|
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT IS CONVINCED THAT HE HAS AT LAST FOUND
HIS IDEAL
"Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried,
"I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new
master!"
Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of
wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting
to make them human.
During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had
been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty
years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped
figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact
and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His
countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists
call "repose in action," a quality of those who act
rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg
seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica
Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the
various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly
well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas
Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed
even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men,
as well as 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 was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never
took one step too many, and always went to his destination by
the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never
seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person
in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact
moment.
He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation;
and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction,
and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.
As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since
he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as
a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart.
Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted
by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he
was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding,
soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as
one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue,
his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built,
his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by
the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat
tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known
eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout
was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of
a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.
It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature
would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the
new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master
required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout
had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned
for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had
already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root
in any of these; with chagrin, 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, after passing his nights in the
Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on
policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the
gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such
conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing
that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his
life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled
nor stayed from home 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 the house in Saville Row. He begun its inspection without delay,
scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn
a mansion pleased him ; it seemed to him like a snail's shell,
lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes.
When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once
the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with
it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with
the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock,
precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the
same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll do,"
said Passepartout to himself.
He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon
inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the
house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from
eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose,
till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all
the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes
past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine,
and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated
and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till
midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired.
Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste.
Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating
the time of year 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, the house in Saville Row, which must have been
a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but
dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised.
There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been
quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one
of general literature and the other of law and politics, were
at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed
so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout 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, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said
joyfully, "This is just 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't mind serving a machine."
|
