Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
Phileas Fogg was in prison. They had shut him up in the Custom-house station, the Liverpool customs, and he was to spend the night there awaiting his transfer to London.
At the moment of the arrest, Passepartout had tried to hurl himself at the detective. Policemen held him back. Mrs. Aouda, appalled by the brutality of the act, knowing nothing, could make nothing of it. Passepartout explained the situation to her. Mr. Fogg, that honest and courageous gentleman to whom she owed her life, was arrested as a thief. The young woman protested against such an allegation, her heart rose in indignation, and tears flowed from her eyes when she saw that she could do nothing, attempt nothing, to save her savior.
As for Fix, he had arrested the gentleman because his duty commanded him to arrest him, guilty or not. Justice would decide.
But then a thought came to Passepartout, that terrible thought that he was decidedly the cause of all this misfortune! For why had he hidden this adventure from Mr. Fogg? When Fix had revealed both his standing as a police inspector and the mission he was charged with, why had he taken it upon himself not to warn his master? The latter, forewarned, would no doubt have given Fix proofs of his innocence; he would have shown him his error; in any case, he would not have carried at his own expense and on his own heels this ill-fated agent, whose first care had been to arrest him the very moment he stepped onto the soil of the United Kingdom. As he thought of his faults, his rash acts, the poor fellow was seized with irresistible remorse. He wept, he was painful to see. He wanted to smash his own head!
Mrs. Aouda and he had stayed on, despite the cold, beneath the portico of the customs house. Neither one nor the other would leave the spot. They wanted to see Mr. Fogg one more time.
As for that gentleman, he was well and truly ruined, and that just as he was on the point of reaching his goal. This arrest ruined him past recovery. Having arrived at twenty to noon at Liverpool, on December 21, he had until eight forty-five to present himself at the Reform Club—that made nine hours and fifteen minutes—and he needed only six to reach London.
At this moment, anyone who had entered the customs station would have found Mr. Fogg motionless, seated on a wooden bench, without anger, imperturbable. Resigned, one could not have called him, but this last blow had been unable to move him, at least in appearance. Had there formed in him one of those secret rages, terrible because they are held in, and which burst out only at the last moment with an irresistible force? No one knows. But Phileas Fogg was there, calm, waiting... for what? Did he still keep some hope? Did he still believe in success, now that this prison door had shut upon him?
Be that as it may, Mr. Fogg had carefully laid his watch on a table and was watching its hands move. Not a single word escaped his lips, yet his gaze had a singular fixity.
In any case, the situation was terrible, and, for anyone who could not read within that conscience, it came down to this:
An honest man, Phileas Fogg was ruined.
A dishonest man, he was caught.
Did he then have the thought of saving himself? Did he consider looking to see whether this station offered a practicable way out? Did he think of fleeing? One would be tempted to believe so, for, at a certain moment, he made the round of the room. But the door was solidly shut and the window fitted with iron bars. So he came and sat down again, and drew from his wallet the itinerary of the journey. On the line that bore these words:
"December 21, Saturday, Liverpool," he added:
"80th day, 11:40 in the morning," and he waited.
One o'clock struck on the Custom-house clock. Mr. Fogg noted that his watch was two minutes fast on that clock.
Two o'clock! Supposing he boarded an express at this moment, he could still reach London and the Reform Club before eight forty-five in the evening. His brow creased slightly...
At two thirty-three, a noise rang out from outside, a din of doors being flung open. Passepartout's voice could be heard, Fix's voice could be heard.
Phileas Fogg's gaze gleamed for an instant.
The door of the station opened, and he saw Mrs. Aouda, Passepartout, Fix, who rushed toward him.
Fix was out of breath, his hair in disorder... He could not speak!
"Sir, he stammered, sir... forgive me... a deplorable resemblance... The thief arrested three days ago... you... free!..."
Phileas Fogg was free! He went up to the detective. He looked him full in the face, and, making the only quick movement he had ever made or should ever make in his life, he swung both his arms back, then, with the precision of an automaton, struck the wretched inspector with both fists.
"Well hit!" cried Passepartout, who, allowing himself an atrocious pun, well worthy of a Frenchman, added: "Good heavens, there is what one may call a fine application of English fists!"
Fix, knocked flat, did not say a word. He had only what he deserved. But at once Mr. Fogg, Mrs. Aouda, and Passepartout left the customs house. They flung themselves into a carriage, and, in a few minutes, they reached the Liverpool station.
Phileas Fogg asked whether there was an express ready to leave for London...
It was two forty... The express had left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.
There were several high-speed locomotives under steam; but, given the demands of the service, the special train could not leave the station before three o'clock.
At three o'clock, Phileas Fogg, after saying a few words to the engineer about a certain bonus to be earned, sped off in the direction of London, in the company of the young woman and his faithful servant.
The distance separating Liverpool from London had to be covered in five and a half hours—a very feasible thing, when the line is clear along the whole route. But there were forced delays, and, when the gentleman reached the station, all the clocks of London were striking ten minutes to nine.
Phileas Fogg, after accomplishing this journey around the world, arrived five minutes late!...
He had lost.