A sort of faint grimace appeared on the round face of the Frenchman. It was evident that he had not fully understood.
“Monsieur is going to leave home?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Phileas Fogg. “We are going to make the tour of the world.”
Passepartout, with his eyes wide open, his eyebrows raised, his arms extended, and his body collapsed, presented all the symptoms of an astonishment amounting to stupor.
“The tour of the world!” he murmured.
“In eighty days,” replied Mr Fogg. “So we have not a moment to lose.”
“But the trunks?” said Passepartout, who was unconsciously swinging his head from right to left.
“No trunks necessary. Only a carpet-bag. In it two woollen shirts and three pairs of stockings. The same for you. We will purchase on the way. You may bring down my mackintosh and travelling cloak, also stout shoes, although we shall walk but little or not at all. Go.”
Passepartout would have liked to make reply. He could not. He left Mr Fogg’s room, went up to his own, fell back into a chair, and making use of a common phrase in his country, he said: “Well, well, that’s pretty tough. I who wanted to remain quiet!”
And mechanically he made his preparations for departure. The tour of the world in eighty days! Was he doing business with a madman? No. It was a joke, perhaps. They were going to Dover. Good. To Calais. Let it be so. After all, it could not cross the grain of the good fellow very much, who had not trod the soil of his native country for five years. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and, indeed, it would give him pleasure to see the great capital again. But, surely, a gentleman so careful of his steps would stop there. Yes, doubtless; but it was not less true that he was starting out, that he was leaving home, this gentleman who, until this time, had been such a homebody!
By eight o’clock, Passepartout had put in order the modest bag which contained his wardrobe and that of his master; then, his mind still disturbed, he left his room, the door of which he closed carefully, and he rejoined Mr Fogg.
Mr Fogg was ready. He carried under his arm Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, which was to furnish him all the necessary directions for his journey. He took the bag from Passepartout’s hands, opened it, and slipped into it a heavy package of those fine bank-notes which are current in all countries.
“You have forgotten nothing?” he asked.
“Nothing, monsieur.”
“My mackintosh and cloak?”
“Here they are.”
“Good; take this bag,” and Mr Fogg handed it to Passepartout. “And take good care of it,” he added, “there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”
The bag nearly slipped out of Passepartout’s hands, as if the twenty thousand pounds had been in gold, and weighed very heavy.
The master and servant then descended, and the street door was double-locked. At the end of Saville Row there was a carriage stand. Phileas Fogg and his servant got into a cab, which was rapidly driven towards Charing Cross Station, at which one of the branches of the South Eastern Railway touches. At twenty minutes after eight the cab stopped before the gate of the station. Passepartout jumped out. His master followed him, and paid the driver. At this moment a poor beggar woman, holding a child in her arms, her bare feet all muddy, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and a ragged shawl over her other torn garments, approached Mr Fogg, and asked him for help.
Mr Fogg drew from his pocket the twenty guineas which he had just won at whist, and giving them to the woman, said: “Here, my good woman, I’m glad to have met you.” Then he passed on.
Passepartout had something like a sensation of moisture about his eyes. His master had made an impression upon his heart.
Mr Fogg and he went immediately into the large sitting-room of the station. There Phileas Fogg gave Passepartout the order to get two first-class tickets for Paris. Then returning, he noticed his five colleagues of the Reform Club.
“Gentlemen, I am going,” he said, “and the various visés put upon a passport which I take for that purpose will enable you on my return, to verify my journey.”
“Oh! Mr Fogg,” replied Gauthier Ralph, “that is useless. We will depend upon your honour as a gentleman.”
“It is better so,” said Mr Fogg.
“You do not forget that you ought to be back—” remarked Andrew Stuart.
“In eighty days,” replied Mr Fogg. “Saturday, December 21, 1872, at quarter before nine p.m. Au revoir, gentlemen.”
At forty minutes after eight, Phileas Fogg and his servant took their seats in the same compartment. At eight forty-five the whistle sounded, and the train started.
The night was dark. A fine rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, leaning back in his corner, did not speak. Passepartout, still stupefied, mechanically hugged up the bag with the bank-notes.
But the train had not passed Sydenham, when Passepartout uttered a real cry of despair!
“What is the matter?” asked Mr Fogg.
“Why—in—in my haste—my disturbed state of mind, I forgot—”
“Forgot what?”
“To turn off the gas in my room.”
“Very well, young man,” replied Mr Fogg coldly, “it will burn at your expense.”
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_88d456e1-10f4-5118-8160-a23d81013152)
In which a new Security appears on the London Exchange
Phileas Fogg, in leaving London, doubtless did not suspect the great excitement which his departure was going to create. The news of the wager spread first in the Reform Club, and produced quite a stir among the members of the honourable circle. Then from the Club it went into the papers, through the medium of the reporters, and from the papers to the public of London and the entire United Kingdom. The question of “the tour of the world” was commented upon, discussed, dissected, with as much passion and warmth as if it were a new Alabama affair. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, others—and they soon formed a considerable majority—declared against him. To accomplish this tour of the world otherwise than in theory and upon paper, in this minimum of time, with the means of communication employed at present, it was not only impossible, it was visionary. The Times, the Standard, the Evening Star, the Morning Chronicle, and twenty other papers of large circulation, declared against Mr Fogg. The Daily Telegraph alone sustained him to a certain extent. Phileas Fogg was generally treated as a maniac, as a fool, and his colleagues were blamed for having taken up this wager, which impeached the soundness of the mental faculties of its originator. Extremely passionate, but very logical, articles appeared upon the subject. The interest felt in England for everything concerning geography is well known. So there was not a reader, to whatever class he belonged, who did not devour the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg.
During the first few days, a few bold spirits, principally ladies, were in favour of him, especially after the Illustrated London News had published hispicture, copied from his photograph deposited in the archives of the Reform Club. Certain gentlemen dared to say, “Humph! why not, after all? More extraordinary things have been seen!” These were particularly the readers of the Daily Telegraph. But it was soon felt that this journal commenced to be weaker in its support.
In fact, a long article appeared on the seventh of October, in the Bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society. It treated the question from all points of view, and demonstrated clearly the folly of the enterprise. According to this article, everything was against the traveller, the obstacles of man and the obstacles of nature. To succeed in this project, it was necessary to admit a miraculous agreement of the hours of arrival and departure, an agreement which did not exist, and which could not exist. The arrival of trains at a fixed hour could be counted upon strictly, and in Europe, where relatively short distances are in question; but when three days are employed to cross India, and seven days to cross the United States, could the elements of such a problem be established to a nicety? The accidents to machinery, running of trains off the track, collisions, bad weather, and the accumulations of snows, were they not all against Phileas Fogg? Would he not find himself in winter on the steamers at the mercy of the winds or of the fogs? Is it then so rare that the best steamers of the ocean lines experience delays of two or three days? But one delay was sufficient to break irreparably the chain of communication. If Phileas Fogg missed only by a few hours the departure of a steamer, he would be compelled to wait for the next steamer, and in this way his journey would be irrevocably compromised. The article made a great sensation. Nearly all the papers copied it, and the stock in Phileas Fogg went down in a marked degree.
During the first few days which followed the departure of the gentleman, important business transactions had been made on the strength of his undertaking. The world of betters in England is a more intelligent and elevated world than that of gamblers. To bet is according to the English temperament; so that not only the various members of the Reform Club made heavy bets for or against Phileas Fogg, but the mass of the public entered into the movement. Phileas Fogg was entered like a racehorse in a sort of stud book. A bond was issued, which was immediately quoted upon the London Exchange. “Phileas Fogg” was “bid” or “asked” firm or above par, and enormous transactions were made. But five days after his departure, after the appearance of the article in the Bulletin of the Geographical Society, the offerings commenced to come in plentifully. “Phileas Fogg” declined. It was offered in bundles. Taken first at five, then at ten, it was finally taken only at twenty, at fifty, at one hundred!
Only one adherent remained steadfast to him. It was the old paralytic, Lord Albemarle. This honourable gentleman, confined to his armchair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the world, even in ten years. He bet five thousand pounds in favour of Phileas Fogg, and even when the folly as well as the uselessness of the project was demonstrated to him, he contented himself with replying: “If the thing is feasible, it is well that an Englishman should be the first to do it.”
The adherents of Phileas Fogg became fewer and fewer; everybody, and not without reason, was putting himself against him; bets were taken at one hundred and fifty and two hundred against one, when, seven days after his departure, an entirely unexpected incident caused them not to be taken at all.
At nine o’clock in the evening of this day, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police received a telegraphic dispatch in the following words:
“Suez to London.
“Cowan, Commissioner of Police, Central Office, Scotland Square: I have the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send without delay warrant of arrest to Bombay, British India.
“Fix, Detective.”
The effect of this dispatch was immediate. The honourable gentleman disappeared to make room for the banknote robber. His photograph, deposited at the Reform Club with those of his colleagues, was examined. It reproduced, feature by feature, the man whose description had been furnished by the commission of inquiry. They recalled how mysterious Phileas Fogg’s life had been, his isolation, his sudden departure; and it appeared evident that this person, under the pretext of a journey round the world, and supporting it by a senseless bet, had had no other aim than to mislead the agents of the English police.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_10396004-bb0f-55fe-a915-cffb117a5a40)
In which the Agent, Fix, shows a very proper impatience
