Phileas Fogg left the Reform Club at twenty-five minutes past seven after winning twenty guineas at whist and saying goodbye to his friends.
Passepartout was more than surprised to see him home so early. He had carefully studied his new duties and knew that Mr. Fogg normally would not return to Saville Row until exactly midnight.
Mr. Fogg went to his bedroom and called out:
“Passepartout!”
There was no answer. Passepartout did not think the call could possibly be for him. It was far too early.
“Passepartout!” Mr. Fogg called again, still in the same calm voice.
Passepartout appeared.
“I called you twice,” said Mr. Fogg.
“But it isn’t midnight yet, monsieur,” Passepartout replied, holding up his watch.
“I know. You are not at fault. We are leaving for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.”
Passepartout stared at him with a confused smile. He clearly had no idea what his master meant.
“Leaving the house, monsieur?”
“Yes,” said Phileas Fogg. “We are going around the world.”
Passepartout’s eyes widened. His eyebrows shot up, and he raised both hands in complete disbelief.
“Around the world?” he whispered.
“In eighty days,” replied Mr. Fogg. “So we have no time to waste.”
“But what about the luggage?” Passepartout asked, shaking his head in confusion.
“We will take no trunks. Just one carpet-bag. Put in two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We will buy whatever else we need along the way.”
“Along the way?”
“Bring down my mackintosh, my traveling cloak, and a pair of sturdy shoes. We will not be doing much walking. Hurry.”
Passepartout tried to answer, but no words came out.
He hurried upstairs to his room, dropped into a chair, and muttered to himself:
“This is something else! And I had hoped for a quiet life!”
He began packing almost automatically.
Around the world in eighty days!
Was his master insane?
No.
Then perhaps it was some kind of joke?
They were going to Dover. Fine. Then Calais. Fine again.
Passepartout had been away from France for five years, so he certainly would not mind setting foot in his homeland again. Perhaps they might even go as far as Paris. He would be delighted to see the city again.
Surely, though, a man as careful and economical with his movements as Mr. Fogg would stop there.
But one thing was certain: Mr. Fogg was leaving London. This was the same man who had always lived such a quiet and orderly life.
By eight o’clock, Passepartout had packed their modest carpet-bag with enough clothes for both of them.
Still troubled by what was happening, he locked his bedroom door and went downstairs.
Mr. Fogg was already ready to leave.
Under his arm was a red-covered copy of Bradshaw’s railway guide. It contained the schedules for trains and steamships throughout Europe.
Mr. Fogg took the carpet-bag, opened it, and placed a thick bundle of Bank of England notes inside. The money could be exchanged wherever they traveled.
“You have forgotten nothing?” he asked.
“Nothing, monsieur.”
“My mackintosh and cloak?”
“Here they are.”
“Good. Take this bag.”
He handed it to Passepartout.
“Take good care of it. There are twenty thousand pounds inside.”
Passepartout almost dropped the bag.
Twenty thousand pounds!
The amount seemed so enormous that he could almost feel its weight dragging the bag out of his hands.
Master and servant went downstairs and locked the front door securely behind them.
At the end of Saville Row, they hailed a cab and drove quickly toward Charing Cross.
The cab reached the railway station at twenty minutes past eight.
Passepartout jumped down and followed his master.
Mr. Fogg paid the driver and was about to enter the station when a poor woman approached them.
She was carrying a child in her arms. Her bare feet were covered in mud, and a miserable bonnet hung from her head with a torn feather sticking out of it. A ragged shawl covered her shoulders.
“Please, sir,” she said sadly. “Could you spare something for us?”
Mr. Fogg immediately took out the twenty guineas he had just won at cards.
He placed the money in her hand.
“Here, my good woman. I am glad I happened to meet you.”
Then he walked on.
Passepartout watched him go.
His eyes filled with tears. The unexpected kindness touched him deeply.
They quickly bought two first-class tickets to Paris.
As Mr. Fogg was crossing the station toward the train, he noticed five of his friends from the Reform Club.
He stopped.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you see, I am leaving. When I return, you can examine my passport and decide for yourselves whether I have completed the journey we agreed upon.”
“That will hardly be necessary, Mr. Fogg,” Ralph replied politely. “We will take the word of a gentleman of honor.”
“You remember when you must be back in London?” Stuart asked.
“In eighty days,” said Fogg. “Saturday, December 21st, 1872, at fifteen minutes before nine in the evening.”
He nodded.
“Good-bye, gentlemen.”
Phileas Fogg and Passepartout took their seats in a first-class carriage twenty minutes before nine.
Five minutes later, the whistle shrieked.
The train began to move.
Slowly at first, then faster and faster, it carried them away from the station.
The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain fell against the windows.
Mr. Fogg sat comfortably in his corner without saying a word.
Passepartout was still trying to understand what had happened. He held tightly onto the carpet-bag containing the enormous fortune.
Suddenly, as the train raced through Sydenham, he cried out in despair.
“What is it?” Mr. Fogg asked.
“Good heavens! In my hurry, I—I forgot something!”
“What?”
“I forgot to turn off the gas in my room!”
Mr. Fogg remained completely calm.
“Very well, young man. Let it burn.”
He paused.
“At your expense.”