increase the steam. Nevertheless, the ship’s progress was slowed down by the state of the sea with high waves breaking against its stem. The ship began to pitch violently and this further affected its speed. The wind was gradually reaching hurricane force and it already looked as if the Henrietta might not be able to face the waves full-on. But if it had to run before the storm that would be a leap into the unknown, with all the dangers that this entailed. Passepartout’s face became as dark as the sky, and for two days the worthy fellow was on tenterhooks. But Phileas Fogg was a bold sailor who knew how to stand up to the sea and he kept straight on, without even reducing steam. When the Henrietta couldn’t rise above the waves it went straight through them, and although the deck was swamped the ship carried on. Sometimes, too, the propeller was lifted clean out of the water and the blades whirred madly in the air as a mountainous wave raised the stern, but still the ship continued on its course. Nevertheless, the wind didn’t freshen as much as might have been feared. It wasn’t one of those hurricanes that reach speeds of up to ninety miles per hour. The wind didn’t go beyond gale force, but unfortunately it kept on blowing from the south-east and made it impossible to put the sails out. However, as will soon become apparent, the wind would have been very useful for helping out the steam power. The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since they had left London. In a word, the delay to the Henrietta was still not serious. Half the crossing had almost been completed and the most difficult waters were already behind them. If it had been summer, success would have been guaranteed. As it was winter, they were at the mercy of bad weather. Passepartout didn’t make his views known. Deep down he was hopeful and, if the wind failed, he was counting on steam to get them there. As it happened, on that particular day the engineer went on deck, met Mr Fogg and had quite a sharp conversation with him. Without knowing why – no doubt by a premonition – Passepartout felt a vague sort of uneasiness. He would have given his right arm to hear what was being said. However, he did manage to catch a few words, including the following, spoken by his master, ‘Are you sure that what you’re saying is true?’ ‘Absolutely certain, sir,’ replied the engineer. ‘Don’t forget that since we set out we’ve been going full blast, and even if we had enough coal to go at low steam from New York to Bordeaux, we don’t have enough to go at full steam from New York to Liverpool.’ ‘I shall decide what to do,’ replied Mr Fogg. Passepartout had understood. He suddenly became extremely worried. They were going to run out of coal. ‘Oh, if my master can get us out of this one,’ he said to himself, ‘then he really is somebody.’ After bumping into Fix, he couldn’t help telling him about the situation. ‘So,’ the inspector replied, gritting his teeth, ‘you really think that we’re heading for Liverpool.’ ‘But of course.’ ‘Idiot!’ answered the inspector, as he walked away, shrugging his shoulders. Passepartout was about to take strong exception to this word, even if he wasn’t in a position to understand its full significance, but he said to himself that poor old Fix must be very disappointed and that his pride must have taken a battering at the idea of having gone around the world on a wild goose chase, and so Passepartout let the remark pass. So what would Phileas Fogg’s decision be? It was hard to imagine. However, the phlegmatic gentleman seemed to have made up his mind because that very evening he sent for the engineer and said to him, ‘Stoke up the boilers and go full steam ahead until there’s no fuel left.’ A few moments later the Henrietta’s funnel was belching out clouds of smoke. So the ship continued on course at full steam, but just as he had warned, two days later, the 18th, the engineer announced that they would run out of coal during that day. ‘Don’t let the fires die down,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘On the contrary. Keep up the pressure in the engine.’ That day, at about midday, after taking a bearing to calculate the ship’s position, Phileas Fogg sent for Passepartout and told him to go and fetch Captain Speedy. It was like telling the good fellow to go and unleash a tiger, and he went down to the poop deck saying to himself, ‘He’s going to go absolutely berserk.’ A few minutes later, amid shouting and swearing, a bomb duly landed on the poop deck. This bomb was Captain Speedy. It was obvious that he was about to explode. ‘Where are we?’ were the first words he uttered, choking with anger, and it was clear that if this worthy fellow had had a weak heart he would never have survived. ‘Where are we?’ he repeated, red in the face. ‘770 miles east of Liverpool,’ replied Mr Fogg, with total composure. ‘Pirate!’ exclaimed Andrew Speedy. ‘I sent for you, sir – ’ ‘Sea rover!’ ‘ – sir,’ continued Mr Fogg, ‘to ask you to sell me your ship.’ ‘No. Like hell. No.’ ‘The fact is that I’m going to have to burn it.’ ‘Burn my ship!’ ‘Yes, at least the upper works, because we’re running out of fuel.’ ‘Burn my ship!’ exclaimed Captain Speedy, who had difficulty getting the words out of his mouth any more. ‘A ship worth $50,000!’ ‘Here’s $60,000,’ replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a wad of banknotes. The effect on Andrew Speedy was spectacular. No true American can fail to be moved by the sight of $60,000. For a moment the captain forgot about his anger, his imprisonment and all his grievances against his passenger. His ship was twenty years old; this deal was worth a packet. The bomb was no longer going to explode. Mr Fogg had removed the fuse. ‘But I’ll still have the iron hull left,’ he said, sounding remarkably calmer. ‘The iron hull and the machinery, sir. Are we agreed?’ ‘Agreed.’ With that Andrew Speedy grabbed the wad of banknotes, counted them and stashed them away in his pocket. During this scene Passepartout was white as a sheet. Fix, for his part, almost had a heart attack. Nearly £20,000 had already been spent and now here was Fogg giving away to the vendor the hull and the machinery, in other words almost half the total value of the ship. It was just as well that the amount of money stolen from the bank was £55,000. When Andrew Speedy had put all the money away in his pocket, Mr Fogg said to him, ‘Sir, let me explain something to you. If I am not back in London by eight forty-five in the evening on 21 December I will lose £20,000. The fact is that I missed the steamer from New York and because you refused to take me to Liverpool –’ ‘And I did the right thing there, I’ll swear that by the devil,’ exclaimed Andrew Speedy, ‘because I’ve made at least $40,000.’ Then he added, rather more calmly, ‘Do you know ssomething, Captain …’ ‘Fogg.’ ‘Captain Fogg, well, there’s a bit of the Yankee about you.’ And after giving his passenger what he thought was a compliment, he was about to go when Phileas Fogg said to him, ‘So this boat belongs to me now, doesn’t it?’ ‘Well, from the keel to the top of the masts, everything made of wood, that is.’ ‘Good. Take out all the internal fittings and use them as firewood.’ It is easy to imagine how much dry wood needs to be burnt to keep the steam up to sufficient pressure. That day the poop deck, the deckhouses, the cabins, the crew’s quarters and the spar-deck all went. The following day, 19 December, they burnt the masting, the spare masts and yards, and the spars. They chopped down the masts and cut them up with axes. The crew set about their task with incredible energy. Passepartout was slicing, cutting and sawing away, doing the work of ten men. It was an orgy of destruction. The day after, 20 December, the rails, the bulwarks, the dead-works and most of the deck were fed to the flames. The Henrietta was now so low it looked like a pontoon, not a ship. But that day they sighted the coast of Ireland and the Fastnet lighthouse. However, by ten o’clock in the evening the ship was still off Queenstown.1 Phileas Fogg only had twenty-four hours left to get to London. That was precisely how long it would take the Henrietta to get to Liverpool – even if it went at full steam. And steam was just what the daring gentleman was running out of! ‘Sir,’ Captain Speedy then said to him, as he had now come round to showing an interest in his plans, ‘I feel really sorry for you. Everything’s against you. We’re still no further than Queenstown.’ ‘Ah!’ said Mr Fogg. ‘Is that the town we can see, where the lights are coming from?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can we enter the harbour?’ ‘Not for another three hours. Only at high tide.’ ‘Let’s wait, then,’ Phileas Fogg replied calmly, without letting it show on his face that he was about to attempt once again to overcome his bad luck by another master stroke. Queenstown is, as it happens, a port on the Irish coast where transatlantic liners from the United States drop off their mail-bags. These letters are taken to Dublin by express trains that are always ready and waiting. From Dublin they go to Liverpool via high-speed steamers – cutting twelve hours off the time taken by the fastest vessels of the shipping companies. Phileas Fogg thought that he, too, could make up twelve hours, as the mail from America did. Instead of arriving in Liverpool on the Henrietta the following evening he would get there by midday, which would allow him time to get to London by eight forty-five in the evening. Towards one o’clock in the afternoon the Henrietta entered Queenstown harbour on the full tide, and Phileas Fogg, after receiving a vigorous handshake from Captain Speedy, left the latter on the flattened carcass of his ship, which was still worth half what he had got for selling it. The passengers disembarked immediately. Fix, at that moment, felt a great urge to arrest Fogg. He refrained from doing so, however. Why? What struggle was going on inside him? Had he changed his mind about Mr Fogg? Did he realize at last that he’d been wrong? Nevertheless, Fix did not let go of Mr Fogg. Along with him, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout, who was in such a rush he didn’t pause for breath, he got into the train from Queenstown at half past one in the morning, reached Dublin as dawn was breaking and immediately got on to one of those steamers – real steel rockets that are all engine – which do not bother to rise with the waves but invariably go straight through them. At twenty minutes to midday on 21 December, Phileas Fogg at last landed at Liverpool docks. He was only six hours away from London. But at that moment Fix went up to him, put his hand on his shoulder and, showing him his warrant, said, ‘You are Phileas Fogg, are you not?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘In the name of Her Majesty the Queen, I arrest you.’ 34 Which provides Passepartout with the opportunity to make an appalling but perhaps original play on words Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been locked up in the gaol of the custom-house in Liverpool and was to spend the night there before being transferred to London. At the time of the arrest Passepartout’s instinct was to throw himself at the detective. He had been restrained by some policemen. Mrs Aouda was horrified at the brutality of it all and, because she knew nothing about the background, was unable to understand what was happening. Passepartout explained the situation to her. Mr Fogg, this upright and courageous gentleman to whom she owed her life, had been arrested like a common thief. The young woman protested against this allegation. She felt deep indignation and tears poured down her cheeks when she saw she was powerless to do anything, to attempt anything to save her saviour. As for Fix, he had arrested the gentleman because his sense of duty told him to do so, irrespective of whether or not he was guilty. The courts would decide that. But then something occurred to Passepartout, the terrible thought that he was the cause of this whole disaster. Why on earth had he concealed the situation from Mr Fogg? When Fix had revealed that he was a police inspector and that his task was to arrest Mr Fogg, why had he taken it upon himself not to alert his master? If he had warned him, his master would certainly have given Fix proof of his innocence and would have shown him his error. In any case, he wouldn’t have dragged the wretched detective behind him all around the world and at his own expense when the man’s main concern was to arrest him the moment he set foot on British soil.1 When he thought about all his foolishness and carelessness, the poor fellow was overcome with remorse. He cried; he was a pathetic sight. He wanted to knock himself senseless. Despite the cold, Mrs Aouda and he had stayed under the portico of the custom-house. Neither of them wanted to leave the place. They wanted to see Mr Fogg just one more time. As for the gentleman himself, he was well and truly ruined, financially speaking, and just as he was reaching his goal. His arrest meant the end of everything for him. When he had arrived in Liverpool at twenty minutes to midday on 21 December, he had until eight forty-five to show up at the Reform Club, in other words nine hours and fifteen minutes – and he only needed six to get to London. Anyone going into the custom-house at that moment would have found Mr Fogg sitting motionless on a wooden bench, showing no sign of anger and looking as imperturbable as ever. It was impossible to tell whether he was resigned, but this last blow didn’t seem to have affected him, at least outwardly. Was there burning away inside him some secret rage, frightening because it was bottled up until the last moment when it would burst out with unstoppable force? No one could tell. But Phileas Fogg was sitting there, calm, waiting … but for what? Did he still retain some hope? Did he still believe he could succeed after the prison door had closed behind him? Whatever the case, Mr Fogg had carefully placed his watch on the table and he was looking at the hands move forward. Not a word crossed his lips, but there was an especially intent look on his face. In any event the situation was grim, and for anyone unable to read what was going through his mind it may be summed up as follows: If he was an honest man, Phileas Fogg was ruined. If he was a criminal, he had been caught. Did it occur to him at this point to try to escape? Did he think of looking for a possible way out of where he was being held? Did he plan to run away? It might be tempting to think so because at one point he walked around the room. But the door was firmly locked and the windows were equipped with iron bars. So he went to sit down again and took out of his pocket-book his travel schedule. On the line where he had written ‘21 December, Saturday, Liverpool’, he added: ‘80th day, 11.40 a.m.’ Then he waited. One o’clock struck on the custom-house clock. Mr Fogg noted that his watch was two minutes ahead of this clock. Two o’clock. Assuming that he got on to an express train there and then he could still get to London and to the Reform Club before eight forty-five in the evening. He frowned slightly. At thirty-three minutes past two there was a commotion outside, the noise of doors being flung open. Passepartout’s voice could be heard, and Fix’s. Phileas Fogg’s face lit up for a moment. The cell door opened and he saw Mrs Aouda, Passepartout and Fix rushing towards him. Fix was out of breath and his hair all over the place. He was unable to speak properly. ‘Sir,’ he stammered, ‘sir … sorry … unfortunate likeness … Thief arrested three days ago … you … free!’ Phileas Fogg was free! He went up to the detective. He looked him straight in the eye and, with the only rapid movement he had ever made or ever would make in his life, he swung his arms back and then, with the precision of an automaton, struck the unfortunate inspector with both fists. ‘Well hit!’ exclaimed Passepartout, who allowed himself an appalling play on words worthy of a true Frenchman, by adding: ‘Good heavens! That’s what I’d call a striking example of the benefits of an English education.’2 Fix, who’d been knocked to the floor, didn’t say a word. He’d only got what he deserved. But immediately Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout left the custom-house. They jumped into a cab and within a few minutes were at Liverpool station. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express ready to leave for London. It was two-forty … The express had left thirty-five minutes earlier. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several high-speed locomotives with steam up. But for operating reasons the special train was unable to leave the station until three o’clock. By three o’clock, after having a word with the engine driver about a bonus he could earn, Phileas Fogg was speeding off towards London in the company of the young woman and his faithful servant. They needed to cover the distance between Liverpool and London in five and a half hours. This was a perfectly reasonable proposition when the line was clear all the way, but there were unavoidable delays and so by the time the gentleman arrived at the station all the clocks in London were showing ten minutes to nine. After completing his journey around the world Phileas Fogg had arrived five minutes late. He had lost. 35 In which Passepartout doesn’t need to be told twice to do as his master orders The following day the inhabitants of Savile Row would certainly have been surprised to be informed that Mr Fogg was back in residence. The windows and doors were all closed. Nothing had changed from the outside. What had happened was that after leaving the station Phileas Fogg had told Passepartout to buy some food and he had gone back to his house. The gentleman had responded to this blow with his usual impassiveness. He was ruined and it was all the fault of this bungling police inspector. After travelling at a steady pace during this long journey, after overcoming a thousand obstacles, braving a thousand dangers and finding the time to do some good on the way, to fail at his port of arrival in such violent circumstances, which he could not have foreseen and was powerless to combat, was a terrible thing. Of the sizeable sum of money he had taken with him when he set out, only an insignificant amount was left over. All that remained of his fortune was the £20,000 deposited with Baring Brothers, and even those £20,000 were what he owed to his colleagues from the Reform Club. After spending so much money, even if he had won his bet he probably wouldn’t have been very much richer – anyway, that probably hadn’t been his aim, since he was the sort of man who bet for honour not gain – but losing his bet spelt his financial ruin. In any case the gentleman had made up his mind. He knew what was left for him to do. A room in the house in Savile Row had been set aside for Mrs Aouda. The young woman was desperate. From some comments of Mr Fogg she had concluded that he was planning some fateful deed. It is of course well known to what dreadful extremes English monomaniacs can be driven by their single-minded obsessions. This was why Passepartout was keeping a careful eye on his master, without making it obvious. But, before anything else, the good fellow had gone up to his bedroom and switched off the gas lamp, which had been burning away for eighty days. He had found the bill from the gas company in the letterbox and he thought it was high time he put an end to the costs he had incurred. The night went by. Mr Fogg had gone to bed, but did he sleep? As for Mrs Aouda, she was unable to get any rest at all. Passepartout, for his part, had kept watch outside his master’s room, like a faithful dog. The next day Mr Fogg called for him and told him in as few words as possible to see to Mrs Aouda’s breakfast. All he wanted for himself was a cup of tea and a piece of toast. He would like Mrs Aouda to excuse him for lunch and dinner because he needed to devote all his time to putting his affairs in order. He would not be going downstairs. Only in the evening would he ask Mrs Aouda’s permission to speak to her for a few moments. Having been informed of his master’s schedule for the day, all Passepartout could do was to fall in with it. He looked at his master, who was as impassive as ever, and he couldn’t find the courage to leave his room. He was downcast and beset with remorse, because he felt more and more responsible for this irreparable disaster. If only he had warned Mr Fogg and disclosed Fix’s plans to him, Mr Fogg would certainly not have trailed the detective along behind him all the way to Liverpool, and then— Passepartout couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Master! Mr Fogg!’ he exclaimed, ‘curse me! It’s all my fault that –’ ‘I’m not going to accuse anyone,’ replied Mr Fogg in the calmest tone of voice imaginable. ‘Off you go.’ Passepartout left the room and went off to see the young woman to tell her what his master’s intentions were. ‘Madam, I’m absolutely powerless on my own. I have no influence whatsoever over my master. Perhaps you …’ ‘What influence could I have?’ replied Mrs Aouda. ‘Mr Fogg is impervious to any. Has he ever realized how much I wanted to pour out my gratitude to him? Has he ever been able to read my heart? My friend, you must not leave him alone, not for a single moment. You say that he has expressed the intention of speaking to me this evening?’ ‘Yes, madam. It must be to do with safeguarding your position in England.’ ‘Let’s wait and see,’ replied the young woman, looking thoughtful. And so for the whole of that Sunday the house in Savile Row looked deserted, and for the first time since living there Phileas Fogg did not go to his club as Big Ben struck half past eleven. In any case, what would have been the point in the gentleman going to the Reform Club? His colleagues were no longer expecting him. Since on the previous evening, on the fateful date of Saturday 21 December, Phileas Fogg had not shown up in the lounge of the Reform Club by eight forty-five, he had lost his bet. There was no longer even any need for him to go to his bank to withdraw the sum of £20,000. His opponents already had in their hands a cheque he had signed and all that was needed was to put the cheque through his account with Baring Brothers for the £20,000 to be credited to them. As there was no point in Mr Fogg going out, so he didn’t do so. He stayed in his room and put his affairs in order. Passepartout kept going up and down the staircase in the house in Savile Row. Time went by very slowly for the poor fellow. He listened outside the door of his master’s bedroom and did so without thinking that he was being in the least indiscreet. He looked through the keyhole with the firm conviction that he was entitled to do so. Passepartout feared a catastrophe at any moment. Sometimes he thought about Fix, but a change had come over him. He no longer bore a grudge against the police inspector. Like everybody else, Fix had been wrong about Phileas Fogg, and in trailing him and arresting him he had only been doing his duty, whereas he, Passepartout … He was overwhelmed by the thought of this and he considered himself the most wretched of creatures. When eventually Passepartout felt too unhappy to be alone, he knocked on Mrs Aouda’s door, went into her bedroom, sat down in a corner without saying anything and looked at the young woman, who still seemed lost in her thoughts. At a bout half past seven in the evening Mr Fogg sent a message to Mrs Aouda asking to be allowed to see her, and a few moments later the young woman and he were alone together in her room. Phileas Fogg took a chair and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Mrs Aouda. His face was expressionless. The Fogg who had come back was exactly the same Fogg as had gone away. The same calm and the same impassiveness. He remained silent for five minutes. Then, looking up at Mrs Aouda, he said, ‘Madam, will you forgive me for having brought you to England?’ ‘Forgive you, Mr Fogg?’ replied Mrs Aouda, struggling to keep her emotions under control. ‘Please allow me to finish,’ continued Mr Fogg. ‘When I conceived the idea of taking you far away from your own country, which had become so dangerous for you, I was a wealthy man and I was expecting to bestow some of that wealth on you. Your life would have been happy and free. Now I am penniless.’ ‘I know, Mr Fogg,’ the young woman replied, ‘and I would like to ask you something in turn: will you forgive me for having followed you and – who can tell? – for perhaps having contributed to your ruin by delaying you?’ ‘Madam, it was impossible for you to remain in India, and your safety could only be guaranteed by making sure that you were far enough away not to fall into the hands of those fanatics again.’ ‘So, Mr Fogg,’ Mrs Aouda continued, ‘not content to rescue me from a horrible death, you also felt duty-bound to provide for me abroad?’ ‘Yes, madam, but things have turned out against me. However, I ask to be allowed to bestow on you the little I still have.’ ‘But what will become of you, Mr Fogg?’ asked Mrs Aouda. ‘I, madam,’ the gentleman replied coldly, ‘need nothing.’ ‘But how, sir, will you face the fate that awaits you?’ ‘In the appropriate way,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘In any case,’ went on Mrs Aouda, ‘poverty cannot afflict a person such as you. Your friends –’ ‘I have no friends, madam.’ ‘Your relatives –’ ‘I have no relatives left.’ ‘I feel truly sorry for you, then, Mr Fogg, because loneliness is a sad thing. No one to pour your heart out to. And yet people say that even poverty is bearable as long there are two of you.’ ‘So it is said, madam.’ ‘Mr Fogg,’ Mrs Aouda then said, as she got to her feet and offered the gentleman her hand, ‘would you like both a relative and a friend? Would you like to have me as your wife?’ When he heard these words Mr Fogg also got to his feet. There was a sort of unusual gleam in his eyes, and his lips looked as if they were trembling. Mrs Aouda looked at him. The sincerity, uprightness, firmness and gentleness of the beautiful gaze of a noble woman who will risk anything to save the person to whom she owes everything first surprised and then penetrated him. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to prevent this gaze from going any deeper into him. When he opened them, he said simply, ‘I love you! Yes, truly, by everything that is sacred in the world, I love you and I am wholly yours.’ ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Aouda, placing her hand on her heart. Passepartout was rung for. He came straightaway. Mr Fogg was still holding Mrs Aouda’s hand in his. Passepartout understood, and his broad face beamed like the midday sun in a tropical sky. Mr Fogg asked whether it was too late to give notice to the Rev. Samuel Wilson, of the parish of Marylebone. Passepartout put on his best smile. ‘Never too late,’ he said. It was only five past eight. ‘It’ll be for tomorrow, Monday?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, Monday?’ asked Mr Fogg, looking at the young woman. ‘Tomorrow, Monday!’ replied Mrs Aouda. Passepartout went out of the house, running as fast as he could. 36 In which shares in Phileas Fogg are back in demand on the stockmarket Now is the time to recount how public opinion suddenly changed when the news broke that the real bank robber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested on 17 December in Edinburgh. Three days earlier Phileas Fogg had been a criminal ruthlessly hunted downby the police, and now he was the most respectable of gentlemen, who with a mathematical sense of timing was completing his eccentric journey around the world. It created a huge splash and sensation in the newspapers. The whole betting fraternity, both for and against, which had forgotten all about this business, suddenly reappeared from nowhere. All the earlier transactions were valid again. All the financial commitments were once more binding and, it must also be said, the betting started up again, with renewed vigour. Phileas Fogg’s name was once more in demand on the London market. The gentleman’s five colleagues from the Reform Club spent those three days in a state of some anxiety. The Phileas Fogg they had forgotten about was reappearing before their very eyes. Where was he at that particular moment? By 17 December, the day when James Strand had been arrested, Phileas Fogg had been away for seventy-six days and they hadn’t heard a word from him. Had he been killed? Had he given up the struggle, or was he still continuing his journey following the agreed route? Would he suddenly show up outside the drawing-room of the Reform Club on Saturday 21 December at eight forty-five in the evening, like an incarnation of the god of punctuality? It would be impossible to describe the anxiety that afflicted this section of English society over those three days. Telegrams were sent to America and to Asia in an attempt to get news of Phileas Fogg. Someone was sent morning and evening to keep a lookout on the house in Savile Row – to no avail. Even the police had no idea of the whereabouts of Inspector Fix, who had so unfortunately followed the wrong lead. None of this, however, prevented the betting from starting up again and on an even greater scale. Like a racehorse, Phileas Fogg was now into the final straight. The odds quoted against him were no longer a hundred to one but twenty, ten, five, and the elderly invalid Lord Albermarle was putting money on him at evens. On the Saturday evening there was therefore a large crowd in Pall Mall and the surrounding area. It looked like a huge gathering of stockbrokers, permanently stationed outside the Reform Club. No traffic could get through. People were talking and arguing and shouting out the value of ‘Phileas Fogg’ shares as if they were government bonds. The police had considerable difficulty in controlling the crowds of onlookers, and the nearer it got to the time when Phileas Fogg was supposed to arrive, the more the tension and excitement mounted. That evening the gentleman’s five colleagues had been together for nine hoursinthe main drawing-room of the Reform Club. The two bankers John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the engineer Andrew Stuart, Gauthier Ralph, one of the directors of the Bank of England, and the brewer Thomas Flanagan were all waiting anxiously. At the moment when the clock in the main drawing-room showed eight twenty-five, Andrew Stuart got up and said: ‘Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the deadline agreed between Mr Fogg and ourselves will have expired.’ ‘What time did the last train from Liverpool arrive?’ asked Thomas Flanagan. ‘Seven twenty-three,’ replied Gauthier Ralph, ‘and the next train doesn’t arrive until ten past midnight.’ ‘Well then, gentlemen,’ continued Andrew Stuart, ‘if Phileas Fogg had arrived on the seven twenty-three, he would have been here by now. We can therefore assume that we’ve won the bet.’ ‘Let’s wait before we come to any conclusion,’ replied Samuel Fallentin. ‘You know that our colleague is an eccentric of the highest order. It’s well known how exact he is in everything. He never arrives too early or too late, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he showed up here at the last minute.’ ‘Personally,’ said Andrew Stuart, extremely tense as usual, ‘if he was standing in front of me I wouldn’t believe my own eyes.’ ‘I agree,’ went on Thomas Flanagan. ‘Phileas Fogg’s plan was completely crazy. However exact he may have been, it was impossible for him to prevent unavoidable delays from happening, and a delay of two or three days was enough to jeopardize his journey.’ ‘You will note, in addition,’ added John Sullivan, ‘that we have received no news at all of our colleague, and yet there were plenty of opportunities for him to send a telegram during his travels.’ ‘He has lost, gentlemen,’ Andrew Stuart replied, ‘he has lost hands down! You know in any case that the China, the only steamer from New York that he could have caught to get to Liverpool in time, arrived yesterday. Well, here’s the passenger list, as published in the Shipping Gazette, and Phileas Fogg’s name is not on it. Even if luck was on his side, our colleague would still hardly have reached America. I would reckon that he’s about twenty days at least behind schedule and that poor old Lord Albermarle will also lose his £5,000.’ ‘It’s obvious,’ replied Gauthier Ralph, ‘and tomorrow all we have to do is to present Mr Fogg’s cheque at Baring Brothers.’ At that moment the drawing-room clock showed eight forty. ‘Another five minutes,’ said Andrew Stuart. The five colleagues looked at one another. It can be assumed that their hearts were beginning to beat a bit faster, because even for such experienced gamblers the amount of money at stake was considerable. But they didn’t want any of this to show because, following Samuel Fallentin’s suggestion, they seated themselves around a card table. ‘I wouldn’t give up my £4,000 share in the bet,’ said Andrew Stuart as he sat down, ‘even if someone gave me £3,999 for it.’ The hands on the clock were showing at that moment eight fortytwo. The players had taken their cards, but all the time they kept staring at the clock. However sure they were of themselves, it can safely be said that they had never found the minutes so long. ‘Eight forty-three,’ said Thomas Flanagan, cutting the pack that Gauthier Ralph put in front of him. Then there was a moment’s silence. The huge drawing-room of the Reform Club was quiet. But outside could be heard the noise of the crowd and sometimes, above that, high-pitched shouting. The clock pendulum marked the seconds with mathematical regularity. Each player could count the sixtieths of a minute that he heard quite distinctly. ‘Eight forty-four,’ said John Sullivan, in a tone of voice that accidentally betrayed his emotion. Only a minute to go and the bet was won. Andrew Stuart and his colleagues had stopped playing. They had put aside their cards. They were counting the seconds. At the fortieth second there was nothing. At the fiftieth still nothing. At the fifty-fifth, they heard what sounded like thunder outside, applause and hurrahs, and even some swearing, which got louder and louder as it rolled unstoppably towards them. The card-players got to their feet. At the fifty-seventh second, the drawing-room door opened, and before the pendulum had struck the sixtieth second Phileas Fogg appeared, escorted by a jubilant crowd that had forced its way into the club, and in his calm voice he said, ‘Here I am, gentlemen.’ 37 In which it is proved that Phileas Fogg has gained nothing from this journey around the world, other than happiness Yes. It was Phileas Fogg in person. It will be remembered that at five past eight in the evening – about twenty-five hours since the travellers had got back to London – Passepartout had been told to inform Rev. Samuel Wilson about a certain wedding that was due to take place the very next day. So Passepartout had set off, absolutely delighted at the idea. He quickly went along to Rev. Samuel Wilson’s house, but the clergyman had not yet got back. Passepartout decided to wait, which he did for a good twenty minutes at least. It was eight thirty-five before he was able to leave the clergyman’s house, but what a state he was in by then. His hair was all over the place, he was without his hat, and running, running asnoone had ever run before, knocking over passers-by, rushing along the pavement at breakneck speed. It took him three minutes to get back to the house in Savile Row and he collapsed out of breath on the floor of Mr Fogg’s bedroom. He was unable to speak. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr Fogg. ‘Master …’stammered Passepartout,‘wedding …impossible.’ ‘Impossible?’ ‘Impossible … for tomorrow.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because tomorrow … is Sunday.’ ‘Monday,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘No … today … Saturday.’ ‘Saturday? Impossible.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘You are a day out. We arrived twenty-four hours early … but there are only ten minutes left!’ Passepartout had seized his master by the collar and he was dragging him off with irresistible force. After being snatched away like this and without having the time to think, Phileas Fogg left his room and his house, jumped into a cab, promised the driver £100, and, after running over two dogs and bumping into five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock was showing eight forty-five when he appeared in the main drawing-room. Phileas Fogg had completed his journey around the world in eighty days. Phileas Fogg had won his £20,000 bet. So how could a man who was so precise and meticulous have been a day out in his calculations? How could he think when he arrived in London that it was Saturday evening of 21 December when it was instead Friday 20 December, only seventy-nine days after he set out? The explanation of this mistake is very simple and here it is. Without realizing it, Phileas Fogg had gained a day during his journey, simply because he had gone around the world from west to east, just as he would have lost a day if he had gone in the opposite direction from east to west. By travelling eastwards Phileas Fogg had gone towards the sun and therefore the days became shorter for him by four minutes with every degree of longitude he crossed in that direction. As the earth has a circumference of 360 degrees, these 360 degrees multiplied by four minutes give exactly twenty-four hours, that is, the day that he had gained without being aware of it. In other words, by going eastwards Phileas Fogg had seen the sun cross the meridian eighty times, whereas his colleagues back in London had only seen it cross seventynine times. This is why on that very day, which was a Saturday and not a Sunday, as Phileas Fogg thought, these gentlemen were waiting for him in the drawing-room of the Reform Club. And this is what Passepartout’s famous watch, which was still set on London time, would have told him if it had shown the days as well as the minutes and hours. Phileas Fogg had therefore won the £20,000. But as he had spent about £19,000 during his journey, the financial return wasn’t very great. However, as has already been said, what had made this eccentric gentleman take on the bet was the challenge, not the money. What was more, he divided up the remaining £1,000 between the trusty Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, towards whom he could feel no resentment. The only thing was that on a point of principle he held back from his servant the cost of the 1,920 hours of gas that Passepartout had been responsible for wasting. That same evening Mr Fogg, as impassive and phlegmatic as ever, said to Mrs Aouda: ‘Are you still prepared to marry me, madam?’ ‘Mr Fogg,’ replied Mrs Aouda, ‘I’m the one who should be asking this question. You were ruined, but now you are rich.’ ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but this wealth belongs to you. If you hadn’t thought of getting married, my servant wouldn’t have gone to Rev. Samuel Wilson’s, I wouldn’t have been informed of my error and …’ ‘Dear Mr Fogg,’ said the young woman. ‘Dear Aouda,’ replied Phileas Fogg. It will come as no surprise to learn that the wedding took place forty-eight hours later, and that Passepartout, looking magnificent, resplendent and dazzling, gave her away. After all, hadn’t he been the one who rescued her and wasn’t this honour owing to him? Nevertheless, the following day at the crack of dawn Passepar-tout was banging on his master’s door. The door opened and the impassive gentleman appeared. ‘What’s the matter, Passepartout?’ ‘What’s the matter, sir, is something I’ve just discovered this minute.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘That we could have gone around the world in only seventy-nine days.’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Mr Fogg, ‘by not going across India. But if I hadn’t gone across India, I wouldn’t have rescued Mrs Aouda, and she wouldn’t now be my wife, and …’ With that Mr Fogg quietly closed the door. And so Phileas Fogg had won his bet. He had completed this journey around the world in eighty days. To do so he had used all possible means of transport: steamships, railways, carriages, yachts, commercial vessels, a sledge and an elephant. The eccentric gentleman had displayed throughout his outstanding qualities of composure and precision. But apart from this, what had he gained from all this travel? What had the journey brought him? Nothing, it could be said. Nothing, that is, except for a charming wife who, however unlikely it may seem, made him the happiest of men. In all truth, isn’t this more than enough reward for going around the world?