Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
Hong Kong is only an islet, whose possession was secured to England by the Treaty of Nanking, after the war of 1842. In a few years, Great Britain's colonizing genius had founded there an important town and created a port, Port Victoria. This island sits at the mouth of the Canton River; a mere sixty miles separate it from the Portuguese city of Macao, built on the opposite bank. Hong Kong was bound to defeat Macao in a commercial rivalry, and now the greater part of the Chinese transit trade passes through the English town. Docks, hospitals, wharves, warehouses, a Gothic cathedral, a "government house," macadamized streets—everything would make you believe that one of the trading towns of the counties of Kent or Surrey, passing through the terrestrial spheroid, had come out again at this point in China, almost at its antipodes.
Passepartout, his hands in his pockets, made his way, then, toward Port Victoria, looking at the palanquins, the sail-driven wheelbarrows still in favor in the Celestial Empire, and all that crowd of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans thronging the streets. Give or take a little, it was still Bombay, Calcutta, or Singapore that the worthy fellow found again along his route. There is thus, as it were, a trail of English towns all around the world.
Passepartout reached Port Victoria. There, at the mouth of the Canton River, was a swarm of ships of every nation—English, French, American, Dutch, vessels of war and of commerce, Japanese or Chinese craft, junks, sampans, tankas, and even flower boats that made so many floating flower beds on the waters. As he strolled, Passepartout noticed a certain number of natives dressed in yellow, all very advanced in years. Having gone into a Chinese barber's to be shaved "in the Chinese fashion," he learned from the local Figaro, who spoke fairly good English, that these old men had all reached at least eighty, and that at such an age they held the privilege of wearing the color yellow, which is the imperial color. Passepartout found this very funny, without quite knowing why.
His shave done, he made his way to the Carnatic's boarding quay, and there he caught sight of Fix pacing up and down, at which he was not the least surprised. But the police inspector let his face show the marks of a keen disappointment.
"Good! Passepartout said to himself, things are going badly for the gentlemen of the Reform Club!"
And he accosted Fix with his cheerful smile, choosing not to notice his companion's vexed air.
Now, the agent had good reasons to fume against the infernal luck that dogged him. No warrant! It was clear that the warrant was running after him, and could only catch up with him if he stayed a few days in this city. Now, Hong Kong being the last English soil on the route, Mr. Fogg was going to escape him for good, if he did not manage to keep him there.
"Well, Mr. Fix, have you decided to come with us as far as America? asked Passepartout.
—Yes, replied Fix through clenched teeth.
—Come along, then! cried Passepartout, letting out a ringing burst of laughter. I knew perfectly well you couldn't tear yourself away from us. Come and book your place, come!"
And the two of them went into the maritime transport office and booked cabins for four people. But the clerk pointed out to them that, the Carnatic's repairs being finished, the steamer would leave that very evening at eight o'clock, and not the next morning, as had been announced.
"Very good! replied Passepartout, that will suit my master. I'll go and let him know."
At that moment, Fix took an extreme decision. He resolved to tell Passepartout everything. It was perhaps the only means he had of holding Phileas Fogg for a few days at Hong Kong.
On leaving the office, Fix offered his companion a chance to refresh himself in a tavern. Passepartout had the time. He accepted Fix's invitation.
A tavern opened onto the quay. It had an inviting look. The two of them went in. It was a vast, well-decorated room, at the far end of which stretched a camp bed fitted with cushions. On this bed were laid out a number of sleepers.
Some thirty customers occupied little tables of woven rush in the great room. A few were draining pints of English beer, ale or porter; others, jugs of alcoholic liquors, gin or brandy. Besides this, most of them were smoking long pipes of red clay, stuffed with little pellets of opium mixed with essence of rose. Then, from time to time, some enervated smoker would slide under the table, and the staff of the establishment, taking him by the feet and the head, would carry him onto the camp bed beside a fellow. A score of these drunkards were thus laid out side by side, in the last degree of stupefaction.
Fix and Passepartout understood that they had entered an opium den haunted by these wretches—dulled, wasted, idiotic—to whom mercantile England sells, every year, two hundred and sixty million francs' worth of that fatal drug called opium! Sad millions, those, levied on one of the most fatal vices of human nature.
The Chinese government has indeed tried to remedy such an abuse by severe laws, but in vain. From the rich class, to which the use of opium was at first strictly confined, this use came down to the lower classes, and the ravages could no longer be stopped. Opium is smoked everywhere and always in the Middle Kingdom. Men and women give themselves over to this deplorable passion, and once accustomed to this inhalation, they can no longer do without it, unless they suffer horrible contractions of the stomach. A heavy smoker can smoke up to eight pipes a day, but he dies within five years.
Now, it was into one of the numerous dens of this kind, which swarm even at Hong Kong, that Fix and Passepartout had gone with the intention of refreshing themselves. Passepartout had no money, but he willingly accepted his companion's "courtesy," meaning to return it in due time and place.
Two bottles of port were called for, to which the Frenchman did generous honor, while Fix, more restrained, observed his companion with the closest attention. They chatted of this and that, and above all of the excellent idea Fix had had of taking passage on the Carnatic. And, on the subject of this steamer, whose departure had been brought forward by a few hours, Passepartout, the bottles being empty, rose in order to go and let his master know.
Fix held him back.
"One moment, he said.
—What do you want, Mr. Fix?
—I have to speak to you about serious matters.
—Serious matters! cried Passepartout, draining a few drops of wine left at the bottom of his glass. Well, we'll talk about them tomorrow. I haven't the time today.
—Stay, replied Fix. It concerns your master!"
At that word, Passepartout looked closely at his companion.
The expression on Fix's face struck him as odd. He sat down again.
"What is it, then, that you have to tell me?" he asked.
Fix laid his hand on his companion's arm and, lowering his voice:
"You have guessed who I was? he asked him.
—By Jove! said Passepartout, smiling.
—Then I am going to confess everything to you...
—Now that I know it all, my fine fellow! Ah! that's not much of a thing! Well, go on anyway. But first, allow me to say that those gentlemen have put themselves out to no purpose whatever!
—Needlessly! said Fix. You speak of it lightly! It's plain you don't know the size of the sum!
—Why, yes I do, replied Passepartout. Twenty thousand pounds!
—Fifty-five thousand! rejoined Fix, gripping the Frenchman's hand.
—What! cried Passepartout, Mr. Fogg would have dared!... Fifty-five thousand pounds!... Well then! all the more reason not to lose an instant, he added, rising again.
—Fifty-five thousand pounds! rejoined Fix, who forced Passepartout to sit down again, after having a flask of brandy brought over—and if I succeed, I earn a reward of two thousand pounds. Will you take five hundred (12,500 F) on condition that you help me?
—Help you? cried Passepartout, whose eyes were opened enormously wide.
—Yes, help me hold Mr. Fogg for a few days at Hong Kong!
—Hey! said Passepartout, what are you saying there? What! not content with having my master followed, with suspecting his honesty, these gentlemen want besides to raise obstacles for him! I'm ashamed of them for it!
—Come now! what do you mean? asked Fix.
—I mean that it's pure caddishness. You might as well strip Mr. Fogg and take the money out of his pocket!
—Well! that's precisely what we mean to come to!
—But it's an ambush! cried Passepartout—who was now warming up under the influence of the brandy Fix was serving him, and which he drank without noticing—a real ambush! Gentlemen! colleagues!"
Fix was beginning to be lost.
"Colleagues! cried Passepartout, members of the Reform Club! Let me tell you, Mr. Fix, that my master is a man of honor, and that, when he has laid a wager, he means to win it fairly.
—But who do you think I am, then? asked Fix, fixing his gaze on Passepartout.
—By Jove! an agent working for the members of the Reform Club, whose task is to check my master's itinerary, which is singularly humiliating! And so, although for some time now I've guessed your calling, I've taken good care not to reveal it to Mr. Fogg!
—He knows nothing?... asked Fix eagerly.
—Nothing," replied Passepartout, draining his glass once more.
The police inspector passed his hand over his brow. He hesitated before speaking again. What was he to do? Passepartout's mistake seemed sincere, but it made his plan harder. It was clear that this fellow spoke in absolute good faith, and that he was not his master's accomplice—which is what Fix might have feared.
"Well, he said to himself, since he's not his accomplice, he'll help me."
The detective had made up his mind a second time. Besides, he no longer had time to wait. At all costs, Fogg had to be stopped at Hong Kong.
"Listen, said Fix in a curt voice, listen to me carefully. I am not what you think, that is, an agent working for the members of the Reform Club...
—Bah! said Passepartout, looking at him mockingly.
—I am a police inspector, charged with a mission by the metropolitan administration...
—You... a police inspector!...
—Yes, and I'll prove it, went on Fix. Here is my commission."
And the agent, drawing a paper from his wallet, showed his companion a commission signed by the director of the central police. Passepartout, thunderstruck, looked at Fix, unable to utter a word.
"Mr. Fogg's wager, went on Fix, is nothing but a pretext, of which you are the dupes, you and his colleagues of the Reform Club, for he had an interest in securing your unwitting complicity.
—But why?... cried Passepartout.
—Listen. On the 28th of September last, a theft of fifty-five thousand pounds was carried out at the Bank of England by an individual whose description was obtained. Now, here is that description, and it is, feature for feature, that of Mr. Fogg.
—Come now! cried Passepartout, striking the table with his sturdy fist. My master is the most honest man in the world!
—What do you know about it? replied Fix. You don't even know him! You entered his service the very day of his departure, and he left in a rush on some senseless pretext, without trunks, carrying off a large sum in banknotes! And you dare to maintain that he's an honest man!
—Yes! yes! the poor fellow kept repeating mechanically.
—Do you want to be arrested, then, as his accomplice?"
Passepartout had taken his head in both hands. He was no longer recognizable. He dared not look at the police inspector. Phileas Fogg a thief—he, the rescuer of Aouda, the generous and brave man! And yet, how many presumptions raised against him! Passepartout tried to push away the suspicions creeping into his mind. He would not believe in his master's guilt.
"In short, what do you want of me? he said to the police agent, restraining himself by a supreme effort.
—Here it is, replied Fix. I have shadowed Mr. Fogg this far, but I have not yet received the warrant of arrest that I asked London for. So you must help me keep him at Hong Kong...
—I! that I should...
—And I'll share with you the reward of two thousand pounds promised by the Bank of England!
—Never!" replied Passepartout, who tried to stand and fell back again, feeling his reason and his strength slip from him at once.
"Mr. Fix, he said, stammering, even if everything you've told me were true... even if my master were the thief you're after... which I deny... I have been... I am in his service... I have seen him kind and generous... to betray him... never... no, not for all the gold on earth... I'm from a village where they don't eat that kind of bread!...
—You refuse?
—I refuse.
—Let's say I've said nothing, replied Fix, and let's drink.
—Yes, let's drink!"
Passepartout felt himself more and more overcome by drunkenness. Fix, understanding that he had at all costs to separate him from his master, decided to finish him off. On the table were a few pipes charged with opium. Fix slipped one into Passepartout's hand, who took it, raised it to his lips, lit it, breathed in a few puffs, and fell back, his head heavy under the influence of the narcotic.
"At last, said Fix, seeing Passepartout laid low, Mr. Fogg will not be warned in time of the Carnatic's departure, and if he leaves, at least he'll leave without this accursed Frenchman!"
Then he went out, after paying the bill.