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Chapter II IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE
HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL "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 began 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."