Читать книгу Around the World in Eighty Days - Жюль Верн, Жуль Верн - Страница 9

In which Phileas Fogg surprises

Passepartout, his Servant, beyond measure

At twenty-five minutes after seven, Phileas Fogg having gained twenty guineas at whist, took leave of his honourable colleagues, and left the Reform Club. At ten minutes of eight, he opened the door of his house and entered.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied his programme, was quite surprised at seeing Mr Fogg guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unusual hour. According to the notice, the occupant of Saville Row ought not to return before midnight precisely.

Phileas Fogg first went to his bedroom. Then he called “Passepartout!”

Passepartout could not reply, for this call could not be addressed to him, as it was not the hour.

“Passepartout,” Mr Fogg called again without raising his voice much.

Passepartout presented himself.

“It is the second time that I have called you,” said Mr Fogg.

“But it is not midnight,” replied Passepartout, with his watch in his hand.

“I know it,” continued Phileas Fogg, “and I do not find fault with you. We leave in ten minutes for Dover and Calais.”

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.”