CHAPTER 4 IN WHICH FILAS FOG ASTOUNDS PASPARTOUT,
HIS SERVANT Having won twenty guineas a twist and taken leave of his friends,
Filas Fog at twenty-five minutes past seven left the Reform Club.
Paspartout,
Who had studied the programme of his duties,
Was more than surprised to see his master guilty of inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour,
For according to rule he was not due in Savile Row until precisely midnight.
Mr.
Fog repaired to his bedroom and called out,
Paspartout,
Paspartout.
Paspartout did not reply,
It could not be he who was called,
It was not the right hour.
Paspartout repeated Mr.
Fog without raising his voice.
Paspartout made his appearance.
I have caught you twice,
Observed his master.
But it is not midnight,
Responded the other,
Showing his watch.
I know it,
I don't blame you.
We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.
A buzzled grin overspread Paspartout's round face.
Clearly he had not comprehended his master.
Monsieur is going to leave home?
Yes,
Returned Fidas Fog.
We are going around the world.
Paspartout opened wide his eyes,
Raised his eyebrows,
Held up his hands,
And seemed about to collapse,
So overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.
Around the world,
He murmured.
In eighty days,
Responded Mr.
Fog,
So we haven't a moment to lose.
But the trunks?
Gasped Paspartout,
Unconsciously swaying his head,
From right to left.
We'll have no trunks,
Only a carpet-bag,
With two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me,
And the same for you.
We'll buy our clothes on the way,
Bring down my Macintosh,
And travelling cloak,
And some stout shoes,
Though we shall do a little walking.
Make haste.
Paspartout tried to reply,
But could not.
He went out,
Mounted to his own room,
Fell into a chair,
And muttered,
That's good,
That is,
And I who wanted to remain quiet.
He mechanically set about,
Making the preparations for departure.
Around the world in eighty days.
Was this master a fool?
No,
Was this a joke,
Then?
They were going to Dover.
Good.
To Calais.
Good again.
After all,
Paspartout had been away from France.
Five years would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again.
Perhaps they would go as far as Paris.
And it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more.
But surely a gentleman,
So cheery of his steps,
Would stop there,
No doubt.
But then it was nonetheless true that he was going away,
This so domestic person.
By eight o'clock Paspartout had packed the modest carpet back,
Containing the wardrobes of his master and himself.
Then,
Still troubled in mind,
He carefully shut the door of his room,
And descended to Mr.
Fogg.
Mr.
Fogg was quite ready,
Under his arm might have been,
Observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide,
With its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways.
He took the carpet back and slipped into it goodly roll of Bank of England notes,
Which would pass wherever he might go.
You have forgotten nothing?
Asked he.
Nothing,
Monsieur.
My macintosh and cloak.
Here they are.
Good.
Take this carpet back.
Handing it to Paspartout.
Take good care of it,
For there are twenty thousand pounds in it.
Paspartout nearly dropped the bag,
As if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold,
And weighted him down.
Master and man then descended.
The street door was double locked,
And at the end of several rows they took a gap and drove rapidly to Charing Cross.
The gap stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight.
Paspartout jumped off the box and followed his master,
Who,
After paying the gap-man,
Was about to enter the station.
Then a poor beggar woman,
With a child in her arms,
Her naked feet smeared with mud,
Her head covered with a wretched bonnet,
From which hung a tattered feather,
And her shoulder shrouded in a wracked shawl,
Approached and mournfully asked for alms.
Mr.
Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at twist,
And handed them to the beggar,
Saying,
Here,
My good woman,
I am glad that I met you,
And passed on.
Paspartout had a moist sensation about the eyes.
His master's action touched his susceptible heart.
Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased,
Mr.
Fogg was crossing the station to the train,
When he perceived his five friends of the reform.
Well,
Gentlemen,
Said he,
I am off,
You see,
And if you will examine my passport,
When I get back,
You will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.
Oh,
That would be quite unnecessary,
Mr.
Fogg,
Said Ralph politely.
We will trust your word as a gentleman of honor.
You do not forget when you are due in London again,
Asked Stuart.
In eighty days,
On Saturday the twenty-second,
The twenty-first of December,
1872,
At a quarter before nine p.
M.
,
Good-bye,
Gentlemen.
Firas Fogg and his servants seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine.
Five minutes later the whistle screamed,
And the train slowly glided out of the station.
The night was dark,
And a fine,
Steady rain was falling.
Firas Fogg snuggly,
Ensconced,
In his corner,
Did not open his lips.
Paspartout,
Not yet recovered from his stupefaction,
Clung mechanically to the carpet-bag,
With its enormous treasure.
Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham,
Paspartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.
What is the matter?
Asked Mr.
Fogg.
Alas,
In my hurry,
I forgot.
What?
The turn of the gas in my room.
Very well,
Young man,
Returned Mr.
Fogg coolly.
It will burn,
At your expense.
