Chapter II
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND HIS IDEAL
"Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people atMadame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!"
Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are muchvisited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had beencarefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years ofage, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; hishair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, hisface rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed inthe highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," aquality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with aclear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composurewhich Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seenin the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of beingperfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer.Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayedeven in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as wellas 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 waseconomical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one steptoo many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; hemade no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved oragitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet alwaysreached his destination at the exact moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; andas he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, andthat friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he hadabandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, hehad in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartoutwas by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with abold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow,with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered andserviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on theshoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund,his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and hisphysical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days.His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptorsare said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses,Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: threestrokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature wouldagree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servantwould turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required;experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been asort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but sofar he had failed to find it, though he had already served in tenEnglish houses. But he could not take root in any of these; withchagrin, 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, afterpassing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought homein the morning on policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous ofrespecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstranceon such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearingthat Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life wasone of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed fromhome 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 thehouse in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouringit from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansionpleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmedby gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartoutreached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was toinhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells andspeaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while onthe mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg'sbedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. "That'sgood, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, uponinspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house.It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in themorning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-pasteleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details ofservice, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, theshaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet attwenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen thatwas to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour atwhich the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Eachpair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time ofyear 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, thehouse in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorderand unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness,comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were therebooks, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at theReform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of lawand politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in hisbedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; butPassepartout 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, abroad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This isjust 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'tmind serving a machine."