“Yes, Phileas Fogg himself.”
The reader may remember that at five minutes past eight that evening, about twenty-five hours after the travellers had arrived in London, Passepartout was sent by his master to find the Reverend Samuel Wilson and arrange a wedding ceremony for the following day.
Passepartout happily set off on his mission.
He soon reached the clergyman’s house, but the Reverend Wilson was not there. Passepartout waited for about twenty minutes before finally leaving.
It was now twenty-five minutes past eight.
But what a state he was in!
His hair was a complete mess, and he had lost his hat. He raced down the street like a madman, knocking people aside and charging along the pavement as if a storm were chasing him.
Three minutes later, he burst back into Saville Row and stumbled into Mr. Fogg’s room.
He was too breathless to speak.
“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg calmly.
“My master!” Passepartout gasped. “The marriage—impossible!”
“Impossible?”
“Impossible—for tomorrow!”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow—is Sunday!”
“Monday,” said Mr. Fogg.
“No! Today is Saturday!”
“Saturday? Impossible!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” cried Passepartout. “You’ve made a mistake of one whole day! We arrived twenty-four hours earlier than we thought! But there are only ten minutes left!”
Passepartout grabbed his master by the collar and dragged him toward the door with all his strength.
Phileas Fogg barely had time to understand what was happening.
He was practically kidnapped by his own servant.
He left the house, jumped into a cab, and promised the driver one hundred pounds if he could reach the Reform Club as quickly as possible.
The cab raced through the streets. Two dogs were run over, five carriages were knocked over, and the driver drove as though his life depended on it.
At last, they reached the Reform Club.
The clock showed a quarter before nine when Phileas Fogg entered the great saloon.
He had done it.
Phileas Fogg had travelled around the world in eighty days.
And he had won his twenty-thousand-pound wager.
But how could a man as precise and careful as Fogg have made such a basic mistake?
Why had he believed that he had arrived in London on Saturday, December 21, when it was actually Friday, December 20—the seventy-ninth day of his journey?
The answer was simple.
Without realizing it, Phileas Fogg had gained an entire day during his journey because he had travelled constantly eastward.
If he had travelled westward instead, he would have lost a day.
As Fogg travelled east, he kept moving toward the rising sun. For every degree of longitude he crossed, his day became four minutes shorter.
The earth has 360 degrees around its circumference.
Three hundred and sixty degrees multiplied by four minutes equals exactly twenty-four hours.
That was the extra day Fogg had gained without knowing it.
In other words, while Fogg had watched the sun cross the meridian eighty times during his journey eastward, his friends back in London had seen it cross the meridian only seventy-nine times.
That was why everyone at the Reform Club had expected him on Saturday, while Fogg himself believed he would not arrive until Sunday.
Passepartout’s famous family watch had always kept London time.
If it had shown the date as well as the hour and minute, it would have revealed the truth much earlier.
So Phileas Fogg had indeed won his twenty-thousand-pound wager.
However, he had spent almost nineteen thousand pounds during the journey, leaving him with only about one thousand pounds in actual profit.
But money had never been his main goal.
He had wanted to win the wager.
He divided the remaining thousand pounds between Passepartout and Fix, the detective who had caused him so much trouble but against whom he now held no grudge.
There was one small deduction from Passepartout’s share.
Fogg charged him for the gas that had been burning in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours.
Even after travelling around the world, Mr. Fogg remained faithful to his sense of order and economy.
That evening, as calm and serious as ever, he turned to Aouda.
“Are you still willing to marry me?”
“Mr. Fogg,” she replied, “I should be the one asking you that question. You were a ruined man, but now you are rich again.”
“Forgive me, madam. My fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested that we marry, Passepartout would never have gone to see Reverend Samuel Wilson. I would never have discovered my mistake, and—”
“Dear Mr. Fogg!” Aouda said softly.
“Dear Aouda,” he replied.
There was no need to delay.
They were married forty-eight hours later.
And Passepartout, looking happier and prouder than anyone else, had the honour of giving the bride away.
After all, had he not saved her life?
Surely he had earned that privilege.
The next morning, just after sunrise, Passepartout hurried to his master’s door and knocked loudly.
Mr. Fogg opened it.
“What is the matter, Passepartout?”
“What is it, sir? I’ve just realized something!”
“What?”
“We could have travelled around the world in only seventy-eight days!”
“Of course,” replied Mr. Fogg. “If we had not travelled through India.”
Passepartout looked at him expectantly.
“But if I had not travelled through India,” Fogg continued, “I would never have saved Aouda.”
He paused.
“She would not have become my wife.”
Passepartout had nothing to say.
Mr. Fogg calmly closed the door.
Phileas Fogg had won his wager.
He had travelled around the world in eighty days, using every kind of transportation he could find—steamships, trains, carriages, yachts, merchant ships, sledges, and even elephants.
Throughout the journey, this extraordinary man had shown remarkable calmness, precision, courage, and determination.
But after all that effort, what had he really gained?
What had he brought home from his long and exhausting journey?
Nothing, you might say.
Perhaps that was true.
Nothing except a wonderful woman who, despite everything that had happened, had made him the happiest man alive.
And honestly, wouldn’t you travel around the world for something like that?