In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout meet
It was the year 1872. Mr. Phileas Fogg lived at No.7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, London. He was a tall, handsome gentleman of about fort who did not attract much attention. People knew very little about him. He was an Englishman for sure, but not a typical Londoner. He did not belong to any of the numerous societies in London. He was neither a manufacturer, nor a merchant.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform Club, and that was all.
Fogg was undoubtedly a rich man, but nobody knew how he had made his fortune. He did not spend his money freely, nor was he a miser. If money was needed for a noble purpose, he would supply it quietly, even anonymously. He talked very little and seemed mysterious, but his daily habits were open and routine.
He seemed to have travelled a lot, for there was no place that he did not know very well, even if it was very far away. Though he seemed to have travelled everywhere, his few acquaintances were certain that he had not left London for many years. His only hobbies were reading newspapers and playing whist. He usually won the game and his winnings went to charities.
Fogg did not have a wife or children, nor did he have any relatives or friends-only a valet named James Forster. He breakfasted and dinned at the club, at fixed hours, in the same room, at the same table, never sharing a table with other members, and never bringing a guest with him. He went home exactly at midnight and at once to bed.
Fogg's home at Saville Row, though not grand, was spacious and comfortable. He did not demand much from his valet, except that he should be superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very day, 2nd October 1872, he had dismissed James Forster, because the unlucky boy had brought him shaving water at eighty four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty six.
He was now waiting for a new valet, seated like a soldier in his armchair, body straight, head erect, watching a clock which displayed the exact seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years.
There was a tap at the door and in walked a pleasant young man of thirty, who bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I believe," said Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean, if you please, monsieur," replied the newcorner. "Jean Passepartout, a surname which I earned because I have a habit of going from one business to another. I have been a singer, a circus rider, a professor of gymnastics, and a fireman at Paris. I left France five years ago to become a valet here in England, because I wanted a quiet, peaceful life. I heard that you are the most exact gentleman in the United Kingdom, and hope to serve you to your satisfaction."
"Pasepartout suits me," replied Fogg. "You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good. What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes past eleven," replied Passepartout, drawing a huge silver watch from his pocket.
"You are four minutes slow. No matter, from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven o'clock, this Wednesday, October 2nd, you are in my service."
Fogg then got up, took his hat and walked out. James Forster followed him out, and Passepartout was now alone in the house.
"My goodness, I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's livelier than my new master," muttered Passepartout to himself. He then began to look around the house, and found his room on the second storey. There were speaking tubes and electric bells connected to the other floors, with a clock on the mantel. Over the clock was a card which was a daily schedule for the valet, with all the details of his duties: tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, shaving water at thirty- seven minutes past nine, and help with the dressing up at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated until midnight, which was when Fogg went to bed.
Fogg's wardrobe, too, was very orderly. Every set of trousers, coat and vest had a number, marking the season in which it had to be set out, and the same system applied to his shoes.
There was a safe in the bedroom, but Passepartout found no weapons anywhere. In short, it was the most regulated and peaceful house he had ever seen. "We shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I," thought Passepartout happily. "He seems a real machine, but well, I don't mind serving a machine!"
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Fogg did not have a wife or children, nor did he have any relatives or friends-only a valet named James Forster. He breakfasted and dinned at the club, at fixed hours, in the same room, at the same table, never sharing a table with other members, and never bringing a guest with him. He went home exactly at midnight and at once to bed.
Fogg's home at Saville Row, though not grand, was spacious and comfortable. He did not demand much from his valet, except that he should be superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very day, 2nd October 1872, he had dismissed James Forster, because the unlucky boy had brought him shaving water at eighty four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty six.
He was now waiting for a new valet, seated like a soldier in his armchair, body straight, head erect, watching a clock which displayed the exact seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years.
There was a tap at the door and in walked a pleasant young man of thirty, who bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I believe," said Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean, if you please, monsieur," replied the newcorner. "Jean Passepartout, a surname which I earned because I have a habit of going from one business to another. I have been a singer, a circus rider, a professor of gymnastics, and a fireman at Paris. I left France five years ago to become a valet here in England, because I wanted a quiet, peaceful life. I heard that you are the most exact gentleman in the United Kingdom, and hope to serve you to your satisfaction."
"Pasepartout suits me," replied Fogg. "You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good. What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes past eleven," replied Passepartout, drawing a huge silver watch from his pocket.
"You are four minutes slow. No matter, from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven o'clock, this Wednesday, October 2nd, you are in my service."
Fogg then got up, took his hat and walked out. James Forster followed him out, and Passepartout was now alone in the house.
"My goodness, I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's livelier than my new master," muttered Passepartout to himself. He then began to look around the house, and found his room on the second storey. There were speaking tubes and electric bells connected to the other floors, with a clock on the mantel. Over the clock was a card which was a daily schedule for the valet, with all the details of his duties: tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, shaving water at thirty- seven minutes past nine, and help with the dressing up at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated until midnight, which was when Fogg went to bed.
Fogg's wardrobe, too, was very orderly. Every set of trousers, coat and vest had a number, marking the season in which it had to be set out, and the same system applied to his shoes.
There was a safe in the bedroom, but Passepartout found no weapons anywhere. In short, it was the most regulated and peaceful house he had ever seen. "We shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I," thought Passepartout happily. "He seems a real machine, but well, I don't mind serving a machine!"
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