"Faith," muttered Passepartout,
somewhat flurried, "I've seen
people at Madame Tussaud's as
lively as my new master!"
Madame Tussaud's "people," let
it be said, are of wax, and are
much visited in London; speech
is all that is wanting to make
them human.
During his
brief interview with Mr. Fogg,
Passepartout had
been carefully observing him.
He appeared to be a man about
forty years of age, with fine,
handsome features, and a tall,
well-shaped figure; his hair
and whiskers were light, his
forehead compact and unwrinkled,
his face rather pale, his teeth
magnificent. His countenance
possessed in the highest degree
what physiognomists call "repose
in action," a quality of those
who act rather than talk. Calm
and phlegmatic, with a clear
eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect
type of that English composure
which Angelica Kauffmann has
so skilfully represented on canvas.
Seen in the various phases of
his daily life, he gave the idea
of being perfectly well-balanced,
as exactly regulated as a Leroy
chronometer. Phileas Fogg was,
indeed, exactitude personified,
and this was betrayed even in
the expression of his very hands
and feet; for in men, as well
as in animals, the limbs themselves
are expressive of the passions.
He was so exact that he was
never in a hurry, was always
ready, and was economical alike
of his steps and his motions.
He never took one step too many,
and always went to his destination
by the shortest cut; he made
no superfluous gestures, and
was never seen to be moved or
agitated. He was the most deliberate
person in the world, yet always
reached his destination at the
exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to
speak, outside of every social
relation; and as he knew that
in this world account must be
taken of friction, and that friction
retards, he never rubbed against
anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was
a true Parisian of Paris. Since
he had abandoned his own country
for England, taking service as
a valet, he had in vain searched
for a master after his own heart.
Passepartout was by no means
one of those pert dunces depicted
by Moliere with a bold gaze and
a nose held high in the air;
he was an honest fellow, with
a pleasant face, lips a trifle
protruding, soft-mannered and
serviceable, with a good round
head, such as one likes to see
on the shoulders of a friend.
His eyes were blue, his complexion
rubicund, his figure almost portly
and well-built, his body muscular,
and his physical powers fully
developed by the exercises of
his younger days. His brown hair
was somewhat tumbled; for, while
the ancient sculptors are said
to have known eighteen methods
of arranging Minerva's tresses,
Passepartout was familiar with
but one of dressing his own:
three strokes of a large-tooth
comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict
how Passepartout's lively nature
would agree with Mr. Fogg. It
was impossible to tell whether
the new servant would turn out
as absolutely methodical as his
master required; experience alone
could solve the question. Passepartout
had been a sort of vagrant in
his early years, and now yearned
for repose; but so far he had
failed to find it, though he
had already served in ten English
houses. But he could not take
root in any of these; with chagrin,
he found his masters invariably
whimsical and irregular, constantly
running about the country, or
on the look-out for adventure.
His last master, young Lord Longferry,
Member of Parliament, after passing
his nights in the Haymarket taverns,
was too often brought home in
the morning on policemen's shoulders.
Passepartout, desirous of respecting
the gentleman whom he served,
ventured a mild remonstrance
on such conduct; which, being
ill-received, he took his leave.
Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg
was looking for a servant, and
that his life was one of unbroken
regularity, that he neither travelled
nor stayed from home overnight,
he felt sure that this would
be the place he was after. He
presented himself, and was accepted,
as has been seen.
At half-past
eleven, then, Passepartout
found himself alone
in the house in Saville Row.
He begun its inspection without
delay, scouring it from cellar
to garret. So clean, well-arranged,
solemn a mansion pleased him
; it seemed to him like a snail's
shell, lighted and warmed by
gas, which sufficed for both
these purposes. When Passepartout
reached the second story he recognised
at once the room which he was
to inhabit, and he was well satisfied
with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes
afforded communication with the
lower stories; while on the mantel
stood an electric clock, precisely
like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber,
both beating the same second
at the same instant. "That's
good, that'll do," said Passepartout
to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung
over the clock, a card which,
upon inspection, proved to be
a programme of the daily routine
of the house. It comprised all
that was required of the servant,
from eight in the morning, exactly
at which hour Phileas Fogg rose,
till half-past eleven, when he
left the house for the Reform
Club--all the details of service,
the tea and toast at twenty-three
minutes past eight, the shaving-water
at thirty-seven minutes past
nine, and the toilet at twenty
minutes before ten. Everything
was regulated and foreseen that
was to be done from half-past
eleven a.m. till midnight, the
hour at which the methodical
gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply
supplied and in the best taste.
Each pair of trousers, coat,
and vest bore a number, indicating
the time of year and season at
which they were in turn to be
laid out for wearing; and the
same system was applied to the
master's shoes. In short, the
house in Saville Row, which must
have been a very temple of disorder
and unrest under the illustrious
but dissipated Sheridan, was
cosiness, comfort, and method
idealised. There was no study,
nor were there books, which would
have been quite useless to Mr.
Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries,
one of general literature and
the other of law and politics,
were at his service. A moderate-sized
safe stood in his bedroom, constructed
so as to defy fire as well as
burglars; but Passepartout found
neither arms nor hunting weapons
anywhere; everything betrayed
the most tranquil and peaceable
habits.
Having scrutinised
the house from top to bottom,
he rubbed
his hands, a broad smile overspread
his features, and he said joyfully, "This
is just what I wanted! Ah, we
shall get on together, Mr. Fogg
and I! What a domestic and regular
gentleman! A real machine; well,
I don't mind serving a machine."
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