Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
"Upon my word," said Passepartout to himself, rather dazed at first, "I've seen figures at Madame Tussaud's every bit as lively as my new master!"
It should be explained here that Madame Tussaud's "figures" are of wax, much visited in London, and the only thing they truly lack is speech.
During the few moments he had just glimpsed Phileas Fogg, Passepartout had swiftly but carefully examined his future master. He was a man of perhaps forty, with a noble and handsome face, tall, not spoiled by a slight stoutness, fair of hair and side-whiskers, his forehead smooth with no sign of wrinkles at the temples, his complexion pale rather than colored, his teeth magnificent. He seemed to possess in the highest degree what the physiognomists term "repose in action," a quality common to all those who do more work than noise. Calm, phlegmatic, his eye clear, his eyelid still, he was the finished type of those cool-blooded Englishmen one meets fairly often in the United Kingdom, and whose somewhat academic bearing Angelica Kauffmann has wonderfully rendered with her brush. Seen through the various acts of his existence, this gentleman gave the impression of a being well balanced in all his parts, exactly weighted, as perfect as a chronometer by Leroy or Earnshaw. For Phileas Fogg was indeed precision personified, as could be plainly seen in "the expression of his feet and his hands," for in man, as in animals, the very limbs are organs expressive of the passions.
Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematically exact people who, never hurried and always ready, are sparing of their steps and their movements. He never took one stride too many, always going by the shortest way. He wasted no glance at the ceiling. He allowed himself no superfluous gesture. He had never been seen moved or troubled. He was the least hurried man in the world, but he always arrived on time. Still, one will understand that he lived on his own and, so to speak, apart from all social relations. He knew that in life one has to allow for friction, and since friction slows you down, he rubbed up against no one.
As for Jean, called Passepartout, a true Parisian of Paris, in the five years he had lived in England, working in London as a valet, he had searched in vain for a master to whom he could attach himself.
Passepartout was none of those Frontins or Mascarilles who, shoulders high, nose in the air, gaze cocksure, eye dry, are merely brazen rogues. No. Passepartout was a good fellow, of pleasant features, his lips a little full, always ready to taste or to kiss, a gentle and obliging creature, with one of those fine round heads one likes to see on a friend's shoulders. He had blue eyes, a lively complexion, a face plump enough that he could see his own cheekbones, a broad chest, a strong build, vigorous muscles, and he possessed a Herculean strength that the exercises of his youth had superbly developed. His brown hair was a bit unruly. If the sculptors of Antiquity knew eighteen ways of arranging Minerva's hair, Passepartout knew only one for doing his own: three strokes of the comb, and he was done.
Whether the expansive nature of this fellow would agree with that of Phileas Fogg is something the most elementary prudence forbids one to say. Would Passepartout be the thoroughly exact servant his master needed? That would only be seen with use. After a youth spent, as we know, rather on the roam, he longed for rest. Having heard the English method and the proverbial coolness of gentlemen praised, he came to seek his fortune in England. But until now fate had served him poorly. He had been unable to take root anywhere. He had been through ten households. In all of them the people were whimsical, uneven, chasing after adventures or after distant countries—which could no longer suit Passepartout. His last master, the young Lord Longsferry, a Member of Parliament, after spending his nights in the oyster-rooms of the Haymarket, came home too often on the shoulders of the policemen. Passepartout, wanting above all to be able to respect his master, ventured a few respectful observations that were badly received, and he broke it off. In the meantime he learned that Phileas Fogg, Esq., was looking for a servant. He made inquiries about this gentleman. A person whose life was so regular, who never slept away from home, who never traveled, who was never absent, not even for a day, could only suit him. He presented himself and was taken on in the circumstances we know.
Passepartout—half past eleven having struck—thus found himself alone in the house on Saville Row. At once he began his inspection of it. He went over it from cellar to attic. This clean, orderly, austere, puritanical house, well arranged for service, pleased him. It struck him as a fine snail's shell, but a shell lit and heated with gas, for carbureted hydrogen served there for all the needs of light and warmth. On the second floor Passepartout had no trouble finding the room meant for him. It suited him. Electric bells and speaking tubes put it in communication with the apartments on the mezzanine and the first floor. On the mantel, an electric clock kept time with the clock in Phileas Fogg's bedroom, and the two instruments struck at the same instant, the same second.
"This suits me, this suits me!" said Passepartout to himself.
He also noticed, in his room, a notice posted above the clock. It was the schedule of the daily service. It covered—from eight in the morning, the regulation hour at which Phileas Fogg rose, to half past eleven, the hour at which he left the house to go and lunch at the Reform Club—every detail of the service: the tea and toast at eight twenty-three, the shaving water at nine thirty-seven, the hairdressing at twenty to ten, and so on. Then from half past eleven in the morning to midnight—when the methodical gentleman retired for the night—everything was noted, foreseen, regulated. Passepartout took delight in mulling over this schedule and in fixing its various articles in his mind.
As for monsieur's wardrobe, it was very well stocked and marvelously thought out. Each pair of trousers, coat, or waistcoat bore a serial number reproduced in a register of items in and out, indicating the date on which, according to the season, these garments were to be worn in turn. The same rule for the footwear.
All in all, in this house on Saville Row—which must have been the temple of disorder in the days of the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan—comfortable furnishings, announcing a handsome ease. No library, no books, which would have been of no use to Mr. Fogg, since the Reform Club placed two libraries at his disposal, one devoted to letters, the other to law and politics. In the bedroom, a safe of medium size, whose construction protected it from fire as well as from theft. No weapons in the house, no implement of hunting or of war. Everything there denoted the most peaceful habits.
After examining this dwelling in detail, Passepartout rubbed his hands, his broad face beamed, and he repeated cheerfully:
"This suits me! This is just the thing for me! We shall get on perfectly, Mr. Fogg and I! A stay-at-home, regular man! A real machine! Well, I've no objection to serving a machine!"