In 1872, Phileas Fogg lived at No. 7 Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, in London.
He was one of the most familiar members of the Reform Club, although he never seemed to care about being noticed. Very little was known about him.
He was a quiet, elegant gentleman, always calm and perfectly dressed.
Some people said he looked like the poet Lord Byron, especially because of the shape of his head. But Fogg was like a much calmer version of Byron—an older-looking man who seemed as though he could live for a thousand years without ever changing.
Everyone knew Fogg was English.
But was he actually from London?
Nobody was sure.
He was never seen in the financial district, at the Bank, or in the offices of the City. He owned no ships. He held no government position. He had never practiced law in any of London’s famous courts.
He wasn’t a manufacturer, merchant, farmer, or scientist.
He didn’t belong to any of the city’s learned societies or professional organizations.
In fact, he seemed to belong to almost nothing.
Except the Reform Club.
That was the one place where he was known to be a member.
He had been admitted to the club through a recommendation from the Baring family, who trusted him enough to give him an open line of credit.
His bank account was always well supplied, and his cheques were always paid immediately.
There was no doubt that Phileas Fogg was rich.
The strange thing was that nobody knew how he had become rich.
And Fogg was certainly not the sort of man who would explain it.
He wasn’t wasteful with his money, but he wasn’t greedy either.
Whenever he heard about a worthy cause that needed money, he quietly gave what was necessary. Sometimes he even gave anonymously.
He simply didn’t like talking about himself.
He spoke very little, and his silence only made him more mysterious.
His daily life, however, was easy enough to observe.
The problem was that every day was exactly the same.
He followed the same routine so precisely that anyone trying to discover something unusual about him would quickly become frustrated.
Had he travelled around the world?
It certainly seemed possible.
Fogg appeared to know every part of the world, even the most remote places.
Whenever the members of the Reform Club discussed some distant country or an unknown traveller, Fogg would quietly correct their guesses.
He always seemed to know the facts.
More strangely, his predictions often turned out to be correct.
It was almost as if he had travelled everywhere without ever leaving London.
But one thing was certain.
Phileas Fogg had not left London for many years.
Those who knew him best insisted that they had never seen him anywhere else.
His only hobbies were reading newspapers and playing whist.
He often won at cards.
The quiet nature of whist suited him perfectly.
But he never kept his winnings.
He gave the money to charity.
For Fogg, playing cards wasn’t really about making money.
It was about the game itself.
He enjoyed the challenge.
To him, every game was a contest against an opponent and against difficulty itself—a struggle that required patience but very little physical effort.
That suited him perfectly.
Nobody knew of Fogg having a wife or children.
He seemed to have no close relatives either.
And he certainly had no close friends.
He lived alone in his house on Saville Row, where almost nobody was ever allowed inside.
Only one servant was needed to look after him.
Every morning, Fogg ate breakfast at the Reform Club at exactly the same time.
Every evening, he had dinner there at exactly the same time.
He always sat at the same table in the same room.
He never ate with the other members and never invited anyone to join him.
At exactly midnight, he returned home.
Then he went straight to bed.
He never used the comfortable private rooms that the Reform Club offered its members.
Out of every twenty-four hours, he spent about ten hours at home, either sleeping or getting dressed.
When he wanted to exercise, he didn’t go for ordinary walks through the city.
Instead, he simply walked back and forth inside the club.
He kept the same steady pace in the entrance hall or along the circular gallery beneath its grand dome.
Whenever he ate, the club’s finest kitchens provided his meals.
Serious-looking waiters served him carefully.
The food came on expensive porcelain plates and fine linen.
His wine was kept in elegant club decanters, and his drinks were cooled with ice brought all the way from the lakes of America.
If living this way was considered strange, then there was certainly something impressive about being so perfectly organized.
Fogg’s house on Saville Row was not luxurious, but it was extremely comfortable.
His routine was simple enough that one servant could manage everything.
But that servant had to be extraordinarily punctual.
Fogg expected everything to happen at exactly the right time.
In fact, earlier that same day, October 2nd, he had dismissed his servant, James Forster.
The young man had made one small mistake.
He had brought Fogg shaving water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six.
Forster was gone.
Now Fogg was waiting for his replacement, who was expected to arrive sometime between eleven and eleven-thirty.
At that moment, Phileas Fogg was sitting perfectly straight in his armchair.
His feet were together like a soldier standing at attention.
His hands rested on his knees.
His back was straight.
His head was held high.
In front of him stood a complicated clock.
It showed the hour, minute, second, day, month, and year.
At exactly half past eleven, as always, Fogg would leave Saville Row and go to the Reform Club.
Then there was a knock at the door.
James Forster, his former servant, entered the room.
“The new servant, sir.”
A young man of about thirty stepped forward and bowed.
“You are French, I believe?” Fogg asked. “And your name is John?”
“Jean, if monsieur doesn’t mind,” the young man replied.
“Jean Passepartout.”
He smiled slightly.
“People have always called me Passepartout because I seem to have a talent for moving from one job to another.”
“I believe I’m an honest man, monsieur. But if you want the truth, I’ve had quite a few different jobs.”
“I used to be a travelling singer.”
“Then I worked in a circus. I could jump like Leotard and walk a rope like Blondin.”
“After that, I became a gymnastics instructor because I thought I should make better use of my abilities.”
“Later, I worked as a firefighter in Paris. I helped fight quite a few serious fires.”
“But I left France five years ago.”
“I wanted to experience a quiet domestic life, so I came to England and worked as a valet.”
“Unfortunately, I discovered that I wasn’t very good at finding the right household.”
“Then I heard that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most punctual and orderly gentleman in the whole of Britain.”
“So I came here hoping to live a peaceful life and finally forget all about my old wandering ways.”
“Passepartout is a perfectly suitable name,” Fogg replied.
“You have been recommended to me, and I have heard good things about you.”
“You understand my conditions?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Good.”
Fogg glanced at the clock.
“What time is it?”
Passepartout immediately pulled a huge silver watch from his pocket.
“It is twenty-two minutes past eleven, monsieur.”
“You are slow,” Fogg said.
Passepartout stared at him.
“Excuse me, monsieur?”
“Your watch is four minutes slow.”
“That can’t be possible.”
“Nevertheless, it is.”
Fogg showed no sign of irritation.
“It is enough simply to point out the mistake.”
He looked at the clock again.
“From this moment—twenty-nine minutes past eleven on Wednesday, October 2nd—you are in my service.”
Fogg stood up.
He took his hat in his left hand and placed it on his head with a precise, almost mechanical movement.
Then he walked out without saying another word.
Passepartout stood there silently.
He heard the front door close.
That was his new master leaving the house.
A moment later, he heard the door close again.
That was James Forster, the dismissed servant, leaving for good.
Passepartout was now completely alone inside the house at No. 7 Saville Row.