“Honestly,” Passepartout muttered, still a little confused, “I’ve seen wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s that looked more alive than my new master!”
The figures at Madame Tussaud’s, of course, were made of wax. They were a famous attraction in London, and the only thing they lacked was the ability to speak.
During his short meeting with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had watched him carefully.
He guessed that his new master was around forty years old. He was tall and well-built, with handsome, finely shaped features. His hair and sideburns were light-colored, his forehead smooth and firm, his face rather pale, and his teeth remarkably good.
What struck Passepartout most was Mr. Fogg’s calm expression.
He had the look of a man who preferred doing things to talking about them.
His eyes were clear and steady. He never seemed excited, worried, or surprised. Everything about him suggested perfect self-control.
To Passepartout, Mr. Fogg seemed almost too perfectly balanced—as if his whole life had been set by an extremely accurate clock.
In fact, Phileas Fogg seemed to represent precision itself.
Even his hands and feet seemed to obey the same strict discipline. Every movement had a purpose. Nothing was wasted.
He was never in a hurry, yet he was never late.
He never took an unnecessary step. Whenever he had somewhere to go, he always chose the shortest route.
He made no pointless gestures. He never fidgeted, rushed, or lost his temper.
He moved slowly and deliberately, but somehow always arrived exactly when he intended to.
Mr. Fogg lived alone and kept himself almost completely separate from society.
He knew that dealing with other people often created delays and complications. So he simply avoided getting involved with anyone whenever he could.
Passepartout, on the other hand, was a true Parisian.
Since leaving France and coming to England to work as a servant, he had been searching for the right master.
He was not one of those foolish, cheeky servants one sometimes finds in comic plays.
Passepartout was an honest and good-natured man. He had a friendly face, gentle manners, and a natural willingness to help.
He had a round, pleasant head—the kind of face that made you feel you could trust the man.
His eyes were blue, his cheeks were healthy and red, and his body was strong and solid.
He had broad shoulders, powerful muscles, and plenty of physical strength, developed through the exercises and activities of his younger years.
His brown hair was usually a little messy.
The ancient sculptors were said to know eighteen different ways of arranging the hair of the goddess Minerva.
Passepartout knew only one way to arrange his own hair.
Three quick strokes with a large-toothed comb, and he considered himself ready for the day.
It was still too early to know whether Passepartout’s lively personality would fit well with Mr. Fogg’s extremely orderly way of life.
Would he be able to follow such a strict routine?
Only time would tell.
Passepartout had spent his younger years wandering from place to place, but now he wanted something very different.
He wanted peace and stability.
Unfortunately, he had never found them.
By then, he had already worked in ten English households.
Not one of them had suited him.
His masters always seemed strange and unpredictable. They were forever traveling around the country, chasing excitement, or looking for some new adventure.
His previous employer, young Lord Longferry, was a Member of Parliament.
The young lord often spent his nights drinking in the taverns around the Haymarket.
More than once, he had to be carried home by policemen the following morning.
Passepartout wanted to respect the gentleman he served, so he had politely warned Lord Longferry that such behavior was not appropriate.
His master did not appreciate the advice.
So Passepartout resigned.
Then he heard that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant.
People said that Mr. Fogg lived an extraordinarily regular life.
He never traveled.
He never spent a night away from home.
Everything he did followed the same routine.
Passepartout immediately thought, “This is exactly the kind of master I’ve been looking for.”
So he went to Saville Row, applied for the position, and, as we have already seen, was hired.
At half past eleven, Passepartout found himself alone in the house.
He immediately began inspecting it.
He went from the basement all the way up to the top floor, carefully examining every room.
The house pleased him enormously.
It was clean, quiet, perfectly organized, and almost solemn.
To Passepartout, it felt like a comfortable snail shell—small, private, warm, and completely self-contained.
Gas lighting provided both light and heat throughout the house.
When Passepartout reached the second floor, he immediately recognized the room that had been assigned to him.
He was delighted.
Electric bells and speaking tubes connected the rooms with the lower floors.
On the mantelpiece stood an electric clock.
It was exactly like the clock in Mr. Fogg’s bedroom.
Both clocks showed the same time and ticked in perfect synchronization.
“That’s good,” Passepartout said to himself. “That’ll do.”
Then he noticed something hanging above the clock.
It was a card.
He picked it up and examined it.
It was a detailed schedule of the household’s daily routine.
Everything the servant had to do was written down.
Mr. Fogg got up at exactly eight o’clock every morning.
At twenty-three minutes past eight, tea and toast had to be served.
At thirty-seven minutes past nine, shaving water had to be ready.
At twenty minutes before ten, Mr. Fogg’s morning dressing routine began.
And that was only the beginning.
Every task from eight in the morning until midnight had been carefully planned.
At half past eleven, Mr. Fogg left the house for the Reform Club.
At midnight, he returned to his bedroom and went to bed.
Nothing was left to chance.
Passepartout stared at the schedule in amazement.
“This man really has everything planned down to the minute,” he thought.
Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was just as organized.
He had an excellent collection of clothes, all of them tasteful and well made.
Every pair of trousers, every coat, and every waistcoat had a number.
The numbers indicated the season and the time of year when each item was supposed to be worn.
Even his shoes were organized according to the same system.
Everything had its proper place.
Everything had its proper time.
The house at No. 7 Saville Row had once belonged to the famous Sheridan.
Under Sheridan, a man known for his lively and sometimes reckless lifestyle, the house must have been full of noise and disorder.
Now it was the complete opposite.
It was quiet, comfortable, orderly, and almost perfectly controlled.
There was no study in the house.
There were no bookshelves filled with books.
Mr. Fogg had no need for them.
At the Reform Club, he had access to two large libraries—one containing general literature and another devoted to law and politics.
In his bedroom stood a medium-sized safe.
It was built to protect its contents from both fire and burglars.
Passepartout checked everywhere carefully.
But he found no guns, hunting equipment, or other weapons.
Everything in the house suggested that Mr. Fogg lived an extremely peaceful life.
At last, Passepartout finished his inspection.
He rubbed his hands together.
A huge smile spread across his face.
“This is exactly what I wanted!” he said happily.
“Ah, Mr. Fogg and I are going to get along perfectly!”
“What an orderly gentleman!”
“A man who lives like a machine.”
He thought for a moment, then grinned.
“Well, I don’t mind working for a machine.”